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I 


-Tr  J. '  ^/Ji,: 

yH .  ^  ,  ^'   ^  ^ 

THE 


MONTHLY  PACKET 


OF 


.  -  -  - 


EVENING  READINGS 


FOB 


fUtmfittsi  of  t|^r  e^nffUs]^   Cj^urr]^* 


NEW  SERIES. 


VOLUME   X. 
Parts  LV.  to  LX.     July — December,  1870. 


LONDON: 

JOHN  AND  CHARLES  MOZLEY,  6,  PATERNOSTER  ROW; 

AND  PARKER  AND  CO.  OXFORD. 

1870. 


• ». 


•  « 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
A  Visit  to  the  Hospice  of  the  Grund 
St.  Bcniard 271 

Bygones       .       74,  149,  239,  851,  473,  669 
Bits  from  a  Note  Book      .        .    308,  C23 

Cameos  from  English  Histoi7    9,  219,  487 

Correspondence : — 

A  Letter  on  Fashion          .        .  99 
Baron  Swinburne  and  the  Defence 

ofSchaniitz    .        .        .        .  811 

liestoration  of  Salisbury  Cathedral  626 

St.  Luke*s  Mission         .        .        .  626 

St.  Swithun*6  Uome   .        .        .  624 

Two  Hours  in  Strasburg        .        .  623 

Conscils  de  Lectures  Fran9aiscs    .  310 

East  London  Nursing  Society  .        .    806 
Edinburgh      Ladies'      Educational 
Association 192 


For  the  Sick  and  Wounded  . 


Girlhood  of  Laurette  Pennon   . 


608 


30 


Hints  on  Italian  Reading  .        .      03 

Hints  on  Reading  .        .        .98, 423 

Historical  Sketches  of  Illumination  .  87 
Homburg  during  the  War  .  378,  492 
How  to  Help  the  Wounded  .  .391 
Hymn-Poems  on  Notable  Texts       8,  115, 

217,  322,  435,  536 

Magnetism  of  the  Earth    .        .        .    538 
Mission  Work  at  Home         .        .        195 
Musings  over  the  Christian  Year  and 
Lyra  Innoccntium  6,  108,  214,  319,  431 

Nunn»«  Court     82,  148,  248,  360,  486,  688 

Passions  Spiel  at  Ober  Ammergnu  259,  308 


Pag* 
Poetry : — 
After  a  Festival  at  Oxford         .        218 
Christmas  Eve       ....     687 
Die    Wacht    am    Rhein,   with    a 

Translation        ....    877 
Glorified  Saints  ...        486 

*MyLife' 621 

Pallas  de  Velletri  ...  422 
The  Transfiguration  .  .  .116 
The  War,  1870  .  .  .  .  309 
Three  Poems  by  the  Rev.  J.  Kcblc  105 
Two  War  Pictures  .  .  .621 
'  Who  Giveth  Songs  in  the  Night '  529 
Polyglott  Parsing .  ...  208 
Practical  Hints  on  Illumination     266,  600 

Queen  Louisa's  Grave  .        .        .        619 

Recollections  of  Manxland        .        .    183 

Sketches  from  Hungarian  History  117 

Sketches  from  Indian  Life        .  .    255 

St.  Andrew's  Waterside  Mission   .  201 

St.  Stephen's,  Clewer        .        .  .    522 

The  Di>dna  Commedia  of  Dante   1,  ]  10, 

209,  313,  425,  531 
The  Eight-pointed  Cross  .  .  604 
The  Flower  Sermon  .        .        .291 

The  Four  Giant  Planets  .  .  330 
The  Hermit's  Pillar  .        .        .158 

The  Pillars  of  the  House  57, 128,  224,  848, 

443,  560 
The  Song  of  the  Three  Children  .  828 
The  Twentieth  Anniversary  of  the 

Prince  Consort's  Association  .  295 
The  Two  Last  Sundays  at  Ammergan  86S 
The  White  Man  .  '  .  .  .  417 
The  Women  of  La  Vendee  .    800 

Things 614 

Thoughts  of  a  Lover  of  Old  English 

Prose 19 

Traditions  of  Tirol       .  172,  286,  410,  498 


301015 


THE  J  i  / 


MONTHLY    PACKET 


OF 


EVENING    READINGS 


JJ7iy,    1870. 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA   OF  DANTE. 

The  twenty-fifth  Canto  resumes  the  narration  of  the  robbers'  punishment 
in  the  seventh  gulf.  Yanni  Fucci  having  ended  his  speech  to  Dante 
with  a  prophecy  of  no  friendly  import,  still  furtiier  displays  his  angry 
temper  and  shame  at  being  recognized,  in  the  action  of  blasphemous 
insult  towards  God,  instantly  punished  by  the  ministers  of  the  divine 
vengeance,  with  which  the  Canto  opens.  Line  15  refers  to  the  obstinate 
profanity  of  Capaneus  beneath  the  shower  of  flames,  which  was  described 
in  the  fourteenth  Canto,  and  will  be  still  in  our  readers'  recollection. 
Dante  himself  accounts  for  the  introduction  of  Cacus  here:  the  other 
centaurs,  having  been  given  to  deeds  of  violence  upon  earth,  have  already 
been  met  with  at  the  river  of  blood  ;  but  Cacus,  who  had  stolen  the  herds 
which  Hercules  was  bringing  from  Spain  as  the  spoils  of  his  victory  over 
Geryon,  and  had  attempted  in  vain  to  conceal  their  track  by  dragging 
them  by  the  tail  backwards  into  his  cave,  was  rightly  placed  on  his 
disappearance  from  the  upper  world,  in  the  circle  of  the  fraudulent.  The 
account  that  follows,  from  line  49  to  78,  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  parts 
of  the  whole  Inferno  to  understand.  The  course  of  events,  according  to 
the  commentators'  explanation,  is  as  follows. 

The  three  spirits  who  interrupt  Virgil's  narrative  in  line  37  are 
Agnello  Brunelleschi,  Buoso  Donati,  and  Puccio  Sciancato.  To  them 
appears  their  friend  Cianfa,  (whom  they  have  just  missed,)  in  the  guise 
of  a  six-footed  serpent,  who  throws  himself  upon  Brunelleschi,  and  the 
two  become  one  monster.  After  him  comes  Guercio  de'  Cavalcanti, 
transformed  into  a  four-footed  serpent,  who  bites  Buoso  Donati  in  the 
navel,  and  in  so  doing  transfers  to  him  his  loathsome  disguise,  resuming 
himself  the  proper  human  form.  So,  at  last,  there  remain  only  Puccio 
Sciancato  and  Guercio  de'  Cavalcanti.  Now,  of  the  latter  transformation, 
described  in  lines  79-141,  it  is  tolerably  easy  to  understand  the  motive. 
We  can  conceive  one  robber  passing  on  to  another  the  serpent  form,  in 
his  anxiety  to  relieve  himself  of  the  hateful  burden;  and  doubtless,  when 
Buoso  went  hissing  off  he  would  make  f6r  and  wound  the  first  spirit 

VOL.   10.  1  PART  55. 


2  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

he  met,  and  enact  the  same  strange  drama  of  mutual  transformation  all 
over  again.  This — whatever  may  be  said  of  the  details  of  the  narrative, 
to  some  of  which  modem  anatomists  would  probably  take  strong  excep- 
tion— is  not  much  harder  of  comprehension  than  the  simpler,  and  perhaps 
on  that  account  more  vivid  catastrophe  that  befell  Yanni  Fucci  in  the 
last  Canto.  But  the  earlier  part,  the  transformation  of  Cianfa  and 
Brunelleschi,  is  quite  inexplicable.  How  came  the  former  to  be  so 
suddenly  metamorphosed?  with  what  object  does  he  fly  at  his  friend? 
are  the  two  ever  to  be  disunited  again,  and  if  so,  how?  Such  and 
similar  questions  may  be  proposed,  which  it  seems  difficult  to  answer 
satisfactorily.  It  will  be  observed  that  Dante  nowhere  directly  identifies 
Cianfa  with  the  reptile  of  line  50 ;  and  so  it  may  seem  to  some  a  more 
likely  explanation  that  the  latter  is  no  transformed  sinner,  hut  a  demon 
such  as  bit  Yanni  Fucci  in  the  last  Canto,  who  has  temporarily  united 
himself  to  Brunelleschi  for  the  purpose  of  tormenting  him,  and  will  in 
course  of  time  let  him  go,  to  seek  another  victim.  This  is  plausible 
enough ;  yet  it  is  more  probably  the  case  that  Dante  meant  the  reptile  to 
be  the  transformed  Cianfa,  and  did  not  care  to  make  his  ideas  easily 
comprehensible  to  his  readers. 

The  reference  to  Lucan  of  lines  94,  95,  will  be  found  in  the  ninth 
Book  of  his  PharsaliOf  after  the  catalogue  of  serpents  which  we  have 
seen  alluded-  to  in  line  85  of  the  last  Canto.  The  deaths  of  Sabellus 
and  Nasidius,  two  of  Cato's  soldiers,  from  the  bites  of  Seps  and  Prester, 
give  Lucan  the  opportunity  of  putting  into  verse  a  somewhat  sensational 
description  of  the  effects  of  serpent  venom :  which,  though  it  may  be 
called  poetry  in  a  certain  sense,  as  bearing  the  mark  of  a  practised 
hand,  yet  is  not  worthy  to  be  compared  with  this  Canto  in  respect  of 
irigour  and  purpose  and  all  that  constitutes  true  poetry,  quite  apart 
from  the  particular  boast  of  originality  in  which  Dante  indulges  in 
Knes  100-102.  In  short,  Lucan  makes  his  historical  event  as  unreal 
as  a  vision;  Dante  his  vision  as  real  as  a  history.  The  immediate 
instrument  of  transformation  seems  to  be  the  smoke  from  the  cauterised 
wound,  though  in  lines  91  and  122  Dante  seems  to  anticipate  one  of  the 
principles  of  modern  mesmerism.  The  last  line  of  the  Canto  refers  to 
the  vengeance  exacted  by  the  kinsmen  of  Francesco  Guercio  on  the 
people  of  GaviUe  in  the  upper  Yal  d'Arno,  who  had  had  him  arrested 
and  put  to  death  for  his  robberies. 

THE  INFERNO.— CANTO  XXV. 

This  said,  the  robber  raised  with  mocking  laughter 
Both  hands  aloft,  finger  to  thumb,  and  cried, 
'  I  set  them  at  thee ;  take  it,  God.'    Thereafter 

The  serpents  were  my  friends ;  for  one  applied 
Coils  round  his  throat,  as  if  she  said  '  Not  even 
One  syllable  further ;'  and  another  tied 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OF  DANTE.  3 

His  hands  and  arms  with  rivets  firmly  driven 

In  front,  so  dasping  him  in  bondage  fellest 

That  with  them  not  one  motion  could  be  given. 
Ah,  Pistoia,  Fistoia,  whj  compellest  10 

Hiee  not  to  bum  to  ash,  that  so  be  stopped 

Thy  course,  who  in  sdl  ill  thy  seed  excellest? 
In  aU  Hell's  climes  none  saw  I,  who  out-topped 

This  spirit  in  rancour  against  God  blaspheming ; 

Not  him  who  smitten  from  Thebes'  ramparts  dropped. 
Without  a  word  he  fled ;  then  saw  I  gleaming 

With  rage  a  Centaur  hasten,  who  exclaimed, 

'  Where,  where  that  bitter  tongue  V    The  viper-teeming 
Maremma  to  compare  can  scarce  be  named, 

So  many  snakes  were  on  his  flanks  suspended,  20 

Bight  fi:om  the  haunch  to  where  our  shape  is  framed* 
Upon  his  shoulders  lay  with  wings  -extended 

Behind  his  neck  a  dragon,  which  imbueth 

With  fire  whoe'er  across  his  path  have  wended. 
*  Cacus  this  is,'  my  lord  his  speech  reneweth, 

'  Who  'nea&  the  rock  of  Aventinus  living 

Full  oft  made  lakes  of  blood.     He  here  pursueth 
Not  one  road  with  his  brethren,  for  the  thieving 

Of  the  great  herd  that  near  him  lay — such  ieaven 

Of  fi:tiud  inspired  his  stratagems  deceiving —  30 

Whence  ceased  his  wicked  deeds,  so  willed  it  heaven, 

Beneath  the  dub  of  Hercules,  who  gave  him 

Maybe  five  score,  and  he  felt  not  eleven.' 
While  yet  he  spoke,  the  Centaur  past  us  drave  him : 

Then  came  three  spirits  beneath  us,  unobserved 

Of  me  and  of  my  guide,  until  to  have  him 
Aware,  they  cried  out  *  Who  are  ye?'    Then  swerved 

Our  mind,  and  from  the  Centaur's  story  glanced 

And  bent  on  them  its  ken  intently  nerved. 
I  recognized  them  not ;  but  so  it  chanced  40 

As  on  occasion  ofit  is  customary. 

That  one  should  name  another,  so  advanced 
One  spirit  and  cried,  ^  Where  doth  Cianfa  tarry  ?' 

Thereat  I  placed  to  gain  my  lord's  attention 

From  chin  to  nose  my  finger  cautionary. 
Reader,  shouldst  thou  be  slow  of  apprehension 

In  what  I  tell,  I  shall  not  be  amazed ; 

Since  I  have  almost  with  myself  dissension 
Who  saw  it     While  intent  on  these  I  gazed, 

Lo,  a  rix-footed  reptile  quick  alighteth  50 

On  one  in  front,  with  body  all  upraised 


THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

To  meet  him.    To  hb  belly  he  uniteth 

His  midmost  feet :  his  fore-feet  he  enlaces 

About  his  arms ;  then  both  cheeks  deep  he  biteth. 
His  hinder  feet  along  the  thighs  he  places, 

Then  to  the  rear  his  tail  between  them  flinging, 

Up  to  the  loins  he  curls  it.     Ne'er  embraces 
Ivy  the  oak  with  rooted  fibres  clinging 

So  close  as  thus  the  monster  fell  entwined 

His  own  with  the  other's  limbs.     Such  contact  bringing         60 
He  clung,  and  in  one  colour  both  combined, 

So  melting  that  of  heated  wax  they  seemed, 

As  each  his  former  countenance  resigned. 
Even  thus,  before  the  advancing  fire  out-streamed 

The  embrowned  tint  athwart  the  paper  flieth 

Which  while  the  white  dies,  not  yet  black  is  deemed. 
The  other  two  look  on :  then  either  crieth, 

'  Ah  me,  Agnello ;  look,  how  thou  art  changed  ; 

Nor  two  art  thou,  nor  one.'     Our  gaze  descrieih 
Already  the  two  heads  in  one  arranged,  70 

And  then  appeared  the  diverse  figures  blending 

Into  one  form,  each  from  his  own  estranged. 
Of  the  four  lengths  were  made  two  arms  appending, 

Then  thighs  and  legs,  belly  and  breast  were  massed 

In  limbs  whereof  was  never  apprehending 
The  like.    All  previous  aspect  was  effaced ; 

Two  forms  yet  none  the  perverse  image  sheweth; 

So  from  our  sight  with  tardy  steps  it  passed. 
As  glides  the  lizard,  when  in  fierceness  gloweth 

The  dog-daya'  scourge,  from  hedge  to  hedge,  as  vivid  80 

As  lightning,  if  across  the  road  it  goeth ; 
So  we  hard  by  the  other  twain  perceived 

A  fiery  serpent  at  their  entrails  fiying 

As  'twere  a  grain  of  pepper,  black  and  livid. 
At  one  he  came,  and  in  the  part  supplying 

Our  primal  aliment,  with  bite  assailed  him ; 

Then  down  he  fell,  outstretched  before  him  lying. 
Him  the  pierced  spirit  eyed,  but  words  had  failed  him ; 

*With  feet  firm  set  he  stood,  yawning  and  dazed 

As  if  some  lethargy  or  fever  ailed  him.  90 

He  and  the  serpent  on  each  other  gazed ; 

From  wound  of  one,  from  mouth  of  the  other  welleth 

Dense  smoke,  whose  wreaths  commingling  high  are  raised. 
Let  Lucan  now  be  silent,  where  he  dwelleth 

On  sad  Sabellus  and  Ni^idius'  story, 

And  hark  to  that  which  here  mine  epic  telleth. 


THE  DIVINA  COMMBDIA  OF  DANTE.  5 

Let  Ovid  close  his  mytbic  repertory ; 

If  Arethuse  he  tamed  to  water  springing, 

Or  Cadmas  to  a  serpent,  naught  his  glory 
I  grudge  him :  for  two  natures  never  bringing  100 

In  such  wise  face  to  face  he  changed,  that  either 

Should  list  to  assume  the  other's  form.     In  ringing 
Such  change,  they  mutually  accorded,  whether 

The  serpent  in  a  fork  his  tail  divided. 

Or  the  pierced  spirit  drew  his  feet  together ; 
While  legs  and  thighs  into  each  other  glided 

So  closely  that  the  fusion  terminating 

In  little  time  no  mark  to  sight  provided. 
Then,  while  the  split  tail  took  in  separating 

The  shape  the  other  lost,  its  skin  reacted  110 

From  hard  to  soft,  the  other's  indurating. 
The  arms  within  the  arm-pite  were  compacted ; 

And  the  two  monster's  feet  that  were  the  shorter 

So  lengthened  as  the  other's  were  contracted. 
Then  twisting  up  those  of  the  hinder  quarter 

Together  made  the  part  that  man  concealeth ; 

Which  in  the  wretch  split,  and  became  supporter 
Of  his  new  form.     O'er  one  and  other  stealeth 

New  colour  from  the  smoke,  on  one  devising 

The  fresh  hair  which  it  from  the  other  peeleth.  120 

Then  to  the  ground  one  fell,  the  other  rising ; 

Nor  yet  their  evil  lamps  they  disconnected 

Beneath  which  each  accomplished  his  disguising, 
fie  that  now  stood,  from  face  to  brow  collected 

A  pile  of  flesh ;  from  which  abundant  quarry 

New  ears  from  out  his  smooth  cheeks  were  erected. 
But  part  that  thither  went  not  back,  did  tarry 

To  make  the  face  a  nose  its  substance  lending, 

And  give  the  lips  their  fullness  necessary. 
He  that  lay  prone,  his  countenance  extending,  ISO 

His  ears  within  his  head  retiring  hideth 

Als  doth  the  snail  her  horns :  and  in  the  ending, 
EntirQ  before  and  apt  of  speech,  divideth 

The  tongue  in  forked  semblance ;  while  the  other's 

Unites  again ;  and  then  the  smoke  subsideth. 
The  spirit  become  a  monster,  fleeing,  mutters 

Its  hisses  down  the  vale ;  and  he  returned 

To  human  form,  behind  it  talking  sputters. 
Thereafter  he  his  new-found  shoulders  turned 

And  said,  *  As  I  was,  now  be  Buoso  spurred  liO 

On  all  fours  o'er  this  path.'    Thus  I  discerned 


THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

The  ballast  of  the  seveDth  hold  transferred 

From  change  to  change ;  and  here  be  blame  forbidden 

If  on  a  theme  so  new  my  pen  hath  erred. 
And  though  my  spirit  was  at  times  o'erridden. 

And  all  my  senses  by  amazement  stormed, 

Yet  could  they  not  escape,  however  hidden, 
But  of  Sciancato  was  I  well  informed ; 

Of  the  three  comrades  who  appeared  soonest 

He  was  the  sole  one  that  was  not  transformed ;  150 

The  other  thou  with  tears,  Gaville,  ownest, 

(7h  be  continued.) 


^     MUSINGS  OVER  THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR 

AND  LYRA  INNOCENTIUM. 

ST.  JAMES. 

Again  the  ventures  of  faith !  again  the  pledge  taken  in  the  hope  of  the 
nearness  to  Christ  in  His  glory  involving  nearness  to  Him  in  His 
suffering  I 

Through  both  the  poems  for  St.  James's  Day  this  thought  runs.  The 
Christian  Year  places  before  us  the  entreaty  of  the  two  brothers — ^the 
warning  reply,  their  promise,  and  the  answer  in  return. 

*  Then  be  it  bo  :  My  cup  receive, 

And  of  My  woes  baptismal  taste ; 
But  for  the  crown  that  angels  weave 

For  those  next  Me  in  glory  placed, 
I  ffive  it  not  by  partial  love; 

But  in  My  Father^s  Book  are  writ 
What  names  on  earth  shall  lowliest  prove, 

That  they  in  Heaven  may  highest  sit.* 

The  lesson  our  hearts  should  thence  take  up  should  be  that  of  meek- 
ness and  self-contrast.  Spiritual  rapture  needs  to  be  subdued  and 
chastened  with  the  thought  of  suffering.  Upon  'Tabor's  sun-bright 
steep'  (for  Mr.  Keble  always  regarded  Mount  Tabor  as  the  scene  of  the 
Transfiguration)  the  talk  was  of  the  Lord's  decease,  and  He  Himself 
immediately  began  to  prepare  the  chosen  three  for  the  suffering;  and 
thus  we  need  not  grudge  a  few  short  years  for  the  humble  tasks  of  love 
in  His  Name  which  are  to  lead  us  upwards.  The  present  happiness  is 
now  and  then  in  some  happy  holy  death  to  trace  the  secret  work  of  love, 
and  for  the  future  to  hear  the  gracious  call — 

*  Come,  see  thy  place  prepared  in  Heaven.' 


MUSINGS  OVER  THS  CHfilSTIAN  YEAB.  7 

The  joys  of  religion — ^like  the  glimpse  of  the  Transfiguration— ere 
granted  to  enable  us  to  drink  of  the  cup,  and  be  baptized  with  that 
Baptism  which  prepares  for  the  place  in  Heaven. 


*  And  wheresoever  you  lift  your  eyes,  the  holy  Cross,  they  say, 
Stands  guardian  of  your  journey  by  lone  or  crowded  way.* 

Often  had  the  Christian  poet  wondered  what  the  effect  of  the  Cross 
thus  constantly  gazed  upon  might  have  upon  little  children,  and  how  it 
might  deepen  all  their  holier  thoughts,  and  consecrate  their  lighter  ones. 
*And  now  behold  a  token  true.'  A  maiden  from  a  distant  isle — that 
Ireland  which  had  at  least  till  Fenian  days  kept  its  faith  fresh  of  hne,     ^ 

^  Where  old  devotion  lingers  beside  the  granite  cross, 
And  pilgrims  seek  the  healing  well  far  over  moor  and  moss,^ 

— an  Irish  maiden  brought  home  from  Italy  a  drawing  of  a  little  group 
that  she  had  watched,  a  peasant  girl  lifting  her  baby  brother  to  kisf  the 
lips  of  the  figure  on  a  crucifix.  And  thereupon  the  thoughts  are 
ascribed  to  the  little  sister,  that  the  newly-baptized  babe  may  fearlessly 
claim  his  part  in  the  Saviour,  while  there  is  more  fear  for  the  elder. 
Or  again,  the  thought  of  the  suffering  may  have  been  with  her.  Does 
not  coming  so  near  to  the  Saviour  give  a  mysterious  pledge  that  with 
His  love  must  be  shared  His  sorrow  ? 

*'  If  of  the  dying  Jesus  we  the  kiss  of  peaie  receive, 
How  but  in  daily  dying  thenceforwanl  dare  we  live  ?* 

Natural  affection  cannot  choose  but  shrink  at  the  thought,  and 
ask  the  question  whether  it  be  right  to  lay  upon  the  unconscious  young 

life 

*  Such  burdens,  pledging  thee  to  vows  thou  never  canst  unsay,* 

and  picture  the  various  forms  of  agony  in  whicli  the  Cross  may  come. 
Such  must  be  the  misgiving  of  love, 

<  When  stronger  far  than  &ith 
She  brings  her  earthly  darlings  to  the  Cross  for  life  or  death.* 

Then  may  the  Comforter  be  near  such  trembling  love,  to  bring  to  her 
mind  how  the  eternal  rule,  that  glory  must  l>e  won  by  suffering,  was 
spoken  by  our  blessed  Master,  when  the  Beloved  Disciple,  and  the  first 
martyred  Apostle,  were  brought  by  tbeir  mother  to  crave  the  next  seats 
to  His  Throne. 

*  For  her  dreams  were  of  the  Glory,  but  the  Cross  she  could  not  see.*  ^ 

Well  was  it  for  the  mother  and  sons,  that  when  they  did  understand  the 
full  force  of  their  pledge,  they  had  hearts  to  abide  by  it ! 

'  Thy  Baptism  and  the  cup  be  o^,  for  both  our  hearts  are  strong.' 


8  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

YeSy  that  song  is  the  safest  and  the  best  for  oar  babes,  whatever  it 
may  pledge  them  to.  Just  as  the  mother's  kiss  is  the  first  greeting  in  the 
morning  and  the  last  at  night,  so  that  kiss,  bringing  ns  to  our  Lord,  is 
our  only  blessing.  The  sister  may  indeed  trust  her  charge  here — '  here 
is  the  gate  of  bliss.'  True,  though  of  the  three  Saints  who  of  old  were 
permitted  to  kiss  the  Blessed  One,  '  each  with  death  or  agony  for  the 
high  rapture  paid.'  His  mother's  embrace  prepared  her  for  the  sword 
that  was  to  pierce  through  her  own  soul ;  Simeon's  hymn  was  his  fare- 
well ;  and  the  Magdalen's  tearful  touch  preluded  the  time  when  she  would 
weep  over  those  Feet  when  pierced.  So  it  was  with  all  these ;  but  what 
joy  does  not  this  shed  on  the  path  of  sorrow,  for 

*  the  nails  and  bleeding  Brows, 
The  pale  and  dying  Lips,  are  the  portion  of  the  Spouse.' 

(7b  6e  continued,) 


HYMN-POEMS  ON  NOTABLE  TEXTS. 

BY  THE  REV.  S.  J.  STONE,  B.A. 

AUTUOB   OF   'LTRA  VIDBUUM.' 

No.  Vn.— THE  TRAVAIL  OF  THE  CREATION. 

'The  whole  creation  groaneth  and  travaileth  in  pain  together  nntil  now.* — 
Romans^  viii.  22. 

{Tune,  Melita.) 

The  whole  creation  groans  and  cries 

In  travail  of  a  second  birth ; 
All  living  things,  their  covering  skies, 

And  circling  floods,  and  parent  earth, 
Cry  in  an  agonizing  throng, 
How  long,  O  Lord  our  God,  how  long  ? 

How  long  1  the  living  creatures  cry. 

Subject  4o  vanity  with  man ; 
Condemned  to  suffer  and  to  die, 

Partakers  of  his  righteous  ban, 
Tet  doomed  in  hope  *  that  they  may  see 
And  share  the  Church's  Uberty. 

*  The  passage,  Romans  viii.  ld-23,  is  thus  more  correctly  and  intelligibly 
rendered : — '  For  the  earnest  expectation  of  creation  waiteih  for  this  (see  preceding 
verse)  mcmifestation  of  the  sons  of  God :  for  the  creation  was  made  subject  to  vanity  ; 
(t.  e.  the  curse  indicated  Genesis  iii.  17-19.)  not  of  its  own  choice  or  will,  but  by  reason 


CAMEOS  FROM  ENGLISH  HISTOBT. 

How  long?  the  ruined  skies  ^complain, 
In  prayer  for  the  eternal  calm ; 

With  sighs  of  storm  and  tears  of  rain, 
They  chant  their  lamentable  psalm  : 

When  shall  the  blissful  light  be  bom, 

The  beauty  of  Adoption's  morn  ? 

How  long  ?  the  troubled  waters  moan ; 

O  yisioned  hope  in  hours  of  strife  ! 
The  jasper  sea  before  the  throne, 

Fed  by  the  ciystal  stream  of  life ! 
O  IsraeFs  waters,  stream  and  sea, 
Fullness  of  peace  and  purity ! 

How  long  ?  all  earth  beneath  the  rod 
Of  one  wide  curse  lifts  up  her  cry. 

And  waits,  with  all  the  sons  of  God, 
For  their  supreme  Epiphany, 

For  their  Redemption's  glorious  day. 

When  former  things  shall  pass  away. 

How  long,  O  Lord  our  God,  how  long  ? 

la  this  our  earthly  house  of  thrall. 
With  all  creation's  mighty  throng. 

We  too,  Thine  own,  upon  Thee  call ! 

Patient  in  hope  we  long  for  Home : 

Our  Father,  let  Thy  kingdom  come. 

Amen. 


CAMEOS  FROM  ENGLISH  HISTORY. 

CAMEO  CI. 

THE  BRIDOB  OF  PECQUIQNT. 

U72-U77. 

Fully  established  on  the  English  throne,  with  the  House  of  Lancaster 
destroyed,  not  a  descendant  of  Henry  of  Bolingbroke  in  existence,  and 
very  few  of  even  John  of  Gaunt,  Edward  lY.  began  to  think  of  the  wars 
that  had  always  been  most  popular  among  the  English.    The  conquest 

of  Him  Who  made  it  subjecU^n  hope  that  the  creation  itself  shall  be  set  free  from  the 
bondage  ofcorruptionf  (in  which  it  now  is  with  man,)  into  the  liberty  of  the  glory  of  the 
children  of  God^-far  we  know  that  the  whole  creation  groaneth  and  travaileth  in  pain 
together  until  now;  and  not  only  it,  but  ourselves  also,  &c. 


10  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

» 

of  France  had  been  the  favourite  Piantagenet  dream  ever  since  the 
blood  of  the  she- wolf  of  France  bad  flowed  in  their  veins;  and  in 
the  flush  of  victory,  with  the  sense  of  being  one  of  the  most  able  and 
successful  captains  then  living,  Edward  was  emulous  of  the  fame  of  his 
namesake  and  ancestor  Edward  III.,  and  hoped  to  eclipse  the  memory 
of  the  Lancastrian  Henry  of  Monmouth,  and  re-conquer  all  that  had  been 
lost  by  the  Beaufort  mismanagement. 

The  time,  too,  seemed  excellent  Every  neighbouring  prince  hated 
the  sordid,  treacherous,  and  spiteful  Louis  XI.,  most  of  all  Edward's  own 
brother-in-law  in  Burgundy ;  and  surely  if  the  Burgundian  alliance  had 
once  set  the  French  crown  on  the  head  of  a  Lancastrian  infant,  it  might 
do  so  again  on  that  of  a  Yorkist  warrior. 

Only  Edward  was  determined  that  if  he  were  to  be  crowned  it  should 
be  in  the  right  place,  at  Rheims,  not  irregularly  at  Paris ;  and  this  was 
made  a  special  item  in  his  treaty  with  Charles  of  Burgundy,  when,  after 
the  usual  custom,  they  shared  the  bear*skin  before  killipg  the  bear.  By 
this  treaty,  which  was  confirmed  in  London,  on  the  25th  of  July,  1474, 
by  Edward  himself  and  by  Charles's  half-brother  Antoine,  commonly 
known  as  the  Grand  Bastard  of  Burgundy,  the  Duke  engaged  to  assist 
the  King  in  the  conquest  of  the  whole  of  France,  on  condition  of  obtaining 
the  western  provinces  for  himself,  and  that  both  they,  and  what  he 
already  held  under  the  crown  of  France,  should  be  set  free  from  all 
homage  thereto,  thus  enabling  him  to  found  that  Burgundian  kingdom 
for  which  he  sighed.  He  hoped  to  purchase  the  aid  of  the  Emperor 
Friedrich  YI.  by  giving  his  only  child's  hand  to  Maximilian,  Friedrich's 
son,  and  thus  to  be  elected  King  of  the  Romans,  reign  as  Emperor,  and 
leave  his  dominions  thus  increased  and  ennobled  to  Marie  and  Maximilian. 
In  his  first  attempt  to  arrange  matters  on  the  German  side,  he  had  been 
disappointed  through  the  wayward,  caprice  and  avarice  of  the  old 
Emperor;  but  his  hopes  were  still  high,  and  while  he  had  the  best 
appointed  and  disciplined  army  in  Europe,  and  Edward  was  an  unrivalled 
general,  they  might  well  think  of  France  as  already  at  their  feet,  with 
her  un warlike  king,  who  was  far  too  much  hated  ever  to  be  like  his 
father,  the  *  well  served.' 

Even  bis  own  sister,  Yolande,  regent  of  Savoy,  for  her  young  son, 
Philibert,  joined  the  alliance  against  him,  as  did  also  Fran9ois  II.,  Duke 
of  Brittany,  and  Scotland  was  prevented  from  openly  joining  him  by  a 
treaty  by  which  Edward's  second  daughter  Cecily  was  to  marry  the 
young  Duke  of  Rothsay ;  and  in  England  the  expedition  was  so  agreeable 
to  the  national  vanity,  that  Parliament  readily  voted  tenths  to  be  paid  by 
clergy,  lords,  and  commons ;  and  wealthy  persons,  at  the  King's  direct 
request,  made  contributions  which  were  called  benevolences.  Private 
citizens  of  London  gave  each  half  the  pay  of  a  soldier  for  a  year, 
aldermen  double  this  amount,  and  the  Lord  Mayor  three  times.  For 
Edward  could  do  anything  he.  pleased  with  the  Londoners.  He  really 
gave  enlightened  patronage  to  their  commerce,   and  his  free  genial 


CAMEOS  FEOM  ENGLISH  mSTORY.  11 

manner  and  easy  familiarity  made  him  very  popular.  He  was  a  boon 
companion,  familiar  and  good-natured,  and  in  the  coarse  licence  of  those 
times,  his  sensual  vices,  while  as  Fuller  says,  he  was  already  digging  his 
grave  with  his  own  teeth,  made  him  the  favourite  of  the  populace.  A 
king  who  would  share  their  feasts,  and  loiter  among  the  painted  chambers 
of  fair  burgher  dames,  seemed  to  the  multitude  a  pleasant  exchange  for 
the  grave  monastic  piety  of  Henry  YI. ;  and  if  the  nobility  were  not  as 
well  pleased,  some  had  fallen  with  Lancaster,  some  with  Warwick,  and 
all  were  shorn  of  much  of  their  wealth  by  the  long  wars. 

But  this  course  of  pleasures  was  enervating  the  mind  and  the  health  of 
the  King.  When  fully  roused,  his  swiftness  was  terrible  and  irresistible 
as  the  bound  of  a  tiger ;  but  young  as  he  still  was,  it  was  more  and  more 
4if&cult  to  rouse  him ;  and  though  he  was  willing  to  view  himself  as  the 
future  victor  of  France,  the  actual  labours  of  the  campaign  he  deferred 
again  and  again ;  and  in  the  meantime  the  subtle  Louis,  by  his  secret 
agents,  had  succeeded  in  raising  around  his  ally,  Charles  of  Burgundyi 
a  whole  swarm  of  foes,  in  especial  the  Austrians  and  the  Swiss. 

The  Swiss  mountaineers — ^free  bold  land-holders  as  they  were — were  of 
the  same  stubborn  unyielding  nature  as  our  English  archers.  More  than 
once  had  they  overthrown  the  chivalry  of  Austria  in  defence  of  their 
liberties,  and  they  had  won  and  held  their  own  ground,  and  therewith 
the  general  honour  of  Europe.  Burgundy  bad  always  been  on  excellent 
terms  with  them,  and  Charles  had  endeavoured  to  mediate  between  them 
and  Sigismund  Duke  of  Austria,  the  husband  of  Eleanor  of  Scotland, 
a  miserable,  helpless,  needy,  and  faithless  prince.  In  the  year  1469, 
distress  had  induced  Sigismund  to  sell  to  Chai*les  his  sovereignty  over 
the  county  of  Elsass,  or  Alsace,  for  fifty  thousand  florins.  It  was  a 
fatal  purchase,  for  it  brought  the  boundaries  of  his  domains  close  upon 
those  of  the  Swiss  confederation ;  and  the  fierce  Bhineland  knight  whom 
he  sent  as  governor,  Peter  von  Hagenbach,  though  faithful  and  trust- 
worthy to  his  master,  was  a  brutal  tyrant,  contemptuous  and  savage  to 
all  below  him,  and  bringing  the  Burgundian  name  into  intense  hatred. 
Sigismund  had  tried  to  persuade  Charles  to  join  him  in  chastising  the 
Swiss,  and  when  this  was  refused,  he  began  secretly  to  foment  the 
murmurs  of  the  Alsatians ;  while  Louis  had  agents  in  Berne,  who  bribed 
the  principal  citizens,  and  turned  their  hearts  against  their  old  ally  in 
Burgundy.  Hagenbach,  though  directed  to  shew  all  respect  to  the 
Swiss,  could  not,  or  did  not,  hinder  his  lawless  followers  from  plundering 
their  merchants,  and  always  treated  them  with  insolence,  until  at  length 
a  great  revolt  took  place  of  the  men  of  Alsace,  assisted  by  those  from 
Switzerland ;  Hagenbach  was  besieged  at  Briesach,  the  townspeople  rose 
upon  him,  and  made  him  prisoner,  then  inviting  Sigismund  back  again, 
they  carried  the  unhappy  captive  to  Basle,  where,  after  cruel  tortures, 
he  was  beheaded,  though  being  no  subject  of  Sigismund's,  there  was  no 
semblance  of  justice  or  right  in  the  proceeding. 

Of  course  Charles  could  not  but  take  up  arms  to  avenge  such  an 


12  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

outrage ;  and  he  assembled  his  forces  to  re-conqaer  the  county  which  had 
been  sold  to  him,  beginning  bj  besieging  the  town  of  Neuss.  The  Swiss 
at  first  had  refused  to  take  any  part  in  the  war,  but  Louis's  deputies  pre- 
vailed ;  they  were  effectually  stirred  up  at  last,  and  declared  war  against 
the  Duke.  The  Emperor  Friedrich  took  up  the  cause  of  his  kinsman 
Sigismund,  and  assembled  his  forces  to  raise  the  siege.  These  Charles 
gallantly  defeated ;  but  winter  weather,  the  discontent  of  his  troops,  and 
the  various  perplexities  that  Louis  had  caused  him,  caused  him  to  make 
peace  with  the  Emperor  and  raise  the  siege,  but  without  including  in  the 
treaty  either  Louis,  Sigismund,  Alsace,  or  the  Swiss.  All  this  was  taking 
place  in  the  spring  of  1475,  while  Edward  IV.,  unable  for  very  shame 
to  defer  his  crossing  any  longer,  was  preparing  to  cross  from  Sandwich^ 
where  a  fleet  of  five  hundred  Dutch  flat-bottomed  boats  had  been  sent 
to  transport  his  army  across  to  Calais.  He  had  fifteen  thousand  men-at- 
arms  on  barbed  horses,  fifteen  thousand  archers  also  on  horseback,  and  a 
great  number  of  infantry  and  artillery  and  machines,  among  others  a 
huge  plough,  drawn  by  fifty  horses,  to  make  trenches ;  but  not  so  much 
as  a  page  unable  to  bear  arms  or  to  be  of  service  in  the  campaign.  With 
him  vrwe  his  two  brothers  of  Clarence  and  Glocester,  and  a  goodly  band 
of  nobility,  besides  one  hundred  and  fifty-aix  knights ;  and  he  was  heard 
to  boast  that  with  such  an  army  he  could  march  to  the  gates  of  Rome 
itself  I  The  fiat-bottomed  boats  went  backwards  and  forwards  several 
times,  and  at  length  in  the  month  of  June,  this  whole  imposing  multitude 
was  across  the  Strait.  Edward  at  the  same  lime  sent  off  Ireland  King 
at  Arms  to  bear  his  chivalrous  defiance  to  Louis,  and  summon  him  to 
deliver  up  the  realm  of  France,  which  lawfully  belonged  to  King 
Edward,  that  the  Church  and  nobles  might  be  freed  from  the  burthens 
that  they  were  held  under,  against  the  laws  and  customs  of  the  kingdom. 
In  case  of  a  refusal,  all  the  bloodshed  would  lie  at  Louis's  door ! 

The  letter  was  written  in  such  good  French  that  it  was  plain  that  it 
had  been  indited  by  no  Englishman,  and  the  herald  proved  to  be  a  native 
of  Normandy.  If  Edward  wished  to  avoid  exposing  insular  French  to  de- 
rision, he  had  fallen  into  a  far  worse  mistake,  for  the  herald  was  not  proof 
against  the  polite  speedies  of  Louis,  who  took  him  into  his  chamber,  and 
talked  familiarly  to  him,  saying  he  knew  very  well  that  his  good  brother 
of  England  was  not  personally  desirous  of  the  war,  but  that  he  had 
been  led  to  it  by  his  counsellors.  As  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  he  was 
too  much  damaged  by  his  expedition  against  Neuss  to  be  of  any  great 
assistance  to  him,  and  the  Count  de  St.  Pol  was  not  to  be  trusted ;  as  a 
friend,  therefore,  he  advised  King  Edward  to  conclude  an  honourable 
peace,  and  he  promised  the  herald  one  thousand  gold  crowns  if  he  could 
make  him  hear  reason. 

The  herald,  won  over  by  the  blandisho^ents  of  his  native  sovereign, 
owned  that  he  did  not  think  King  Edward's  personal  inclinations  very 
warlike,  and  added  his  counsel  that  Louis  should  send  a  herald  to  ask  a 
safe-conduct  for  an  embassy,  and  that  this  herald  should  address  himself 


CAMEOS  FROM  ENGLISH  HISTORY.  13 

either  to  Lord  Howard  or  to  Lord  Stanley.  Two  hoars  were  spent  in 
this  conference,  and  on  coining  out  the  King  ordered  thirty  ells  of  crimson 
velvet  to  be  at  once  measured  off  for  the  herald,  and  bade  Comines  take 
care  of  him,  and  see  that  he  held  no  speech  with  anyone  else. 

On  the  5th  of  July  Edward  landed  in  person  at  Calais,  where  his 
sister  Margaret  met  him;  and  her  husband,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy, 
followed  her  on  the  14th ;  but  he  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  bring  his 
troops  to  form  one  army  with  the  English,  well  knowing  the  difficulty  of 
keeping  order  in  a  host  composed  of  different  nations ;  and  he  therefore 
arrived  with  only  his  personal  escoi*t,  with  whom  he  undertook  to  guide 
Edward  to  a  convenient  spot  for  commencing  the  attack,  while  he  would 
carry  on  the  war  in  another  quarter,  namely,  in  Lorraine,  whose  young 
Duke,  Ren^  son  to  Yolande,  old  King  R^n^'s  daughter,  was,  like  all  the 
House  of  Anjou,  thoroughly  on  the  French  side. 

Edward,  though  discontented,  let  himself  be  led  along  the  Somme, 
past  the  plains  of  Azincourt  and  Crecy,  to  the  village  of  St.  Christ, 
which  lay  midway  between  Charles's  town  of  Feronne  and  that  of  St. 
Quentin,  which  belonged  to  the  Constable  of  St.  Pol,  uncle  to  Edward's 
queen.  Into  Peronne  Charles  decided  not  to  admit  the  English  army ;  at 
St  Quentin,  where  the  Count  had  almost  pledged  himself  to  admit  them, 
and  had  offended  Louis  by  excluding  a  French  garrison,  they  found 
themselves  equally  shut  out,  and  were  even  greeted  with  a  volley  of 
cannon-balls. 

The  English  remained  in  camp  near  Peronne,  annoyed  and  disappointed ; 
arid  in  the  meantime  Louis,  keeping  watch  with  a  mere  fragment  of  an 
army  at  Compline,  encouraged  his  court  by  observing,  ^  These  men  are 
not  the  English  of  old ;  they  creep,  they  keep  close.'  In  fact,  Edward 
felt  hims^f  at  fault,  and  was  doubtful  of  his  allies ;  and  his  recent  way 
of  life  disposed  him  both  to  inaction  and  to  impatience  of  hardships* 
Just  at  this  time  the  English  made  their  first  prisoner — a  servant,  who,  in 
honour  of  being  the  first,  was  released  after  being  interrogated  by  both 
King  and  Duke,  and  on  his  way  out  of  the  camp  was  accosted  by  Lords 
Howard  and  Stanley,  who  each  gave  him  a  gold  noble  and  bade  him 
commend  them  to  his  master. 

This  was  a  sure  token  that  Ireland  King-at-Arms  had  done  his  work ; 
and  the  prisoner  further  reported  that  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  was  going 
immediately  to  meet  his  States-General  of  Hainault  at  Valenciennes. 
Louis  heard  the  message,  and  sat  down  to  dinner,  so  pre-occupied  that  he 
made  grimaces  and  gestures  like  a  madman.  He  saw  the  time  was  come 
for  sending  the  messenger,  as  the  King-at-Arms  had  advised ;  but  in  his 
contempt  of  all  royal  pomp  and  vain  expense,  he  had  not  a  single  herald 
or  pursuivant  about  him!  But  his  plan  was  soon  made.  He  bade 
Cominea  send  for  a  servant  named  Merindot,  and  instruct  him  to 
personate  one  of  these  almost  sacred  individuals  in  the  English  camp. 
The  poor  fellow  was  overcome  with  dismay ;  for  such  a  cheat,  if  found 
out)  was  sure  to  be  regarded  as  an  outrage,  and  treated  without  mercy ; 


14  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

■ 

and  Comines  tried  to  persuade  the  King  that  he  was  unsuitable  both  in 
appearance  and  daring  for  the  purpose ;  but  Louis  was  determined,  and 
a  few  words  from  his  persuasive  tongue  prevailed  on  the  valet  to  do  his 
part. 

A  flenr-de-lys  banner  was  cut  from  a  trumpet,  and  hastily  adapted  as 
a  tabard,  the  rest  of  the  equipment  was  borrowed,  and  Merindot  was 
smuggled  out  of  the  French  camp,  with  the  whole  of  the  paraphernalia 
in  a  bag,  and  in  fear  and  trembling  made  his  way  to  St.  Christ. 

Charles  was  absent,  and  none  of  the  English  detected  the  imposition ; 
the  false  herald  saw  Howard  and  Stanley,  had  a  good  dinner,  was  taken 
to  King  Edward,  repeated  Louis's  messages  to  him,  about  the  expediency 
of  peace,  obtained  a  safe-conduct  for  ambassadors  to  arrange  the  pre- 
liminaries at  a  spot  near  Amiens ;  Merindot  received  from  the  King  a 
cup  full  of  gold  pieces,  and  was  sent  back  in  company  with  the  most 
dangerous  person  he  had  yet  encountered,  the  English  herald.  If  this 
were  the  Norman  before  mentioned,  they  probably  laughed  together 
at  the  maladroitness  of  the  islanders,  who  had  never  suspected  the 
counterfeit. 

The  next  day  the  conferences  began,  hurried  on  by  Louis  lest  the  Duke 
should  return.  ^  Give  them  all  they  ask,'  he  said  to  hb  commissioners, 
*  only  not  one  rood  of  land.     Rather  than  part  with  that  I  will  risk  aU.' 

On  the  English  side  came  Lord  Howard,  Sir  Thomas  St  Leger, 
brother-in-law  to  the  King,  and  Dr.  Thomas  Morton,  the  parson  of 
Blokesworth,  who,  afler  faithfully  adhering  to  Queen  Margaret  to  the 
last,  had  made  his  peace  with  Edward,  and  was  now  Master  of  the  Rolls. 

The  two  gentlemen-  were  heartily  weary  of  the  expedition,  and  had 
made  up  their  minds  with  their  master,  that  from  the  formal  demand  of 
the  crown  and  kingdom  of  France  itself,  they  would  at  once  condescend 
to  the  more  modest  demand  of  seventy-five  thousand  crowns  to  pay  their 
king  for  departing,  and  a  black-mail  of  sixty  thousand  crowns  a  year  for 
nine  years  under  the  name  of  a  pension  to  the  Lady  Elizabeth,  Edward's 
eldest  daughter,  who  was  to  be  contracted  to  the  young  Dauphin ;  and 
they  even  offered  to  betray  to  the  Frencli  king  the  names  of  the  vassals 
who  had  offered  their  aid.  To  this  the  French  gentlemen  made  no 
answer,  shocked  at  the  dishonourable  proposal,  and  went  back  to  meet 
their  king  at  Amiens.  Some  of  the  councillors  thought  the  English 
demands  so  moderate,  that  they  imagined  there  must  be  treachery ;  but 
Louis  was  confident  in  the  dullness  of  the  English,  and  in  Edward's 
distaste  for  hardships,  displeasure  and  want  of  confidence  in  his  allies, 
and  in  his  courtiers'  greediness  for  money.  He  sent  in  every  direction 
to  raise  the  requisite  sum,  and  sent  presents  of  wine  and  aU  sorts  of 
delicacies  to  the  English  camp,  where  Edward,  more  than  half  ashamed 
of  letting  himself  be  thus  bought  off,  was  excusing  himself  to  his  army 
by  talking  of  the  treachery  of  his  allies. 

In  the  midst,  down  upon  them  thundered  Charles  of  Burgundy,  who 
had   galloped   from  Valenciennes  with    only  sixteen    attendants,  and 


CAAfEOS  FROM  ENGLISH  HISTORY.  15 

suddenly  walked  fiercely  into  the  royal  tent,  where  Edward  was  sitting 
with  his  companions. 

'How  now,  Brother!  what  brings  you  back  so  soon?'  asked  Edward. 

*  I  am  come  to  speak  with  you,'  said  the  Duke,  in  English. 
'  In  public  or  in  private  V  said  Edward. 

'Is  it  true  that  you  have  made  peace?'  demanded  Charles  sharply. 
'  Yes,  Brother.     I  have  concluded  a  seven  years  truce,  in  which  you 
shall  be  included  as  well  as — * 

*  By  St.  George — ^by  our  Lady — '  burst  forth  Charles,  still  in  English ; 
'could  you  sign  your  own  shame!  Can  you  re-cross  the  sea  without 
breaking  a  lance,  or  killing  a  fiy  ?  Have  you  forgotten  the  valiant  King 
Edward  your  forefather,  who  never  landed  in  this  kingdom,  even  with  a 
much  smaller  army,  without  winning  some  glorious  little,  as  at  Crecy  and 
Poitiers  ?  Or  that  great  King  Henry,  your  illustrious  kinsman  as  well  as 
mine,  whose  family  you  extinguished,  and  whose  son  perished  in  your 
hands — Grod  knows  by  what  death — ^had  he  half  as  many  men  as  you, 
when  he  fought  not  far  hence  on  that  famous  day  of  Azincour?  Did  he 
dream  of  going  back  to  England  without  mastering  this  kingdom,  which 
submitted  to  him  as  regent  and  heir  to  the  crown?  And  yon — ^you  are 
going  without  having  done  or  gained  anything!  You  have  allowed 
yourself  to  be  caught  in  the  snares  of  the  King  of  France,  and  have 
made  a  peace  that  does  not  give  you  back  one  peascod.  Tis  your  own 
honour,  fame,  and  profit,  that  I  speak  of.  Was  it  for  my  own  interest 
that  I  counselled  you  to  come  into  France  ?  What  did  I  want  of  your 
aid  ?  I  can  defend  my  own  quarrel  well  enough  alone,  as  I  have  shewn 
you  already.  And  to  prove  it.  111  have  none  of  these  truces  you  have 
thrust  me  into  against  my  will.  I  swear  to  make  no  treaty  with  the 
King  of  France  till  three  months  after  you  are  gone!'  and  he  started  up, 
throwing  down  the  chair  he  had  been  sitting  on,  while  such  voices  as  had 
not  preferred  French  gold  to  English  honour,  among  them  that  of  young 
Richard  of  Glocester,  murmured,  ^  The  Duke  of  Burgundy  has  spoken  well.' 

But  Edward  was  clever  man  enough  to  answer  plausiblyf  throwing  all 
the  blame  on  the  Duke  himself.  ^  You  wanted  to  conquer  kingdoms  in 
Germany,'  he  said,  ^  and  feared  meantime  to  lose  your  states ;  so  to  hinder 
King  Louis,  who  was  ready  to  profit  by  your  absence,  you  took  it  into  your 
head  to  bring  me  over  to  keep  him  uneasy,  and  guard  Burgundy,  while  you 
were  before  Neuss  or  in  some  other  country  of  Germany.  You  made  fair 
promises.  I  was  to  get  mountains  of  gold,  and  you  would  await  me  with 
whole  armies  of  men-at-arms  and  foot-soldiers.  It  has  all  melted  like 
snow  in  the  sun,  and  when  I  come  here  I  find  you  broken  so  much  that 
you  seem  not  to  have  a  page  to  accompany  you.  We  undertook  the  war 
solely  to  help  you;  but  since  not  from  cowardice  but  from  folly  you 
cannot  follow  them  up,  we  have  nothing  to  do  here,  but  honour  and  our 
kingdoms  are  not  at  all  at  stake.  Certes,  if  we  had  wanted  to  fight  for 
England's  cause,  we  should  have  acted  in  another  way ;  we  should  not 
have  asked  your  day  nor  hour,  we  should  not  have  waited  for  your  delays. 


16  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Having  no  need  of  your  help,  we  should  have  landed  where  we  chose, 
and  plenty  of  burnt  and  taken  towns,  and  men  slain,  would  have  shewn 
your  subjects  that  it  was  England's  quarrel  that  brought  us.  Nothing 
then  hinders  me  from  seeking  the  good  of  my  kingdom  by  a  good  solid 
truce ;  and  if  I  sign  it,  by  God's  help  I  will  observe  iU* 

^Gk)d  give  you  joy,'  replied  the  Duke  as  he  departed.  He  did, 
however,  return  to  take  a  formal  leave  of  King  Edward,  and  then  set  out 
for  Valenciennes. 

An  invasion  of  France  was  of  course  a  move  gratification  of  the  lust 
of  conquest,  and,  as  Louis  continually  observed,  ^  Peace  is  far  more 
grateful  to  Heaven  than  war ;'  yet  it  is  impossible  not  to  regard  Edward's 
conduct  in  this  affair  with  a  sense  of  humiliation,  since  it  was  no  mercy 
or  humanity  that  cl\^ked  the  progress  of  his  army,  but  that  the  baser 
passions  of  avarice  and  sensuality  stifled  his  ambition. 

He  was  now  lodged  only  half  a  league  from  Amiens,  whence  Louis 
could  from  the  walls  see  and  triumph  over  the  disorderly  state  into  which 
the  magnificent  English  army  had  fallen,  and  which  he  cunningly 
increased  by  placing  long  tables  before  the  gates,  covered  with  dainty 
dishes,  and  provided  with  the  best  wines,  presided  over  too  by  French 
gentletnen  of  rank,  who  as  any  English  horseman  came  up,  invited  him 
to  break  a  lance,  and  set  him  down  to  feast  with  them.  Nine  or  ten 
taverns  within  the  city  were  thrown  open  to  such  as  could  not  find  seats 
at  the  table,  and  of  course  multitudes  of  English  flowed  in,  acting  as 
English  soldienB,  all  in  good  humour,  would  be  too  sure  to  do,  above  all 
men  trained  in  the  licence  of  a  long  civil  war ;  and  the  French  became 
alarmed,  and  were  amazed  at  the  small  respect  with  which  they  treated 
the  name  of  their  own  king. 

But  Louis  would  not  have  them  gainsayed  in  any  respect,  until  at  last, 
one  morning,  he  was  interrupted  while  saying  his  Hours,  by  Comines, 
who  came  to  tell  him  there  were  nine  thousand  English,  all  fuUy  armed,  in 
the  city. 

He  sent  Oomines  to  their  own  captains  to  try  to  get  them  away,  but 
in  vain ;  for  one  who  departed,  twenty  came  in,  but  they  merely  drank, 
sung,  and  slept,  and  shewed  no  disposition  to  quarrel,  and  Louis's  forbear- 
ance was  really  most  sagacious  and  wonderful,  when  he  was,  as  it  were, 
sitting  on  a  barrel  of  gunpowder,  and  the  least  dispute  between  the 
swaggering  islanders  and  his  own  frightened  and  angry  citizens  might 
have  lighted  the  spark  in  a  moment.  He  caused  his  captains  to  keep  a 
hundred  armed  men  ready  out  of  sight  for  any  emergency,  and  himself 
sat  do^'n  to  dinner  under  the  gateway,  calling  some  English  nobles  to 
join  him,  and  betraying  no  anxiety.  Edward  was  soldier  enough  to  be 
ashamed  of  his  men.  and  sent  word  to  Louis  that  they  were  not  to  be 
aUowed  to  ent^. 

'  No,'  said  Louis ;  *  to  me  they  shall  be  welcome ;  but  my  cousin  the 
King  of  England  may  be  pleased  perhaps  to  send  a  guard  of  archers  to 
.  the  gate,  and  they  shall  admit  only  those  he  desires.' 


CAMEOS  FROM  SlflTGLISH  HISTORY.  17 

Aflter  Uiis  the  diaorder  decreased,  bqt  both  kings  were  in  haste  to 
shorten  this  time  of  danger ;  the  treaties  were  drawn  up,  and  the  English 
nobles  accepted  their  bribes.  Dr.  Morton's  seemed  to  have  been  pardy 
that  he  negociated  the  ransom  of  his  unhappy  mistress,  Margaret  of 
Anjou,  from  her  captivity  in  the  Tower,  for  seventy-five  thousand  crowns; 
but  he  likewise  accepted  a  pension,  as  did  the  chancellor,  the  lord 
chamberlain,  Edward's  step-son  John  Grey,  now  Marquis  of  Dorset, 
Lord  Howard,  Lord  Stanly,  and  Lord  Hastings— all,  with  the  King  at 
their  head,  persuading  themselves  that  it  was  only  a  tribute  due  to  their 
superior  strength.  Hastings  alone  felt  any  shame,  though  it  did  not  lead 
him  to  refuse  the  gold,  only  to  say,  *  If  you  wish  mo  to  take  it,  you  may 
put  it  into  my  sleeve,  but  I  will  give  you  no  quittance  for  it  I ' 

The  name  of  the  thing  did  not  give  Louis  much  concern ;  he  did  not 
stickle  at  Edward  calling  himself  King  of  France  and  England,  and  him 
only  prince,  but  agreed  to  everything ;  and  Edward  secured  to  himself 
the  present  pension,  the  hope  of  seeing  his  beautiful  little  daughter  ^  Lady 
Bessee '  Queen  of  France,  and  the  promise  of  a  refuge  in  that  kingdom, 
if  a  fresh  revolution  should  drive  him  from  his  throne. 

The  two  kings  had  yet  to  meet  and  sign  the  treaty,  and  the  chosen 
spot  was  Pecquigny  on  the  Homme.  A  wooden  bridge  was  erected  over 
the  river,  and  in  the  middle  of  it  a  shed,  divided  in  the  midst  by  such  a 
wooden  grating  as  was  wont  to  form  the  front  of  a  lion's  cage,  but  with 
the  bars  wide  enough  apart  for  an  arm  to  be  passed  through— all  this  by 
special  desire  of  Louis. 

He  brought,  however,  only  eight  hundred  men  to  the  left  bank  of  the 
river,  while  the  whole  English  army  was  on  the  right  bank,  looking-^to 
its  own  shame-^a  grander  host  than  had  been  assembled  since  the  time 
of  King  Arthur,  as  says  Comines. 

It  was  the  29Ui  of  August,  1475,  when  the  two  kings  met  with  their 
cage  between  them — Louis  accompanied  by  the  Duke  and  the  Cardinal  of 
Bourbon,  Comines,  and  other  attendants;  Edward  by  his  brother  of 
Clarence,  his  step-son  of  Dorset,  his  favourite  Hastings,  and  others. 
Young  Richard  of  Glocester  was  so  much  ashamed  of  the  transaction, 
that  he  refused  to  be  present. 

There,  then,  they  stood*— the  small,  sharp-featured,  slender,  prematurely 
aged  Louis,  in  his  blue  gown;  and  Edward,  stately  and  magnificent 
looking,  towering  above  all  other  heads,  and  his  features  still  handsomer 
than  those  of  any  other  man  present,  but  his  figure,  already  burly  and 
encumbered  from  his  way  of  life,  clad  in  a  cloth  of  gold  robe,  with  a 
small  bku^  velvet  cap  on  his  head,  adorned  by  a  diamond  fieur-de-lys. 
Both  uncovered  and  bent  the  knee  to  the  ground,  then  advanced  to  the 
barrier,  and  embraced  through  the  bars,  while  Louis  said, 

^  Welcome,  my  Lord  and  cousin.  Never  did  I  desire  to  see  any  man 
more  than  you.    Heaven  be  praised  for  our  happy  meeting.' 

Then  eame  a  r^ly  in  French  in  the  same  strain  from  Edward,  a 
aermon-Uke  discourse  from  the  Bishop  of  Ely,  about  some  old  prophecy 

VOL.   10.  2  PART  55. 


] 


18  THE  MONTHLY  FACKifiT. 

that  there  should  he  a  great  peace  at  Pecqnignj;  tlie  reading  of  the 
treaty,  the  signature,  and  the  oath  made  hj  hoth  to  ohserve  it:  and 
afterwards  there  was  some  merry  conversation.  '  Come  to  Paris,  Cousin,' 
said  Louis ;  ^  you  shall  find  hanquets  and  fair  ladies  there,  and  for  your 
confessor  Cardinal  Bourhon,  who  gives  easy  absolution.'  But  Louis 
shuddered  when  Edward  seemed  ready  to  take  this  jesting  invitation  in 
earnest.  As  he  afterwards  said,  he  much  preferred  his  friend  the  King 
of  England  on  the  other  side  of  ihe  water ;  and  he  soon  silenced  Lord 
Howard,  who  remained  with  him  as  a  hostage,  and  offered  to  bring  his 
master  to  Paris. 

A  Gascon  gentleman  in  Edward's  service,  whom  Comines  asked  how 
many  battles  his  master  had  won,  answered,  '  Nine ;  but  he  has  lost  one 
that  is  a  greater  shame  to  him  than  the  others  were  an  honour  V 

^  Which  was  that?'  asked  Comines. 

'  This  one  that  he  is  losing  now,'  said  the  Gascon. 

The  King  of  France  himself  could  hardly  keep  back  his  diversion  at 
the  ridiculous  figure  cut  by  the  huge  host  that  was  going  back,  without 
having,  in  Burgundy's  words,  so  much  as  killed  a  fiy ;  but  he  knew  the 
danger  of  rousing  their  sense  of  shame ;  and  once,  when  he  was  laughing 
over  their  huge  appetite  for  wine  and  gold,  he  suddenly  stopped  short  on 
seeing  a  stranger  listening.  The  man  was  a  Gascon  wine  merchant, 
resident  in  England.  The  King  at  once  bought  up  his  wine,  sent  for  his 
wife  and  children,  and  let  him  return  no  more,  saying  that  as  to  the  cost, 
it  was  his  own  forfeit  for  having  talked  too  much. 

At  last  the  English  set  out  on  their  return,  not  without  fears  of  being 
beset  by  the  Burgundians  on  their  route ;  and  though  this  did  not  happen, 
Edward  actually  wrote  to  Louis  requesting  that  Charles  might  not  be 
admitted  to  a  separate  peace,  and  offering,  if  he  refused  to  be  included  in 
the  truce  of  Pecquigny,  to  come  over  again,  with  his  expenses  duly  paid, 
and  assist  the  King  of  France  to  subdue  him !  He  also  sent  Louis  a  letter 
written  by  the  Constable  de  St.  Pol,  who  had  managed  irremediably  to 
offend  all  parties  by  paltering  with  all,  and  thus  lefl  his  own  brother-in- 
law  and  his  wife's  uncle  alike  marked  out  by  his  own  hand  for  the  spiteful 
vengeance  of  Louis. 

Thus  he  returned  to  England,  two  months  from  the  time  of  his 
departure,  covered  with  disgrace,  which  all  the  English  who  were  not 
silenced  by  the  politely  named  ^  tribute '  felt  most  keenly. 

The  disbanded  army  went  to  their  homes-— such  as  had  any — and  there 
compared  Edward  of  York  to  Harry  of  Monmouth;  and  such  as  had 
none,  turned  robbers  and  plundered  travellers  and  homesteads,  till  Edward 
was  roused  to  make  a  circuit  in  the  country,  and  mercilessly  hang  all 
malefactors  who  fell  into  his  hands,  so  that  he  was  feared  at  least,  if  not 
loved.  So  disgracefully  ended  the  last  Plantagenet  invasion  of  France, 
the  last  attempt  to  place  the  crown  of  St.  Louis  on  an  English  head,  the 
last  of  what  some  call  the  old  Viking  descents  on  the  opposite  coast. 
Other  hostile  Englishmen  were  yet  to  tread  the  soil  of  France,  but  only 


•  I 


THOUGHTS  OF  A  LOVER  OF  OLD  ENGLISH  PROSE.     19 

in  pursuance  of  political  schemes,  never  with  the  deliberate  intentions  of 
wholesale  conquest  which  had  been  the  dream  of  England  and  misery  of 
France  for  six  generations. 

So  ridiculous  and  mercenary  a  failure  on  his  adversary's  part  rendered 
Louis  infinitely  more  powerful  and  secure  than  he  had  hitherto  been. 
He  could  afford  to  make  peace  with  Burgundy,  knowing  as  he  did  ih&t 
the  enemies  secretly  in  his  pay  would  deal  with  the  fiery  Charles  far 
more  effectually  than  he  could;  and  by  this  peace  the  double-dealing 
Constable  St.  Pol  was  given  up  to  the  vengeance  his  treason  richly 
deserved,  though  more  successful  and  ingenious  traitors  only  prospered  in 
their  chicanery.  He  was  beheaded  at  Paris,  on  the  19th  of  December, 
1475,  making  the  fourth  near  relation  of  Queen  Elizabeth  Wydville, 
who  had  died  a  bloody  death. 

As  to  Charles  of  Burgundy,  beset  by  the  invincible  Swiss,  and 
embroiled  in  a  quarrel  with  young  Duke  Rene  of  Lorraine,  he  spent  the 
next  two  years  like  a  lion  baited  by  mastiffs,  lost  two  terrible  battles  at 
Granson  and  Morat,  and  perished  at  last  by  some  unknown  hand  when 
besieging  Nanci,  the  capital  of  Lon-aine.  The  Swiss  and  Lorrainers  in 
the  early  morning  of  the  Epiphany  Eve  of  1477,  were  admitted  into  his 
camp  by  the  treachery  of  an  Italian  condottiere  in  his  service ;  and  after 
horrible  slaughter  and  confusion,  a  piteous  search  was  made  for  the  great 
and  mighty  Duke. 

Li  a  pool  of  frozen  water,  mangled  and  stripped,  was  found  a  corpse 
that  those  who  knew  him  best  recognized  as  the  remains  of  the  great  and 
puissant  Charles  the  Bold,  once  the  terror  of  France !  His  tale  is  one 
of  the  saddest  and  greatest  tragedies  of  ambition. 

Cdo  fje  eonlinutd.) 


THOUGHTS  OS"  A  LOVER  OF  OLD  ENGLISH 

PROSE.* 

Ka  III. 

Takikg  down  from  its  shelf  lately  a  book  which  deserves  to  be  more 
frequently  read  than  I  fear  it  is — Professor  Dugald  Stewart's  '  Pliilosophy 
of  the  Human  Mind ' — I  opened  the  volume  at  a  passage  quoted  by  the 
Professor  from  the  Preface  to  Bishop  Butler's  Sermons  at  the  RoUs.  I  well 
knew,  and  had  often  been  struck,  by  the  truth  of  the  passage  in  question, 
but  was  not  aware  of  the  impression  it  had  made  on  Mr.  Stewart,  who 
recurs  to  it  with  earnestness,  and  evidently  with  sincere  regret  at  the 
strong  confirmation  it  gives  to  his  own  convictions.  It  is  not  so  much  a 
complaint  about  the  large  demands  of  a  light  literature  upon  us,  (though 

♦  See  *The  Monthly  Packet,'  New  Series,  Vol.  VI.  p.  441 ;  Vol.  VIL  p.  22T. 


20  THE  MOKTHLY  PACKET. 

ihia  16  stated  too,)  but  the  great  evil  Butler  speaks  of  is  the  small  amount 
of  anxiety  which  prevails  about  the  truth  or  falsity  of  the  propositions 
met  with  in  books.  This  goes  much  deeper  than  questions  respecting 
our  knowledge  of  authors.  I  trust  my  great  regard  for  the  weighty 
words  of  this  thoughtful  writer  will  excuse  my  quoting  the  passage  at 
length. 

.  Though  (says  he)  ^tis  scarce  possible  to  avoid  judging,  in  some  ^ay  or 
other,  of  almost  everything  which  offers  itself  to  our  thoughts ;  yet  'tis  certain 
that  many  persons,  from  different  causes,  uever  exercise  their  judgement  upon 
what  comes  before  them,  in  the  way  of  determining  whether  it  be  conclusive, 
and  holds.  They  are  perhaps  entertained  with  some  things,  not  so  with 
others — they  like  and  they  dislike ;  but  whether  that  which  is  proposed  to  be 
made  out  be  really  made  out  or  not, — whether  a  matter  be  stated  according  to 
the  real  truth  of  the  case, — seems  to  the  generality  of  people  merely  a  circum- 
stance of  no  consideration  at  all.  Arguments  arc  often  wanted  for  some 
accidental  purpose ;  but  proof,  as  such,  is  what  they  never  want  for  themselves 
— for  their  own  satisfaction  of  mind,  or  conduct  in  life.  Not  to  mention  the 
multitudes  who  read  merelv  for  the  sake  of  talking,  or  to  qualify  themselves  for 
the  world,  or  some  such  kmd  of  reasons ;  there  are,  even  of  the  few  who  read 
for  their  own  entertainment,  and  have  a  real  curiosity  to  sec  what  is  said, 
several,  which  is  prodigious,  who  have  no  sort  of  curiosity  to  see  what  is  true. 
I  say  curtosity,  because  'tis  too  obvious  to  be  mentioned  how  much  that  religious 
and  sacred  attention  which  is  due  to  truth,  and  to  the  important  question,  *  What 
is  the  rule  of  life  ?'  is  lost  oat  of  the  world. 


The  great  number  of  books  and  papers  of  amusement,  which,  of  one  kind  or 
another,  daily  come  in  one's  way,  have  in  part  occasioned,  and  most  perfectly 
fall  in  with  and  humour,  this  idle  way  of  reading  and  considering  things.  By 
this  means.  Time,  even  in  solitude,  is  happily  got  rid  of,  without  the  pain  of 
attention ;  neither  is  any  part  of  it  more  put  to  the  account  of  idleness,  w^e  can 
scarce  forbear  saying  is  spent  with  less  tuought,  than  great  part  of  that  which 
is  spent  in  reading.  * 

If,  as  it  is  to  be  hoped,  the  unflattering  words  of  so  faithful  a  friend  as 
Bishop  Butler  may  carry  some  weight  with  a. few  young  readers,  it  is 
not  with  the  presumptuous  idea  of  enforcing  them  that  I  go  on  with 
these  papers  on  old  English  prose ;  for  it  seems  to  me  that  though  the 
passages  from  our  writers  which  we  read  and  remark  on  for  their  force 
of  expression  and  beauty  can  hardly  fail  to  sen^e  some  good  purpose, 
yet  that  habits  of  thought,  and  moral  conscientious  earnestness  in  our 
reading,  can  in  general  only  be  brought  about  by  better  education. 

If  the  teachers  and  companions  of  our  early  lives  did  their  work  better, 
a  greater  love  of  truth  might  be  excited.  Pupils  would  be  recommended 
to  write  more,  and  read  less,  making  what  they  do  read  their  own ;  and 
the  common-place  book  would  be  in  more  frequent  use  than  it  is.  It  is 
hard  work,  no  doubt,  to  struggle  against  the  stream.  Young  people 
have  a  good  deal  to  do;  languages,  something  of  natural  sciences, 
accomplishments,  &c.,  must  have  their  time ;  and  when  they  are  fairly 

*  Preface  to  the  Sermons  Preached  at  the  Eolls  Chapel  by  Joseph  Butler,  D.D. 


THOUGHTS  OF  A  LOVER  OF  OLD  ENGLISH  PROSE.     21 

tired  of  lessons,  there  is  the  novel  or  the  magazine  ever  ready  to  refresh 
them. 

As  to  languages,  let  me  say  once  for  all,  that  I  am  not  going  to  join 
in  any  cry  against  them.  If  they  are  well  taught,  they  are  in  themsdves 
excellent  mental  discipline;  and  the  only  pity  is,  that  they  are  not 
sufficiently  followed  up  by  acquaintance  with  the  best  specimens  of  the 
literature.  What  is  called  education,  mostly  leaves  all  this  for  future 
acquisition ;  and  here,  as  in  the  study  of  one's  own  noble  national 
literature,  we  are  made  continually  to  wish  that  the  time  for  learning 
could  be  protracted,  for  our  young  women  especially. 

The  knowledge  of  the  German  language,  as  a  special  instance,  if  it  be 
well  superintended,  and  its  treasures  discreetly  opened,  must,  one  would 
think,  be  most  serviceable  in  mental  cultivation.  People  who  do  not 
know  much  of  our  high-class  English  literature,  yet  if  they  will  read  the 
best  German  authors,  must  surely  fed  their  earnestness  and  suggestiveness. 
They  are  not  aware  of  the  fact,  perhaps,  but  the  truth  seems  to  be,  that 
the  best  Germans  owe  their  power  over  the  English  mind  to  their  strong 
sympathies  with  what  is  national  in  us.  So  that  while  we  ourselves  have 
a  character  of  exdusiveness,  they  pay  us  the  compliment  of  delighting  in 
our  noblest  winters.  Th&f  will  never,  we  are  sure,  if  properly  read,  lead 
us  away  from  our  own  resources.  Whoever  reads  the  brave  bold  words 
of  Luther,  sees  at  once  how  strong  is  the  bond  of  brotherhood  between 
ourselves  and  the  Saxon  race ;  and  who  can  note  the  intense  appreciation 
of  our  Shakespeare  which  prevails  among  the  best  German  critics,  without 
the  feeling  that  the  touch  of  nature  is  making  us  one  ? 

Therefore  it  is,  that,  used  with  fairness  and  judgement,  I  should  think 
wo  need  not  complain  of  the  time  devoted  to  good  foreign  studies.  Far 
more  to  be  dreaded  is  the  almost  boundless  dissipation  into  which  we  are 
led  by  the  multiplication  of  those  very  light  books  which  so  much  prevail, 
by  the  habit  it  leads  to  of  expending,  quite  without  thought  or  conscience, 
large  portions  of  our  time.  Bishop  Butler  is  right — no  tijne  is  spent  with 
less  of  thought  than  that  spent  in  suck  reading. 

Now  and  then,  too,  there  is  awakened  in  our  minds  a  sense  of  mischief 
to  ourselves,  and  injustice  to  the  best  writers  of  the  present  day,  even.  I 
mean,  when  we  remember  how  hard  it  is  to  get  back  any  little  good 
we  may  have  gained  from  the  noteworthy  things  which  do  now  and  then, 
however  rarely,  come  in  our  way.  Wiiat  Francis  Jeffrey,  in  an  Edinburgh 
Keview  article,  says  of  poetry,  is  just  as  applicable  to  prose. 

As  the  materials,  (says  he,)  of  enjoyment  and  instruction  accumulate  around 
us,  more  and  more,  we  fear,  must  be  daily  rejected  and  lefl  to  waste.  For, 
while  our  tasks  lengthen,  our  lives  remain  as  short  as  ever ;  and  the  calls  on 
our  time  multiply,  while  our  time  itself  is  flying  swiftly  away.  The  superfluity 
and  abundance  of  our  treasures,  therefore,  neeessarily  renders  much  of  them 
worthless ;  and  the  merest  accidents  may,  in  such  a  case,  determine  what  shall 
be  preserved,  and  what  thrown  away.  When  an  army  is  dedmatcd,  the  very 
bravest  may  fall.  * 

•  Edinburgh  Review,  March,  1S19  ;  art.  *  Canipbcll's  Specimens.' 


22  '  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Most  true !  and  let  it  not  be  thought,  whatever  has  been  said,  that  a 
regard  for  the  better  part  of  modem  writing  is  ever  absent  from  the 
minds  of  those  who  read  and  reflect  at  all.  Beautiful  things  are 
thought  and  said  in  our  day ;  things  worthy  of  everlasting  remembrance ; 
but  a  very  small  part  of  them  can  possibly  be  retained.  '  Looking  back, 
too,  fifty  or  sixty  years,  it  is  scarce  possible  to  overrate  the  excellent 
execution  of  some  of  the  books  of  the  early  part  of  the  century.  We 
would  fain  keep  them  by  us,  and  recur  to  them  at  favourable  intervals. 
Some  of  the  best  articles  in  our  Quarterlies — some  no  doubt  committing 
monstrous  mistakes,  as  when  Jeffrey  himself  undertook  to  demolish 
Wordsworth,  but  making  some  amends  for  these  errors  by  many 
admirable  criticisms. 

"Jiliere  is,  however,  more  satisfaction  in  the  knowledge  that — whether  from 
the  efforts  of  here  and  there  a  powerful  modern  mind  (as  that  of  Coleridge) 
having  influence  enough  to  make  the^eaders  of  his  time  dissatisfied  with 
the  best  of  mere  eocecutive  power,  and  eager  to  go  more  deeply  into  matters 
of  tlionght — whether,  I  say,  it  has  come  from  one  source  or  several,  it  is 
certain  that  great  pains  have  been  taken  latterly  to  send  us  back  to  an 
earlier  time.  It  is  clear  that  people  who  once  learn  to  love  our  writers 
of  the  Elizabethan  and  James  the  First's  school  cling  to  them  more 
and  more.  They  find  in  them  the  strength  and  fixity  which  they  miss 
elsewhere.  A  few  of  their  fine  sayings  sink  deeply  into  the  memory. 
The  strong  terse  words  abide  in  our  minds,  and  time  has  no  power 
io  dislodge  them.  There  is  something  comforting  in  this,  inasmuch 
as  we  cannot  believe  it  to  be  a  mere  power  of  words.  It  is  because 
the  words  are  rooted  in  evident  conviction,  that  they  abide  with  us. 
Whether  these  writers  were  divines  or  laymen,  whether  they  wrote 
for  England  or  for  other  countries,  their  works  are  sanctified  by  a 
deep  consciousness  of  their  responsibilities  to  God  and  man.  We  feel 
that  they  felt  they  were  building  on  a  Rock.  Christ,  the  great  Giver 
of  Divine  light,  is  their  great  central  name.  The  burden  of  past 
sinfulness  lightened;  the  promise,  the  certainty,  of  the  perpetual  gift 
of  the  Holy  Spirit — enabled  them  to  thread  their  way  through  all  mists 
and  darkness;  and  we  trace  their  bright  line  of  light  from  apostles 
and  martyrs  to  confessors  of  every  rank — ^from  St.  Augustine  to 
Luther — ^from  Widiffe  to  Hooker  and  Jeremy  Taylor.  From  Bacon> 
and  Milton,  and  Baxter,  and  Leighton,  and  Bishop  Ken ;  from  Fenelooy 
Nicole,  and  Pascal ;  from  Wesley,  Hem-y  Martyn,  and  Keble.    , 

*  The  saints  above  and  those  below 
But  one  communion  make  :' 

and  while  we,  as  English  people,  are  rich  in  our  own  resources,  we  have 
thankfulness  to  spare  for  the  riches  of  others. 

«  «  «  «  « 

I  dare  not  extend  these  remarks  farther,  lest  they  should  cheat  the 
reader  of  some  far  better  things;  and  it  is  quite  time  to  recur  to  a 


THOUGHTS  OF  A  LOVER  OF  OLD  ENGLISH  PEOSE.     23 

few  of  the  specimens  I  have  promised.  May  I  not  fairly  begin  by 
a  few  words  from  Bishop  Andrewes'  Devotions — his  first  Evening 
Prayer?  It  is  well  known  that  these  devotions  were  composed  by  him  in 
Greek,  from  which  language  they  have  several  times  been  translated. 
One  of  these  translations,  by  Dr.  Newman,  is,  I  believe,  considered  the 
best.  It  is  published  by  Parker  of  Oxford.  The  translation  now  before 
me  was  made  by  the  Rev.  Richard  Drake,  in  the  year  1648,  and  in 
re-published  by  Masters. 

Bishop  Andrewes,  it  will  be  observed,  though  often  very  original,  and 
always  most  poetical,  is  so  conversant  with  Scripture,  ths£t  his  devotions 
are  often,  in  pait,  mere  arrangements  of  the  Psalms;  still  there  is 
always  something  in  them  peculiar  to  himself — a  tone,  a  meditative 
sweetness, .  and  depth  of  thought  and  feeling,  which  I  scarce  can  find 
anywhere  else.  But  how,  indeed,  should  it  be  otherwise!  Look  quite 
through  the  English  hierarchy  from  beginning  to  end,  and  can  you 
find  a  name  so  dear  to  the  heart,  so  refreshing  to  the  mind,  as  that 
of  Launcelot  Andrewes  f  A  lover  of  the  young,  an  ever  eager  enjoyer 
of  the  sweet  aspects  of  nature, — benignant,  charitable,  tender.  The 
most  uncorrupt  of  men,  inflexible  in  integrity,  of  clean  hands,  and  of 
a  pure  heart.  Let  us  not  forget  that  the  Puritan  youth,  Milton,  aged 
eighteen,  dwelling  on  his  memory,  pictures  himself  as  in  a  vision 
transported  to  the  realms  of  the  blessed,  and  there 

*  At  once,  with  looks  that  beamM  celestial  grace, 
The  Seer  of  Winton  stood  before  my  face ; 

Where'er  he  trod,  a  tremulous  sweet  sound 
Of  gladness  shook  the  flowery  fields  around ; 
Attendant  angels  clap  their  starry  wings, 
The  trumpet  shakes  the  sky,  all  ether  rings. 
Each  chants  his  welcome,  K>lds  him  to  his  breast/  &c. 

MUtorCs  Latin  Elegy ^  translated  by  Coicper. 

I  take  the  beginning  of  the  first  evening  of  the  Devotions. 

The  day  is  done : 
Lord,  I  give  thanks  to  Thee ; 
The  evening  draweth  on, 

make  it  joyous. 
An  evening  there  is,  as  of  the  day, 

so  of  this  life  ; 
The  evening  of  this  life  is  old  age ; 
'  (Old  age  hath  seized  upon  me,) 

Make  that  joyous : 
Cast  me  not  away  ih  the  time  of  age ; 
Forsake  me  not  when  my  strength  faUeth  me ; 
Be  Thou  with  me  in  old  age. 
And  even  to  hoar  hairs  do  Thou  carry  me. 

•     •    •  •  •  ♦  •  * 

The  day  is  vanished  and  gone,  ' 

so  doth  my  life  vanish — 
My  life,  no  fife, — 


34  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


The  night  is  coming  on. 
And  so  is  death. 


We  therefore,  remembering  this, 

beseech  Thee,  O  Lord, 

for  the  end  of  oar  life, 
That  Thou  wouldst  direct  it  in  peace ; 

make  it  Christian, 

acceptable  to  Thee, 

without  sin,  without  shame  ; 

and,  if  it  please  Thee,  without  pain. 
O  Lord,  our  Lord, 

gathering  us  together 

under  the  feet  of  Thine  elect. 
When  Thou  wDt,  and  as  Thou  wilt, 

only  without  shame  or  sin. 

■ 

Then  again,   how  copious   is  the  flow  of  his  thanksgivings!    how 
beautifttllj  suggestive ! 

For  the  use  of  Thy  present  good  things ; 
For  Thy  promise,  and  my  hope 

of  the  fruition  of  good  things  to  come ; 
For  my  good  and  kind  parents. 
Gentle  masters,  ever-remembered  benefactors. 
Religious  intimates,  (thoughtful  disciples,) 
True  friends,  faithful  servants ; 
For  all  who  have  in  any  way  benefited  me — 

by  their  writings,  discourses,  prayers, 

examples,  reproofs,  injuries ; 
For  all  these  things,  and  for  all  other 
Which  I  know  or  know  not. 
Manifest  or  secret,  remembered  or  forgotten ; 
For  all  things  done  toward  me, 
When  I  was  willing  or  unwilling, 
I  praise  Thee,  I  bless  Thee,  I  give  Thee  thanks. 
And  I  will  praise  and  bless  and  give  Thee 
Thanks  all  the  days  of  my  life.  * 

"^  In  an  early  paper  I  gave  a  rather  long  specimen  of  Bishop  Hall — ^a 
divine  who,  next  perhaps  to  Andrcwes,  is  to  be  honoured  and  admired. 
I  merely  offer  now  a  stray  thought  from  his  Meditations. 


ON  A  REDBREAST  COMING  INTO   HIS  ROOM  AND   SINGING 

THERE. 

Pretty  bird!  how  cheerfblly  dost  thou  sit  and  sing,  and  yet  knowest  not 
where  thou  art,  nor  where  thou  shalt  make  thy  next  meal,  and  at  night 
must  shroud  thyself  in  a  bush  for  lodging.  What  a  shame  is  it  for  me,  that 
see  before  me  such  liberal  provisions  of  my  God,  and  find  myself  set  warm 
under  my  own  roof,  yet  so  ready  to  droop  under  a  distrustful  and  unthankful 
dullness!     Had  I  so  little  certainty  of  my  harbour  and  purveyance,  how 

1 T—   T  r       1  111  Ml-  -     -  -  ,11  I  ,  ,  

*  Devotion  for  Fridav. 


THOUGHTS  OF  A  LOVBR  OF  OLD  ENGLISH  PROSE.     25 

heartless  should  I  be,  how  careftil,  how  little  list  (pleasure)  should  I  have 
to  make  music  to  thee  or  myself!  Surely  thou  camest  not  hither  without 
a  providence !  God  sent  thee,  not  so  much  to  delight  as  to  shame  me, 
and  fix  the  conviction  of  my  sullen  unbelief,  which,  under  more  apparent 
means,  am  less  cheerful  and  confident.  Reason  and  faith  have  not  done 
so  much  in  me,  as  the  mere  instinct  of  nature.  Want  of  foresight  makes 
thee  more  merry,  if  not  more  happy,  here,  than  the  foresight  of  better  things 
maketh  me. 

I  find  the  following  beautiful  passage  in  Arthur  Warwick's  'Spare 
Minutes.'  It  has  long  held  its  place  in  my  private  book  of  extracts.  Its 
resemblance  to  Bishop  Hall  makes  me  give  it  here. 


ON  WINTER  BIRDS. 

As  oft  as  I  hear  the  Robin  Redbreast  chaunt  it  as  cheerfully  in  September, 
the  beginning  of  winter,  as  in  March,  the  approach  of  the  summer,  why  should 
we  not  (thinke  I)  give  as  cheerful  entertainment  to  the  hoary  frostv  hayres  of 
our  age*8  winter,  as  to  the  primroses  of  our  youth's  spring?  Why  not  to 
the  declining  sunne  in  adversity,  as  (like  Persians)  to  the  rising  sunne  of 
prosperity  ?  I  am  sent  to  the  ant  to  leame  industry,  to  the  dove  to  leame 
mnocence,  to  the  serpente  to  leame  wisdom ;  and  why  not  to  this  bird  (the 
Robin)  to  leame  e<iuanimitie  and  patience?  and  to  keepe  the  same  tenour 
of  my  minde's  quietnesse,  as  well  at  the  approach  of  calamitie's  winter, 
as  of  the  spring  of  happinesse  ?  And  since  the  Roman's  constancy  is  so 
commended  who  changed  not  his  countenance  with  his  changed  fortunes, 
why  should  not  I,  with  a  Christian  resolution,  hold  a  steddy  course  in  all 
weathers?  and  though  I  be  forced  by  cross  windes  to  shift  my  sailes,  and 
catch  at  side  windes,  vet  skilfully  to  steere  and  keep  on  my  course,  by  the 
Cape  of  Oood  Hope,  till  I  arrive  at  the  haven  of  etemal  happinesse  ? 

I  will  give  one  or  twa  more  specunens,  from  Arthur  Warwick's  '  Sparo 
Minates.'  I  wish  we  knew  more  of  him.  We  are  told,  (in  an  article  in 
the  Retrospective  Review,  No.  8,)  that  this  author  was  a  clergyman — 
a  pious  one,  there  can  be  no  doubt;  the  first  edition  was  published 
in  1637. 

When  I  see  the  heavenlv  sun  buried  under  earth  in  the  evening  of  the  day^ 
and  in  the  morning  to  find  a  resurrection  to  his  glory,  why  (think  I)  may  not 
the  sons  of  heaven,  buried  in  the  earth  in  the  evening  of  their  davs,  expect  the 
morning  of  their  glorious  resurrection  ?  Each  nignt  is  but  the  past  day*8 
funeral,  and  the  morning  his  resurrection ;  why  then  should  our  fiineral 
sleep  be  other  than  our  sleep  at  night?  Why  should  we  not  as  well  awake 
to  our  resurrection,  as  in  the  morning  ?  I  see  night  is  rather  an  intermission 
of  dav  than  a  deprivation ;  and  death  rather  borrows  our  life  of  us  than  robs 
us  of  it.  Since,  then,  the  glory  of  the  sun  finds  a  resurrection,  why  should 
not  the  sons  of  glory  ?  Since  a  dead  man  may  live  again,  I  will  not  so  much 
look  at  the  end  of  my  life,  as  wait  for  the  coming  of  my  change. 


There  are  two  things  necessary  for  a  traveller  to  bring  him  to  the  end 

of  his  journey :  a  knowledge  of  the  way,  a  perseverance  in  the  walk 

I  will  not  only  know  my  way,  but  go  on  my  way :  I  had  rather  my  journey 
should  want  a  beginning  than  come  to  an  untimely  end.     If  heaven  be  my 


26  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

home  and  Christ  my  way,  I  will  learn  to  know  my  way,  ere  I  haste  to  travel 
to  my  home.  He  that  runs  hastily  in  a  way  he  knows  not,  may  come  speedily 
to  a  home  he  loves  not.  If  Christ  be  my  way,  and  heaven  my  home,  I  will 
rather  endure  my  painful  walk  than  want  my  perfect  rest.  I  more  esteem  my 
home  than  my  journey :  my  actions  shall  be  led  by  knowledge,  my  knowledge 
be  followed  by  my  actions.  Ignorance  is  a  bad  mother  to  devotion,  and 
idleness  a  bad  steward  to  knowledge. 

The  Enchiridion  of  Francis  Quarles  was  first  published  in  1641,  four 
years  later  than  Arthur  Warwick.  This  collection  of  maxims  does 
not  please  me  so  much  as  Warwick's,  or  as  Owen  Feltham's  Resolves ; 
much  of  it  has  to  do  with  matters  of  courtly  and  political  sagacity — ^but 
little  is  remarkable  for  devoutness — but  there  are  some  fine  and  sa^nicious 
thoughts — as  this : 

TRUE  RELIGION.    (XXXI.) 

If  thou  and  true  religion  be  not  as  yet  met — or  met  unknowne — ^by  these 
markcs  thou  shalt  discover  it :  First,  it  is  a  religion  that  takes  no  pleasure  in 
the  expense  of  blood ;  Secondly,  it  is  a  religion  whose  tenets  crosse  not  the 
Book  of  Truth ;  Thirdly,  it  is  a  religion  thut  takes  most  from  the  creature,  and 
gives  most  to  the  Creator.  If  such  an  one  thou  meet  with,  assure  thyself  it  is 
the  right,  and  therefore  profess  it  in  thy  life,  and  protect  it  to  thy  death. 


THE  CLERGY.    (LVIII.) 

The  Clergy  is  a  copy-book ;  their  life  is  the  paper,  whereof  some  is  purer, 
some  coarser :  their  doctrine  is  the  copies — some  written  in  plain  hand,  others 
in  a  flourishing  hand,  some  in  a  text  band,  some  in  a  Roman  hand,  others  in  a 
court  hand,  others  in  a  bastard  Roman :  if  the  choice  be  in  thy  power,  choose  a 
book  that  hath  the  finest  paper ;  let  it  not  be  too  straight  nor  too  loosely  bound, 
but  easie  to  be  open  to  every  eye :  follow  not  every  copy,  lest  thou  be  eood  at 
none ;  among  them  all  choose  one  that  shall  be  most  legible  and  useml,  and 
fullest  of  instructions.  But,  if  the  paper  chance  to  have  a  blot,  remember  the 
blot  is  no  part  of  the  copy.  * 

We  now  come  to  a  man  of  very  great  eminence.  Dr.  South,  bom  in 
1633,  dying  in  1716,  aged  eighty-three.  He  shews  himself,  occasionally, 
as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  expressive  writers  I  know  of.  He  must 
have  been  a  most  keen  observer;  for  small  facts,  whether  in  outward 
nature,  or  in  the  characters  of  men,  are  stated  with  a  force  and  minute 
accuracy  which  shews  they  are  no  fancy-pictures.  His  sentences  are 
weighty,  fuU  of  strong  sense  and  energy,  sometimes  gentle  and  poetical, 
but  more  frequently  characterized  by  keen  and  searching  wit.  He  could 
not  help  seeing  the  ridiculous ;  the  sense  of  it  went  with  him  everywhere, 
even  into  the  pulpit,  and  it  is  impossible  to ,  defend  his  ridicule  of  the 
Puritan  parly.  No  greater  contrast  can  we  conceive  than  between 
South  and  Bishop  Andrewes.  Yet  South  was  very  honest,  quite 
disinterested.     The  son  of  a  London  merchant  living  at  Hackney,  what 

*  Quarles'  Enchiridion,  from  J.  R  Smith's  *  Library  of  Old  Authors.' 


THOUGHTS  OF  A  LOVER  OF  OLD  ENGLISH  PROSE.     27 

share  of  worldly  advancement  he  did  receive  was  entirely  owing  to  his 
own  merits.  He  was  a  scholar  in  Westminster  School  at  the  time  of 
the  execution  of  Charles  the  First;  and  singularly  enough,  he  it  was 
who  read  the  Latin  prayers  on  that  sad  day,  mentioning  the  King  by 
name.  He  distinguished  himself  at  Oxford,  and  was  ordmned  by  one 
of  the  deprived  bishops  in  1658.  Lord  Chancellor  Clarendon  made 
him  his  domestic  chaplain,  and  he  passed  through  the  several  stages 
of  Prebendary  of  Westminster,  (taking  his  degree  of  D.D.  in  1663,) 
afterwards  being  made  Canon  of  Christ  Church,  Oxford.  He  also 
travelled  as  chaplain  to  Lord  Clarendon's  son,  going  with  his  patron, 
who  was  appointed  by  Charles  H.  ambassador  to  John  Sobieski,  King  of 
Poland. 

During  the  rest  of  Charles  the  Second's  reign,  though  the  King's 
chaplain,  he  acted  quite  an  independent  part.  In  1681  he  preached 
before  the  King  a  sermon  containing  violent  and  bitter  denunciation 
of  Cromwell.  Preferment  was  then  offered  him ;  he  declined  it,  both 
then  and  before  and  after  the  Revolution,  though  bishoprics  were 
pressed  upon  him.  He  lived  on  at  his  country  living  of  Islep,  Oxford- 
shire, but  still  could  not  forbear  warring  against  dissent  in  every  form ; 
and  perhaps  his  strongest  sermon  was  preached  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
in  1692,  on  the  text,  'Now  there  are  diversities  of  gifts,  but  the  same 
Spirit.'  (1  Cor.  xii.  4.)  The  perfections  of  the  Church  of  England,  and 
the  doctrines  of  passive  obedience,  lay  next  his  heart  If  he  dropped 
polemics,  no  one  could  write  more  mildly  or  soberly,  or  with  deeper 
feeling ;  witness  this  passage  on  '  The  Divine  Goodness :'      ' 

The  Divine  goodness,  like  the  light,  pours  itself  forth  upon  everv  part  of  the 
creation ;  for  look  through  the  whole  universe,  and  vou  shall  find  no  one  part 
of  it  but  has  its  peculiar  beauty  and  ornament.  .  .  .  Ihe  sun,  says  the  psalmist, 
comes  every  day,  dressed  and  adorned  like  a  bridegroom,  out  of  the  chambers 
of  the  east.  He  casts  abroad  a  lustre  too  glorious  to  be  beheld ;  it  is  enough 
that  we  can  see  him  at  a  second  hand,  and  by  reflection.  Nor  can  the  nignt 
itself  conceal  the  glories  of  heaven ;  but  the  moon  and  stars,  those  deputed 
lights,  then  sh^  forth  their  lesser  beauties.  Yet  even  these  are  so  great, 
that  when  weariness  and  the  lateness  of  the  hour  might  have  invited  some 
eyes  to  sleep,  in  the  meantime  the  lights  of  it  have  kept  others  awake  to 
view  their  exact  motion  and  admirable  order  >  while  the  labourer  lies  down 
to  his  rest,  the  astronomer  sits  up  and  watches  for  his  pleasure. 


There  is  not  the  least  flower  but  seems  to  hold  up  its  head  and  look  pleasantly 
in  the  secret  sense  of  the  goodness  of  its  Heavenly  Maker;  which  silent 
adoration,  though  we  cannot  hear  but  only  see,  yet  it  is  so  full  and  expressive, 
that  David  thought  he  neither  spoke  impropriety  or  nonsense  when  he  says 
that  even  'the  valleys  break  forth  into  sin^ng.'    And  when  we  advance  a 

little  farther,  to  the  sensible  part  of  creation, how  has  God  given 

every  creature  a  power  most  particularly  to  pursue  and  compass  that  which 
makes  for  the  welfare  of  their  being !  When  He  denies  strength,  lie  usually 
gives  sagacity  and  quickness  of  sense ;  and  withal  implants  in  every  one  a 
certain  instinct,  that  teaches  and  prompts  it  to  make  use  of  that  faculty 
in  which  its  chief  ability  is  seated.     The  ox,  a  creature  of  none  of  the  most 


28  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

ready  senses,  has  them  yet  ready  enough  to  kno^  how  to  defend  himself, 
and  will  not  encounter  his  adversaries,  as  the  mastiff  does,  with  his  teeth. 
The  little  bird  that  has  not  the  strength  to  grapple  with  the  hawk  or  the 
eagle,  but  it  has  agility  of  body  to  carry  it  out  of  reach,  and  smallness  too, 
to  convey  it  out  of  sight;  nay,  the  poor  helpless  lamb,  which  has  neither 
strength  nor  cunning  nor  craft  to  secure  itself  by,  but  seems  wholly  offered 
up  by  nature  as  a  prey  to  anything  that  will  prey  upon  it,  yet  its  great 
usefulness  for  the  occasions  of  man^s  life  has  entitled  it  to  the  care  and 
protection  of  him  whom  it  serves;  so  that  the  goodness  of  God  hath  left 
nothing  defenceless,  but  has  sent  everything  into  the  world  well  accoutred 
and  provided  according  to  the  exigencies  of  their  necessities,  that  its  nature 
is  likely  to  expose  it  to. 


GOODNESS  IN  THE  CREATION  OF  MAN. 

Was  it  no  act  of  love  of  God,  to  give  us  souls  endued  with  such  high 
faculties,  such  lively  images  of  Himself,  when  He  might  have  thrust  us  into 
the  world  with  the  short  and  brutish  perception  of  a  few  silly  senses  ?  Was 
it  no  favour  to  have  made  a  man,  when  He  might  have  made  a  glow-worm  ? 
no  privilege  to  man  that  he  was  made  lord  of  all  things  here  below  ?  That 
the  world  was  not  only  his  house,  but  his  kingdom  ?  that  God  should  raise 
up  one  piece  of  earth  to  rule  over  the  rest  ?  Surely  all  these  were  favours, 
and  they  were  the  early  and  preventing  favours  of  a  Creator ;  for  God  then 
knew  no  other  title,  He  bore  no  other  relation  to  us :  there  was  no  price 
given  to  God  that  might  induce  Him  to  bid  Adam  rise  out  of  the  earth 
a  man  rather  than  a  spire  of  grass,  a  twig,  a  stone,  or  some  other  contemptible 
superiority  to  nothing;  no,  He  furnished  him  out  into  the  world  with  all 
his  retinue  of  perfections,  upon  no  other  motives  but  because  He  had  doomed 
to  make  him  a  glorious  piece  of  work — a  specimen  of  the  arts  of  Omnipotence — 
to  stand  and  glitter  on  the  top  and  head  of  the  creation. 

In  a  different  style  arc  his  remarks  on  '  Conversion.* 

Let  no  person  exclude  himself  from  the  number  of  sincere  converts,  merely 
because  he  never  felt  those  amazing  pangs,  and  those  violent  terrors  of  mind, 
which  some  have  experienced ;  for,  though  God  is  pleased  soipetimes  to  suffer 
inconceivable  terrors  to  accompany  convictions  of  sin,  yet  such  degrees  of 
terror  are  not  necessary  to  make  true  saints.  God  knows  the  best  method  of 
bringing  lost  sinners  to  Himself;  and  what  He  finds  necessary  for  one.  He  does 
not  always  think  fit  for  another.  No  more  trouble  for  sin  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  salvation,  than  so  much  as  effectually  takes  a  man  off  from 
sin,  and  brings  him  heavv  laden  to  the  Saviour.  The  man  who  fears  that 
he  is  not  troubled  enough  for  his  sins,  gives  a  direct  proof  that  he  is  not 
in  love  with  them.  Let  the  believer  whose  convictions  have  been  mild, 
acknowledge  the  goodness  of  God  towards  him,  and  not  repine  against  the 
Oreat  Physician  for  having  cured  him  by  easy  and  gentle  methods.  It  is  the 
«ame  covenant  God  who  speaks  to  some  in  the  way  of  an  earthquake,  and  to 
others  in  a  small  still  voice.  The  overwhelming  torrent,  and  the  gentle  showers, 
descend  equally  from  above. 

He  was  strongly  opposed  to  Romanism,  but  hardly  ever  can  he 
forbear  attacking  the  Puritan  divines.  In  his  fine  sermon  *  The  Scribe 
Instructed,'  he  speaks  of  the  teachers  of  his  day  thus : 


THOUGHTS  OF  A  LOVKR  OF  OLD  ENGLISH  PROSE.     29 

Firfit  of  all  they  seize  upon  some  text,  from  whence  they  draw  something 
which  they  call  doctrine ;  and  well  may  it  be  said  to  be  drawn  from  the  words, 
forasmuch  as  it  seldom  naturally  /?a«7«  or  results  from  them.  In  the  next 
place,  being  thus  provided,  they  branch  into  several  heads,  perhaps  twenty 
or  thirty,  or  upwards.  Whereupon,  for  the  prosecution  of  these,  they  repair 
to  some  trusty  concordance,  which  never  fails  them ;  and  by  the  help  of  that^ 
they  range  six  or  seven  scriptures  under  each   head,  which  scriptures  they 

prosecute  one  by  one,  &c and  this  they  call  ^  a  saying  way  of  preaching,' 

as  it  must  be  confessed  to  be  a  way  to  save  much  labour,  and  nothing  else 
that  I  know  of. 

Surely  this  lengthy  treatment  of  a  subject  was  not  peculiar  to  the 
Puritans ;  who  ever  divided  and  sub-divided  more  than  Archbishop 
Tillotson  himself? 

It  would  be  unpardonable  to  pass  over  the  most  striking  of  all  Dr. 
South*s  sermons — his  celebrated  pictures  of  the  state  of  Adam  before  the 
Fall,  and  of  the  lamentable  results.  It  is  indeed  exceedingly  fine ;  but 
it  is  very  long,  and  division  would  spoil  its  effect.  I  confess  I  think 
be  has  in  several  parts  mistaken  the  conditions  of  both  happiness  and 
real  progress.  He  makes  some  of  our  greatest  blessings  sources  of  lament- 
ation— not  carefully  distingirfshing  between  the  good  and  the  mistaken 
use  of  powers — not  allowing  the  least  notion  of  difficulty  or  combat  to 
enter  into  Paradise,  and  thereby  excluding  the  rewards  of  even  investi- 
gation into  the  Divine  works.  Yet  hqw  grand  are  some  of  his  ideas ! 
how  penetrating  his  conception  of  the  faultless  career  of  a  truly  moral 
being!  Look  how  nobly  he  speaks  of  the  practical  understanding;  a 
few  words  mmt  be  given:  apd  here  for  this  time  I  must  end  both 
specimen  and  criticism.- 

The  image  of  God  was  no  less  resplendent  in  that  which  we  call  man^s 
practical  understanding — namely,  that  store-house  of  the  soul  in  which  are 
treasured  up  the  rules  of  action,  and  the  seeds  of  morality.  It  was  the 
privilege  of  Adam  innocent  to  have  those  notions  also,  firm  and  untainted, 
to  carry  his  monitor  in  his  bosom,  his  law  in  his  heart,  and  to  have  such 
a  conscience  as  misht  be  its  own  casuist;  and  certainly  those  actions  must 
Deeds  be  regular,  where  there  is  an  identity  between  the  rule  and  the  faculty. 
His  own  mind  taught  him  a  due  dependence  on  God,  and  chalked  out  to  him 
the  just  proportions  and  meabures  of  behaviour  to  his  fellow-creatures.  He 
had  no  catechism  but  the  creation,  needed  no  study  but  reflection,  read  no 
book  but  the  volume  of  the  world,  and  that,  too,  not  for  rules  to  work  by,  but 

ibr  the  objects  to  work  upon Justice  then  was  neither  blind  to  discern, 

nor  lame  to  execute The  voice  of  conscience  now  is  low  and  weak : 

it  was  not  then,  *  lliis  should,  or  this  ought  to  be  done,^  but,  *  This  must,  this 
ahall  be  done.'  It  spoke  like  a  legislator :  the  thing  spoken  was  a  law,  and 
the  manner  of  speaking  it  a  new  obligation.  In  short,  there  was  as  great 
disparity  between  the  practical  dictates  of  the  understanding,  then  and  now,  as 
there  is  between  empire  and  advice,  counsel  and  command,  between  a  companion 
and  a  governor.  "* 

T. 


*  Sermofts — Man  the  Image  of  God. 


30  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


THE  GIRLHOOD  OF  LAURETTE  PERMON.      - 

BT  THE  AUTHORESS  OF  'ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STORM.' 

'  I  RECOLLECT  nothing  of  childish  gaiety,'  wrote  Laurette  in  her  old  age ; 
'I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  free  from  care.  As  soon  as  I  could 
understand  anything,  I  was  taught  to  watch  all  my  looks  and  gestures, 
for  who  dared  be  sure  that  the  merest  trifle  might  not  endanger  his  life  ? 
I  shall  never  forget  how  the  police  visited  our  house  at  Toulouse,  and 
threatened  my  father,  because,  while  playing  at  "La  Tour,  preuds 
garde,''  I  had  been  heard  to  say  to  a  child  of  five  years  old,  "  You  shall 
be  M.  le  Dauphin."  We  lived  in  constant  danger,  each  one  obliged  to 
watch  not  only  himself  but  others,  and  the  stakes  in  this  game  were 
heads  I' 

When  did  this  child  live,  over  whom  such  a  shadow  of  terror  was 
thrown  from  her  cradle?  She  was  born  in  1784,  just  before  France 
dashed  perceptibly  over  the  precipice  of  Revjolution. 

By  her  mother's  side  Laurette  was  of  Greek  descent.  In  the  year 
1676,  about  three  thousand  Greeks  lefl  their  native  home,  led  by 
Gonstantine  Gomnenus,  and  settled  at  Paomia,  in  the  Isle  of  Goi-sicii, 
which  was  ceded  to  them  by  Genoa  without  much  regard  to  the  old 
inhabitants,  between  whom  and  the  colonists  there  was  such  a  deadly 
hatred  that  no  settlers  on  the  borders  of  the  Red  Indian  country  could 
have  led  a  more  difficult  and  perilous  life  than  did  these  colonists  for  a 
hundred  years  and  more.  The  little  colony  spoke  its  own  language, 
intermarried,  and  looked  on  the  savage  Gorsicans  with  Greek  contempt 
for  barbarians.  The  Gomneni  were  chiefs  of  the  settlement,  wore  violet 
and  scarlet  in  Imperial  fashion,  and  received  peculiar  honours  from 
tbeir  clergy  up  to  the  reign  of  Louis  XVL,  when  Gorsica  was  made  over 
to' France.  So  great  was  the  indignation  of  the  then  head  of  the  colony 
at  finding  his  privileges  abolished  and  his  rank  denied,  that  he  resolved 
his  line  should  end  with  him  and  his  three  sons.  Two  he  obliged  to 
become  priests ;  the  third,  Demetrius,  protested  vehemently  against  such 
a  destiny.  The  father  was  deaf  to  his  entreaties,  and  sent  him  back  to 
the  Jesuit  college  of  the  Propaganda  at  Rome.  Thence  he  was  recalled 
by  the  sudden  death  of  the  old  man,  which  lefl  him  head  of  the  colony, 
(the  elder  brothers  being  ecclesiastics,)  and  with  a  mother  and  young 
sister  to  care  for.  Among  the  oldest  and  closest  friends  of  his  family 
were  the  Bonaparte,  whose  name  before  it  took  its  Italian  form  was 
Galomeros,  and  who  claimed  relationship  with  the  Gomneni.  There  has 
been  much  doubt,  however,  whether  this  claim  could  be  snbstiintinted, 
but  Laurette  and  her  mother,  at  any  rate,  were  fully  convinced  of  it. 
This  friendship  influenced  the  whole  of  Laurette  Permon's  life.  Her 
mother,  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  island,  notwithstanding  her  noble  birth 
was  allowed  to  marry  a  rich  roturier,  M.  Permon.     Proud  as  she  was 


THE  GIRLHOOD  OF  LAURETTE  PERMON.  31 

of  her  Greek  origin,  she  had  hecome  a  true  daughter  of'Gorsica.  *It  is 
there  that  one  is  free !'  she  would  exclaim,  with  a  mountaineer's 
passionate  love  for  his  home,  as  she  clasped  her  little  daughter  fast; 
and  she  would  sing  some  hunter's  or  herdsman's  song  in  the  charming 
voice,  which  when  she  spoke  could  take  the  most  caressing  as  well  as 
the  most  imperative  tones,  expressing  that  impetuous  vivacity  which  was 
one  of  her  many  fascinations.  She  never  could  tolerate  Bonaparte's 
affectation  in  after  years  of  having  forgotten  Italian :  '  I  am  a  French- 
man,' he  would  say;  on  which  Madame  Permon,  twirling  her  pretty 
little  ehony  spinning-wheel  so  fast  that  tlie  thread  hroke  a  dozen  times 
in  a  minute,  would  exclaim,  '  What  do  you  mean  with  your  "I  am  a 
Frenchman?"  does  anyone  say  you  are  a  Chinese?  but  however  French 
you  may  be,  you  were  bom  in  a  province  called  Corsica.  If  a  man  be 
bom  in  Auvergne,  does  that  make  him  less  French?  Don't  talk  such 
nonsense,  or  I  shall  think  that  the  honours  which  your  republic  shew 
you  have  turned  your  head !' 

In  general,  Napoleon  Bonaparte  did  not  take  such  rebuffs  patiently; 
but  he  was  truly  attached*  to  Madame  Permon,  even  though  she  had 
presumed  to  shew  him  kindness  as  a  boy,  when,  a  penniless  scholar,  he 
came  from  his  school  in  Champagne  to  the  ^cole  militaire  in  Paris. 

At  the  time  of  Laurette's  birth,  her  family  were  at  Montpellier.  The 
American  war  was  just  over.  Her  birth  nearly  cost  Madame  Permon 's 
life;  and  so  ill  was  she,  that  she  was  quite  unaware  a  daughter  had  been 
born  to  her — nay,  she  had  forgotten  that  there  had  been  any  hope  of 
such  an  event ;.  and  as,  during  her  slow  recovery,  she  made  no  inquiries 
after  her  baby,  and  shrank  from  all  allusion  to  her  illness  with  a  nervous 
borror  which  she  could  never  conquer,  M.  Permon  fancied  that  there 
must  be  a  rooted  aversion  to  the  poor  infant  which  had  cost  her  so 
much.  It  was  provided  with  a  nurse,  and  kept  out  of  sight,  the  father 
trying  by  his  extreme  love  and  care  to  make  up  to  the  unconscious  little 
one  for  its  mother's  dislike.  Five  months  afler  its  birth,  Madame 
Permon  was  able  to  sit  up,  and  enjoy  the  delicious  sights  and  sounds 
of  a  southern  spring  from  her  balcony.  Her  husband,  on  whose  breast 
Bhe  was  leaning,  was  planning  an  excursion  to  the  Pyrenees,  which 
might  entirely  restore  her  strength,  when  he  suddenly  felt  her  start 
violently ;  she  seized  his  arm,  and  cried,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  nurse 
carrying  a  baby  in  the  garden  below,  'Charles!  who  is  that?  Is  it  my 
baby?  had  I  a  baby?'  The  nurse  was  hastily  summoned,  and  the 
happy  mother  clasped  her  little  one  with  ecstacy  which  touched  M. 
Permon  and  her  eldest  son  (who  was  sixteen  years  old,  and  godfather 
to  the  child)  to  the  very  heart.  Young  as  the  baby  was,  she  perceived 
that  a  stranger  held  her,  turned  her  face  away,  and  held  out  her  dimpled 
hands  to  the  father  and  brother,  whose  lace  ruffles  she  already  knew 
how  to  grasp.  Madame  Permon  burst  into  tears.  She  had  always  been 
the  fondest  of  mothers,  and  could  not  bear  to  see  herself  thus  repulsed. 
'  Oh,  my  little  one/  she  used  to  say,  leaning  over  the  cradle,  which  was 


32  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

placed  by  ber  bed-side,  '  how  I  must  love  you  to  make  up  for  those  five 
months !' 

The  love  between  Madame  Pennon  and  this  little  daughter  was 
peculiarly  ardent,  and  remained  so  to  the  last  day  of  Madame  Permon's 
life.  Little  Laurette  had  the  happiness  of  growing  up  in  one  of  those 
affectionate  united  fiunilies  which  did  exist  in  France,  even  in  the  reign 
of  Louis  XY.  Less,  of  course,  is  heard  of  them  than  of  the  dissipated 
and  turbulent  ones,  so  that  we  are  hardly  sufficiently  aware  of  the  quiet 
family  life  which  went  on,  not  only  in  the  provinces  but  in  Paris  itself. 
The  eldest  daughter,  Cecile  Permon,  was  brought  up  in  a  convent ;  but 
Madame  Permon  would  not  let  Laurette  leave  ber.  As  long  as  her 
father  lived  he  taught  her  admirably,  and  later  her  brother  Albert  was 
her  tutor.  By  the  time  that  Laurette  required  instruction,  the  old 
routine  had  been  destroyed  by  the  writings  of  Rousseau  and  the  approach 
of  the  Revolution.  Bonaparte,  as  soon  as  he  had  the  power,  inaugurated 
a  new  system  of  education,  by  which  all  young  France  was  influenced. 
As  a  boy  he  had  keenly  felt  the  faults  of  the  old  system,  and  had  once 
been  severely  rebuked  for  saying,  '  If  I  were  master,  things  would  be 
very  different,  and  it  would  be  better  for  all/  He  was  abruptly  told 
that  such  a  speech  came  very  ill  from  one  who  was  educated  by  the 
royal  bounty.  Colouring  crimson,  he  answered,  '  I  am  not  educated  by 
the  King,  but  by  the  state.'  'There  is  no  difference,'  was  the  angry 
reply.  The  time  was  at  hand  when  this  difference  should  be  felt,  and 
Bonaparte  seems  never  to  have  forgotten  this  scene.  The  polytechnic, 
normal,  and  central  schools,  and  many  other  schemes  for  public 
instruction,  were  all  watched  over  by  him  with  the  keenest  interest; 
and  his  appointment  of  Madame  Campan  to  be  head  of  St.  Cyr  proves 
that  he  valued  the  education  of  women  as  much  as  of  men. 

While  the  Permons  lived  at  Montpellier,  M.  Permon  came  to  tell  his 
wife  that  three  Corsicans  had  come  to  a  small  inn  in  the  town,  one  of 
whom  was  very  ill.  '  Go  and  see  who  they  are !'  she  cried ;  '  how  can 
you  come  and  tell  me  that  a  fellow-countryman  of  mine  lies  ill  at  an 
inn  ?  it  is  not  like  you,  Charles  I*  and  thus  exclaiming,  she  put  his  hat 
on  his  head,  and  took  him  by  the  shoulders  to  hurry  him  out  Her 
interest  in  the  invalid  was  redoubled  when  she  found  that  he  was 
Joseph  Bonaparte,  father  of  Napoleon.  He  was  taken  into  the  Permon 
house,  lovingly  tended,  and  died  there,  leaving  his  family  very  poor,  as 
indeed  they  had  been  before.  Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  who  knew  them  even 
in  those  early  days,  speaks  of  the  girls  as  running  about  barefoot,  and 
in  the  meanest  dress. 

When  the  Permons  went  to  Paris,  M.  Permon  intending  to  buy  the 
office  of  fermier  general,  his  wife's  first  thought  was  for  her  old  friend's 
children.  Marianne  Bonaparte,  like  Napoleon,  had  been  admitted  into 
an  establishment  where  children  of  good  and  poor  family  were  educated 
gratis.  She  was  at  St.  Cyr.  When  sent  for  to  see  Madame  Permon, 
she  came  in  with  swollen  eyes,  and  at  the  first  kind  word  burst  into 


THE  GIRLHOOD  OF  LAURBTTB  PKRMON.  33 

tears.  At  first  she  would  not  own  what  had  vexed  her,  hut  hy-and-hj 
she  confessed  that  her  troubles,  like  Napoleon's  at  the  ecole  militaire^ 
arose  from  poverty.  The  pupils  in  her  class  were  to  give  a  farewell 
fete  to  a  girl  about  to  leave,  and  she  had  no  means  of  contributing  thei 
ten  francs  required  as  her  share.  The  sum  in  itself  was  not  enormous, 
but  Napoleon  was  perfectly  right  in  protesting  against  such  taxes  being 
levied  on  children  whose  means  were  pcQ|essedly  small.  He  had 
accompanied  Madame  Permon,  and  on  hearing  this,  hastily  put  his  hand 
into  his  pocket,  but  was  obliged  to  draw  it  out  empty,  while  his  pale 
face  grew  scarlet  with  annoyance.  In  a  like  case  he  had  haughtily 
refused  to  accept  money,  but  Marianne  gladly  took  what  Madame  Permou 
gave  her.  This  little  a£fair  irritated  Napoleon  so  much,  that  he  made 
himself  intolerable  at  school,  and  was  provided  with  a  lieutenancy  in 
the  artillery  chiefly  to  get  rid  of  him.  He  came  in  triumph  to  display 
his  uniform  to  the  Permons,  looking  absurd  enough  asshe  strode  about 
in  the  great  boots,  which  were  entirely  out  of  proportion  with  his  thin 
legs.  Later  his  face  became  fine,  and  even  beautiful,  but  at  this  time 
he  was  awkward,  thin,  small,  and  extremely  touchy.  There  was  a 
general  laugh  at  his  appearance;  and  Cecile  Permon,  then  a  girl  of 
thirteen  years  old,  home  on  a  holiday  from  her  convent,  was  so  full  of 
mischievous  raillery,  that  Napoleon  exclaimed  disdainfully,  'Anyone 
can  see  that  you  are  only  a  little  school-girl  I' 

Gecile  had  her  vanity  too,  and  it  was  hurt.  She  looked  at  his 
costume,  and  retorted,  '  And  you  are  only  Puss  in  Boots  V 

The  universal  amusement  piqued  Napoleon  keenly.  Everyone  saw 
his  annoyance ;  but  he  said  no  more,  and  afterwards  brought  Cecile  the 
story  of  Puss  ii)  Boots,  with  a  toy  for  Laurette,  which  he  had  had  made  on 
purpose  representing  a  cat  running  before  the  carriage  of  the  Marquis  of 
Carabas.  The  whole  matter  would  have  been  forgotten  by  Laurette,  but 
for  a  circumstance  which  recalled  it  to  her  years  afterwards,  when  she 
was  a  bride,  and  Napoleon  a  great  man.  For  some  trivial  reason  he 
had  bestowed  on  her  husband.  General  Junot,  the  nickname  of  Marquis 
of  Carabas,  a  joke  at  which  Junot  laughed  good-humouredly ;  but  the 
young  wife  was  much  vexed  by  the  soubriquet  being  adopted  by  a 
courtier  who  aped  Napoleon  on  all  occasions.  She  told  Madame 
Permon,  adding  that  if  Junot  knew  it  the  consequences  might  be 
serious.  A  mirthful  look  crossed  Madame  Permon's  face.  She  gave 
Laurette  advice,  which  was  duly  followed  the  next  time  that  Junot  was 
addressed  by  Bonaparte  as  the  Marquis  of  Carabas.  *' Mon  ami^*  said 
she,  'when  we  go  to  your  estates,  mind  you  do  not  forget  a  special 
member  of  our  train,  or  I  will  not  go ;  and  I  am  sure  the  Genertd  will 
say  I  am  right.' 

'  What  is  that?'  asked  Napoleon. 

'  Puss  in  Boots  to  run  before  our  carriage.' 

Eveiyone  laughed,  but  Bonaparte  alone  knew  the  malice  lurking  in 
her  speech.     How  he  looked  no  words  can  describe.     Laurette  continued 

VOL.   10.  3  PAKT  55. 


84  THK  MONTHLY  PACKKT. 

gravely,  'I  have  a  toy,  given  me  when  I  was  a  child,  which  you  can 
have  as  a  model.' 

No  more  passed ;  but  when,  several  days  after,  the  courtier  began 
jesting  on  the  subject  of  Junot's  marquisate,  he  was  confounded  by  an 
abrupt  reproof  from  Bonaparte.  '  If  yo.u  wish  to  ape  me,'  he  said,  with 
that  awful  look  before  which  all  trembled, '  choose  a  better  subject.'  And 
later  in  the  day  he  came  up  to  Laurette,  pinched  her  unceremoniously, 
and  said,  ^  Little  plague,  you  are  witty  but  ill-natured :  no  one  likes  a 
woman  who  makes  herself  feared.' 

Bonaparte  never  again  alluded  to  the  Marquis  of  Garabas. 
•  Public  troubles  began  to  make  themselves  felt  in  the  quietest  homes 
almost  as  soon  as  the  Fermons  reached  Paris.  In  1791,  M.  Permon 
had  affronted  a  tradesman,  who  had  behaved  in  a  very  impertinent 
manner:  this  man,  Thirion,  became  the  secretary  of  the  section  in  that 
part  of  Paris  where  the  Permons  lived.  Ue  proved  a  dangerous  enemy ; 
M.  Permon  had  forgotten  his  insolence,  but  he  had  not  forgotten  the 
rebuff  which  M.  Permon  had  given  him ;  and  one  day  he  appeared  to 
make  a  domiciliary  visit.  The  mere  name  frightened  all  the  family, 
but  M.  Permon  was  more  angry  than  alarmed.  He  was  shaving,  and 
advanced,  razor  in  hand,  with  an  angry  gesture.  A  gesture  was  then 
sometimes  as  much  as  a  man's  head  was  worth. 

*  I  am  here  to  execute  the  law,'  said  Thirion. 

*  Well,  and  what  does  the  law  desire  through  such  a  worthy  instru- 
ment?' 

'  I  am  here  to  ask  your  age,  your  profession,  and  to  demand  why  you 
went  to  Ck>blentz  V 

M.  Permon,  who  had  the  strongest  inclination  to  turn  him  out  of  the 
house,  was  now  so  indignant  that  words  failed  him.  He  drew  up  his 
tall  elegant  figure,  and  looked  at  the  low-bred  fellow  who  was  gratifying 
his  private  spite  under  cover  of  an  odious  law.  '  Where  is  your  order  ?' 
he  said,  when  he  could  command  himself. 

*My  order  is  sufficiently  proved  by  my  presence.' 

'Shew  me  your  order,  and  I  will  see  in  you  only  the  public 
functionary.' 

Again  Thirion  refused ;  again  a  violent  altercation  arose ;  and  M. 
Permon  had  just  seized  a  stout  bamboo,  which  he  was  whirling  over  the 
heads  of  Thirion,  his  two  brothers,  and  his  shop-boy,  none  of  whom 
had  courage  to  attack  bim,  when  Madame  Permon  appeared  in  exceeding 
terror,  which  communicated  itself  to  little  Laurette,  whom  she  held  out 
to  him  with  an  agonized  entreaty  that  he  would  be  calm  for  her  sake. 
Meanwhile,  Thirion  and  his  companions  slipped  away  to  report  the 
contumacious  conduct  of  the  citizen  Permon.  Laurette  began  to  cry 
from  the  infection  of  the  general  terror ;  Madame  Permon  was  weeping 
bitterly,  as  was  Cdcile ;  M.  Permon  stood  pale  and  trembling  with  anger. 
In  the  midst  entered  Bonaparte,  now  an  officer,  but  with  no  influence 
Or  power  as  yet.     'This  is  infamous!'  he  cried,  on  hearing  what  had 


0 


THE  GIULHQQD  OF  LAUBSTTS  PSRMON.  85 

bappeded.  '  What !  four  men  force  their  way  in,  land  refuse  to  produce 
their  order !  Thirion  must  have  an  old  grudge  to  satisfy.  I  will  see  to 
this.'  He  hurried  out;  but  when  he  spoke  on  the  subject  at  his  club, 
he  found  that  Thirion  had  been  beforehand  with  him,  and  raised  a 
storm  of  indignation  against  M.  Permon  for  his  disrespectful  conduct 
towards  the  emissary  of  the  law.  The  danger  was  great ;  at  this  time 
such  an  accusation  put  a  man's  life  in  the  utmost  peril.  Two  days  later, 
while  the  family  were  dreading  every  instant  that  M.  Permon  would  be 
arrested,  came  the  birth-day  of  Laurette. 

'  Time  has  paled  my  recollection  of  many  things,'  she  wrote  when  an 
old  woman,  '  but  some  are  as  terribly  distinct  as  ever.  Never,  in  spite 
of  the  lapse  of  years,  shall  I  forget  that  terrible  10th  of  August  As 
long  as  I  could  remember,  ray  mother  had  made  this  a  happy  day  to  me, 
both  before  and  after.  Three  months  beforehand  I  and  my  young 
friends  used  to  anticipate  it.  My  little  room  was  filled  with  flowers, 
bon*-bons,  and  toya.  .  .  .  The  1 0th  was  not  only  terrible  from  the  shouts, 
the  cannonade,  and  the  groans  of  the  wounded  under  our  windows,  but 
because  we  were  very  anxious  about  my  father  and  brother;  .  .  .  the 
latter  wanted  to  be  everywhere  at  oncet  to  protect  us,  and  rescue  his 
friends.  Towards  mid*day  he  came  in  with  someone  wrapped  up  in  a 
bourgeois*  great-ooat.  They  were  seeking  this  man  to  massacre  him. 
We  hid  him  in  my  own  little  room,  and  I  was  told  what  to  say  if  he  were 
sought  for  in  our  house.  From  that  day  I  began  to  learn,  for  a 
stranger's  sake,  the  trembling  caution  which  I  had  to  practise  long  after 
for  Xh»  sake  of  those  dear  to  me.  The  day  went  on,  and  my  father  did 
not  return.  My  mother  wept  and  wrung  her  hands ;  my  brother  looked 
out  constantly  from  the  porU  cochere^  and  even  ventured  on  the  quais^ 
but  he  only  learned  the  deposition  of  the  King.  The  uproar  seemed 
ceasing,  though  occasional  shots  were  still  heard:  the  most  startling 
sight  now  was  groups  of  drunken  men  and  women,  blaspheming  and 
howling  horribly.  Evening  came ;  still  my  father  never  returned.  At 
last  Albert  caught  sight  of  someone  coming  along  the  quqi,  whose  air 
of  distinctioii  marked  my  father.  He  was  walking  cautiously,  often 
glancing  behind  him,  and  stopped  when  he  saw  someone  at  our  doori 
but  when  my  brother  spoke  he  hurried  on,  bade  him  keep  the  door  open, 
went  baek  and  fetched  a  man  whom  he  had  left  in  the  Arcade  de  la 
Monnaie. '  This  person  walked  with  evident  difficulty ;  my  father  gave 
him  his  arm,  and  led  him  to  his  own  bed-room,  silencing  our  inquiries, 
and  bidding  us  only  think  of  him  whom  he  had  brought.  When  the 
stranger  was  released  from  his  mufflings,  we  recognized  M.  de  Bevy, 
one  of  the  chief  officers  of  the  body-guard.  He  was  bloody,  pale, 
ezhaustedi  What  a  sight  it  was!  He  seemed  more  overwhelmed  by 
the  misfortunes  of  this  day  than  by  his  wounds.  He  drew  me  to  him. 
*^  Poor  Loulou  1"  he  said,  noticing  that  I  turned  pale  and  trembled  as  I 
saw  the  stains  of  blood  on  his  hands ;  '*  this  is  a  sad  fete  for  you,  dear 
child.     Heavens  I  what  a  fite  I"  . .  .  His  head  sank  on  his  breast,  and 


36  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

his  tall  form,  nearly  six  feet  high,  seemed  to  bow  under  the  weight  of 
hb  grief/ 

Poor  little  maiden  of  eight  years  old  I  what  a  birth-day  indeed  I 
From  the  midnight  of  August  9th  the  tocsin  had  aroused  Paris,  the 
gSnerak  had  beaten  in  every  quarter,  the  air  had  been  thick  with  the 
smoke  of  artillery,  whose  incessant  rattle  stunned  the  ear;  while  the 
cries  of  the  insurgents  rose  above  the  heavy  rolling  of  the  artillery 
wagons  along  the  streets,  and  the  tread  of  columns  of  armed  men.  All 
night  drunken  crowds  perambulated  the  city,  howling  and  cursing, 
seeking  victims  to  add  to  the  five  thousand  who  had  already  perished, 
among  whom  were  the  noble  Swiss  guard.  ^Fiends  in  the  form  of 
women  were  here,  as  everywhere  in  the  Revolution,  foremost  in  deeds 
of  cruelty.'  *  Neither  of  the  fugitives  who  had  been  hidden  in  the 
Permon  house  dared  quit  it  Another  day  of  terror  came.  M.  Permon 
was  writing  a  letter  of  credit  for  M.  de  Bevy,  who  had  succeeded  in 
finding  a  safer  refuge,  when  a  butcher  asked  for  an  interview,  and 
warned  M.  Permon  that  he  had  been  denounced  as  having  sheltered 
*the  enemies  of  his  country;'  and  immediately  after  came  an  urgent 
warning  from  another  quarter,  accompanied  by  a  passport  for  M.  Permon 
and  his  wife  for  the  south  of  France.  There  was  no  possibility  of  taking 
the  children.  Tlie  poor  mother  was  in  agony  at  the  idea  of  leaving 
them  in  Paris  at  such  a  time,  but  the  passport  being  made  out  for  two, 
M.  Permon  could  not,  if  he  would,  go  alone :  it  was  hastily  settled  that 
the  girls  should  be  sent  to  a  school  in  the  Faubourg  St  Antoine,  and 
that  Albert,  now  twenty-four  years  of  age,  should  take  a  lodging  as  near 
as  possible.  The  farewells  were  inexpressibly  bitter :  it  is  hard  to  say 
whether  C^cile  or  Albert  suffered  most,  knowing  that  in  all  probability 
they  should  see  their  parents  no  more ;  or  poor  little  Laurette — amazed 
by  the  change  from  the  home  where  she  was  the  darling  of  all,  and 
never  left  her  mother,  to  school  life  without  nurse  or  mother — dimly 
aware  that  those  whom  she  loved  best  were  in  the  utmost  danger,  and 
that  the  happy  home  life  was  at  an  end  for  ever.  What  the  parting  was 
to  the  father  and  mother  no  words  can  say ;  and  this  is  but  one  of  a 
thousand  similar  scenes  enacted  at  this  time  in  every  part  of  France. 

At  the  Pension  Chevalier,  where  the  two  girls  were  sent,  was  a  kind 
of  man-of-all-work,  by  name  Jacquemart  He  had  a  singularly  repulsive 
countenance,  and  Albert  Permon  used  to  declare  he  must  be  fated  to 
some  tragic  end  ;  but  his  voice  and  manner  were  strangely  out  of 
keeping  with  his  appearance,  being  those  of  a  person  of  high  birth. 
Albert  used  to  drive  to  the  Pension  daily  in  his  Tvhiskif,  a  kind  of  very 
high  cabriolet ;  and  one  day  he  dashed  up  at  full  speed,  just  as 
Jacquemart  was  crossing  the  street  with  a  heavy  load  of  wood ;  there 
WAS  no  time  to  profit  by  the  shout  of  warning  raised  by  Albert,  who 
only  avoided  running  over  the  man  by  pulling  up  suddenly,  at  great 
risk  to  himself.    Jacquemart  saw  and  remembered  the  danger  which 

*  Alison. 


THE  GIRLHOOD  OF  LAURXTTB  PSBMON.  87 

Albert  was  in.  At  the  time  of  the  massacres  in  the  prisons  young 
Permon  hastened  to  his  sisters,  first  burning  every  paper  which  might 
have  compromised  him,  and  then  setting  out  for  the  Pension  Chevalier ; 
but  with  incredible  rashness,  instead  of  going  on  foot,  and  disguising  as 
much  as  possible  that  he  was  a  gentleman,  he  drove  as  usual  in  the 
whisky*  Hideous  groups  of  drunken  men  and  women  were  dancing  and 
howling  in  the  streets,  many  naked  to  the  waist ;  pikes  in  their  hands, 
from  which  floated  fragments  of  clothing  ;  their  arms  and  breasts  were 
erimsoned  with  blood.  On  seeing  the  whisky  they  burst  into  a  roar  of 
fury.  ^  An  aristocrat !  down  with  him  I  down  with  him  I'  Something 
was  raised  high  on  a  pike,  and  the  tossing  heaving  crowd  brought  it  so 
dose  that  it  dashed  against  Albert's  very  face;  he  knew  the  features 
soiled  with  blood,  the  long  fair  dabbled  tresses — it  was  the  head  of  the 
Princesse  de  Lamballe,  and  he  fell  with  one  cry  senseless  at  the  bottom 
of  the  carriage.  His  servant  caught  the  reins,  and  urged  on  the  fiery 
horse  amid  the  horrible  imprecations  of  the  crowd,  who  gave  way ;  but 
one  man  leaped  up  behind,  and  was  clinging  to  the  cabriolet  when  it 
stopped  at  the  door  of  the  scliooL  He  leaped  down,  seized  Albert  in 
his  arms,  and  carried  him  in.  'The  monsters  I  the  wretches!'  ho 
exclaimed ;  *  poor  young  man !  they  have  killed  him  too !'  It  was 
Jacquemart.  Albert  was  not  dead ;  but  a  brain-fever  came  on,  in  which 
he  raved  continually  of  the  hideous  scene,  and  the  livid  lips  that  had 
touched  his.  News  came  that  the  Permons  had  reached  Toulouse,  and 
later  their  children  were  able  to  join  them  there,  Madame  Permon 
risking  all  dangers  to  return  and  fetch  them.  Who  this  Jacquemart 
was,  how  he  came  among  that  crowd  of  murderers,  Laurette  never 
learned ;  but  in  1802,  Albert  Permon,  then  commissary-general  of 
police  at  Marseilles,  received  orders  from  Napoleon  to  keep  special 
watch  over  a  man  calling  himself  Raymonet,  who  lived  a  hermit  life  in 
a  little  house  by  the  sea-side,  a  leader  in  the  massacres  of  September, 
and  one  of  the  murderers  of  Madame  de  Lamballe.  This  man  died  a 
slow  and  horrible  death  fi*om  suffocation,  refusing  to  see  a  priest  or  hear 
a  word  on  religion.  Albert  Permon  never  had  the  courage  to  visit  this 
man,  but  from  what  he  learned,  he  always  believed  Jacquemart  and 
Raymonet  to  be  one  and  the  same  person. 


PART  II. 

Toulouse  proved  a  melancholy  and  insecure  refuge  for  the  Permons. 
Every  family  was  in  mourning,  or  trembling  lest  some  of  its  members 
should  fall  under  the  axe  of  the  guillotine ;  already  those  which  had  not 
lost  a  husband,  brother,  father,  or  wife,  were  rare  exceptions,  and  the 
prisons  were  full  of  victims  awaiting  their  doom.  The  Reign  of  Terror 
was  at  its  height.  No  distance  from  Paris,  no  insignificance,  made  one 
place  safer  than  another ;  there  was  a  guillotine  in  every  town,  a  prison 
in  every  village.     Scarcely  were  the  Permons  settled  in  an  apartment 


38  TUX  MONTHLY  PACRlTr. 

which  they  hired,  when  the  President  of  their  ieeiion  nummi^n^  M. 
Permon  hefore  him.  M.  Permon  wbs  ill,  and  in  such  a  state  of  nervous 
irritability,  that  his  wife  dared  not  let  him  go,  and  sent  Albert  to 
represent  hlra.  The  President,  a  fat  short-sighted  little  man,  ill-tempered, 
and  given  to  drinking,  could  not  be  made  to  understand  why  the  son 
tame  instead  of  the  father.  'What  are  yon  here  for?'  he  bellowed | 
*  why  are  you  not  with  the  army,  you  coward,  you  aristocrat?  I  know 
how  it  is ;  I  have  been  warned,  and  we  shall  see  about  it.'  Albert, 
Exceedingly  alarmed  for  the  whole  fiunily,  vainly  tried  to  make  his 
explanation  heard.  The  danger  was  so  great,  especially  as  M.  Permon 
would  certainly  compromise  them  all  if  he  and  the  President  mme  fac* 
to  face,  that  Madame  Permon  determined  to  write  to  a  fellow-countrymais 
of  hers,  much  mixed  up  with  the  politics  of  the  day,  the  Corsican 
8alicetti.  He  and  M.  Permon  had  had  a  sharp  dispute  the  very  last 
time  they  had  met ;  for  though  the  latter  had  served  in  the  American 
army,  and  was  professedly  a  liberal  in  politics,  yet,  like  many  others  at 
that  time,  he  was  thoroughly  loyal,  devoted  to  Madame  Elizabeth,  who 
had  shewn  him  much  kindness,  and  detested  the  Red  Republicanism  of 
Salicetti.  Yet  it  was  to  this  man  only  that  they  could  look  for 
protection.  To  his  credit  be  it  told,  that  he  at  once  used  all  hid 
influence  in  their  favour,  named  Albert  his  secretary,  with  leave  to 
remain  three  months  with  his  family,  and  added,  that  should  young 
Permon's  principles  prevent  his  accepting  the  post,  he  need  say  nothing 
about  it,  but  keep  the  brevet  of  appointment  at  hand  to  shew  to  any 
troublesome  patriots.  At  an  after  time  the  Permons  repaid  his  kindness 
with  interest.  Albert  accepted  the  secretaryship,  but  for  a  time  kept  it 
a  secret  from  his  father,  whose  heart  was  breaking  under  the  misfortunes 
of  France  and  the  murder  of  the  royal  family.  When  he  heard  thai 
Madame  Elizabeth's  life  was  threatened,  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty 
that  his  wife  could  prevent  his  rushing  on  certain  death  by  returning  td 
Paris.  'I  owe  her  all  we  have!'  he  said;  'I  must  and  will  save  her.' 
*You  cannot;  you  will  only  destroy  yourself — think  of  our  children!' 
bis  wife  argued.  Tlte  news  of  her  execution  was  literally  his  death-blow* 
For  days  he  would  neither  leave  his  room  nor  let  anyone  go  in,  except 
Laurette ;  and  when  she  crept  timidly  in,  she  would  stand  doubting  if 
this  sickly,  pale,  thin  man,  crouched  in  an  arm-chair,  and  wrapped  in  a 
white  great-coat,  could  be  the  father  whom  she  so  few  months  before 
had  known  so  gay,  so  upright,  so  handsome.  Once  he  looked  up  as  he 
heard  her  sobbing.  'Poor  LoulouT  he  said,  calling  her  by  her  pet 
name,  and  taking  her  on  his  knee,  *are  you  crying  for  me?  Weep,  my 
child,  weep  and  pray ;  that  is  all  that  we  can  do  now  for  those  we  love 
best.'  He  would  rouse  himself  with  an  effort,  and  continue  the  lessons 
which  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  giving  her;  but  his  health  visibly  de- 
clined. Madame  Permon  too  fell  ill,  and  went  to  the  Pyrenees  for  a  time, 
but  he  could  not  accompany  her,  as  he  was  detained  at  Toulouse  in  semi- 
captivity.    The  fall  of  Robespierre  hardly  lessened  the  danger  of  those 


THX  GIBLHOOD  OF  LAUBSTTE  PERMON.  89 

lasp^oted  of  being  aristoeratd ;  exeootions  continaed,  and  there  was  the 
flame  universal  'and  painful  feeling  of  insecurity.  Communications  were 
exchanged  in  the  most  singular  manner ;  letters  vere  sent  in  pies,  inside 
fowls,  in  the  lining  of  clothes,  and  with  such  a  parcel  would  come  a 
«Fritten  message.  ^  I  have  sent  what  was  ordered ;'  and  as  nothing  had 
been  ordered,  this  was  sufficient  to  give  notice  of  a  hidden  missive; 
Madame  Permon  always  lamented  over  the  unpicking  necessary  when  a 
letter  had  been  sent  in  some  elegant  article  of  dress  from  Paris;  and 
t>nce,  when  nothing  very  particular  was  going  on,  actually  wore  a  bonnet 
for  a  fortnight,  in  the  crown  of  which  she  knew  there  was  a  note,  before 
She  could  make  up  her  mind  to  own  it  to  her  husband,  who,  she  was 
aware,  would  instantly  require  the  bonnet  to  be  sacrificed.  When 
winter  days  came,  the  friends  of  M.  Permon  urged  him  to  return  to 
Paris,  where  they  assured  him  a  brilliant  career  was  open  to  him* 
'How  little  they  knowT  ho  said  bitterly.  *I  am  but  the  shadow  of  my 
old  self.  All  I  care  for  is  to  go  back  and  die  quietly  there.' 
•  It  was  again  Madame  Permon  who  went  to  Paris  to  ascertain  if  he 
tould  safely  return.  Albert  had  become  very  uneasy  at  the  lengths  to 
which  Salicetti  was  going,  and  at  the  deadly  enmity  between  him  and 
Bonaparte,  and  threw  up  his  secretaryship,  but  he  too  went  to  Paris; 
X^iurette  accompanied  her  mother ;  but  C6cile,  who  bad  married  a  young 
officer,  remained  with  her  husband's  family.  They  remained  some  little 
time  at  Paris,  and  old  friends  began  again  to  fill  the  Permon  salon. 
Among  them  came  Bonaparte,  whose  angular  thinness  and  awkwardness 
struck  Laurette  afresh ;  but  he  always  had  that  clear  keen  glance,  which 
he  retained  when  in  all  other  respects  he  was  greatly  altered,  and  there 
was  that  singularly  winning  smile,  ^  si  fin,  si  naif^  which  disarmed  his 
greatest  enemies.  Madame  Permon  was  rejoiced  to  see  him  again,  though 
his  untidy  dress  and  unceremonioiis  ways  tried  her  patience — ^never  very 
lasting.  She  spoke  of  Salicetti's  ill-will  towards  him,  and  he  answered 
^ith  unusual  emotion,  ^He  would  fain  have  injured  me,  but  my  star 
forbade  it.  Still,  I  must  not  boast  of  that  star,  for  who  knows  what  my 
fate  may  be  V  At  this  time  he  was  so  wretchedly  poor,  that  but  for  the 
generous  aid  of  his  aide-de-camp,  Junot,  he  would  almost  have  starved. 
Every  penny  that  Junot  became  master  of  he  shared  with  his  friend. 
The  Permons  heard  mach  of  this  devoted  Iriendship  from  their  maid 
Mariette,  with  whom  Bonaparte's  valet  was  in  love,  a  circumstance 
whie^  seemed  trivial  at  the  time,  but  which  became  weighty  later. 
Laurette  used. thus  to  hear  of. Junot,  and  admire  his  devotion  to  his 
iriend,  long  before  she  knew  him  personally. 

Paris  was  very  unquiets  The  Republicans  were  at  daggers  drawn 
among  themselves,  and  the  want  of  bread  caused  alarming  riots.  Cecils 
sent  provisions  se<n*etly  to  her  family  at  great  risk,  as  it  was  against  the 
law  to  import  Hour  into  Paris.  So  weary  did  Madame  Permon  grow  of 
the  incessant  political  discussions,  that  she  forbade  any  of  her  guests  to 
introduce  the  subject.    She  had  a  pretty  imperative  way  which  no  one 


40.  THE  MONTHLY  PACKI6T* 

coald  resist;  but  she  herself  soon  saw  tbat  the  prohibition  reduced  her 
friends  to  silence,  for  what  was  there  else  to  talk  of?  Literature  seemed 
dead ;  the  theatres  offered  nothing  of  interest ;  poetry  was  mute.  She 
ibund  Paris  insupportable,  and  prepared  to  return  to  the  south  of  France. 
But  a  game  of  life  and  death  had  to  be  played  out  first,  preceded  bj  an 
adventure  of  Laurette's,  not  a  little  alarming. 

The  day  for  leaving  Paris  being  fixed,  Laurette  and  the  maid  Mariette 
went  out  to  do  sundry  commissions  for  friends  in  Bourdeaux,  where  M. 
Permon  had  gone.  They  went  in  a  hackney  coach,  and  were  returning 
home  with  their  ribbons  and  artificial  fiowers,  when  they  were  suddenly 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  those  furious  drunken  women,  who  figured  in 
every  scene  of  the  Revolution.  *Long  live  the  constitution  of  '981' 
they  shrieked ;  ^  give  us  back  our  patriots !'  Fifty  or  sixty  pressed 
round  the  carriage;  Mariette  began  to  sob,  and  Laurette  was  equally 
frightened,  but,  as  she  afterwards  said,  she  could  not  cry  before  those 
horrible  creatures,  one  of  whom  shouted  to  the  driver,  who  chanced  to 
be  her  husband,  that  she  and  her  friends  wanted  his^cre,  and  turned  a 
deaf  and  angry  ear  to  his  remonstrances.  ^  I  tell  thee  I  am  tired,  and  so 
are  these  patriots,'  she  shrieked.  '  We  have  got  to  go  to  that  miserable 
Convention  ;  we  will  get  bread  out  of  them,  or  the  President  shall  know, 
like  thee,  that  my  fist  is  heavy.  Come,  no  more  yes  and  no ;  open  thy 
whisky,  and  look  sharp,  I  say !' 

Laurette  was  all  the  time  pulling  the  man's  carmagnole,  and  imploring 
him  to  set  her  down.  He  paid  no  attention,  and  tried  to  urge  on  his 
horses,  upon  which  his  formidable  wife  fiung  the  door  open^  and  Laurette 
darted  out;  but  Mariette  fell  on  her  knees  in  the  carriage,  paralyzed 
by  teiTor.  The  virago  lifted  up  Laurette  in  her  stout  arms,  exclaiming, 
*  What's  the  matter,  my  chicken?  thou  art  the  colour  of  curd!  And 
thou,  animal  I'  (to  her  husband,)  ^  couldst  thou  not  say  it  was  a  child  in 
the  whisky,  thou  rabbit's  brains !  Would  I  have  turned  her  out  then, 
thou  stupid  ?  Why,  the  poor  little  cat  is  really  afraid  I  Is  the  other  thy 
mamma,  my  little  cabbage  ?' 

*  No,  citoyenne,  my  bonne.' 

'  What  is  the  woman  whimpering  about,  as  if  she  had  lost  father  and 
mother  ?' 

'  Listen,  Marianne,'  shouted  another,  '  she  is  asking  mercy ;  she  thinks 
we  shall  kill  her !  no  doubt  she  is  a  princess  in  disguise  I' 

The  storm  of  laughter  only  frightened  Mariette  the  more ;  she  shrieked 
as  a  large  coarae  woman  began  to  drag  her  out  of  the  carriage,  on 
which,  with  a  great  oath,  the  mistress  of  the  fiacre  ordered  her  to  let 
the  girl  alone,  pushed  Laurette  back,  asked  her  husband  whence  he  had 
brought  them,  and  kissing  her  with  a  resounding  smack,  slammed  the 
door,  and  cried,  '  Whip  on  !  and  tell  your  mamma  to  go  with  you  herself 
next  time,  my  lass !' 

Laurette  found  Madame  Permon  anxiously  watching  for  her,  and  the 
sight  of  her  mother  brought  such  a  fiood  of  tears,  that  she  could  not 


THB  GIRLHOOD  07  LAURETTE  FEBMON.  41 

explain  what  Bad  happened.  When  Bonaparte  heard  that  she  had  not 
shed  a  tear  during  this  really  frightful  scene,  he  said,  ^Mademoiselle 
Loulou  was  too  proud  to  cry  before  fish- women.*  *  In  any  case  it  was  a 
Spartan  feeling,  and  she  was  right,'  replied  her  mother ;  and  Bonaparte 
laughed  at  the  inborn  Greek  pride  which  was  always  so  strong  in 
Madame  Permon. 

May  18th,  1795,  was  another  day  of  carnage  added  to  those  which 
had  already  desolated  Paris.  The  terrible  Faubourg  St.  Antoine  was 
again  in  arms,  and  its  starving  population  threatened  indiscriminate 
massacre  and  pillage.  The  extremity  of  the  danger  caused  all  who  had 
anything  to  lose  to  unite  and  protect  one  another;  proscriptions  and 
arrests  followed  as  a  matter  of  course.  Salicetti,  to  the  surprise  of  aU, 
was  not  named  in  the  list  of  the  accused,  though  prominent  in  the  ranks 
of  the  Jacobins,  and  Madame  Permon  rejoiced  at  it,  remembering  that 
she  owed  him  much,  but  added  that  she  should  certainly  drop  his 
acquaintance,  as  she  could  not  countenance  his  principles.  'I  hope  it 
will  be  long  before  I  see  his  face  again !'  she  said  to  a  few  friends  come 
to  dine  with  her;  for  the  routine  of  ordinary  life  mingled  strangely 
with  death  and  terror.  This  was  a  farewell  party  before  she  went  to 
Bonrdeaux;  Bonaparte  was  expected,  but  had  not  yet  appeared.  He 
and  Salicetti  were  now  known  to  be  deadly  enemies. 

Just  before  dinner,  Mariette  told  Madame  Permon  that  someone 
wanted  to  speak  to  her,  adding,  ^  I  know  who  it  is ;  Madame  can  come.' 
Laurette  followed  her  mother,  and  found,  standing  in  the  bed-room  of 
Madame  Permon — Salicetti !  His  lips  were  as  white  as  his  teeth ;  his 
black  Corsican  eyes  glowed  like  live  coals.  ^  I  am  proscribed,'  he  said, 
low  and  fast ;  '  in  other  words,  condemned  to  death.  Madame  Permon, 
I  hope  I  have  not  been  mistaken  in  counting  on  your  generosity ;  surely 
you  will  save  me  ?  Surely  I  need  not  remind  you  that  I  saved  your  son 
and  your  husband!' 

Madame  Permon  seized  his  hand  and  hurried  him  into  Laurette's  room* 
She  thought  that  she  heard  the  voice  of  Bonaparte.  It  would  be  certain 
death  for  all  should  Salicetti  be  found.  '  I  will  not  waste  time  in  words,' 
she  said ;  *  you  have  a  right  to  all  that  I  can  do.  But  my  son,  my  daughter 
—ask  my  life  if  you  will,  but  not  theirs.  I  could  only  hide  you  for  a 
few  hours^  and  it  would  not  save  you,  only  bring  me  and  my  son  to  the 
guillotine.  I  do  owe  you  gratitude ;  decide  yourself  if  it  should  go  so 
far.' 

Salicetti's  only  reply  was  that  she  could  safely  hide  him;  that  she 
might  take  him  in  disguise  to  Gascogny,  and  urged  again  and  again  that 
she  owed  this  effort  to  him.  She  answered  with  despair  that  in  a  lodging, 
the  landlady  of  which  held  opposite  political  opinions  to  his,  there  was 
no  hope  of  concealing  him ;  and  while  6he  was  speaking  Albert  knocked, 
surprised  at  her  absence,  and  saying  that  all  her  guests  had  come,  except 
Bonaparte,  who  had  sent  an  excuse.  She  joined  her  hands  in  thankful** 
nesa  ;  it  seemed  a  respite  from  death,  for  she  was  sure  that  the  keen  eye 


42  THE  MOKTULT  PACKET. 

of  Boimparte  must  have  discovered  ker  emotion.  Dismissing  Albert,  she 
wmt  back  to  Salicetti,  who  was  sitting  with  his  head  sunlc  in  his  hands^ 
but  who  looked  up  to  repeat  his  entreaties.  She  stood  silent,  now  red, 
now  pale ;  Salicetti  thought  that  he  read  a  refusal  in  her  agitated  silence, 
and  rose,  murmuring  something  inaudible,  to  go.  '  Stay !'  she  said, 
catching  his  arm,  *  this  roof  is  yours ;  ray  son  must  pay  his  debt,  and  I 
my  husband's.'  '  Then  all  is  settled,'  Salicetti  answered ;  '  go  and  dine ; 
Mariette  will  take  care  of  me. — Young  girl,'  he  added,  detaining  Laurettei 
\  there  was  no  way  but  to  let  you  know  all  (his,  but  I  need  not  tell  you 
what  the  consequences  of  indiscretion  would  be.' 

'  Ah,  you  need  not  fear  !'  Laurette  replied,  throwing  her  arms  round 
her  mother,  who  was  looking  at  her  with  indescribable  anguish.  Madame 
Permon  well  knew  the  exceeding  danger  in  which  they  all  were,  but  she 
ivas  thoroughly  generous  ;  she  could  not  abandon  a  man,  however  selfish, 
however  bad,  who  appealed  to  her  thus.  She  was  of  a  frank  and  lively 
disposition,  with  no  gift  of  feigning,  yet  now  she  returned  to  her  guests 
as  calmly  as  if  she  had  only  been  called  out,  as  they  supposed,  about 
some  little  houseiiold  matter.  Thus,  for  the  second  time  in  her  short 
life,  did  Laurette  siiare  in  a  secret  of  life  and  death.  She  was  now  eleven 
years  old. 

At  dinner  the  conversation  turned  on  the  late  events ;  Laurette  saw 
her  mother  change  colour  as  Salicetti  was  spoken  of  with  contempt  and 
horror.  No  one  guessed  how  near  he  was.  The  long  evening  ended 
$i  last,  and  then  Madame. Permon  told  Albert  who  was  concealed  in 
their  apartment.  It  was  too  late  to  talk  of  prudence  ;  all  that  remained 
to  be  done  was  to  hide  him  as  securely  as  possible.  The  mistress  of  the 
bouse,  Madame  Gretry,  was  called,  and  at  the  first  trembling  word  of 

*  proscription,' . she  inteiTupted,  'I  have  what  we  want,  only  you  must 
change  your  apartment.  There  is  a  hiding-place  in  which  four  poor 
creatures  were  safely  concealed  during  the  Terror.  It  will  save  others, 
I  hope,  as  long  as  I  live  in  this  house.' ..  Salicetti  took  possession  of  it ; 
this  was  the  first  step,. but  the  real  difficulty  would  be  to  get  him  unseen 
6ut  of  Paris,  and  there  was  the  ordeal  of  a  visit  from  Bonaparte  to  be 
gone  through  first.  He  came  the  next  day,  in  his  old  great-coat,  buttoned 
to-  the  throbt,  his  round  hat  drawn  over  his. eyes,  and  a.  black  cravat 
round  his  neck.  It  was  not  an  elegant  costume,  but  elegance  was  out  of 
fashion  just  then.  He  brought  a  bunch  of  violets  for  Madame  Permon^ 
a  politeness  so  unlike  his  usual  habits  that  they  were  all  amused  by  Ui 
He  laughed  too,  and  said,  '  Well,  Madame  Permon,  so  now  Salicetti  can 
taste  for  himself  how  bitter  arrests  are.  The  fruit  roust  taste  all  the 
worse  .as  he  and  his  party  planted  the  tree  which  produced  it.' 

'  Wliat !'  said  Madame  Permon,  signing  to  Laurette  to  shut  the  door, 

*  is  Salicetti  arrested  t' 

^  How !  did  you  not  know  tlmt  he  is  condemned  to  be  tried  for  his  life  f 
I  thought  you  knew  it  so  well,  that  it  was  in  your  house  be  was  hidden.' 
*  Here !'  cried  Madame  Permon ;  *  why,  Napoleon,  my  dear  boy,  you 


THE  GIRLHOOD  0?  LAUttSTHH  SERMON.  41 

nasi  be  eruy !  In  my  house !  I  hare  no  house  of  mj  own.  BIj  dea^ 
Genend,  do  not  say  such  things,  pray ;  what  have  1  done  that  yoo  should 
tpOTt  with  my  life  ?  it  comes  to  that  V 

Bonaparte  rose,  walked  slowly  forward,  stood  before  Madame  Permon, 
crossed  his  arms  on  his  breast,  and  looked  at  her  without  a  word* 
She  never  changed  colour,  nor  winced  before  that  gaze,  but  met  it 
steadily.  *  Madame  Permon,*  he  said  at  last,  *  Salicetti  is  hidden  here—* 
do  not  interrupt  me;  I  do  not  actually  know  it,  but  I  say  so  because 
yesterday,  at  five  o'clock,  he  was  seen  on  the  Boulevard  talking  to 
Ganthier,  who  warned  him  not  to  go  to  the  Convention.  He  then  went 
iliis  way.  He  has  no  acquaintance  but  yourself  who  would  hazard  life, 
and  the  lives  of  a  whole  family  too,  by  taking  him  in.  He  has  not  been 
to  the  Palais  Egalite.     So  he  is  here.' 

Madame  Perroon  had  summoned  all  her  calmness  to  her  aid.  'By 
what  right  could  he  ask  it?'  she  replied.  '  He  knows  how  we  differ,  and 
that  I  am  just  leaving  for  Gascony.' 

*  By.  what  right!  That  is  the  truest  thing  you  have  said  yet,  dear 
Madame  Permon.  To  throw  himself  on  the  mercy  of  a  lonely  woman, 
who  would  be  compromised  by  a  few  hours  shelter  given  to  a  fugitive 
who  deserves  death,  is  a  baseness  of  which  only  he  is  capable  I  You  owe 
him  gratitude.  That  is  a  letter  of  credit  which  he  demanded  payment  of 
in  person ;  is  it  not  4P,  Mademoiselle  Loulou  V  lie  added,  suddenly  turning 
to  Laurette^  who  sat  at  work  in  a  window,  among  trees  and  flower^ 
which  she  seemed  absorbed  in  admiring,  for  she  gave  no  answer. 

'Laurette,  my  child,  General  Bonaparte  spoke  to  you,'  said  the  poor 
mother,  fearing  lest  this  silence  should  increase  his  suspicions.  .  Lauretta 
looked  up  with  confusion,  which,  however,  might  very  well  pass  as  that 
of  a  young  girl  who  feels  she  has  been  rude.  Bonaparte  took  her  little 
hand  in  both  his,  and  after  a  word  of  apology  for  having  questioned  the 
child,  added,  '  Madame  Permon,  you  are  remarkably  good,  and  this  man 
is  a  wretch.  You  could  not  shut  your  door  upon  him,  and  he  knew  it* 
To  expose  you  and  this  child  too—'  and  then  his  indignation  burst  out, 
Madame  Permon  listening  in  trembling  emotion,  which  betrayed  itself  by 
her  answering  in  Italian,  though  he  was  speaking  French ;  for  whenever 
she  was  deeply  moved  she  involuntarily  spoke  either  Italian  or  Greek* 
The  French  have  never  been  able  to  admit  that  in  all  circumstances  a  lie 
is  a  lies  the  mensonge  sublime  has  always  been  exalted  to  a  virtue 
among  them.  She  did  not  hesitate  solemnly  to  assure  her  increduloui 
hearer  that  Salicetti  had  indeed  been  there,  but  only  to  go  away 
immediately.  Laurette  sat  quivering  ui\der  the  belief  that  Salicetti, 
bearing  the  abuse  lavished  on  him  by  Bonaparte,  would  rush  out  of  hi4 
hiding-place ;  but  all  remained  still.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  Bonaparte 
left  them,  saying,  *  Well,  well — a  thousand  thanks,  Madame  Permon,  and 
above  all,  forgive  me.  But  if  you  had  been  injured  by  that  man  as  I 
have — ' 

When  they  went  to  Salicetti's  hiding*place  they  found  him  cold,  senseless, 


44  THS  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

and  covered  with  blood.  He  had  heard  every  word,  and  terror  had  made 
him  break  a  blood-vessel.  When  he  could  speak,  all  his  habitual  courtesy- 
seemed  to  have  vanished ;  broken  curses  on  Bonaparte,  oaths  and  horrid 
threats,  succeeded  one  another.  Laurette  flew  to  her  brother,  imploring 
him  to  hasten  to  Madame  Permon ;  the  poor  child  was  shaking  all  over, 
and  her  horror  of  Salicetti  was  intensified  by  this  scene,  and  bj  her 
perception  that  Bonaparte  had  justice  on  his  side.  Bonaparte  paid  them 
another  visit  the  next  day,  but  did  not  name  his  enemy.  The  Permons 
were  alarmed  by  this  strange  reticence,  but  their  thoughts  were  fully 
occupied  by  Salicetti,  who  became  dangerously  ill  and  delinous,  believing 
that  some  of  his  partizans  were  always  beside  him,  dying  or  failing  in 
the  attempt  to  commit  suicide,  while  he  lay  in  a  room  where  everything 
was  blood  red ;  yet  amid  these  horrible  fancies,  while  he  uttered  perpetual 
imprecations  and  blasphemies,  he  never  raised  his  voice ;  the  feeling  of 
terror,  the  necessity  for  concealment,  was  present  to  the  unhappy  man 
even  in  the  height  of  delirium,  and  there  was  something  singularly  fearful 
in  hearing  such  sentiments  uttered  in  these  low  and  modulated  tones.  The 
secret  of  his  presence  was  entrusted  to  a  young  Greek  physician,  who 
cured  him ;  and  then  a  passport  was  obtained  with  much  difficulty  for  the 
Permons,  and  their  valet — 1. 1\  Salicetti.  Before  they  went  Bonaparte 
came  again,  and  alarmed  them  by  his  mysterious  conversation.  He  seemed 
to  think  that  they  should  never  meet  again,  and  bade  Madame  Permon 
remember  that  he  had  given  her  more  than  he  knew  that  he  possessed. 
When  she  asked  what  he  could  mean,  he  replied  that  she  should  know 
before  leaving  Paris.  They  passed  the  gates  safely.  The  first  time  that 
they  stopped  to  change  horses,  one  of  the  postilions  came  up  to  the 
carriage  window,  saying,  '  Citoyenne  Permon !'  She  put  out  her  head, 
and  asked  alarmed  what  he  wanted.  Salicetti  was  sitting  on  the  box ; 
everything  unexpected  was  alarming.  The  man.  gave  her  a  letter,  which 
she  took  with  surprise,  and  offered  him  some  payment  for  his  trouble. 
He  refused,  saying  he  had  been  already  paid  *  by  the  young  man.'  This 
amused  Madame  Permon,  whose  gay  spirits  revived  with  a  rebound,  as 
Paris  was  left  further  and  further  behind.  *  Bonaparte  will  make  people 
think  me  a  young  girl  ci*uelly  parted  from  her  lover,*  said  she ;  ^  but  what 
can  he  have  to  write  about  t' 

The  approach  of  day  enabled  her  to  read  her  letter,  and  all  mirth 
vanished  at  once  from  her  face  and  voice.  *I  never  choose  to  seem 
duped,'  Bonaparte  wrote,  ^  and  I  should  appear  60  to  you,  did  I  not  tell 
you  that  for  more  than  three  weeks  I  have  known  Salicetti  to  be  in  your 
house.  Remember  what  I  said,  Madame  Permon,  even  on  the  1st  of 
Prarial.  I  was  then  almost  certuin  ;  I  am  now  entirely  so.  ...  I  could 
have  avenged  myself,  and  I  did  not  do  it.'  There  was  a  dignified  message 
to  Salicetti,  and  kind  wishes  for  the  prosperity  of  the  Permons,  with 
advice  never  to  remain  long  in  any  large  town  during  their  jouniey. 
Madame  Permon  sat  lost  in  wonder  after  reading  this  letter  through ; 
she  handed  it  to  Laurette,  bidding  her  in   Greek,  with  a  glance  at 


THE  GIRLHOOD  OF  LAURKTTB  PERMON.  45 

Mtuiette,  read  it  to  herself.  Mariette  was  pale,  and  her  ejes  rery  red ; 
it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  had  betrayed  the  secret  of  Salicetti's  hiding* 
place  to  her  lover,  the  valet  of  Bonaparte,  and  was  now  terrified  for  the 
consequences.  They  had  trusted  too  much  to  her  discretion,  but  even 
now  they  could  not  doubt  her  affection.  Madame  Permon  was  divided 
between  dismay  at  the  danger  they  had  been  in,  and  admiration  for  the 
generosity  of  Bonaparte — a  generosity  totally  unexpected  by  her,  and 
which  indeed  he  rarely  again  displayed ;  but  when  she  told  Salicetti,  he 
only  said  that  he  saw  nothing  fine  in  it ;  what  else  could  Bonaparte  have 
done?  Madame  Permon  exchanged  looks  with  Laurette,  and  both  felt 
how  rightly  Bonaparte  had  judged  this  man  in  declaring  him  to  be 
thoroughly  selfish  and  base.  His  sole  preoccupation  was  himself  and  his 
escape ;  he  had  not  a  thought  for  the  Permons,  who  were  all  risking  their 
lives  for  his  sake.  Madame  Permon  felt  this  with  a  woman's  keen 
indignation,  but  it  did  not  cross  her  mind  to  abandon  her  dangerous 
companion,  nor  had  she  one  fear  that  her  husband  might  not  approve  the 
part  she  had  taken.  In  every  place  where  they  stopped,  they  heard 
anathemas  against  Salicetti  and  his  party,  and  the  general  excitement 
alarmed  them  unspeakably.  *  Suppose  they  recognize  him !  his 
description  may  have  been  sent  herel'  was  ever  Madame  Permon 's 
thought  Once  they  drove  into  a  little  town,  where  a  mob  had  gathered, 
shouting,  'Arrest  him!  arrest  him!  he  is  outlawed!'  Laurette  said,  'I 
will  see  what  it  is  ;'  her  motlier  grasped  her  arm  till  it  hurt  her.  '  Stay 
here !'  she  cried.  '  Go  and  see  what  it  is !  What  do  you  suppose  it  is  t 
if  this  concerns  us,  it  is— death  I'  Mariette,  who  had  gone  into  the 
kitchen  of  the  little  inn  when  the  carriage  stopped,  came  hurrying  back 
to  say  that  a  young  priest  had  been  seized  by  the  populace,  a  man  noted 
for  his  devoted  fulfilment  of  his  duties,  and  fearless  attempts  to  restrain 
the  excesses  of  his  parishioners.  His  mother,  the  Baron ne  de  Lavauret, 
had  been  thrown  into  prison,  and  would  only  have  left  it  for  the  scaffold, 
but  for  the  interposition  of  Madame  Tallien,  who  also  protected  the 
son  with  that  generosity  which  made  her  almost  worshipped.  The  young 
priest  had  ventured  home,  hoping  to  learn  if  his  mother  yet  lived ;  and 
she,  who  since  through  Madame  Tallien  his  '  rights  of  citizenship  had 
been  restored,'  to  use  the  phrase  then  customary,  had  been  seeking  by 
every  means  to  learn  what  had  become  of  him,  hurried  to  meet  him. 
What  was  their  despair,  when,  in  defiance  of  all  law,  all  justice,  he  was 
again  arrested !  When  Aiadame  Permon  and  her  party  returned  to  their 
carriage,  they  saw  the  young  man  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  furies ;  an 
elderly  woman  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd ;  her  bonnet,  on  which 
a  tri-colour  cockade  had  been  carelessly  pinned,  had  fallen  back,  exposing 
her  black  hair  streaked  with  white,  and  her  dark  eyes  searched  the  faces 
of  the  throng  with  almost  the  look  of  a  wild  animal,  or  were  fixed  on 
the  priest.  Her  arms  were  crossed  upon  her  breast ;  she  never  moved. 
*  Oh,  poor  woman !  poor  woman  I'  cried  Madame  Permon,  '  she  is  his 
mother.'    It  was  so.    They  could  render  no  assistance;  for  SalicettTs 


46  TPJB  MONTHLY  PACKBT. 

«akQ  they  dared  not  attract  attention.  They  had  to  go  on  their  wa]f 
without  knowing  how  this  sad  affair  ended.  *  1793  over  again  Y  oried 
Madame  Permon,  ^  and  this  is  what  some  wish  to  bring  back  !* 

Salieetti  looked  straight  out  of  the  carriage  window,  and  made  no 
answer. 

•  It  vras  with  the  utmost  difficulty,  after  weeks  of  ansdely,  that  they  found 
^  ship  in  which  he  could  escape ;  the  bound  of  relief  which  Laurette't 
heart  gave  when  she  saw  him  fairly  on  board  a  vessel  about  to  sail  for 
Genoa  told  her  what  a  load  of  daily  anxiety  she  had  borne  ever  since  he 
had  been  with  them.  She  breathed  deeply,  looked  at  her  mother,  and 
embraced  her  with  sudden  vehemence  and  delight.  A  less  light-hearted 
child  would  have  been  crushed  by  being  so  early  mixed  up  with  mattera 
where  life  and  death  depended  on  constant  caution  in  every  word  and 
look ;  but  to  the  end  of  her  long  and  troubled  life  Laurette  was  ever  the 
same  gay,  thoughtless,  bewitching  creature,  whether  almost  penniless,  or 
a  young  wife  surrounded  by  luxury,  an  ambassadress,  or  an  old  and  poor 
iroman«  In  her  old  age,  as  in  her  childhood,  the  moment  that  she  could 
turn  from  her  troubles  she  was  as  gay  as  a  bird  again. 


PART  m. 

Ths  Pennons  found  it  advisable  to  go  back  to  Paris ;  but  their  return 
was  very  sad,  owing  to  the  fast  failing  health  of  M.  Permon,  and  the 
excited  state  of  the  city,  again  in  all  but  open  insurrection.  At  night 
sentinels  went  their  rounds  with  all  the  precautions  of  a  besieged  city. 
Domiciliary  visits  were  constantly  taking  place,  and  everyone  able  to 
bear  arms  was  summoned  to  his  section.  One  afternoon  M.  Permon  was 
sleeping,  exhausted  by  illness,  and  the  house  was  kept  as  quiet  as  possible 
on  his  account.  Suddenly  doors  were  violently  opened,  and  three  men 
entered,  demanding,  with  brutal  oaths,  why  M.  Permon  had  not  appeared  at 
his  section  ?  Madame  Permon's  explanation,  supported  by  the  landlord  of 
the  house,  was  not  listened  to.  '  He  came  here  on  the  28th  of  Fructidor, 
(September  15th,)  nineteen  days  ago.  What  does  such  an  illness  mean  V 
shouted  one.  '  /  should  have  had  time  to  die  and  come  to  life  again 
three  times.  Anyhow,  I  must  see  this  citizen  Permon,  illness  or  no 
illness ;  where  is  he  ?  I  will  see  him  and  speak  to  him.' 
.   ^  I  have  already  told  you  that  he  is  ill,  citizen.' 

'  It  is  no  time  to  be  ill  when  the  country  is  in  danger.  Come,  open 
that  door!' 

'  You  are  mad,  or  a  wretch ! '  cried  Madame  Permon,  darting  before 
the  door.     '  Keep  back,  or  beware ! ' 

Astonished  at  this  address,  the  man  started  back,  staring  at  the  resolute 
woman,  who  bade  Laurette,  in  Greek,  to  fly  to  her  father,  and  keep  him 
calm.  Alas !  the  noise  had  roused  him,  and  he  was  in  great  agitation. 
lAurette  heard  him  muttering,  *  Wretches !  poor  country  I '  and  neither 


THE  GIRLHOOD  OV  LAURETTB  PERMON.  it 

^e  nor  the  sick-nUrfi^  couM  cftlm  him.  He  asked  for  hia  wife,  and 
Laur^tte  ran  to  fetch  her?  the  met)  were  gone^  bat  poor  Madame  Permoa 
had  fallen  into  a  distressing  nerVous  attack,  to  which  she  was  Bnbjec^t 
after  any  emotion ;  she  always  made  a  desperate  struggle  to  command 
h^raelf,  and  never  liked  to  be  seen  at  such  times  by  anyone ;  but  the 
attack  oflen  lasted  two  hours.  Bonaparte  had  come  in,  and  was  trying 
to  soothe  her,  but  had  not  dared  to  caU  anyone,  lest  M.  Permon  should 
be  alarmed.  Laurette  rubbed  her  hands,  and  gave  her  the  medicina 
which  she  took  at  such  times ;  she  had  long  been  trained  to  act  promptly 
9nd  det)end  on  herself  in  emergencies,  and  shew  no  childish  terrors ;  and 
Madame  Permon  presently  recovered  sufficiently  to  go  to  her  husband, 
whose  nervous  terror  had  increased  with  every  instant  of  delay.  Two  or 
three  stormy  days  and  nights  followed;  but  some  hope  of  conciliating 
the  malcontents  seemed  dawning,  when  suddenly  the  boom  of  a  heavy 
gQu  was  heard.  It  was  the  signal  for  a  general  cannonade.  The  street 
below  the  Permon  windows  was  filled  with  all  the  sounds  and  sights  of 
civil  war.  At  the  sound  of  the  first  shot  M.  Permon  had  uttered  a  cry, 
called  wildly  for  help,  and  was  instantly  seized  with  violent  delirium. 
Though  the  world  had  been  in  flames  outside  of  his  chamber,  Laurette 
eould  hardly  have  spared  a  thought  for  it  then,  when  she  saw  her  father 
dying  in  agony,  her  poor  mother  lying  white  and  exhausted  across  the 
foot  of  his  bed,  and  her  brother  heart-broken,  as  he  watched  by  the 
father  who  had  been  the  best  and  tenderest  of  friends  and  guides  to  him. 
The  battle  raged  without,  and  at  length  ceased ;  but  to  these  mourners 
all  seemed  indifferent  but  their  one  absorbing  grief.  M.  Permon  died 
four  days  afterwards. 

Laurette  was  more  than  old  enough  to  be  confirmed ;  but  hitherto  it 
had  been  impossible,  for  she  belonged  to  a  generation  to  which  religious 
observances  had  been  forbidden,  and  who,  if  they  knew  them  at  all^ 
associated  them  with  mystery  and  deadly  peril.  No  words  can  give  so 
dear  an  idea  of  this  ns  did  the  touching  picture,  '  Mass  in  the '  Reign  of 
Terror,'  exhibited  in  London  in  18G2.  A  few  churches  were  now  re-opened 
in  Paris,  and  Madame  Permon  seized  the  opportunity  of  sending  Laurette 
to  be  instructed  and  examined  daily  at  half-past  eight  in  the  morning  in 
the  Church  of  Bonne  Nouvelle,  where  she  was  escorted  by  a  good 
Benedictine  nun,  Sceur  Rosalie,  who,  cast  out  of  her  convent,  sought 
still  to  lead  as  strict  a  life  as  possible.  Each  day,  for  six  weeks,  she 
made  a  long  round  to  collect  the  young  girls  and  escort  them  to  the  class 
held  by  M.  de  Cani,  a  venerable  priest,  whose  words  deeply  impressed 
the  girls,  knowing  as  they  did  the  dangera  he  had  run  during  the 
Revolution,  and  that  even  now  he  incun*ed  much  risk  in  thus  openly 
assuming  the  office  of  a  teacher  of  religion; 

There  was  a  Communion  on  Easter  Monday,  and  the  crowd  was  so 
great  that  it  was  hardly  possible  to  reach  the  cluuicel.  The  Parisians,  99 
Ifmf  deprived  of  all  religious  rites,  thronged  to  see  tiie  little  fiockof  white<» 
Tailed  girls  renew  their  vows ;  and  many  who  .had  seemed  scornful,  and 


48  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

indifferent  were  strangely  moTed  by  this  sight,  which  appealed  to  every 
pure  feeling,  and  seemed  to  inaugurate  a  new  and  happier  epoch  for 
France.  The  Communion  preceded  the  Confirmation  of  the  next  day, 
(some  of  the  candidates  partaking  of  it,)  if  possible  an  even  denser 
throng  attended  than  before,  and  numbers  of  women  held  up  their  little 
children  to  the  Bishop,  asking  his  blessing.  This  happy  time  strengthened 
Laurette  for  much  privation  and  sorrow.  Both  she  and  her  brother  had 
insensibly  acquired  the  habit  always  practised  by  their  father,  of  keeping 
from  Madame  Permon  all  that  could  distress  or  harass  her.  Madame 
Permon  had  led  a  very  simple  and  primitive  life  in  Corsica,  and  when 
she  came,  a  young  bride,  to  France,  she  did  not  know  the  language  of 
her  new  country,  and  her  husband  settled  everything  for  her,  made  her 
life  like  a  long  summer's  day,  and  delighted  in  gratifying  her  natural 
taste  for  everything  beautiful.  She  took  it  for  granted,  that  after  his 
death  all  would  go  on  in  the  same  way,  and  said,  holding  out  her  arms  to 
her  children  with  her  charming  smile,  ^  Your  father  married  me  penniless ; 
I  owe  him  everything,  and  now  it  is  all  yours.  Only  you  will  find  me  a 
place  by  your  fire-side.'  But  round  this  fire-side  she  supposed  that  there 
would  necessarily  be  a  multitude  of  luxuries.  Every  woman  of  any 
fortune,  at  this  time,  had  two  lady's-maids  at  least,  with  a  valet  who 
attended  on  her  in-doors.  She  had  her  bath-room,  her  perfumes,  costly 
lace,  the  finest  lace  and  linen,  her  elegant  baskets  to  hold  the  myriad 
articles  thought  indispensable  for  her  toilette,  her  apartments  with  their 
ample  hearths,  thick  carpets  and  curtains  for  winter,  and  abundance  of 
costly  flowers  in  summer.  Everything  that  met  the  eye  must  be  costly, 
beautiful,  and  have  some  good  reason  for  being  where  it  was.  When 
Madame  Permon  went  to  see  a  house,  the  luxury  of  which  had  caused  a 
great  sensation  throughout  Paris,  she  only  found  fault  with  it,  saying  it 
suggested  nothing  but  wealth.  *  Is  it  never  inhabited  T  she  said,  looking 
round  in  vain  for  some  sign  that  the  mistress  lived  in  the  splendid 
rooms.  *For  instance,  why  is  there  no  work  in  this  Chinese  ivory 
basket?  scissors  and  a  thimble  should  lie  near  it,  and  they  might  be  as 
costly  as  you  like,  enamelled  or  ornamented  with  pearls.'  When  she 
heard  what  the  furniture  had  cost,  she  almost  sprang  out  of  her  chair. 
*I  would  fit  up  twenty  houses  for  such  a  sura!'  she  cried,  ^and  you 
should  see  the  difference!  What  is  the  good  of  having  furniture  of 
costly  Indian  woods  in  a  room  where  no  one  ever  sits?  would  it  not 
have  been  far  wiser  to  have  spent  the  money  on  a  richer  covering,  and  a 
new  shape  if  needs  must,  but  at  least  one  which  would  not  break  one's 
back  ?'  She  was  one  of  the  few  who  had  courage  to  be  independent  of 
fashion  ;  and  the  Greek  and  Boman  modes,  newly  introduced,  exasperated 
her,  and  she  would  not  hear  a  word  in  their  favour.  When  Laurette 
married,  she  had  her  little  country  house,  near  Jouy,  furnished  in  the 
newest  fashion;  but  Madame  Permon  obdurately  refused  to  allow  the 
upholsterer  a  voice  in  arranging  the  apartment  which  she  was  to  occupy, 
and  had  it  fitted  up  with  a  luxurious  elegance,  which  Laurette  herself 


THE  GIRLHOOD  07  LAURETTE  PERMON.  49 

allowed  put  the  newer  fashion  to  shame.  Meanwhile,  it  became  neces- 
sary  to  own  how  poor  they  were  ;  and  Laurette  trembled  to  think  what 
the  effect  would  be  on  one  so  sensitive,  so  impetaous,  when  she  heard 
that  no  papers  could  be  found  to  shew  how  M.  Permon  had  invested  their 
money,  which  early  in  the  Revolution  he  had  transferred  to  England. 
He  had  never  even  told  his  son,  who,  in  his  perplexity,  laid  the  matter 
before  his  little  sister.  They  agreed  to  keep  it  a  secret  as  long  as  any 
hope  of  clearing  up  the  mystery  remained ;  but  it  remained  a  mystery, 
and  their  ready  money  melted  away  so  fast,  that  but  for  Albert's  pro- 
curing some  employment,  they  would  have  been  penniless.  Madame 
Pennon  took  it  with  the  utmost  composure,  probably  unable  to  realize 
what  being  penniless  meant;  but  when  she  found  tiiat  her  son  would 
have  to  go  to  the  army  in  Italy,  she  was  nearly  broken-hearted.  He 
reminded  her  how  his  dying  father  had  left  her  and  Laurette  in  his 
keepings  and  how  thus  alone  he  could  provide  for  them;  and  she 
submitted  with  something  like  despair.  He  spoke  to  Laurette  apart  just 
before  he  left  them,  saying,  with  tender  gravity,  which  the  young  girl 
never  forgot,  as  he  kissed  her,  ^  God  will  give  you  strength  and  judgment 
for  your  task,  my  poor  child ;  trust  in  Him  and  yourself,  and  all  will  go 
well.  I  shall  often  write,  and  you  must  tell  me  everything.  If  my 
mother  wishes  for  anything  which  you  are  not  rich  enough  to  get,  write 
to  meu  I  feel  certain  that  God  will  not  forsake  two  children,  whose  sole 
eare  is  their  mother's  happiness.' 

But  before  Albert  went,  a  new  blow  had  fallen  on  the  Permons. 
Cecile,  happily  married  to  an  officer  of  tlie  name  of  De  Geouffre,  became 
the  mother  of  a  baby,  and  her  husband  had  written  in  his  joy,  ^  My  wife 
is  so  well  that  she  is  already  talking  of  taking  our  Adolphe  to  receive 
her  mother's  blessing.  She  is  prettier  than  ever,  as  fresh  as.  a  rose. 
You  may  imagine,  dear  Mamma,  how  glad  all  around  her  are ;  but  our 
joy  does  not  make  us  relax  the  care  necessary  at  so  severe  a  season,  so 
you  may  be  quite  easy;  no  more  anxieties — ^gladness  and  joy  fill  our 
future/  Five  days  after  the  arrival  of  this  letter,  Madame  Permon  was 
lying  on  hbv  sofa,  talking  happy  nonsense  to  her  son  and  daughter,  which 
ended  by  her  saying,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  *  C^cile  must  make  a 
eharming  young  mother !  how  I  should  like  to  see  her  with  her  baby !' 
And  she  fell  into  a  reverie,  murmuring  a  low  cradle  song ;  Laurette  and 
Albert  also  became  silent ;  all  was  still  in  the  street  without.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  door  ;  both  Albert  and  Laurette  uttered 
a  cryy  and  then  burst  out  laughing  at  their  own  fright.  Madame 
Permon  put  her  hand  up  to  her  head.  '  That  knock  hurt  me,'  she  said; 
^who  can  knock  thus?'  A  letter  was  brought  in.  ^  Ah!'  said  Albert, 
'news  of  C^ile  ;  it  is  De  Geouffre's  handwriting.'  ^  What  relation  can 
he  have  lost?'  said  Laurette,  noticing  the  black  seal.  All  the  mis« 
fortunes  which  had  already  happened  in  her  short  life  had  not  inspired 
her  with  that  instinctive  apprehension  of  bad  news  which  older  people 
feel  at  any  sudden  event     Albert  had  turned  very  white ;  and  Madame 

voT^  10.  4  Pi^RT  55. 


50  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

PermoD  started  up,  seized  and  glanced  at  the  letter,  and  fell,  with  a  cry, 
on  her  knees.  C^cile  was  dead.  Happy  wife,  happy  mother,  snatched 
away  too  in  her  early  girlhood — such  a  loss  erer  awakens  real  feeling 
even  in  mere  acquaintance,  and  there  is  a  sense  of  an  incomplete  life,  of 
something  unnatural  in  it  to  embitter  the  blow.  There  seems  a  hope 
unfulfilled,  a  life  only  half  worked  out,  and  the  stroke  in  many  respects 
is  heavier  than  when  one  is  taken  who  is  old  and  full  of  days.  And 
Madame  Permon  felt  her  affliction  the  more  bitterly,  because  she  was 
aware  that  Cecile,  brought  up  away  from  her  in  a  convent,  had  always 
stood  in  great  awe  of  her,  and  had  never  realized  her  love,  at  all  events 
till  her  marriage  was  decided  upon.  Madame  Permon  had  strenuously 
opposed  this  marriage,  because  M.  de  6eou£fre  was  an  officer  in  the 
Republican  army,  and  it  was  not  until  she  discovered  that  Cecile*s  health 
was  giving  way  that  she  3rielded.  Then  indeed  she  consented  with  her 
own  winning  cordiality ;  but  now  the  recollection  of  her  opposition  came 
back.  ^  Poor  Cecile ! '  she  would  say,  '  such  a  short  life,  and  I  deprived 
her  of  six  months  happiness  that  she  might  have  had  I' 

After  her  son  had  gone  to  Italy,  Madame  Permon  feU  dangerously  ill ; 
and  Laurette,  now  fourteen  years  old,  sat  up  with  her  night  afler  night 
for  nearly  six  weeks,  nursing  her  with  the  help  of  an  excellent  servant. 
When  Madame  Permon  roused  herself  to  speak,  it  always  was  to  ask 
news  of  her  son,  and  Laurette  had  none  to  give.     The  doctors  lost  hope, 
and  felt  obliged  to  tell  the  poor  lonely  child  that  she  must  be  prepared  to 
lose  her  mother.     Happily  her  indomitable  hopefulness  sustained   her 
even  now.     'Can  nothing,  nothing,  save  her?'  she   asked.     'Nature, 
and  care  given  every  moment ;  therefore  you  must  yourself  eat  and  drink 
in  order  to  be  able  to  give  it,'  they  answered ;  advice  which  Laurette  had 
the  sense  to  listen  to.     Madame  Permon  recovered ;  but  both  her  life, 
and  poor  little  tired  Laurette's  health  and  reason,  were  endangered  by 
the  sudden  loss  of  common  sense  in  the  maid,  who  till  then  had  been  an 
admirable  nurse.    Laurette  had  one  night  ventured  to  go  to  bed,  having 
kissed  her  mother,  and  been  blessed  by  her  feeble  voice.     She  fell  into 
the  sleep  of  exhaustion,  from  which  she  was  startled  by  the  maid  shaking 
her  arm,  and  faltering  out, '  Mademoiselle !  Mademoisdle  I  good  Heavens, 
my  mistress!  my  mistress  is  dead!'     With  one  cry  and  spring  Laurette 
was  by  the  bed-side  of  her  mother,  flung  herself  on  her,  and  called  her 
wildly,  as  she  saw  her  lie  motionless,  white  as  winter  snow.    Madame 
Permon  awoke ;  she  too  had  been  sleeping.    It  turned  out  that  the  maid, 
no  doubt  worn  out  by  long  watching,  had  gone  suddenly  up  to  the  bed, 
and  seeing  this  face,  pale  as  alabaster,  had  been  seized  with  a  wild  panic, 
which  drove  her  into  Laurette's  room.     Madame  Permon  was  too  weak 
to  be  as  much  alarmed  as  Laurette  dreaded ;  but  the  girl  herself  suffered 
BO  severely  from  the  shock,  that  the  doctors  declared  she  had  had  a  narrow 
escape  from  death  or  epilepsy.     This  long  anxiety  left  her  a  thin  pensive 
girl,  with  none  of  the  rose-like  freshness  of  Cecile,  yet  ready  to  revive 
again  into  child-like  gaiety  and  enjoyment. 


THE  GIRLHOOD  OF  LAURETTE  PERMON.  61 

On  the  recoyery  of  Madame  Permon,  her  salon  again  filled  with 
friends,  old  and  new.  Amongst  her  intimates  were  the  whole  Bonaparte 
Bunilj,  though  she  and  Bonaparte  at  this  time  were  not  good  friends. 
She  was  hasty,  and  he  was  vindictive,  and  their  mutual  annoyance  long 
rankled.  Quieter  times  had  really  come.  '  People  had  got  tired,'  said 
Laurette,  '  of  curing  sore  throats  by  cutting  off  heads ;  one  could  venture 
to  wear  clean  linen  without  fear  of  being  denounced  by  one's  maid,  and 
people  were  no  longer  cited  before  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal  because 
they  had  a  large  fortune ;'  indeed,  no  one  now  had  any;  and  the  Moniteur 
was  no  longer  daily  sullied  by  its  bloody  list  of  names;  but  there  was 
still  the  Temple  Prison,  still  deportations ;  and  although  the  horizon  had 
cleared,  there  were  often  heard,  as  'at  the  end  of  great  storms,  those 
single  claps  which  tell  of  a  past  tempest.  Yet  gaiety  returned ;  people 
were  greedy  of  pleasure :'  and  even  sported  with  the  grim  past,  giving 
balls  to  which  no  one  was  admitted  who  had  not  had  a  near  relation 
guillotined ! 

Amongst  the  young  officers  who  came  to  Madame  Permon's  was  that 
Junot  whose  name  Laurette  had  heard  long  before,  and  to  whom  she 
attached  a  kind  of  romantic  interest  from  his  devoted  love  to  Bonaparte. 
As  his  manners  always  betrayed,  though  she  never  admitted  it,  he  was 
by  birth  bourgeois,  and  since,  up  to  the  Revolution,  that  class  sent  no 
sons  to  the  army,  he  had  studied  law.  On  the  first  opportunity,  however, 
he  became  a  soldier,  and  gained  from  his  comrades  the  expressive  nick- 
name of  La  Temp^te.  Napoleon  first  met  him  at  Toulon,  where  he 
ordered  him  to  take  some  directions  to  an  officer  on  an  exposed  spot,  but 
first  to  put  off  the  uniform  which  made  him  dangerously  conspicuous. 
Junot  turned  as  red  as  a  pomegranate.  '  I  am  not  a  spy,'  was  his  abrupt 
answer ;  '  I  will  go  in  my  uniform  or  not  at  all.'  '  Then  j^ou  will  be 
shot.'  '  What  matter  ?  You  do  not  know  me  enough  to  care,  and  I 
care  nothing  either;'  and  he  went  off  singing.  '  He  will  make  his  way,' 
was  Bonaparte's  comment;  and  from  that  time  he  never  lost  sight  of 
him. 

Laurette  did  not  love  the  Bonaparte  sisters,  though  she  admired  the 
beauty  of  Pauline,  or  Paulette,  as  she  was  always  called  by  her  friends, 
and  was  frequently  in  their  company.  Pauline  especially  offended  her 
by  her  grand  airs,  and  her  harshness  to  her  pretty  little  sister  Annunciata, 
(better  known  as  Caroline,)  of  whose  beauty  she  was  jealous.  Laurette 
could  never  forget  how  one  day  when  the  little  school-girl  had  come  home 
for  a  holiday,  and  running  in  with  her  fair  curls  falling  round  her  joyous 
rosy  face,  on  her  plump  white  shoulders,  Pauline  pushed  her  away  ill- 
humouredly,  exclaiming,  '  Mamma,  you  really  ought  to  teach  Annunciata 
(the  child  particularly  wished  to  be  called  Caroline)  better  manners  ;  she 
is  just  like  a  peasant  girl  from  Fiumborbo  I ' 

Fiumborbo  is  a  place  in  Corsica  whose  inhabitants  are  noted  for  their 
savage  rudeness ;  and  poor  Annunciata  went  away  silently,  with  her  eyes 
full  of  tears.     Pauline  used  often  to  receive  a  plain-spoken  reprimand 


52  THS  MONTHLY  FACKBT. 

from  her  old  friend,  Madame  Permon,  who  never  was  in  the  least  aw^d, 
but  rather  amused,  by  the  rising  fortunes  of  the  Bonapartes ;  jet  so  lovelj 
was  the  unamiable  girl,  that  no  one  could  help  looking  at  her  with  delight, 
and  Madame  Permon  took  a  never-ending  pleasure  in  contemplating  her, 
Madame  Bonaparte  herself  had  been  a  beautiful  woman ;  she  had  talent, 
and  was  courageous  and  sincere;  popular  she  never  could  be,  for  the 
consciousness  of  her  extreme  ignorance  made  her  afraid  of  committing 
some  solecism  if  she  talked,  and  she  took  refuge  in  stiff  dignity. 

The  sons  were  married,  but  their  wives,  and  especially  Josephine,  wife 
of  Napoleon,  did  not  harmonize  with  the  sisters  and  mother,  and  the 
disputes  and  intrigues  which  arose  among^  them  cost  Napoleon  much 
perplexity  and  vexation.  Even  at  this  time  his  own  family  anxiouslj 
desired  his  divorce  from  Josephine,  whom  they  detested.  Bonaparte  was 
now  the  most  popular  man  in  France.  The  royalists  indeed  abhorred 
him,  but  not  only  was  he  popular  through  the  glory  which  he  had 
acquired  for  France,  but  it  was  felt  that  his  strong  arm  held  the  helm 
steady,  and  that  were  he  to  perish  in  some  of  the  many  attempts  to 
assassinate  him,  a  new  reign  of  terror  would  probably  recommence.  One 
of  his  measures  was  to  make  Junot  commandant  of  Paris,  telling  him, 
when  he  appointed  him  to  this  most  responsible  place,  that  he  must  add 
ten  years  to  his  age,  and  find  a  wife.  His  generals  were  used  to  such 
commands ;  indeed,  very  often  he  chose  the  wife  for  them.  Junot  said 
that  he  would  obey,  but  as  for  marrying  an  heiress,  also  part  of  his 
orders,  that  was  another  thing,  *  for  all  heiresses  are  as  ugly  as  cater- 
pillars ! '  And  he  carried  out  his  protest  by  falling  in  love,  honestly,  and 
quite  independently  of  the  First  Consul's  orders,  with  Laurette  Permon, 
now  a  brown  pale  girl  of  sixteen,  without  a  penny,  but  in  his  eyes  a 
beauty.  Junot  came  regularly  every  evening  to  Madame  Permon's 
house,  but  as  he  only  paid  court  to  Madame  Permon,  and  never  spoke  to 
Laurette,  she  thought  nothing  of  it,  till  one  evening  a  young  friend  said 
reproachfully,  '^s  this  the  way  you  treat  your  friends !  you  are  going  to 
be  married,  and  never  told  me  I ' 

Laurette  turned  pale,  thinking  of  a  marriage  already  proposed,  which 
she  did  not  wish  for,  but  which  had  rather  attracted  her  mother.  The 
other  girl  continued,  *Well,  is  it  not  true?  Are  you  not  to  marry 
General  Junot?* 

'  General  Junot ! '  cried  Laurette.  '  I  hardly  know  him !  and  he  does 
not  know  me  I  Is  it  likely  he  would  marry  a  penniless  girl — ^he,  the 
favourite  of  the  First  Consul,  and  one  of  the  best  matches  in  Paris! 
Where  did  you  hear  such  nonsense  1 ' 

But  it  was  no  nonsense.  Junot  formally  asked  her  hand ;  Albert  was 
delighted,  and  ushered  him  into  the  bed-room  of  Madame  Permon,  where 
the  matter  was  decided  between  the  three.  But  Junot,  not  belonging  to 
the  old  regime,  was  unreasonable  enough  to  insist  on  asking  Laurette 
herself.  Madame  Permon  assured  him  that  it  was  unheard  of,  but 
Albert  treacherously  summoned  her,  and  she  came  in,  rather  surprised^ 


THE  GIBLHOOD  OF  LAURETTB  PBRMON.  58 

and  looking  inquiringly  at  the  three  smiling  faces  turned  towards  her. 
Junot  rose,  and  gave  her  his  chair,  and  then  said  gravelj,  '  Mademoiselle, 
I  am  happy  enough  to  be  accepted  as  your  husband  by  your  mother  and 
brother.  But  that  will  go  for  nothing,  unless  you  yourself  choose  to  have 
me.  I  know  this  step  is  not  usual  at  all,  but  you  know  I  am  a  rough 
toldier,  and  I  want  in  this  most  important  act  to  get  as  much  as  I  give. 
Perhaps — *  he  hesitated  a  little,  *  you  may  be  afraid  to  say — .  . .'  Madame 
Pennon  interrupted  him  reproachfully,  but  he  went  on,  '  Excuse  me,  let 
me  finish  what  I  was  saying.  "Will  you  tell  me  honestly  whether  you  are 
willing  to  marry  me,  and  consider  well  before  answering  me.' 

Laurette  sat  mute,  feeling  as  if  it  were  all  a  dream,  and  yet  conscious 
that  on  her  answer  depended  her  future  fate.  No  one  spoke  for  ten 
minutes  at  least,  till  Junot  again  urged  her  to  say  yes  or  no,  and  her 
brother  and  mother  encouraged  her  to  answer  openly.  But  the  poor 
girFs  heart  was  beating  so  fast,  and  her  head  throbbing  so  much,  that  all 
she  was  conscious  of  was  that  her  obstinate  silence  was  becoming  foolish. 
She  astonished  them  all  by  starting  up,  and  flying  out  of  the  room,  vainly 
pursued  by  Albert,  who  never  guessed  that  she  had  fled  to  the  hay-loft  at 
the  very  top  of  the  house.  When  she  thought  Junot  must  be  gone,  she 
ventured  down  to  her  brother's  room,  where  he  petted  and  scolded  her, 
and  discovered  that  she  was  quite  willing  to  marry  Junot,  who,  on 
learning  it,  caught  Albert  in  his  arms  and  hugged  him,  and  then  stamped 
with  vexation  at  his  own  vehemence  in  asking  Laurette  a  question,  which 
Albert  owned,  laughing,  had  made  her  cry,  and  then  dismayed  Madame 
Permon  and  Albert  by  owning  that  Bonaparte  knew  nothing  of  his 
proposaL  Happily  the  First  Consul  had  preserved  his  old  affection  for 
the  Permons;  indeed,  he  had  found  Albert's  talent  for  languages  and 
knowledge  of  Greek  already  useful  to  him,  and  said,  *  Well,  I  give  you 
one  hundred  thousand  francs  for  a  dowry,  and  forty  thousand  for  the 

corbeille And  you   will  hate  a  good  worthy  brother-in-law/ 

Junot's  choice  caused  much  wonder  in  Paris^  Some  said  that  he  married 
the  daughter  out  of  admiration  of  her  charming  mother ;  others,  that  he, 
a  plebeian,  was  ambitious  of  marrying  the  daughter  of  the  Comneni,  for 
the  genealogy  of  Madame  Permon  had  been  submitted  to  and  approved 
by  that  sternly  conscientious  censor,  Cherin,  and  there  could  be  no  doubt 
of  her  noble  descent.  No  one  could  understand  his  honest  passionate 
love  for  the  delicate-looking  mournful  girl,  whose  powers  of  conversation 
and  charm  of  manner  Paris  had  not  yet  discovered.  Josephine 
Bonaparte  secretly  opposed  this  marriage,  which  alone,  even  without 
their  personal  affection  for  Laurette,  would  have  been  reason  enough  to 
make  all  the  other  members  of  that  family  delighted  with  it.  Josephine 
seemed  always  jealous  of  her  husband's  old  friendship  with  the  Permons. 

Before  we  end  the  sketch  of  Laurette's  life  as  a  young  girl  at  home,  one 
more  adventure  must  be  told,  which  terrified  her  more  than  even  the 
terrible  scenes  of  the  Revolution  had  done.  In  the  first  year  of  the 
Consulate  Paris  was  kept  in  constant  terror  by  robberies  and  murders 


54  THS  M0NTHL7  PACKET. 

committed  hj  bands  of  vagabonds,  the  offspring  of  the  Revolution,  known 
as  '  lee  chauffeurs^'  who  pillaged  not  only  country  houses,  maiming  and 
torturing  the  owners  to  make  them  own  where  their  money  was  hidden, 
but  broke  into  houses  even  in  the  most  frequented  streets  of  the  capitaL 
Madame  Pennon  had  been  ill;  and  to  please  her,  Albert  gave  up  an 
expedition  which  he  had  planned,  and  stayed  at  home.  They  spent  a 
happy  evening,  with  several  friends  who  as  usual  dropped  in;  and 
Madame  Pennon  went  gaily  to  bed,  saying  that  she  felt  better,  and  was 
sure  that  she  should  sleep.  Laurette  occupied  the  next  room,  the  door 
between  was  closed  but  not  bolted,  and  she  sat  up  reading  till  past  mid- 
night, no  sound  breaking  the  stillness  but  the  heavy  tread  of  the  sentinel 
posted  near  the  Church  of  the  Capucins,  and  his  monotonous  qm  vive ! 
Laurette  grew  tired  of  her  book,  and  discovered  that  it  was  a  quarter  to 
one.  She  listened,  and  heard  her  mother's  quiet  breathing,  which  told 
that  she  was  asleep.  Then  discovering  that  she  was  hungry,  Laurette 
bethought  herself  that  in  the  dining-room  she  should  lind  bread  and 
strawberries,  and  went  lightly  across  the  landing  in  search  of  them.  She 
had  seated  herself  at  the  table  to  eat  them,  when  she  fancied  that  Madame 
Permon  might  awake  and  caU,  and  be  alarmed  at  getting  no  answer. 
She  rose  hastily  and  carried  off  her  strawberries  to  her  room,  where  she 
sat  down  gaily  to  eat  them,  gladdened  by  the  thought  that  her  mother 
was  almost  well.  She  and  her  mother  had  the  first  floor  to  themselves ; 
Albert's  room  was  a  story  higher ;  the  servants  slept  on  the  third  floor, 
and]  on  the  ret  de  chauss^e  were  cellars,  a  kitchen,  and  offices.  Laurette 
was  absolute  mistress  of  the  establishment,  and  young  as  she  was,  she 
kept  good  order.  One  of  her  rules  was  that  by  midnight  every  servant 
should  be  in  bed ;  and  she  was  surprised  and  displeased  when,  as  she  ate 
her  supper,  she  heard  a  sound  in  the  lower  rooms.  There  were  stealthy 
steps ;  someone  was  creeping  up-stairs.  *  Why,  it  is  one  o'clock  at  night  1 ' 
she  said  indignantly  to  herself,  '  and  they  declare  that  they  never  sit  up 
late  1 '  and  went  to  the  door,  drawing  back  the  first  bolt  cautiously,  with 
intent  to  catch  the  delinquents  in  the  act.  She  could  hardly  suppress 
her  laughter  as  she  thought  how  dismayed  all  the  faces  would  look.  *  It 
will  be  quite  a  picture!'  she  was  saying,  when  she  heard  someone 
stumble  against  a  bath  on  the  landing-place.  Annoyed  at  a  sound  likely 
to  rouse  Madame  Permon,  she  was  drawing  back  the  other  bolt  when  it 
crossed  her  mind  that  no  servant  would  have  tumbled  over  an  article 
which  they  all  knew  stood  there ;  but  if  these  were  not  servants,  who, 
what  were  they  ?  Laurette  turned  so  dizzy  that  she  could  hardly  stand, 
but  in  all  her  terror  she  silently  re-fastened  the  first  bolt  Then  came 
the  cracking  which  a  wooden  staircase  makes  under  a  heavy  foot ;  people 
were  going  up  to  the  second  floor,  and  it  was  no  step  that  she  knew. 
The  recollection  of  the  *' chauffeurs'  filled  her  mind;  she  knew  that 
lately  a  whole  family  had  been  murdered  by  them ;  a  gentleman  in  that 
very  street  had  only  been  rescued  from  them  by  the  guests  of  Madame 
Permon,  who  heard  his  cries;  and  they  always  took  evel*y  precaution, 


THE  GIBLHOOD  OF  LAUBETTIB  FERMON.  55 

poBting  sentinels,  and  shooting  down  everyone  who  tried  to  give  an  alarm. 
*I  will  try,  all  the  samel'  Laurette  whispered,  as  she  stood  listening 
intently.  All  was  now  still,  so  still  that  she  thought  she  had  only  fancied 
these  strange  noises ;  so  long  a  time  seemed  to  have  passed  that  when 
she  looked  at  the  clock  she  could  hardly  believe  only  ten  minutes  had 
gone  by.  Her  fear  of  alarming  her  dear  invalid  surmounted  even  her 
terror ;  she  sat  still,  enduring  the  suspense  with  a  loving  courage  that 
very  few  young  daughters  would  have  been  capable  of.  Suddenly  the 
loud  cracking  of  the  staircase  was  again  heard ;  steps  were  coming  down 
now — impossible  to  hope  it  could  be  the  servants.  They  avoided  the 
bath  this  time,  and  two  people  sat  down  on  a  step  and  whispered  together. 
Laurette  crept  to  the  door  and  listened.  She  heard  a  few  words,  which 
filled  her  with  new  terror.  Albert  Permon  was  engaged  in  business,  and 
had  at  that  moment  a  very  large  sum  of  money  in  the  house,  destined  for 
various  investments ;  it  was  not  even  his  own,  but  simply  entrusted  to 
him.  His  Italian  valet  knew  this ;  perhaps  he  was  in  league  with  the 
chauffeurs.  It  was  Albert's  life,  then,  that  was  menaced;  they  had 
thought  he  would  be  from  home ;  they  would  find  his  door  locked,  and 

himself  within,  and  then Laurette's  heart  stood  still :  then  she 

flew  into  her  mother's  room,  to  consult  with  her ;  no  thoughts  of  sparing 
her  alarm  could  restrain  her  now.  At  Laurette's  first  word  Madame 
Pennon  started  up,  and  rang  her  bell,  uttering  shriek  upon  shriek,  which 
Laurette  tried  with  despair  to  hush,  dreading  above  all  things  lest  Albert 
should  hear,  rush  down-stairs,  and  be  murdered.  But  the  sounds  had 
startled  the  chauffeurs  ;  they  fled,  springing  through  a  window  and  into 
a  timber-yard  where  they  had  probably  lurked  all  day.  Albert,  running 
down,  found  all  the  servants  on  foot,  and  all  the  household  in  commotion, 
while  instruments  for  forcing  locks  lay  scattered  about,  one  already  deep 
in  the  fastening  of  his  own  door,  pincers,  and  keys.  It  was  easy  to  see 
how  they  had  got  in ;  a  long  plank  laid  from  a  wall  to  a  window  had 
served  as  a  bridge,  and  the  wall  had  been  scaled  by  a  ladder.  Nothing 
could  be  more  simple,  and  the  valet  was  quite  guiltless  of  this  crime, 
though  afterwards  Laurette  caught  him  stealing  money  from  her  mother's 
desk.  Albert  hastened  for  the  police,  but  the  chauffeurs  had  escaped. 
Laurette  was  the  chief  suflerer  from  the  night's  adventure;  she  had  a 
brain  fever,  in  which  the  scene,  with  every  possible  additional  horror, 
seemed  perpetually  enacted  before  her ;  and  long  after  she  could  not  cross 
the  landing  without  turning  faint.  Had  she  remained  to  eat  her  straw* 
berries  in  the  dining-room,  they  would  have  seized  her  there ;  while  she 
was  gaily  wandering  from  room  to  room,  these  wretches  were  already  in 
the  house.  Albert,  much  alarmed  for  her  health,  took  her  to  Dieppe, 
where  she  regained  her  strength;  but  six  years  after,  when  Bonaparte 
made  her  repeat  the  story  to  him,  he  noticed  that  she  turned  as  white  as 
she  could  have  done  at  the  time.  'Strange!'  was  his  comment,  but 
•perhaps  no  danger  that  even  he  had  experienced  could  have  been  as 
cruelly  trying  as  that  half  hour  to  the  girl  of  fifteen. 


56  THS  HONTHLT  PACKET. 

Unexpected  difficulties  arose  as  to  Laarette's  marriage,  she  considering 
a  religious  as  well  as  a  civil  rite  necessary,  Junot  amazed  by  her  thinking 
it  necessary  to  be  married  in  church  as  well  as  by  a  magistrate.  He 
knew  too  that  Napoleon  would  be  highly  displeased  if  he,  the  commandant 
of  Paris,  were  to  make  as  it  were  an  open  profession  of  faith  at  a  time 
when  faith  and  the  aristocrats  were  strangely  confounded  in  the  popular 
mind.  It  was  settled  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  very  quietly, 
late  at  night.  Laurette  did  not  like  it ;  she  said  that  it  was  like  one  of 
those  sad  weddings  in  the  Revolution,  where  the  priest  gave  the  blessing, 
as  the  bride  and  bridegroom  received  it,  at  the  risk  of  their  lives. 
Persuaded  by  her  mother  and  brother,  however,  she  yielded.  Madame 
Fermon's  health  was  such  as  to  make  her  very  anxious  to  see  Laurette 
well  married;  and  Albert  too  desired  above  all  things  to  secure  such  a 
protector  as  Junot  for  his  sister,  who  was  as  truly  to  him  as  to  Madame 
Permon,  '  the  light  of  his  eyes.'  '  Mathia  mou  '  was  ever  her  pet  name 
among  them.  But  her  confessor  opposed  her  marriage  with  all  his 
might :  '  What  reason  can  General  Junot  have  for  refusing  to  caU  you 
his  wife  by  the  light  of  day  1 '  he  asked  sternly,  when  on  the  eve  of  her 
wedding  she  went  to  confess  to  him,  accompanied  by  Soeur  Rosalie,  her 
old  friend.     '  There  must  be  some  unknown  obstacle.' 

The  nun  saw  Laurette  turn  pale,  and  exclaimed,  *Why,  M.  1' Abbel 
what  obstacle  can  there  be?  The  good  General  loves  Mademoiselle 
Laure  with  all  his  heart,  and  marries  her  to  please  himself! ' 

Laurette  saw  the  singular  look  with  which  he  answered,  *  He  loves 
her — yes — but  who  will  tell  me  he  has  not  first  loved  another?  •  .  •  And 
it  is  my  duty  to  watch  over  this  prpban.' 

But  then  Laurette  spoke.  ^  I  am  grateful  to  you,  M.  1'  Abb^  but  I 
have  friend  and  father  in  my  brother,  and  he  would  have  known  had  we 
been  deceived  by  a  man  whose  high  name  for  honour  and  honesty  would 
have  then  been  strangely  ill  merited.  I  have  already  told  you  why  he 
wishes  us  to  be  married  so  late.' 

^  And  that  very  reason  is  a  sin  I '  cried  the  Abb4,  holding  up  handa> 
one  of  which  had  been  hideously  mutilated  by  a  republican  soldier;  'he 
would  not  object  to  shewing  himself  in  the  Temple  of  Victory,  though  he 
does  to  appearing  in  a  church ! '  And  then,  with  vehement  eagerness, 
he  went  on  to  explain  his  convictions  that  somewhere  Junot  had  &  first 
wife,  whom  he  wished  to  hide  his  marriage  from.  Perhaps  it  was  well 
for  him  that  Laurette  was  sensible  and  discreet.  She  had  been  grieved 
by  Junot's  indifference  to  any  religious  ceremony,  but  she  had  understood 
his  motives,  and  had  entire  confidence  in  him.  She  was  not  shaken  by 
the  priest's  suspicions,  which  he  almost  communicated  to  Scsur  Rosalie. 
This  Abbe  Lusthier  was  a  fanatic,  but  a  man  whose  convictions  it  was 
impossible  not  lo  respect.  He  had  almost  been  a  martyr  to  them,  and 
now  slept  on  ashes,  ate  only  vegetables,  deprived  himself  of  fire  that  be 
might  give  more  to  the  poor,  and  prayed  night  and  day  for  France, 
while  he  held  the  republic  and  the  First  Consul  in  almost  equal  horror. 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  57 

Between  him  and  men  like  Janot  there  could  only  be  intense  hostility. 
His  farewell  to  Lanrette  was  almost  menacing  in  spite  of  its  real  affection. 
She  never  told  Janot  what  had  passed ;  but  some  years  after  they  met, 
and  the  Abb^  poorer  than  ever  at  that  time,  told  him  the  whole  scene. 
Lanrette  was  alarmed,  bat  there  was  no  cause ;  Janot  only  smiled,  said 
that  he  hoped  the  Abb4  now  thought  better  of  him,  and  soon  so  thorough- 
ly overcame  the  good  man's  prejudices  that  they  remained  &st  friends. 
Janot  also  succeeded  in  getting  him  appointed  to  a  rich  parish  in  the 
diocese  of  Metz. 

With  Laurette's  marriage  her  history  as  a  young  girl  must  end,  though 
the  years  that  followed  it  were  as  eventful  as  those  which  went  before. 
They  are  chronicled  in  her  long  and  amusing  memoirs,*  from  which  the 
present  sketch  has  been  taken,  as  giving  a  more  vivid  picture  than  any 
history,  or  even  romance,  could  do,  of  what  a  girl's  life  might  be  in  the 
First  French  Revolution. 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE; 

OB, 

UNDER  WODE,   UNDER  RODE. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  CHESS-PLATEB'S  BATTLE. 

'  Dost  thoQ  believe,  he  said,  that  Grace 

It«elf  can  reach  this  grief? 

With  a  feeble  voice  and  a  woeful  eye — 

"Lord,  I  believe,*'  was  the  sinner's  replj, 

*<  Help  Thon  mine  unbelief." ' 

Southey, 

Bt  the  beginning  of  the  Christmas  holidays,  Fernando  Travis  was  able 
to  lie  on  a  couch  in  Mr.  Audley's  sitting-room.  His  recovery  was  even 
tardier  than  had  heen  expected,  partly  from  the  shock,  and  partly  from 
the  want  of  vigour  of  the  tropical  constitution ;  and  he  still  seemed  to  be 
a  great  way  from  walking,  though  there  was  no  reason  to  fear  that  the 
power  would  not  return.  His  father  wrote,  preparing  for  a  journey  to 
the  Oregon,  and  seemed  perfectly  satisfied,  and  he  was  becoming  very 
much  at  home  with  his  host 

He  was  much  interested  in  that  which  he  was  learning  from  Mr. 
Andley,  and  imbibing  from  the  yonng  Underwoods.  The  wandering 
Kfe  he  had  hitherto  led,  without  any  tendemesa  save  from  the  poor  ohl 
Kegro,  without  time  to  make  friends,  and  oflen  exposed  to  the  perception 

*  Memoires  de  la  Dachesse  d'Abrantds. 


58  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

of  some  of  the  darkest  sides  of  human  life,  in  the  terrible  lawlessness  of 
the  Mexican  frontier,  had  hitherto  made  him  dull,  dreary,  and  indifferent^ 
with  little  perception  that  there  could  be  anything  better ;  but  first  the 
kindness  and  then  the  faith  he  saw  at  Bexley,  had  awakened  new 
perceptions  and  sensations.  His  whole  soul  was  opening  to  perceive 
what  the  love  of  Grod  and  man  might  be ;  and  the  sense  of  a  great  void, 
and  longing  to  have  it  satisfied,  seemed  to  fill  him  with  a  constant  craving 
for  the  revelation  of  that  inner  world,  whose  existence  had  just  dawned 
upon  him. 

After  a  little  hesitation,  Mr.  Audlej  decided  on  reading  with 
Geraldine  in  his  presence  after  he  had  come  into  the  sitting-room, 
explaining  to  her  how  he  thought  it  might  be  helpful.  She  did  not 
much  like  it,  but  acquiesced :  she  used  to  hop  in  with  her  sweet  smile, 
shj  greeting,  and  hand  extended  to  the  invalid,  who  used  to  lie 
looking  at  her  through  his  long  eye-lashes,  and  listening  to  her  low  voice 
reading  or  answering,  as  if  she  were  no  earthly  creature ;  but  the  two 
were  far  too  much  in  awe  of  one  another  to  go  any  further ;  and  he  got 
on  much  better  with  Wilmet,  when  she  looked  in  on  him  now  and  then 
with  cheery  voice  and  good-natured  care. 

Then  Fulbert  and  Robina  came  home;  and  the  former  was  half- 
suspicious,  half  jealous,  of  Lance's  preoccupation  with  what  he  chose 
to  denominate  '  a  black  Yankee  nigger.'  He  avoided  the  room  himself, 
and  kept  Lance  from  it  as  much  as  was  in  his  power;  and  one  day 
Lance  appeared  with  a  black  eye,  of  which  he  concealed  the  cause  so 
entirely,  that  Felix,  always  afraid  of  his  gamin  tendencies,  entreated 
Fulbert,  as  a  friend,  to  ease  his  mind  by  telling  him  it  was  not  given  in 
a  street  row. 

'  I  did  it,'  said  Fulbert ;  ^  he  was  so  cocky  about  his  Yankee,  that  I 
couldn't  stand  it.' 

'  Why  shouldn't  he  be  kind  to  a  poor  sick  fellow  ?* 

'  He  has  no  business  to  be  always  bothering  about  Fernando  here — 
Fernando  there — Fernando  for  ever.  I  shall  have  him  coming  up  to 
school  a  regular  spoon,  and  just  not  know  what  to  do  with  him  !' 

*  Well,  Fulbert,  I  think  if  you  had  a  broken  leg  you'd  wish  someone 
to  speak  to  you.  At  any  rate,  I  can't  have  Lance  bullied  for  his  good- 
nature; I  was  very  near  doing  it  myself  once,  but  I  was  shamed  out 
of  it' 

'Were  you — were  you,  indeed?'  cried  Fulbert,  delighted  at  this 
confession  of  human  nature ;  and  Felix  could  not  help  laughing.  And 
that  laugh  did  much  to  bring  him  down  from  the  don  to  the  brother. 
At  any  rate,  Fulbert  ceased  his  persecution  in  aught  but  word. 

Robina,  always  Lance's  companion,  followed  him  devotedly,  and  only 
hung  about  the  stairs  forlorn  when  he  went  to  Fernando  without  her ; 
or  if  admitted,  she  was  quite  content  to  sit  serenely  happy  in  her  beloved 
Lance's  presence,  expecting  neither  notice  nor  amusement,  only  watching 
their  occupation  of  playing  at  draughts.     Sometimes,  however,  Lance 


THE  PILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  59 

would  fall  to  playing  with  her,  and  they  would  roll  on  the  floor,  a 
tambling  mass  of  legs,  arms,  and  laughter,  to  the  intense  diversion  of 
Fernando,  to  whom  little  girls  were  beings  of  an  unknown  order. 

So  came  on  Christmas,  with  the  annivers&ries  so  sweet  and  so  sad, 
and  the  eve  of  holly-dressing,  when  a  bundle  of  bright  sprays  was  left 
by  some  kind  friend  at  No.  8,  and  Lance  and  Bobbie  were  vehement  to 
introduce  Fernando  to  English  hoUy  and  English  decking. 

Greraldine  suggested  that  they  had  better  wait  for  either  Mr.  Audley 
or  Wilmet  to  come  in,  but  for  this  they  had  no  patience,  and  ran  down 
with  their  arms  full  of  the  branches,  and  their  tongues  going  with  the 
description  of  the  night's  carols,  singing  them  with  their  sweet  young 
voices  as  they  moved  about  the  room.  Fernando  knew  now  what 
Christmas  meant,  but  the  joy  and  exhilaration  of  the  two  children 
seemed  to  him  strange  for  such  a  bygone  event.  He  asked  them  if 
th^  would  have  any  treat. 

'  Oh  no  I  except,  perhaps,  Mr.  Audley  said  we  should  drink  tea  here 
one  day,'  said  Robina.  And  then  she  broke  out  again,  'Hark!  the 
herald  angels,'  like  a  little  silver  bell. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  cry  of  dismay.  She  had  been  standing  on  a 
chair  over  the  mantel-piece,  sticking  holly  into  the  ornaments,  behind 
and  under  which,  in  true  man's  fashion,  a  good  many  papers  and  letters 
had  accumulated.  One  of  these  papers — by  some  unlucky  movement- 
fell,  and  by  a  sudden  waft  of  air  floated  irrevocably  into  the  hottest  place 
in  the  Are. 

'  Oh  dear !  oh  dear  I'  wailed  Robina. 

'  That's  a  pretty  go,'  cried  Lancelot. 

'  That  comes  of  your  open  flres,'  observed  Fernando. 

'  What  was  it?'  asked  Lance. 

*  I  don't  know.  I  think  it  was  a  list  of  names !  Oh  !  how  vexed  he'll 
be,  and  Wilmet ;  for  she  told  me  never  to  get  on  a  chair  over  the  fender, 
and  I  forgot.'    Bobbie's  round  face  was  puckering  for  a  cry. 

'  No,  no,  don't  cry,  Bob ;  I  told  you  to  get  up,  and  I'll  say  so,' 
said  Lance,  smothering  her  in  his  arms  after  the  wont  of  consoling 
brothers. 

'  I  dare  say  he'll  not  miss  it,'  said  Fernando  good-naturedly ;  '  he  very 
seldom  meddles  with  those  things.' 

Bobbie's  great  round  grey  eyes  came  out  over  Lance's  shoulder,  and 
flashed  amazement  and  wrath  at  him.  *I'm  not  going  to  tell  stories,' 
she  said  stoutly. 

'  No,'  said  Lance,  equally  scandalized,  '  I  thought  you  had  learnt 
better,  Fernando.' 

Robina,  be  it  observed,  was  ignorant  of  Femando's  untaught  state. 

*  I  only  said  you  could  hold  your  tongue,'  was  of  course  Fernando*s 
rejoinder. 

*  That's  just  as  bad,'  was  the  little  girFs  response. 

*  But,  Lance,  you  held  your  tongue  about  your  black  eye.' 


60  THE  KOKTHLT  PACKET. 

'That's  my  affiiir,  and  nobody's  eh^B^  said  Lance^  flushing  up  and 
looking  cross  at  the  allusion. 

*  And  Fulbert  told !'  added  Robina. 

'  Will  thej  punish  you  V  asked  Fernando. 

'I  think  Wilmet  will,  because  it  was  disobedience!  I  don't  think 
she'll  let  me  have  any  butter  at  tea,'  Bobbie  nearly  sobbed.  *Mf. 
Audley  won't  punish  I    But  he'll  look — '  and  she  quite  cried  now. 

^And  do  you  like  that  better  than  not  telling?'  said  Fernando,  still 
curious. 

She  locked  up,  amazed  again.  'I  must!  I  don't  like  it!  But  I 
couldn't  erer  have  a  happy  Christmas  if  I  didn't  tell  I  I  wish  they 
would  come,  that  I  might  have  it  over.' 

The  street-door  opened  at  the  moment,  and  Mr.  Audley  and  Wilmet 
came  in  together  from  Lady  Price's  convocation  of  the  parish  staff. 
Fernando  heard  the  sobbing  confession  in  the  passage,  and  Lance's 
assurance  fhat  he  had  been  art  and  part  in  the  disobedience,  and 
Wilmet  gravely  blaming  the  child,  and  Mr.  Audley  telling  her  not  to 
think  so  much  about  the  loss  as  the  transgression;  and  then  the  door 
was  shut,  and  he  heard  no  more,  till  Mr.  Audley  came  in,  examined 
the  chimney-piece,  and  performed  the  elegy  of  the  list  in  a  long  low 
whistle. 

*Is  much  harm  done?'  Fernando  asked. 

'  Not  much ;  only  I  must  go  and  get  another  list  made  out,  and  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  not  be  able  to  come  in  again  before  church.' 

'  I  hope  they  have  not  punished  her !' 

'Wilmet  recommended  not  taking  the  prize  prayer*book  to  church, 

and  she  acquiesced  with  tears  in  her  eyes.     A  good  child's  repentance  is 

a  beautiful  thing — 

"  O  happy  in  repentance'  school 
So  early  taught  and  tried.^' ' 

These  last  words  were  said  to  himself  as  he  picked  up  his  various 
goods,  and  added,  '  I  must  get  some  tea  at  the  Hectory.  I  am  sorry  to 
leave  you,  but  I  hope  one  of  them  will  come  down.' 

They  did  not,  except  that  they  peeped  in  for  a  moment  to  wish  him 
good-night,  and  regretted  that  they  had  not  known  him  to  be  alone. 

As  Felix  was  going  out  to  begin  the  Christmas  Feast  in  the  darkness 
of  morning,  he  looked  in  as  he  usually  did,  since  Mr.  Audley,  sleeping 
out  of  the  house,  never  came  in  till  after  early  church.  The  nurse, 
who  still  slept  in  the  room,  was  gone  to  dress ;  there  was  only  a 
flickering  night-light,  and  the  room  looked  very  desolate  and  forlorn, 
still  more  so  the  voice  that  culled  out  to  him,  'Felix!  oh,  Felix!  is 
that  you?' 

*  Yes.     A  happy  Christmas  to  you,'  said  Felix. 
'  Happy — !'  there  was  a  sort  of  groan. 

*  Why,  what's  the  matter?  have  you  had  a  bad  night?  Aren't  you  so 
well?'  " 


THE  FILLABS  07  THB  HOUSE.  61 

*  I  don't  know.     Come  here ;  I  must  speak  to  jou.' 

Felix  was  as  usual  in  great  haste,  but  the  tone  startled  him. 

*  Felixy  I  can't  stand  this  any  longer.  I  must  let  you  know  what  a 
frightful  intolerable  wretch  I've  been.     I  tried  to  teach  Lance  to  bet.' 

*  Fernando!'  He  was  so  choked  with  indignation ,  he  could  not  say 
more. 

*  He  wouldn't  do  it.  Not  after  he  underftood  it  It  seems  he  tried 
it  with  another  little  boy  at  school,  and  one  of  the  bigger  ones  boxed  his 
ears  and  rowed  him.' 

^  Ay ;  Bruce  promised  me  to  look  after  him.' 

*  So  he  refused.  He  told  me  he  was  on  his  honour  to  you  not  to  stay 
if  I  did  anything  your  father  would  have  disapproved.  He  did  leave  me 
once,  when  I  would  not  leave  off.' 

*  But  how  could  you  !' 

'  I  was  so  bored — so  intolerably  dull — and  it  is  the  only  thing  on  earth 
that  one  cares  to  do.' 

*But  Lance  had  nothing  to  stake.' 

*  I  could  lend  him !  Ah !  you  don't  know  what  betting  is ;  why,  we 
all  do  it — women,  boys,  and  all !'  His  voice  became  excited,  and  Felix 
in  consternation  broke  in — 

*  When  did  you  do  this?' 

'  Oh !  weeks  ago.  Before  I  was  out  of  bed.  When  I  found  my  dice 
in  my  purse ;  but  I  have  not  tried  it  since,  with  him  I' 

*  With  whom,  then  ?' 

'Why^-don't  fall  on  him — with  Fulbert  He  knew  what  it  meant. 
N0W9  Felix,  don't  come  on  him  for  it.  Come  on  me  as  much  as  you 
please.    I've  been  a  traitor  to  you.    I  see  it  now.' 

'  Anything  but  that  I'  sighed  Felix,  too  much  appalled  for  immediate 
forgiving,  dejected  as  was  the  voice  that  spoke  to  him. 

^Yes,  yes,  I  know!  1  see.  The  worst  thing  I  could  do,'  said 
Fernando,  turning  his  face  in  on  the  pillow,  in  so  broken-hearted  a 
manner  that  Felix's  kindness  and  generosity  were  roused. 

^  Stay,  don't  be  so  downcast,'  he  said.  '  There's  no  harm  done  with 
Lance,  and  you  being  so  sorry  will  undo  it  with  Fulbert !  I  do  thank 
you  for  telling  me,  reaUy^  only  it  upset  me  at  first' 

'  Upset !  Yes,  you'll  be  more  so  when  you  hear  the  rest,'  said  Fernando, 
raising  his  head  again.     ^  Do  you  know  who  set  that  inn  on  fire?' 

*  Nobody  does.' 
'  Well,  I  did.' 

'Nonsense!  You've  had  a  bad  night!  You  don't  know  what  you 
are  talking  about,'  said  Felix,  anxiously  laying  hold  of  one  of  the  hot 
hands — perceiving  that  his  own  Christmas  Day  must  begin  with  mercy» 
not  sacrifice,  and  beginning  to  hope  the  first  self-accusation  was  also 
delirious. 

'Tell  me.  Didn't  the  fire  begin  in  the  ball*roomT  Somebody  told 
m^Bo.' 


62  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

*  Yes,  the  waiter  saw  it  there.' 

^Then  I  did  it ;  I  threw  the  end  of  a  cigar  among  the  flummery  in  the 
grate,'  cried  Fernando,  falling  back  from  the  attitude  into  which  he  had 
raised  himself,  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

*  Nobody  can  blame  you.' 

'  Stay.  It  was  after  father  and  uncle  had  gone !  I  was  smoking  at 
the  window  of  our  room,  and  the  landlord  came  in  and  ordered  me  not, 
because  some  ladies  in  the  next  room  objected.  He  told  me  I  might 
come  down  to  the  coffee-room ;  but  I  had  never  heard  of  such  meddling, 
and  I  jawed  him  well ;  but  he  made  me  give  in  somehow.  Only  when 
I  saw  that  big  ball-room  all  along  the  side  of  the  building,  I  just  took  a 
turn  in  it  with  my  cigar  to  spite  him.  Poor  Diego  came  up  and  begged 
me  not ;  but  you  know  the  way  one  does  with  a  nigger.     Oh  I' 

Felix  did  not  know ;  but  the  voice  broke  down  in  such  misery  and 
horror,  that  his  soul  seemed  to  sink  within  him.  *  Have  you  had  thb 
on  your  mind  all  this  time  V  he  asked  kindly. 

*  No,  no.  It  didn't  come  to  me.  I  think  I've  been  a  block  or  a  stone. 
The  dear  faithful  fellow,  that  loved  me  as  no  one  ever  did.  Fve  been 
feeling  the  kiss  he  gave  me  at  that  window  all  to-night  And  then  I've 
been  falling — falling — ^falling  in  his  black  arms — down~-down  to  hell 
itself.  Not  that  he  is  there;  but  I  murdered  him,  you  know — and 
someone  else  besides,  wasn't  there  ?' 

*  This  is  like  delirium,  really,  Fernando,'  said  Felix,  putting  his  arms 
round  him  to  lay  him  down,  as  he  had  raised  himself  on  his  elbow.  ^  I 
must  call  someone  if  you  seem  so  ill.' 

*I  wish  it  was  illness,'  said  Fernando  with  a  shudder.  ^'Oh!  don't 
go— don't  let  me  go — if  you  can  bear  to  touch  me — when  you  know 
all!' 

'There  can't  be  any  worse  to  know.     You  had  better  not  talk.' 

'  I  must !  I  must  tell  you  all  I  really  am  ;  though  you  will  never  let 
your  brothers  come  near  me,  or  the  little  angels — your  sisters.  Fd  not 
have  dared  look  at  them  myself  if  I  had  known  it,  but  things  never 
seemed  so  to  me  before.' 

Felix  shivered  at  the  thought  of  what  he  was  to  hear,  but  he  gave 
himself  up  to  listen  kindly,  and  to  his  relief  he  gathered  from  the 
incoherent  words  that  there  was  lio  great  stain  of  crime,  as  he  had 
feared ;  but  that  the  boy  had  come  to  open  his  eyes  to  the  evils  of  the 
life  in  which  he  had  shared  according  to  his  age,  and  saw  them  in  their 
foulness,  and  with  an  agonized  sense  of  shame  and  pollution.  Felix 
could  not  help  asking  whether  this  had  long  dwelt  on  his  thoughts. 

'No,'  he  said,  'that's  the  wonder!  I  thought  myself  a  nice,  gentle- 
manly, honourable  fellow.  Oh !'  with  a  groan.  •  Fancy  that  I  I  never 
thought  of  recollecting  these  things,  or  what  they  have  made  me.  Only, 
somehow,  when  those  children  seemed  so  shocked  at  my  advising  them 
to  hold  their  tongues  about  their  bit  of  mischief— I  thought  first  what 
fools  you  all  were  to  be  so  scrupulous ;  and  then  I  recollected  the  lots 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  63 

of  things  I  have  concealed,  till  I  began  to  think,  Is  this  honour-*would 
it  seem  so  to  Lance— or  Felix?  And  then  came  down  on  me  the 
thought  of  what  you  believe,  of  God  seeing  it  all,  and  laying  it  up 
against  one  for  judgement;  and  I  know — I  know  it  is  true!'  and  there 
came  another  heavy  groan,  and  the  great  eyes  shone  in  the  twilight  in 
terror. 

*  If  you  know  that  is  true,'  said  Felix  steadfastly  and  tenderly,  ^  you 
know  something  else  too.  You  know  Whom  He  sent  into  the  world  for 
our  pardon  for  these  things.' 

There  was  a  tightening  of  the  grasp  as  if  in  acquiescence  and  comfort ; 
but  the  nurse  came  back  to  tidy  the  room,  and  still  Fernando  clung  to 
Felix,  and  would  not  let  him  go.  She  opened  the  shutters,  and  then 
both  she  and  Felix  were  dismayed  to  see  how  ill  and  spent  her  patient 
looked;  for  she  had  slept  soundly  through  his  night  of  silent  anguish 
and  remorse — misery  that,  as  Felix  saw  by  his  face,  was  pressing  on  him 
still  with  intolerable  weight. 

By  the  time  the  woman  had  finished  Mr.  Audley  came  in,  and  seeing  at 
once  that  Felix's  absence  was  accounted  for  by  Femando's  appearance, 
he  stepped  up  at  once  to  the  bed,  full  of  solicitude.  Felix  hardly  knew 
whether  to  reply  or  escape ;  but  Fernando's  heart  was  too  full  for  his 
words  not  to  come  at  once. 

*No,  I  am  not  worse,  but  I  see  it  all  now. — ^Tell  him,  Felix ;  I  cannot 
say  it  again.' 

*  Fernando  thinks — *  Felix  found  he  could  hardly  speak  the  words 
either — '  Fernando  is  afraid  that  it  was  an  accident  of  his  own—' 

*  Don't  say  an  accident !     It  was  passion  and  spite,'  broke  in  Fernando. 

*  That  caused  the  fire  at  the  Fortinbras  Arms,'  Felix  was  obliged  to 
finish. 

'  Not  on  purpose !'  exclaimed  Mr.  Audley. 

^  Almost  as  much  as  if  it  had  been,'  said  Fernando.  ^  I  smoked  to 
spite  the  landlord  for  interfering,  and  threw  away  the  end  too  angry  to 
heed  where.  There !'  he  added  grimly ;  '  Felix  won't  tell  me  how  many 
I  murdered  besides  my  own  poor  old  black.     How  many  I' 

'Do  not  speak  in  that  way,  my  poor  boy,'  said  Mr.  Audley.  'At 
least,  this  is  better  than  the  weight  you  have  had  on  your  mind  so 
long.' 

'  How  many  ?'  repeated  Fernando. 

'Two  more  lives  were  lost,'  said  Mr.  Audley  gently,  'Mr.  Jones's 
baby  and  its  nurse.  But  you  must  not  use  harder  words  than  are  just, 
Fernando.  It  was  a  terrible  result,  but  consequences  do  not  make  the 
evil.' 

He  made  a  kind  of  murmur;  then  turning  round,  uneasily  said, 
'  That  is  not  all ;  I  have  seen  myself,  Mr.  Audley.' 

Mr.  Audley  looked  at  Felix,  who  spoke  with  some  difficulty  and 
perplexity.  'He  has  been  very  unhappy  all  night  He  thinks  things 
wrong  that  he  never  thought  about  before.' 


64  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Mn  Audley  felt  exceedingly  hopeful  at  those  words ;  but  he  was 
alarmed  at  the  physical  effect  on  his  patient,  and  felt  that  the  present 
excitement  was  mischievous.  ^  I  understand  in  part,'  he  said.  *  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  he  is  too  restless  and  uncomfortable  to  think  or 
understand  now.  It  may  be  that  he  may  yet  see  the  joy  of  to-day ;  but 
no  more  talk  now.     Have  you  had  your  breakfast  ?' 

He  shook  his  head;  but  Felix  had  to  go  away,  and  breakfast  and 
dressing  restored  Fernando  to  a  more  tranquil  state.  He  slept,  too> 
wearied  out,  when  he  was  placed  on  his  couch ;  while  Felix  was  at  the 
Christmas  service  singing,  as  he  had  never  sung  before, — 

'  Peace  on  earth,  and  mercy  mild, 
God  and  sinners  reconciled/ 

Oh !  was  the  poor  young  stranger  seeing  the  way  to  that  reconciliation  T 
and  when  Lancelot's  sweet  clear  young  notes  rose  up  in  all  their  purity, 
and  the  rosy  honest  face  looked  upwards  with  an  expression  elevated 
by  the  music,  Felix  could  not  help  thinking  that  the  boy  had  verily 
sung  those  words  of  truth  and  hope  into  the  poor  dark  lonely  heart. 
Kindness,  steadfastness,  truth,  in  that  merry-hearted  child  had  been 
doing  their  work ;  and  when  Lance  marched  away  with  the  other  lesser 
choristers,  the  elder  brother  felt  as  if  the  younger  had  been  the  more 
worthy  to  '  draw  near  in  faith.' 

Fernando  was  more  like  himself  when  Felix  came  in ;  but  he  was  a 
good  deal  shaken,  and  listened  to  the  conventional  Christmas  greeting 
like  a  mockery,  shrinking  from  the  sisters  when  they  looked  in  on  him 
with  what  they  thought  a  fresh  access  of  shyness,  but  which  was  a 
feeling  of  terrible  shame  beside  the  innocence  he  ascribed  to  them. 

*I  wish  I  could  help  that  poor  boy,'  sighed  Wilmet.  'He  does  look 
80  very  miserable !' 

And  Geraldine's  eyes  swam  in  tears  as  she  thought  of  the  loneliness 
of  his  Christmas,  and  without  that  Christmas  joy  that  even  their 
mother's  dulled  spirit  could  feel — the  joy  that  bore  them  through  the 
recollections  of  this  time  last  year. 

Lance's  desire  to  cheer  took  the  more  material  form  of  acting  as 
Fernando's  special  waiter  at  the  consumption  of  the  turkey,  which  Mr. 
Audley  had  insisted  on  having  from  home,  and  eating  in  company 
with  the  rest,  to  whom  it  was  a  '  new  experience,'  being  only  a  faint 
remembrance  even  to  Felix  and  Wilroet ;  but  Fernando  had  no  appetite, 
and  even  the  sight  of  his  little  friend  gave  him  a  pang. 

*  Do  you  want  anyone  to  stay  with  you  V  asked  Lance.  *  If  Cherry 
foauld  do — ^for  Felix  said  he  would  take  Fulbert  and  me  out  for  a  jolly 
long  walk,  to  see  the  icicles  at  Bold's  Hatch.' 

'  No,  I  want  no  one.    You  are  better  without  me.' 

*  111  stay  if  you  do  want  it,'  said  Lance  very  reluctantly.  *  I  don't 
like  your  not  having  one  bit  of  Christmas.      Shall  I  sing  you  one 


THE  PILLABS  07  THIS  HOUSI.  65 

Christinas ^jmn  before  I  go?'     And  Lance  broke  into  the  'Herald 
Angels '  again. 

*•  Mild  He  lays  His  glory  by, 
Bom  that  man  no  more  may  die ; 
Bom  to  raise  the  sons  of  earth. 
Bora  to  give  them  second  birth.* 

Femando's  face  was  bathed  in  tears;  he  held  out  his  arms,  and  to 
little  Lance's  great  amazement,  somewhat  to  his  vexation,  he  held  him 
fast  and  kissed  him. 

^  What  did  you  do  that  for  V  he  asked  in  a  gruff  astonished  voice. 

'Never  mind!'  said  Fernando.  'Only  I  think  I  see  what  this  day 
can  be !     Now  go.* 

Presently  Mr.  AudJey  came  softly  in.  The  lad's  face  was  turned  in 
to  his  cushion,  his  handkerchief  over  it ;  and  as  the  young  priest  stood 
watching  him,  what  could  be  done  but  pray  for  the  poor  struggling  soul  ? 
At  last  he  turned  round,  and  looked  up. 

'  I  saw  it  again,'  he  said  with  a  sigh. 

•  Saw  what  V 

'  What  you  all  mean.  It  touched  me,  and  seemed  true  and  real  when 
Lance  was  singing.  What  was  it — ''  Born  to  save  the  sons  of  earth  "  f 
Oh  I  but  such  as  I  am,  and  at  my  age,  too !' 

And  with  a  few  words  from  Mr.  Audley,  there  came  such  a 
disburthening  of  self-accusation  as  before  to  Felix.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
terrible  effect  of  his  wilfulness  at  the  inn — horrified  as  he  was  at  them — 
were  less  oppressive  to  liis  conscience  than  his  treachery  to  his  host  in 
his  endeavour  to  gamble  with  t)ie  little  boys.  He  had  found  a  pair  of 
dice  in  his  purse  when  looking  for  the  price  of  a  Bible,  and  the  sight 
had  awakened  the  vehement  hereditary  Mexican  passion  for  betting,  the 
bane  of  his  mother's  race.  His  father,  as  a  clever  man  of  the  world, 
hated  and  prohibited  the  practice ;  but  Fernando  had  what  could  easily 
become  a  frenzy  for  that  excitement  of  the  lazy  south,  and  even  while  he 
had  seen  it  in  its  consequences,  the  intense  craving  for  the  amusement 
had  mastered  him  more  than  once,  when  loathing  the  dullness  and 
weariness  of  his  confinement,  and  shrinking  from  the  doctrines  he  feared 
to  accept.  He  knew  it  was  dishonourable — yet  he  had  given  way ;  and 
he  felt  like  one  utterly  stained,  unpardonable,  hopeless:  but  there  was 
less  exaggeration  in  his  state  of  mind  than  in  the  early  morning;  and 
when  Mr.  Audley  dwelt  on  the  Hope  of  sinners,  his  eyes  glistened  and 
brightened ;  and  at  the  further  words  that  held  out  to  him  the  assurance 
that  all  these  sins  might  be  washed  away,  and  he  himself  enabled  to 
begin  a  new  life,  his  looks  shone  responsively ;  but  he  shook  his  head 
soon — '  It  went  away  from  him,'  he  said ;  poor  boy  I  '  it  was  too  great 
and  good  to  be  true.' 

Then  Mr.  Audley  put  prayer  before  him  as  a  means  of  clinging  even 
blindly  to  the  Cross  that  he  was  barely  beginning  to  grasp,  and  the  boy 
promised.     He  would  do  anything  they  would,  could  he  but  hope  to  be 

VOL.  10.  5  Pabt  55. 


66  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

freed  from  the  horrible  weight  of  sense  of  hopeless  pollution  that  liad 
come  upon  him. 

For  some  days  he  did  not  seem  able  to  read  anything  but  the  Gospels 
and  the  Baptismal  Service;  and  at  length,  after  a  long  silence,  he  said, 
*  Mr.  Audlej,  if  your  sermon  is  finished,  can  you  listen  to  me  1  May  I 
be  baptized?' 

Then  indeed  the  Curate's  heart  bounded,  but  he  had  to  keep  himself 
restrained.  The  father's  consent  he  had  secured  beforehand,  but  he 
thought  Fernando  ought  to  write  to  him ;  and  it  was  also  needful  to 
consult  the  Rector  as  to  the  length  of  actual  preparation  and  probation. 

Then,  when  the  question  came,  'Can  T  indeed  be  like  Felix  and 
Lancet'  the  reply  had  to  be  cautious.  'You  will  be  as  entirely 
pardoned,  as  entirely  belonging  to  the  holiness  within  and  without,  as 
they ;  but  how  far  you  will  have  the  consciousness,  I  cannot  tell ;  and 
it  is  very  probable  that  your  temptations  may  be  harder.  Guilt  may 
be  forgiven,  while  habits  retain  their  power ;  aAd  they  have  been 
guarded,  taught  self-restraint,  and  had  an  example  before  them  in  their 
father,  such  as  very  few  have  been  blessed  with.' 

Fernando  sighed  long  and  sadly,  and  said,  '  Then  you  do  not  think  it 
will  make  much  difference.' 

'The  difference  between  life  and  death!  But  you  must  expect  to 
have  to  believe  rather  thsji/eeL    But  go  on,  and  it  will  all  be  clear.' 

The  Rector  was  at  first  anxious  to  wait  for  definite  sanction  fix)m  the 
father ;  but  as  Mr.  Audiey  was  sure  of  the  permission  he  had  received, 
and  no  letter  could  be  had  for  several  months,  he  agreed  to  examine  the 
lad,  and  write  to  the  Bishop — a  new  Bishop,  who  had  been  appointed 
within  the  last  year,  and  who  was  coming  in  the  spring  for  a  Con- 
firmation. 

Mr.  Bevan  was  really  delighted  with  the  catechumen,  and  wrote 
warmly  of  him.  The  reply  was,  that  if  the  Baptism  could  take  place 
the  day  before  the  Confirmation,  which  was  to  be  in  a  month's  time, 
the  Bishop  himself  would  like  to  be  present,  and  the  youth  could  be 
confirmed  the  next  day.  There  was  much  that  was  convenient  in  this, 
fisr  it  gave  time  for  Fernando  to  make  progress  in  moving  about  He 
had  made  a  start  within  the  last  week  or  two,  was  trying  to  use  crutches, 
and  had  been  out  on  fine  days  in  a  chair ;  and  once  or  twice  Lady  Price 
had  taken  him  for  a  drive,  though  she  had  never  thought  of  doing 
so  by  Geraldine.  The  doctor  said  that  change  of  air  would  probably 
quite  restore  his  health;  and  he  had  only  to  wait  to  be  a  little  less 
dependent  before  he  was  to  go  to  a  tutor,  an  old  fiiend  of  the  Audiey 
family. 

Everything  promised  well;  but  one  wet  afternoon,  in  the  interim 
between  the  end  of  Lance's  and  that  of  Fulbert's  holidays,  Mr.  Audiey, 
while  coming  down  from  a  visit  to  Mrs'.  Underwood,  fancied  he  heard 
an  ominous  rattle,  and  opening  the  door  suddenly,  found  Fernando  and 
Folbert  eagerly  throwing  the  dice,  and  with  several  shillings  before  them. 


THS  PIUiABS  OF  TBM  HOUSE.  67 

Both  8l%rt^  violently  us  b^  entered,  aod  Fulbert  piii  bk  mw  and  band 
rouod  a9  if  to  lude  tbe  whole  affiur;  wbile  Fernando  tried  to  look 
composed* 

AU  that  tbe  Cumie  fiaid  io  hi3  siirprm  wee  one  sharp  aenteooe. 
^  Fernando  Travis,  if  you  are  to  renounce  the  devil,  you  will  haFe  to 
begin  by  throwing  those  dice  into  the  fire.' 

Fernando's  eyes  looked  furious,  and  he  swept  tbe  dice  and  tbe  money 
into  bb  pocket--^!  but  three  shillings.  Fulbert  etole  out  of  tbe  room 
quietly.  No  doubt  these  were  his  vnnnings,  which  he  did  not  dare  ia 
touch. 

Mr.  Audley  took  «p  a  book  and  waited,  fuUy  ezpeeting  that  sorrow 
would  follow ;  but  Fernando  did  not  speak  i  and  when  al  length  he  did 
on  some  ij^different  matter,  it  wa3  in  his  ordjaary  tone.  Well,  there 
must  be  patience.  No  doubt  repent^oee  would  eome  at  night !  No ;  the 
evening  passed  on,  and  Fernando  was  ready  lor  all  their  usual  occupations, 
perhaps  it  would  come  with  Felix,  or  in  the  dawn  after  a  troubled  night. 
Alas  I  no.  And  moreover,  Feli^  to  whom  it  was  necessary  to  speak; 
was  exceedingly  angry  and  vexed,  and  utterly  incredulous  of  there  being 
any  good  ij»  the  character  that  could  be  90  fickle,  if  not  deceitful  and 
bypocritioel.  His  own  resolute  temper  had  no  power  of  comprehending 
the  unmanlineas  of  erring  against  the  bettej:  will;  he  was  absolutely 
incapable  of  undersjtanding  the  horrible  lassitude  and  craving  for  excite* 
fnent  that  must  have  tempted  Fernando,  and  he  was  hard  and  even 
ashamed  of  himself  for  having  ever  believed  in  the  lad's  sincerity. 

This  anger  too  made  him  speak  with  such  a  threatening  to^e  to 
Fulbert,  as  to  rouse  the  doggedness  pf  the  boy's  nature.  All  that  could 
i)e  got  out  of  Fulbert  was  that '  his  going  there  was  all  Felix's  doing,' 
and  he  would  not  manifest  any  sign  of  regret,  such  as  would  be  a,ny 
security  against  his  introducing  the  practice  among  the  clergy  orphans^ 
or  continuing  it  all  his  life.  He  was  not  %  boy  ^ven  to  confidencea,  and 
neither  Wilmet  nor  Cheny  could  get  him  beyond  his  glum  dedaratioji 
that  it  waa  Felix's  fault,  he  only  wanted  to  keep  out  of  the  fellow's  way. 
They  could  only  take  comfort  in  believing  that  he  was  r^aiUy  ashamed» 
and  that  he  suffered  enough  within  to  be  a  wai'ning  against  Ijbe  vice 
itself. 

As  to  Fernando,  he  made  no  ^ign,  he  went  on  as  if  nothing  bad 
happened ;  and  nothing  was  observable  about  him^  but  th^t  he  shewed 
himself  intensely  weary  of  his  present  mode  of  life,  pi>t  on  at  tiuiep  the 
manners  that  were  either  those  of  the  Spanish  Don  or  of  the  Indian 
Cacique,  and  seemed  to  shrank  from  the  prospect  of  t,he  English  tutor. 
Tet  he  continued  his  preparation  for  baptism^  svnd  ]VIr.  Bevan  was 
8$itisfied  with  him ;  but  Mr.  Audley  was  perplexed  and  unhappy  over  the 
reserve  that  had  sprung  up  between  them^  a^d  could  not  decide  whether 
to  make  another  attempt,  or  leave  the  lad  to  himself. 

Qn^  i^fternoon,  only  ten  days  from  jthe  time  £xed  for  the  Bishop's  vi^f, 
Mr.  Audley  returned  from  a  clerical  meeting  to  find  an  unexpected 


68  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

visitor  in  the  room — ^namely,  Alfred  Travis,  Femando*8  uncle,  a  more 
Americanized  and  rougher  person  than  his  brother.  He  rose  as  he  entered. 
'  Good  morning,  Mr.  Audley ;  you  have  taken  good  care  of  your  charge. 
He  is  fit  to  start  with  me  to*morrow.  See  a  surgeon  in  town — then  to 
Liverpool — * 

'  Indeed !'  Mr.  Audley  caught  a  deprecating  look  from  Fernando. 
*  Do  you  come  from  his  father  ?' 

'  Well — ^yes  and  no.  His  father  is  still  in  the  Oregon ;  but  he  and  I 
have  always  been  one — and  opening  the  boy's  letters,  and  finding  him 
ready  to  move,  I  thought,  as  I  had  business  in  England,  I'd  come  and 
fetch  him,  and  just  settle  any  claim  the  fellow  at  yonder  hotel  may  have 
cheek  enough  to  set  up,  since  Feman  was  green  enough  to  let  it  out.' 

'May  I  ask  if  you  have  brought  any  authority  from  his  father?' 

*  Authority?  Bless  you !  William  will  be  glad  to  see  his  boy;  we 
don't  go  by  authority  between  brothers.' 

'  Because,'  continued  Mr.  Audley,  '  I  heard  from  your  brother  that  he 
wished  Fernando  to  remain  with  me  to  receive  an  English  education.' 

*  All  sentiment  and  stuff  I  He  knew  better  before  we  had  sailed  !  An 
English  squire  in  this  wretched  old  country,  forsooth!  when  the  new 
republic  is  before  him  !  No,  no,  Mr.  Audley,  I'll  be  open  with  you.  I 
saw  what  you  were  up  to  when  I  got  your  letter,  and  Feman —  Got  his 
lesson  very  well,  he  had.  And  when  I  came  down,  a  friend  in  London 
gave  me  another  hint  It  won't  do,  I  can  assure  you.  lliat  style  of 
thing  is  all  very  well  for  you  spruce  parsons  of  good  family,  as  you  call  it 
in  the  old  country ;  but  we  are  not  going  to  have  a  rising  young  fellow 
like  this,  with  a  prospect  of  what  would  buy  out  all  your  squires  and 
baronets  in  the  old  county,  beslobbered  and  befooled  with  a  lot  of 
Puseyite  cant.  Tou've  had  your  turn  of  him ;  it  is  time  he  should  come 
and  be  a  man  again.' 

Mr.  Audley  was  dizzy  with  consternation.  Fernando  was  no  child. 
He  was  full  sixteen,  and  he  was  so  far  recovered  that  his  health  formed 
no  reason  for  detaining  him.  If  he  chose  to  go  with  his  uncle,  he  must. 
If  not — what  then  ?     He  looked  at  Fernando,  who  sat  uneasily. 

*  You  hear  what  your  uncle  says  V  he  asked. 

*  I  told  him,'  said  Fernando,  ^  I  must  wait  for  a  fortnight.'  He  spoke 
with  eyes  cast  down,  but  not  irresolutely. 

His  uncle  broke  out — He  knew  what  that  meant ;  it  was  only  tliat  he 
might  be  flattered  by  the  Bishop  and  all  the  ladies,  and  made  a  greater 
fool  of  than  ever.  No,  no,  he  must  be  out  again  by  May,  and  he  should 
just  have  time  to  take  Fernan  to  one  of  the  gay  boarding-houses  at 
Saratoga,  and  leave  him  there  to  enjoy  himself. 

'I  have  letters  from  my  father,'  said  Fernando,  looking  up  to  Mr. 
Audley,  ^  before  he  went  to  the  Oregon.     He  said  nothing.' 

'  Do  you  wish  to  stay?'  said  Mr.  Audley,  feeling  that  all  depended  on 
that,  and  tr3ring  to  hide  the  whirl  of  anxiety  and  disappointment  he 
felt. 


THB  PILLABS  07  THE  HOUSB.  69 

The  answer  was  not  wbat  he  expected.  Fernando  sat  upright  in  his 
chair,  looked  up  to  him  and  then  at  his  unde,  and  said  low  but  resolutelji 
*  I  will  stay.' 

^  Then  you  shall  stay/  said  Mr.  Audley. 

*  You  have  worked  upon  him,  I  see,  Sir,  with  your  old-world  prejudiced 
superstition,'  said  Alfred  Travis,  evidently  under  the  delusion  that  he  was 
keeping  his  temper.  'A  proper  fool  my  brother  was  to  leave  him  to 
you.  But  you  do  it  at  your  peril.  I  shall  see  if  there's  power  even  in 
this  old  country  to  keep  a  boy  from  his  own  relations.  You'll  see  me 
again,  Feman.     You  had  better  make  ready.' 

The  words  were  not  unaccompanied  with  expletives  such  as  had  never 
been  personally  uttered  to  Charles  Audley  before,  and  that  brought  the 
hot  colour  into  his  cheek.  When  he  looked  round,  Femando's  face  was 
covered  with  his  hands.  *  Oh !  Mr.  Audley,'  he  cried,  as  his  uncle  hastily 
shut  the  door,  '  is  he  going  to  send  for  the  police  V 

^  I  do  not  believe  he  can  do  any  such  thing,'  said  Mr.  Audley,  seeing 
that  Fernando  was  in  great  nervous  agitation.  '  I  have  authority  from 
your  father,  he  has  none ;  and  you  are  old  enough  to  make  your  own 
decision.     You  really  mean  and  wish  to  stay  V  he  added. 

'  I  told  him  so  from  the  first,'  said  Fernando. 

*  Then  he  has  no  power  to  force  you  away.' 

Fernando  was  silent.  Then  he  said,  '  If  I  could  have  gone  after  my 
Baptism.' 

'  Would  you  have  wished  that?'  said  Mr.  Audley,  somewhat 
disappointed. 

The  tears  were  now  on  the  long  black  lashes. 

'  Oh,  don't  think  me  ungrateful,  or — '  But  this  English  life  does  come 
over^me  as  intolerably  dull  and  slow.  No  life  nor  go  in  it.  Sometimes 
I  feel  sick  of  it ;  and  going  back  to  books  and  all,  after  what  I  have  been 
used  to.  If  my  uncle  could  wait  for  my  Baptism,  or,'  more  hesitating, 
'  if  I  could  be  baptized  at  once.  Men  do  lead  Christian  lives  out  there. 
I  would  try  to  keep  from  evil,  Mr.  Audley.  I  see  your  face !  Is  this 
another  temptation  of  the  devil?' 

'I  think  it  is  an  attempt  of  his,'  said  Mr.  Audley  sadly.  *  Even  here 
you  have  not  been  able  to  abstain  entirely  from  giving  way  to  your  old 
passion,  when  you  had  little  temptation,  and  felt  your  honour  bound. 
What  wiU  it  be  when  you  have  comparatively  no  restraint?' 

'I  am  resolved  not  to  go  unbaptized,'  said  Fernando.  'I  said  so  from 
the  first,  but  he  will  not  wait !    Yet  if  my  father  sends  for  me  I  must 

go.' 

*  Then  it  will  be  your  duty,  and  you  will  have  more  right  to  look  for 

help.  Besides,  a  summons  from  your  father  could  not  come  for  three  or 
four  months,  and  in  that  time  you  would  have  had  time  to  gain  something 
in  Christian  practice  and  training.' 

'Oh,  there  is  the  bell!  Must  you  go,  Mr.  Audley?  He  will  come 
back!' 


70  THK  MONTHLY  PACMJT. 

^I  wish  I  could  stxfj  but  Smith  is  gone  to  Dearport>  and  I  do  not 
know  whether  the  Rector  is  in.  Besides,  this  must  be  jonr  own  doing, 
Fernan,  not  mine.  I  shall  pray  for  you,  that  you  well  know.  Pray  for 
yourself,  for  this  is  a  real  crisis  of  life.  Gk)d  bless  you,  my  dear  boy.' 
He  laid  his  hand  on  the  head,  and  Fernando  looked  up  gratefully,  then 
said,  ^  You  nerer  did  that  before.  May  Lance  come  to  me,  if  he  is  not 
gone  V    . 

'  i  will  call  him,'  said  Mr.  Audley,  seeing  that  he  really  dreaded  being 
alone.  The  little  boy  was  on  the  stairs,  with  something  in  his  hand. 
*  Go  in  to  Fernan,'  he  was  told ;  *  he  wants  you.  What  hare  you  got 
there?' 

'This  queer  drawing.  Cherry  found  it  in  an  old  portfolio,  and  has 
been  copying  it.' 

It  was  Betzsch's  outline  of  the  chess-player,  and  it  almost  startled  Mr. 
Audley  by  its  appropriateness.  He  went  out  to  Evensong,  and  never  was 
more  glad  to  get  back  again  to  reinforce  the  feeble  garrison. 

Lance  opened  the  front-door  to  him.  ^I'm  so  glad  you  are  come  I'  he 
said ;  ^  Mr.  Bruce  is  there.' 

*  Not  the  uncle  I ' 

*  No,  only  Mr.  Bruce.' 

Mr.  Bruce  was  a  lawyer,  and  a  very  respectable  man,  in  whom  Mr. 
Audley  felt  confidence.  He  rose  at  the  clergyman's  entrance,  and  asked 
to  speak  to  him  in  another  room,  so  he  was  taken  into  the  little  back 
dining-room,  and  began — 'This  is  a  very  unpleasant  business,  Mr. 
Audley ;  this  gentleman  is  very  much  annoyed,  and  persuaded  that  he 
has  a  right  to  carry  off  his  nephew ;  but  as  I  told  him,  it  all  turns  upon 
the  father's  expressions.     Have  you  any  written  authority  from  him?' 

Mr.  Audley  had  more  than  one  letter,  thanking  him,  and  expressing  full 
satisfaction  in  the  proposed  arrangements  for  Fernando;  and  this  Mr. 
Bruce  thought  was  full  justification,  together  with  the  youth's  own  decided 
wishes.  The  words  were  likewise  clear,  by  which  William  Travis  had 
given  consent  to  his  son's  Baptism,  but  ther^  was  no  witness  of  them. 
Mr.  Bruce  explained  that  Alfred  Travis,  who  seemed  to  regard  Fernando 
as  the  common  property  of  the  brothers,  had  come  to  him  in  what  he 
gently  termed  '  a  great  state  of  excitement,'  complaining  of  a  Puseyite 
plot.  He  had  evidently  taken  umbrage  at  the  tone  of  the  letters  he  had 
opened  for  his  brother,  and  had  been  further  prejudiced  by  some  Dearport 
'timber-merchant  he  had  met  at  Liverpool,  who  had  told  him  how  the 
parson  had  got  hold  of  his  nephew,  and  related  a  farrago  of  gossip  about 
St.  Oswald's.  He  was  furious  at  the  opposition,  and  could  not  understand 
that  law  in  the  old  country  was  powerless  in  this  case,  because  he  was 
neither  father  nor  guardian.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  be  master  of  his 
brother ;  and  Mr.  Bruce  told  Mr.  Audley  that  it  was  quite  to  be  considered 
whether  though  law  was  on  his  side  now,  the  father  might  not  be  brought 
over  to  the  brother's  side,  be  very  angry  at  the  detention  of  the  boy,  and 
refuse  the  payment ;  which,  while  he  was  in  America,  could  not  be  forced 


THE  PILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  71 

from  him.  Of  that  Mr.  Audley  could  happily  afford  to  run  the  risk ; 
and  Mr.  Bruce  eaid  he  had  also  set  before  the  young  gentleman  that  he 
might  have  to  suffer  much  displeasure  &om  his  father  for  his  {Hresent 
refusal,  although  his  right  to  make  it  was  incontestable.  To  this 
Fernando  had  likewise  made  up  his  mind ;  and  Mr.  Bruce,  who  had  never 
seen  him  before,  thought  he  looked  utterly  unfit  for  a  long  journey  and 
sea  voyage,  so  that  the  uncle  had  taken  nothing  by  his  application  to  the 
law. 

Fernando  was  flushed  and  panting,  but  more  resolute,  for  resentment  at 
the  attempt  at  force  had  come  to  back  him  up,  and  rouse  the  spirit  of 
resistance.  Not  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  before  there  was  another  ring 
at  the  door.  The  uncle  and  the  lawyer  were  come  together  now.  It 
was  to  make  a  last  offer  to  Fernando ;  Mr.  Alfred  Travis  offered  to  take 
him  up  to  London  the  next  day,  and  there  to  have  advice  as  to  the  safety 
of  the  voyage,  in  the  meantime  letting  him  be  baptized,  if  nothing  else 
would  satisfy  him,  but  by  some  London  clergyman — ^not  one  of  the 
Bexley  set,  whom  the  uncle  regarded  with  such  aversion. 

Fernando  drew  himself  up,  and  stood,  leaning  on  the  end  of  the  sofa. 
^  Thank  you,  Uncle,'  he  said,  ^  I  cannot.  I  am  obe3ring  my  father  now, 
and  I  will  not  leave  those  to  whom  he  trusted  me.' 

There  followed  a  volley  of  abuse  of  his  English  obstinacy  and  Spanish 
pride,  and  canting  conceit,  which  made  Mr.  Bruce  stand  aghast,  and 
Fernando  look  up  with  burning  cheeks  and  eyes  glowing  like  hot  coals ; 
but  with  the  Ladian  impassibility,  he  did  not  speak  till  Alfred  Travis 
had  threatened  him  not  only  with  his  father's  displeasure,  but  with  being 
cast  off  by  both,  and  left  to  his  English  friends'  charity. 

^My  father  will  not!'  said  Fernando.  'If  he  sends  for  me  I  will 
come.'  But  there  his  strength  suddenly  collapsed,  and  he  was  forced  to 
sit  down  and  lean  back. 

'Well,  Feman,'  said  his  uncle,  suddenly  withdrawing  his  attempt 
when  he  found  it  vain,  '  you  seem  hardly  in  marching  order,  so  I'm  off 
by  the  night  train ;  but  if  you  change  your  mind  in  the  next  week, 
write  to  me  at  Peter  Brown's — ^you  know — and  I'll  run  down.  I  will 
save  you  the  coming  out  by  yourself.     Good-bye.' 

Mr.  Bruce  tarried  one  moment  to  aver  that  he  was  unprepared  for 
his  client's  violence,  and  that  he  thought  the  nephew  had  done  quite 
right 

The  door  was  shut,  and  Mr.  Audley  came  back  holding  out  his  hand, 
but  Fernando  did  not  take  it.  He  was  occupied  in  supporting  himself 
by  the  furniture  from  the  sofa  to  the  fire-place,  where,  holding  by  the 
mantel-piece  with  one  hand,  he  took  his  dice  from  his  pocket  with  the 
other,  and  threw  them  into  the  reddest  depth.  Then  he  held  the  hand 
to  Mr.  Audley,  who  wrung  it,  and  said,  '  It  has  been  a  hard  fight,  my 
boy.' 

Fernando  laid  his  weary  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  said,  '  If  my  father 
is  not  poisoned  against  me !' 


72  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'  Do  not  fear  that,  Fernando.  Tou  are  where  he  left  you.  You  have 
given  up  something  for  the  sake  of  jour  new  Lord  and  Master ;  you  will 
have  His  armour  another  time.' 

Fernando  let  himself  be  helped  to  sit  down,  and  sighed.  He  was 
thoroughly  worn  out,  and  his  victory  was  not  such  as  to  enliven  his 
spirits.  He  took  up  the  drawing  that  lay  on  the  table,  and  gazed  on  it 
in  a  sort  of  dreamy  fascination. 

'  jTou  have  checked  him  this  time,'  said  Mr.  Audley. 

*Here  or  there,  I  will  never  bet  again,'  said  Feman  solemnly. 
*  Gk)d  help  me  to  keep  the  resolution !  It  is  the  one  thing  that  I  care 
for,  and  I  know  I  should  have  begun  the  first  day  I  was  away  from 
you.' 

^  I  think  that  with  those  tastes  you  cannot  make  too  strong  a  resolution 
against  it,'  said  Mr.  Audley. 

Their  dinner  was  brought  in,  but  Fernando  had  no  appetite.  He  soon 
returned  to  his  chess-player,  and  seemed  to  be  playing  over  the  game, 
but  he  was  too  much  tired  for  talk,  and  soon  went  to  bed ;  where  after 
a  short  sleep,  feverishness  set  in,  bringing  something  approaching  to 
delirium.  The  nurse  had  gone  a  fortnight  previously;  but  as  he  was 
still  too  helpless  to  have  no  one  within  call,  Felix  slept  on  the  bed  in 
the  comer  of  the  room. 

When  he  came  down,  the  opening  of  the  door  was  greeted  by  *  Don't 
let  him  come !     Is  Mr.  Audley  there  V 

*  Yes,  he  is  not  gone.' 

Then  he  knew  Felix,  but  soon  began  again  to  talk  of  the  game  at 
chess,  evidently  mixing  up  his  uncle  with  the  personage  with  the  long 
feather. 

^He  has  been  checked  once.  I've  taken  one  piece  of  his.  He  is 
gone  now.  Will  he  come  back  after  my  Baptism  t  No ;  I  shall  go  to 
him.' 

This  lasted  till  past  midnight,  when,  as  they  were  deliberating  whether 
to  send  for  Mr.  Hugg,  he  fell  soundly  asleep,  and  awoke  in  the  morning 
depressed,  but  composed  and  peaceful ;  and  this  state  of  things  continued. 
The  encounter  with  his  uncle,  and  the  deliberate  choice,  had  apparently 
given  some  shock  to  his  nerves ;  and  whenever  night  recurred,  there  came 
two  or  three  hours  of  misery,  and  apparently  of  temptation  and  terror. 
It  took  different  forms.  Sometimes  it  was  half  in  sleep — the  acting  over 
again  of  one  or  two  horrible  scenes  that  he  had  partly  witnessed  in  the 
Southern  States,  when  an  emancipator  had  been  hunted  down,  and  the 
slaves  who  had  listened  to  him  savagely  punished.  In  spite  of  his  Spanish 
blood,  the  horror  had  been  ineffaceable ;  and  his  imagination  connected 
it  with  the  crowd  of  horrors  that  had  revealed  themselves  to  his  awakened 
conscience.  He  seemed  to  think  that  if  he  lost  in  the  awful  game  of 
life,  he  should  be  handed  over  to  that  terrible  slave-master ;  and  there 
were  times  when  Diego's  fate,  and  his  own  lapses,  so  fastened  on  his 
mind,  as  to  make  him  despair  of  ever  being  allowed  to  quit  that  slave- 


THE  PILLARS  OP  THE  HOUSE.  73 

master's  dominions ;  and  that  again  joined  with  alarm  lest  his  uncle 
fihoiild  return  and  claim  him. 

Sometimes,  likewise,  the  old  wandering  life,  with  the  flashes  of 
roUicking  mirth  and  excitement,  rather  glimpsed  at  and  looked  forward 
to  than  really  tasted,  would  hecome  so  alluring  a  contrast  to  the  flat  and 
tasteless — ^nay,  as  it  seemed  to  him  tedious  and  toilsome — future  sketched 
out  for  him ;  and  the  restraints  and  constant  watchfulness  of  a  Christian's 
life  appeared  so  dbtressing  a  bondage,  that  his  soul  seemed  to  revolt 
against  it,  and  he  would  talk  of  following  his  uncle  at  once  to  London 
while  yet  it  was  time,  and  writing  to  him  the  next  morning.  This  state 
was  sure  to  be  followed  by  a  passion  of  remorse,  and  sheer  delirious 
terror  lest  he  should  be  given  up  to  the  enemy,  who  seemed  to  assume  to 
his  fancy  now  the  form  of  his  uncle.  A  great  deal  was  no  doubt 
delirious,  and  this  betrayed  the  struggles  which  he  had  been  for  weeks 
fighting  out  in  silence  and  apparent  impassiveness ;  but  it  was  impossible 
not  to  feel  that  therewith  was  manifested  the  wrestling  with  the  Prince  of 
darkness,  ere  his  subject  should  escape  from  his  territory,  and  claim  the 
ransom  of  his  manumission.  Mr.  Audley — after  the  second  night — would 
not  let  Felix  remain,  but  took  the  watch  entirely  on  himself,  and  fought 
the  battle  with  the  foe  by  prayer  and  psalm.  Sleep  used  to  come  before 
morning;  and  by  day  Fernando  was  himself  again,  very  subdued  and 
quiet,  and  in  fact  having  lost  a  good  deal  of  ground  as  to  health. 

Strange  to  say,  the  greatest  pleasure  he  had  at  this  time  was  sitting 
in  the  up-stairs  parlour.  The  custom  had  begun  in  consequence  of  his 
nervous  shuddering  at  being  left  alone  lest  his  uncle  should  return,  and 
Felix  and  Geraldine  had  then  proposed  taking  him  to  their  mother,  who 
was  rather  interested  than  annoyed  by  his  presence,  and  indeed  all  her 
gentle  motherly  instinct  was  drawn  out  by  his  feebleness  and  lameness ; 
she  talked  to  him  kindly  and  quite  rationally,  and  he  was  wonderfully 
impressed  and  soothed  by  her  tenderness.  It  was  so  utterly  unlike 
anything  he  had  ever  even  seen,  that  he  watched  her  with  a  sort  of  awe ; 
while  Cherry  worked,  read  aloud,  or  drew,  and  felt  proud  of  being  able 
to  fetch  what  was  beyond  the  capacity  of  her  little  errand-boy,  Bernard. 
.  The  children,  too,  entertained  him ;  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  Bernard's 
roughness,  but  delighted  in  watching  him,  and  he  and  little  Stella  were 
intensely  admiring  friends.  She  always  knew  him,  cooed  at  him,  and 
preferred  the  gold  of  his  watch-chain  to  all  things  in  nature  or  art. 
Then  when  Wilmet,  Angela,  and  Lance,  came  home,  and  family  chatter 
began,  the  weary  anxious  brain  rested ;  and  even  in  that  room,  so  sad 
to  most  eyes,  Fernando  began  to  realize  what  Christian  peace  and 
cheerfulness  could  be. 

(7b  be  continued.') 


74  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


BYGONES. 

BY  A-  MILUKOFF. 

TRi.K8I.ATED   FROM   THE  SU6B  BT  H.  C.   BOUAHOFF. 

CHAPTER  I. 
FIBST   RBOOLLECTIONS. 

The  life  of  man,  however  unobserved  it  may  pass,  unites  itself  in  a 
fine,  though  frequently  unseen,  thread  in  the  wide  web  of  its  times. 
Draw  out  but  one  such  thread,  and  it  will  give  you  a  notion  not  only 
of  the  nature  of  the  material  itself,  but  even  of  the  character  of  its 
texture,  pattern^  and  colour.  Such  is  the  signification  of  the  memoirs  in 
which  our  times  are  so  rich.  I  do  not  speak  of  those  of  persons  who 
played  important  parts  in  the  social  drama,  or  who  were  even  merely 
subordinate  assistants  in  it — such  reminiscences  belong  to  history.  But 
the  narratives  of  spectators,  who  view  the  scene  from  a  distance,  or  at 
intervals,  may  be  not  entirely  without  interest,  if  only  they  relate  what 
they  have  seen  and  heard  correctly. 

My  own  first  recollections  are  mingled  inseparably  with  what  I  heard 
and  gathered  from  the  conversations  of  my  father  and  mother.  Through 
the  mist  of  long  past  years  certain  imperfect  images  seem  to  move  and 
act ;  now  it  appears  to  me  as  though  I  had  seen  them  in  reality — now 
as  though  they  existed  only  in  the  narratives  of  our  household.  For 
this  reason  I  must  beg  my  readers  not  to  seek  strict  order,  brightly- 
coloured  pictures,  or  highly  finished  portraits,  in  the  following  sketches. 
He  will  find  neither  a  drama  nor  a  novel,  but  merely  a  series  of 
episodes  of  the  past^  in  the  narration  of  which  my  endeavour  has  been 
to  adhere  to  the  truth  without  having  recourse  either  to  invention  or  to 
ornaments. 

At  the  time  from  which  I  date  my  recollections  we  lived  at  Moscow, 
not  far  from  the  New  Maiden  Monastery.*  My  father  served  ai 
accountant  to  his  cousin,  Simeon  Afanasievitch,  who  bad  a  cotton*print 
manufactory,  which  still  exists,  though  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  a 
third  party  long  ago.  I  remember  the  place  vividly.  At  the  right  hand 
of  the  monastery,  on  the  field  itself,  stretches  a  brick  edifice  of  two 
storys  high,  where  formerly  from  early  morning  might  be  heard  a 
tremendous  noise,  as  if  iiundreds  of  cooks  were  chopping  with  their 

*  Celebrated  in  Rassian  histor}'.  It  was  founded  in  1398,  and  contains  within  its 
walls  eight  churches.  It  is  remarkable  as  having  been  the  place  of  incarceration,  by 
her  brother  Peter  the  Great,  in  1686,  of  the  Tzarevna  Sophia,  who  was  the  cause  of 
great  disturbances  at  the  beginning  of  his  reign.  She  subsequently  became  a  nun. 
{Trans.) 


BYGONES.  75 

knives  in  a  giant'a  kitchen.  This  was  the  printing-house.  At  the  back 
of  the  premises  stood  a  wooden  building,  the  drying-house,  where  endless 
lengths  of  bright-coloured  prints,  just  fresh  from  the  press,  might 
constantly  be  seen :  further  were  the  dye-house  and  other  offices 
belonging  to  the  factory. 

I  seldom  entered  these  places ;  in  fact,  I  was  not  allowed  to  go  there 
in  consequence  of  an  adventure  of  mine.  I  was  found  once  upon  a 
time  beneath  the  feet  of  the  horses  which  were  at  work  at  the  mill. 
My  nurse  told  me  afterwards  that  the  groom  had  left  them  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  in  his  absence  I  contrived  to  get  into  the  circle  where  the 
horses,  fulfilling  their  accustomed  duty,  walked  composedly  over  my  very 
head! 

Attached  to  the  principal  body  of  the  edifice  was  a  brick  wing  to  the 
left,  also  two  storys  in  height.  In  the  lower  one  was  the  counting- 
house,  with  our  little  quarters ;  and  up-stairs  lived  my  uncle,*  Simeon 
Afanasievitch.  From  this  upper  story,  which  was  decorated  with 
tasteless  luxury,  a  broad  fiight  of  steps  led  to  the  garden,  with  its 
shady  alleys  and  its  pond ;  it  sloped  down  to  the  brink  of  the  Moskva 
river,  where,  at  the  end  of  the  principal  alley,  was  a  large  arbour,  near 
which  our  workmen  rinsed  the  prints  after  they  were  dried,  on  a  sort 
of  platform.  I  liked  to  watch  the  red,  green,  and  blue  lengths  as  they 
floated  down  the  current  like  gigantic  snakes ;  now  diving  beneath  the 
surface  of  the  water,  now  rising  above  in  puffy  folds.  Tliey  used  to 
be  thrown  out  into  the  river  at  the  whole  length  of  the  piece;  they 
were  then  drawn  on  to  the  platform,  when  two  strong  workmen  would 
set  to  to  beat  them  with  wooden  bats  alternately,  as  two  smiths  hammer 
iron. 

The  dwelling-house  and  garden,  I  was  told,  were  renovated  soon  aft^r 
the  invasion  of  the  French.  My  uncle  mcuried  at  the  same  time  a 
novice  from  the  New  Maiden  Monastery,  who  smote  his  heart  by  the 
effect  of  her  fair-haired  plaits,  hanging  down  on  her  black  garment,  and 
by  the  graceful  lissomeness  of  her  low  bows  before  the  superior  nuns; 
and  indeed  he  would  hardly  have  found  a  better  wife.  Both  were  stout, 
fair  and  rosy,  with  cheeks  as  soft  as  down- pillows,  and  with  tastes  and 
likings  precisely  similar.  Thus  the  young  novice  became  the  rich 
mistress  of  a  house,  and  her  husband  filled  it  with  all  sorts  of  inventions 
for  her  amusement  and  comfort.  I  used  to  hear  so  much  of  the  rebuilding 
and  decorating  of  this  said  house,  that  I  remember  all  the  particulars 
relating  to  them. 

Having  made  up  his  mind  to  do  the  thing  handsomely,  my  uncle  sent 
for  an  architect 

'  Listen,  Brother,'  began  Simeon  Afanasievitch.  ^  This  is  what  I  have 
sent  for  you  about.  I  want  to  build  a  new  dwelling-house,  and  plant 
a  garden.  I  hear  that  you  are  a  first-rate  hand  at  such  matters.  Now 
can  you  accomplish  such  a  task  to  my  satisfaction  ?' 

*  Cffusins  of  parents  are  called  uncles  and  aunts  by  Russian  children. 


76  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Of  course  the  architect  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

'Well,  then,  Brother,'  continued  my  uncle,  Misten  to  what  I  say. 
The  house  must  extend  from  the  works  to  the  garden.  In  the  first  floor 
I  must  have  the  counting-house  and  .apartments  for  the  clerks ;  and 
up-stairs,  where  I  and  my  wife  shall  live,  you  roust  make  a  saloon,  with 
two  rows  of  pillars,  Brother,  and  a  musical-gallery  at  one  end,  so  that 
when  I  wish  I  may  have  a  band  of  music,  or  a  choir  of  church  singers. 
All  the  rest  of  the  rooms  you  may  arrange  according  to  your  own 
judgement.     Now  can  you  manage  all  this?' 

*  Certainly,'  replied  the  architect. 

'  Well,  then,  draw  a  plan  for  me  to  see.  But  in  the  saloon  I  must 
have  a  painted  ceiling.' 

*  And  that  can  be  done  too.' 

'  AlaOj  that  a  communication  with  the  garden  be  contrived  from  the 
saloon.  I  wish  the  garden  to  extend  to  the  brink  of  the  river — paths 
and  alleys  all  round,  and  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowers  according  to  the 
rules  of  taste.  And  arbours  and  summer-houses.  Perhaps  you  have 
observed  that  there  is  a  little  pond  in  the  garden?  Well,  then,  you 
have  it  dug  out  so  as  to  make  it  larger,  and  contrive  an  island  in  it,  with 
an  arbour  in  the  middle,  surrounded  with  lilacs  and  biburnums.  We 
will  take  tea  there  sometimes  in  the  summer.  And  don't  forget  that  we 
must  have  a  boat  on  the  water.  On  the  side  where  the  bank  is  higher, 
make  a  landing-place  for  the  boat,  and  two  paths,  one  above  ground, 
and  another  subterranean.  On  the  other  side  of  the  lake  I  intend  to 
have  a  labyrinth — rounds  within  rounds,  you  know,  paths  within  paths, 
like  the  labyrinth  at  Tzaritzln,  so  that  a  body  may  lose  himself  in  ift. 
You  understand  ? ' 

'  Certainly.     But  all  this  will  cost  a  little  fortune.' 

'That  is  another  aflUir,  which  we  will  talk  about  afterwards.  And 
in  the  meantime  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  get  it  all  ready  on 
paper.' 

When  the  architect  brought  the  plans  for  approval,  Simeon  Afanasievitch 
sent  for  his  elder  brother,  whom  he  employed  as  cashier,  to  consult 
him  on  the  subject.  He  was  a  tall,  thin,  elderly  man,  who  did  nothing 
but  pore  over  his  everlasting  accounts,  or  read  the  Lives  of  the  Saints, 
an  enormous  volume  bound  in  an  old-fashioned  leather  binding,  and  soiled 
with  drops  of  wax.  *  On  being  informed  of  the  whimsical  plans  his 
brother  contemplated,  he  looked  very  grave,  and  made  a  speech  to  the 
following  effect : — 

'  £kh !  Brother  Simeon !  it  is  not  a  business-like  piece  of  business  that 
you  are  at  Why  should  you  throw  away  your  hard-earned  capital  on 
such  fancies?  Are  you  a  grand  gentleman,  pray?  As  for  choirs,  you 
can  always  hear  psalm-singing  in  God's  Temple.  And  these  subterranean 
vaults  and  labyrinths  of  yours,  it  is  the  Evil  One  that  has  put  them  into 
your  head  to  your  everlasting  destruction.     Have  you  considered  what 

♦  From  the  taper  used  at  religious  exercises.  {Trans. ^ 


BTGONBS.  77 

joa  are  about  t  In  those  labyrinths  your  soul  will  wander  in  utter 
darkness.  If  you  would  but  think  of  your  soul  I  Of  course  you  have 
earned  your  own  riches,  and  have  the  right  to  use  them  as  you  please, 
but  still  it  would  be  far  better  if  you  were  to  ask  understanding  from 
the  Lord ;  and  instead  of  digging  out  caves  for  the  devil,  build  a  temple 
to  God.  Tour  soul  then  would  not  wander  about,  and  you  would  be 
preparing  a  road  for  yourself  straight  to  Paradise.' 

'  I  presented  a  church  bell  to  the  monastery  not  long  ago.' 

*  I  know,'  persisted  the  pious  old  man ;  '  but  what  profit  will  the  labyrinth 
bring  you  t  Look  at  our  parish  church !  just  as  the  French  left  it,  it 
stands — rained  I  Renovate  it,  and  you  will  benefit  your  own  soul,  and 
good  people  will  respect  you.  Even  the  Emperor  himself  wUl  shew  you 
his  favour,  and  send  you  a  gold  medal?' 

'A  gold  one?' 

^  If  you  do  not  know  that  yourself,  ask  other  people !  If  you  do  not 
grudge  your  capital,  act  to  the  honour  of  our  family.  Your  subterranean 
passages,  when  you  die,  will  fall  in  and  be  done  with,  while  the  church 
will  stand  for  ever  and  ever  to  the  honour  of  your  name.' 

This  conversation  had  its  effect  on  Simeon  Afanasievitch ;  and  they 
say  that  for  the  whole  of  that  day  he  would  not  let  anybody  come  near 
him,  but  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  deep  thought.  The  next 
morning  he  sent  again  for  the  architect,  and  proposed  for  his  solution  a 
new  puzzle. 

*  You  see.  Brother  of  mine,'  began  my  uncle,  ^  I  have  sent  for  you  to 
talk  about  another  affair.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  raise  a  temple 
to  the  Lord.  You  see  our  parish  church  remains  in  its  desolate  state, 
just  as  the  French  left  it;  so  I  intend  to  renovate  it  One  must  think 
of  one's  soul,  Brother !  Please  to  draw  me  a  plan  for  it,  with  a  belfry. 
I  should  wish,  Brother,  that  there  be  three  altars,*  one  in  the  name  of 
the  Seventh  Council,'|'  in  remembrance  of  the  day  when  the  French  ran 
away  from  Moscow ;  ^nd  the  other  two  to  remain  as  before — St.  John 
the  Baptist,  and  St.  Nicholas  the  Miracle  Worker.  But  build  the  house, 
and  lay  out  the  garden,  just  as  we  before  determined.  I  wish  to  please 
God,  and  to  make  myself  comfortable  abo.' 

The  building  of  St.  John  the  Baptist's  Church,  and  of  the  new  house, 
was  accordingly  commenced.  Both  were  finished  at  the  same  time ;  and 
the  consecration  of  the  new  church,  and  the  warming  of  the  new  house, 
took  place  on  the  same  day.  After  the  consecration,  his  Eminence  the 
Archbishop  was  invited  to  luncheon ;  and  on  this  occasion,  for  the  first 
and  I  believe  last  time,  the  Cathedral  choristers  sung  in  the  music- 
gallery  of  the  great  saloon.  My  nurse  used  to  relate,  with  a  certain 
degree  of  pride,  that  I,  then  an  infant  of  six  months  old,  was  brought 
to  the  Bishop  to  be  blessed,  as  the  only  rising  representative  of  the 

*  Chapels. 

t  lUb  October  celebrates  the  remembrance  of  the  Seventh  Council,  held  at  Kice 
in  787.  iTroM. 


78  TftK  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

family  of  the  builder  of  the  church.     In  this  same  house  passed  my  early 
child  liood. 

Simeon  Afana^iavitch  lived  on  the  most  afiectionate  terms  with  his  wife ; 
occupied  himself  with  his  manufactory,  and  neyer  interfered  in  the  house- 
keeping. In  the  morning  he  used  to  go  to  town,  or  sit  in  his  counting* 
house,  and  occasionally  visited  the  printing  and  dyeing  houses.  After 
dinner  the  plump  couple  always  took  a  nap,  which  lasted  till  tea-time. 
In  the  evening  they  used  to  drive  out  in  the  open  carriage,  and  in  wet 
weather  played  at  picquel  and  la  mouche.  On  Sundays  they  went  to 
Mass  at  the  Convent,  and  on  other  holy-days  to  such  churches  as 
celebrated  the  festival  of  their  patron  saints.  My  uncle  was  very  popular 
among  the  clergy  of  Moscow.  During  Christmas  and  Easter  weeks, 
large,  faded,  old-ftisliioned  carnages  roiled  up  in  endless  succession  to 
our  door,  and  from  them  issued  priests  or  monks,  while  up-stairs  might 
be  heard,  through  the  ceiling,  the  stifled  sounds  of  their  pious  songs. 
Twice  a  year  the  picture  of  our  Lady  of  Tver  used  to  be  brought  to  the 
house,  on  which  occasion  the  works  were  stopped,  and  crowds  of  workmen 
thronged  at  the  entrance  to  kiss  the  picture  as  it  passed  in  or  out. 

In  our  house  all  the  old-fashioned  Russian  customs  were  religiously 
observed.  The  baking  of  dough  larks  and  crosses,  *  the  burning  of 
Great- Thursday  salt,  the  dyeing  of  Easter  eggs,  and  preparation  of  bun* 
loaves  for  Easter  Day,  were  duly  performed  ;  on  the  appointed  days  we 
went  to  church  for  palm  boughs,  blessed  bread,  or  holy- water*  And  all 
this  was  looked  upon  as  serious  matters  of  religion.  In  like  manner 
were  observed  certain  customs  relating  to  housekeeping— the  salting  of 
cucumbers,  the  boiling  of  preserves,  the  preparation  of  kvass  and  home* 
made  wines,  and  the  chopping  of  cabbage  for  winter  use. 

This  last  process  resembled  more  a  heaihenish  festival,  it  must  be 
confessed,  and  guests  were  invited  to  it,  especially  young  men  and 
maidens.  In  a  large  room  were  placed  half  a  dozen  or  so  of  immense 
tubs,  and  heaps  of  cabbage-choppers  prepared ;  they  resembled  halberds, 
with  their  sharp  bright  edges  in  the  shape  of  a  half-moon.  Each  of 
the  invited  guests  took  possession  of  one  of  these  instruments,  suiting 
it  to  his  or  her  hand  as  a  billiard  player  does  his  cue.  Those  who 
were  more  or  less  acquainted  formed  parties  of  six  or  seven  round  one 
of  the  tubs;  and  wlien  the  cabbages  were  thrown  in,  the  halberds  began 
their  operations.  For  the  entre  acies,  while  the  servants  are  taking  out 
the  chopped  cabbage  and  substituting  whole  ones,  the  guests  partake  of 
tea,  coffee,  or  sweetmeats.  Besides  these  refreshmeuts,  a  table  cx>vered 
with  a  cloth,  on  which  stands  a  variety  of  bottles  of  wine,  is  prepared, 
whither  not  only  the  men  and  elderly  ladies  repair  to  take  a  sip,  but  the 
young  girls  also ;  so  that  the  respectable  party,  at  first  serious  enough, 

*  The  larks  are  baked  on  9th  March,  on  which  day  are  remembered  by  the  Greco- 
Kassian  Church  *  Forty  Martyrs/  who  are  said  to  have  been  fed  by  larks  during  a 
cruel  imprisonment.  The  crosses  are  made  on  Wednesday  of  the  fourth  week  of 
Lent,  that  being  the  middle  day  of  that  long  and  trying  fast.  (Trans.) 


BTQOKES.  79 

becomes  hoar  bj  hour  more  and  more  animated,  and  in  the  evening 
terminates  in  a  joyous  festival,  to  the  sounds  of  singing  and  hearty 
laughter. 

Still  merrier  was  Christmas  time,  when  crowds  of  young  girls,  and 
among  them  two  or  three  youthful  novices  from  the  New  Maiden 
Convent,  assembled  at  my  aunts'.  In  the  evening  they  used  to  get  up 
chorus-singing  and  fortune- telling ;  they  melted  wax,  burnt  paper  folded 
in  the  form  of  a  fan  in  a  plate,  ran  to  look  at  the  moon,  and  to  ask  the 
names  of  passers-by*  at  the  yard  gates.  The  principal  ringleader  in 
all  these  amusements  was  a  young  lay-sister  of  the  Convent,  whom  we 
called  Galotchka,  f  from  her  black  dress  and  swarthy  complexion.  She 
was  a  rosy-cheeked,  Uack-eyebrowed  damsel,  with  a  turn-up  nose, 
always  merry,  mischievous,  and  chattering.  Whenever  she  came  the 
whole  house  was  enlivened ;  not  one  of  the  other  girls  could  sing  so 
many  songs,  not  one  knew  so  many  old  games  or  could  invent  such  new 
ones.  To  this  day  I  cannot  make  out  how  it  was  that  she  happened 
to  get  into  the  Convent,  and  how  she  managed  to  get  accustomed  to 
the  strictness  of  a  celL  She  always  called  me  her  bridegroom,  and  often 
bored  me  dreadfully  with  her  eternal  kisses. 

At  the  Carnival,  the  workmen  used  generally  to  make  two  icfe-hills ; 
one  in  the  yard,  for  themselves ;  and  the  other,  for  the  select  few,  in  the 
great  alley  of  the  garden.  Here  Galotchka  used  to  perform  great  feats. 
She  never  used  to  slide  down  in  a  sledge  like  other  girls,  but  on  a 
great  lump  of  ice  in  the  shape  of  a  cheese.  She  would  often  take  me 
on  her  knees,  and  holding  me  fast,  would  fly  down  the  hill  in  this  original 
and  frightful  manner.  It  sometimes  happened  that  our  sii^gular  equipage 
would  begin  to  twist  round  half  way  down,  and  we  would  roll  down  the 
rest  of  the  hiil  like  balls ;  at  the  bottom  my  fellow-traveller  would  fall 
to  kissing  me,  and  her  rosy  face  would  shine  with  frost  and  delight 

In  the  days  of  my  early  childiiood  our  house  was  still  full  of 
recollections  of  the  French  invasion  ;  and  indeed  there  was  much  to 
remember.  In  1812  the  corps  of  Marshal  Davoust  X  took  possession  of 
the  monastery,  undermining  the  walls,  and  surrounding  them  with  a 
trench  and  mound,  placing  batteries  at  different  parts  of  it.  A  camp 
was  pitched  on  the  Convent  field,  the  principal  wing  of  our  manufactory 
was  turned  into  a  barrack,  and  the  Marshal  himself,  with  his  staff,  took 
possession  of  my  uncle's  house,  which  at  that  time  had  but  one  story. 
Old  Sar^ly,  who  in  my  time  attended  to  the  mill-horses,  remained  at  our 
place  all  the  time  that  the  French  were  in  Moscow.  I  can  see  him 
now,  sitting  on  a  wooden  block,  and  occasionally  shouting  encouragement 
to  the  horses,  while  he  related  to  my  nurse  '  about  the  Frenchman.' 

*  In  order  to  aiKertain  the  names  of  their  future  husbands.  {TraM.) 

t  Diminutiye  of  GdOca^  or  Jackdaw.  (7rcui«.) 

X  One  of  Napoleon's  great  lieutenants,  afterwards  Prince  of  Eckmtthl,  Duke  of 
Aaerst&dt  and  Marshal  of  France.    Died  1829.  {Trans,) 


80  THB  MONTHLY  PACKBT. 

'He*  came,  did  that  robber,  jast  before  evening,'  said  the  old  man. 
'Our  works  had  been  stopped  three  days  already,  and  the  workmen 
dispersed  to  the  villages  for  fear  of  falling  into  his  hands.     We  contrived 
to  remove  part  of  the  goods,  though  not  all,  for  a  quantity  of  un printed 
goods  remained  here.     I  was  grinding  tobacco,  when  I  heard  a  shout, 
'He  is  coming!'    I  looked  out  of  window,  and   there  he  was,  sure 
enough!  the  foot-soldiers  marching,  with  the  cannons  following  them, 
and  all  moving  in  the  direction  of  the 'Convent.     When,  all  at  once,  I 
perceived  that  they  were  approaching  our  place!  the  gates  and  doora 
were  fastened,   but   the    wretch    burst   them   open,   and    rushed   into 
the  counting-house  and  drying-shed.      We   had  a  dye-maker  named 
Mktioushka,t  a  Vladimir  man ;  he  was  sleeping  in  the  receiving-room, 
where  the  dyes  were  kept,  and  the  weights  and  scales  for  weighing  them. 
Well,  two  Frenchmen  ran  in,  and  began  to  break  open  the  boxes  in 
which  the  dyes  were  kept  with  their  pikes.     The  lad  saw  that   his 
master's  goods  were  going  to  be  spoiled  from  mere  wantonness,  so  he  took 
up  a  weight  and  hurled  it  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  robbers,  and  bang 
he  fell  on  the  floor.     The  other  one  shot  at  Mktioushka,  but  missed  his 
aim,  and  Matioushka  ran  away,  climbing  over  the   fence.     He  came 
several  times  afterwards  to  the  works  but  was  not  recognized.     The  thief 
did  not  steal  much  that  time,  for  the  cavalry  arrived  and  made  them 
disperse.     A  lodging  was  prepared  for  the  Marshal  in  master's  house, 
for  Simeon  Afanasievitch  had  left  Moscow  the  day  before,  on  St.  Simeon 
Stylites'  day,  i  and  gone  to  Klin,  so  the  Marshal  slept  that  same  night  in 
our  house.     Every  morning  he  used  to  go  out ;  sometimes  to  the  Convent, 
to  see  how  the  mounds  and  trenches  were  getting  on,  or  to  the  camp  on 
the  field.     Sometimes  he  went  to  the  Kreml,  to  receive  advice  or  orders 
from  Bonaparte.     I  saw  him  too  ;  he  was  a  good-looking  man.     A  guard 
stood  at  our  door  and  at  the  gate,  but  they  did  not  drive  me  away ;  when 
he  mounted  his  horse  I  used  to  make  my  bow  to  him,  and  he  would 
glance  at  me,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  cap.     Once  I  wanted  to  go  to  him 
with  a  complaint.     The  Frenchman  drove  us — ten  or  a  dozen  of  us — to 
the  kitchen-gardens  at  Loujnitza,  to  dig  up  potatoes;  we  dug  the  whole 
day  without  either  eating  or  drinking,  and  then  he  loaded  us  with  the 
sacks  of  potatoes,  and  drove  us  home  exactly  like  horses.     And  the  next 
day  it  was  the  same  history.     I  wanted  to  beg  the  Marshal  to  let  us  off, 
you  know,  but  they  would  not  let  me  into  his  rooms.     So  I  waited  for 
him  in  the  yard,  and  when  he  came  out  I  fell  on  my  knees !     '  Have  mercy 
on  us,  your  Excellency!'  I  said:    'your  soldiers  worry  us  to  death! 
Be  so  extremely  kind  as  to  forbid  them  to  annoy  us.'     He  looked  at  me, 
and  then  said  something  to  an  ofBcer,  who  mumbled  an  answer  to  him  in 

*  The  Russian  soldier  and  peasant  always  speak  of  the  enemy,  Austrians,  Poles, 
&c.,  in  the  singular  number,  which  gives  peculiar  originality  to  their  DArratives. 
{Trans.) 

t  Diminutive  for  Matthew. 

t  Ist  September. 


B  Y60N1ES.  8 1 

their  tongue,  and  then  they  rode  away.  The  misfortune  waa  that  they 
could  not  understand  our  language.  However,  they  soon  lef^  off  driving 
us  about,  because  all  the  neighbouring  gardens  were  thoroughly  routed 
oat ;  there  was  nothing  left  to  dig  up.  When  the  time  arrived  for  them 
to  go,  the  Marshal  suddenly  disappeared,  and  the  soldiers  began  to  pack 
up  everything  they  could  lay  hands  on ;  and  then  we  began  to  understand 
that  they  would  soon  leave  us  in  peace.  On  St.  James  the  Apostle's 
Day,*  just  about  noon,  I  got  up  on  the  stove  to  have  a  nap  after  dinner ; 
suddenly  I  felt  such  a  shock,  that  I  thought  the  stove  was  crumbling 
beneath  me.  I  jumped  down,  and  ran  into  the  yard,  and  from  thence  I 
saw  a*  cloud  of  smoke  just  over  our  church  ;  that  galley-slave  of  a 
Frenchman  had  blown  it  up  with  gunpowder!  the  belfry,  crosses,  and 
cupola,  all  had  fallen  to  the  ground  !  And  the  Antichrist  wanted  to  send 
the  Convent  to  the  winds,  but  Sarah  IMcholaievna  saved  it ;  the  matches 
were  already  lighted,  but  she  put  them  all  out  Two  days  afterwards 
be  blew  up  the  Kreml,  and  then  left  Moscow  altogether.  Simeon 
Afanasievitch  lost  very  little ;  the  pictures  f  and  plate  were  packed  in 
boxes,  and  sunk  in  the  pond,  secured  by  heavy  stones ;  no  one  guessed  at 
their  being  there,  and  afterwards  we  got  them  out.  But  my  new  girdle, 
only  just  bought !  he  stole  it,  the  anathema !' 

I  recollect,  too,  Sarah  Nicholaievna,  whom  Savely  mentioned.  She 
used  occasionally  to  visit  my  aunt  on  holy-days.  A  small  one-horse 
carriage,  with  the  hood  put  up,  would  stop  at  our  door,  and  from  it  would 
spring  a  young  girl  in  a  dark  monastic  dress,  followed  by  a  tall  nun  in  a 
black  silk  cassock-like  garment,  and  a  high  black  velvet  hat  covered  with 
a  long  veil.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  staff,  like  those  used  by  priests^ 
leaning  on  which  she  ascended  the  stairs  actively  enough,  but  was 
supported  (for  the  mere  look  of  the  thing,  it  would  appear)  by  the  young 
novice.  She  never  stooped,  and  replied  to  the  bows  with  which  she  was 
welcomed  by  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head ;  and  they  always  used  to 
lift  me  up,  as  I  thought  very  high,  to  be  kissed  by  her.  This  nun  really 
did  save  the  New  Maiden  Convent  from  the  fate  that  befell  our  church. 

My  mother  often  related  to  me  how  Sarah  Nicholai^nna,  during  the 
whole  time  that  the  enemy  remained  in  Moscow,  defended  the  Convent 
to  which  she  belonged.  Having  become  aware  that  it  was  being  under- 
mined, she  contnved  to  procure  an  interview  with  Marshal  Davoust, 
and  implored  him  to  spare  the  sanctuary  for  its  historical  associations. 
But  her  prayers  were  of  no  avail ;  the  same  fruitless  revenge  that  would 
fain  have  destroyed  the  Kreml,  was  pointed  to  the  ruin  of  the  Convent. 

On  the  day  that  the  French  left  Moscow,  the  nuns  were  warned  to 
leave  the  monastery,  and  candidly  informed  that  an  explosion  would 
•bortly  take  place.     Sarah  Nicholaievna  again  hastened  to  Davoust,  but 

♦  9th  October. 

t  Of  the  Saints,  ornamented  with  settings  of  silver,  silver-gilt,  and  occnsionally 
gold,  and  with  precions  stones. 

VOL.  10.  6  PART  56. 


82  THE  MONTHLT  PACKET. 

was  not  admitted  to  his  presence.  Then  she  retarned  to  the  monastery, 
with  the  firm  determination  to  save  it  or  to  perish ;  and  ere  the  last  of  the 
French  Sappers,  who  had  lighted  the  train  which  led  to  the  mines,  had 
left  the  monastery  walls,  she  rashed  to  the  smoking  matches,  and  one  by 
one  extinguished  them  all,  and  the  Convent  was  saved.  Although  the 
French  remained  two  days  more  in  the  camp,  yet  thanks  to  the  energetic 
endeavours  of  this  nun  the  monastery  was  left  in  peace.  My  mother 
used  to  relate  this  act  of  devotion  on  the  part  of  her  favourite  with 
peculiar  reverence. 

One  evening  I  was  walking  in  the  garden  with  my  nurse,  when  we 
came  to  the  large  arbour ;  here,  at  the  tea-table,  sat  my  aunt,  and  by 
her  side  an  elderly  nun  with  a  grave  but  prepossessing  face.  It  was 
Sarah  Nicholalevna.  She  called  us  to  her,  bade  the  nurse  lift  me  up, 
and  kissed  me. 

*Do  you  know  " Our  Father?'*'  she  asked  me. 

*  Not  all,*  I  replied, 

*  Well,  say  what  you  do  know.' 

I  repeated  half  of  the  prayer,  and  she  patjed  my  cheek. 
'Would  you  like  to  be  my  novice?'  she  asked. 
I  looked  at  her  steadfastly. 

*  Did  you  ever  see  those  little  girls  of  ours  at  the  Convent,  with  the 
high  black  hats?' 

*Yes.' 

*  Well,  you  shall  have  just  such  another,  and  stand  in  the  choir  with 
them.     Only  learn  your  book  well.' 

After  this  promise,  whenever  my  mother  began  to  teach  me  a  new 
prayer,  I  always  asked  when  that  nun  would  give  me  the  high  black  hat. 

(To  be  continued.) 


NUNN'S  COURT. 

CHAPTER  I. 

'  Why  is  thy  conntenance  sad,  seeing  thon  art  not  sick  ?  this  is  nothing  else  bat 
sorrow  of  heart.  Then  I  was  very  sore  afraid,  and  said  unto  the  king,  Let  the  king 
live  for  ever :  why  should  not  my  countenance  he  sad,  when  the  city,  the  place  of 
my  fathers*  sepulchres,  lieth  waste,  and  the  gates  thereof  are  consumed  with  fire  ? 

Let  us  rise  up  and  build.    So  they  strengthened  their  hands  for  this  good  work.' 

*What  are  you  reading,  Johnny?     Put  down  your  book  for  a  little 
while,  and  hold  this  skein  of  wool  for  me !' 

The  boy  thus  addressed,  rose  slowly  from  the  floor,  where  he  had  been 
lying  with  his  feet  in  the  air,  and  put  down  the  book  as  directed. 


nunn's  court.  88 

*  Come,  Johnny,  don^t  be  dreaming,  or  yon  will  not  be  of  much  usel 
I  want  yoa  to  hold  this  skein,  that  I  may  wind  the  wool  into  a  ball.' 

*  All  right,  Gran'mother,  I  am  as  wide  awake  as  possible,'  answered 
the  boy,  in  a  very  un-wide-awake  tone. 

*  My  poor  slow  Johnny  V  said  the  old  lady,  as  she  proceeded  to  place 
the  skein  on  his  hands.  *  Now,  tell  your  granny  what  yoa  have  been 
reading.' 

'  Reading  1'  answered  the  boy,  as  if  his  thoughts  were  scattered  far 
and  wide,  *  reading !  Oh,  yes !  about  Nehemiah,  and  his  prayer  that  he 
might  restore  Jerusalem.' 

^  The  Bible,  Johnny !  Who  would  have  thought  you  were  reading  the 
Bible,  in  such  a  posture !' 

*  Well,  it  was  queer,'  he  rejoined,  with  a  6ash  of  fun  in  his  eyes,  that 
few  would  suspect  to  see  there ;  '  but  I  didn't  think.' 

*  Poor  Johnny  I    Well,  well — ^you  read  about  Nehemiah  V 

^  Yes,  I  did,'  the  boy  answered  slowly ;  and  again  a  dreamy  look  settled 
itself  on  his  face,  and  a  long  pause  ensued.  Suddenly,  with  a  peculiar 
burst  of  enthusiasm,  he  exclaimed,  '  O  Grandmother,  wasn't  it  a  glorious 
work  ?' 

The  old  lady  did  not  reply.  She  gazed  abstractedly  on  his  young 
face ;  watched  the  fire  of  enthusiasm  kindled  there,  gradually  die  out, 
and  the  old  dull  look  return  ;  then,  having  finished  winding  her  wool, 
she  put  the  ball  into  her  work-basket,  saying,  *  Thank  you,  Johnny ;  you 
can  read  again  now.' 

Johnny  drew  a  chair  to  the  table,  and  again  opened  the  Bible,  and 
having  found  the  place,  said,  'Let  me  read  to  you,  Gran'mother — it 
won't  be  a  new  discovery  that  I  am  a  bad  reader !' 

It  was  a  terrible  mumble  I  certainly  only  enjoyable  to  himself.  But 
once  more  his  whole  being  seemed  lit  up  as  he  read  Nehemiah's  answer 
to  the  king.  His  grandmother  interrupted  him  by  laying  her  hand  on 
his,  and  saying,  *  Read  it  again,  Johnny.'  And  Johnny  read  it  again ; 
and  afterwards  sat  still — and  perhaps  dreamed. 

After  their  early  dinner  was  over,  he  prepared  for  going  out. 

'  I  am  off  to  cricket,  Grandmother ;  so  good-bye,'  he  said,  as  he  bent 
down  to  kiss  her. 

*  Don't  be  dreaming,  boy,  and  so  get  bowled  out  unawares.' 

'  No  fear  of  that.  Granny  I  One  does  not  dream  at  cricket !'  And  off 
he  went,  leaving  his  grandmother  to  dream. 

Her  orphan  grandson !  Her  slow  Johnny,  not  quick  at  any  one  thing  I 
And  yet  why  did  she  smile  as  she  thought  of  him  ?  Why  was  it  that  she 
always  felt  happier  on  a  Saturday,  than  on  any  other  day  in  the  week  T 
True,  it  was  her  grandson's  holiday,  and  he  always  spent  the  morning 
with  her ;  but  then  he  seldom  spoke  to  her,  only  remained  on  the  fioor 
reading.  She  could  not  boast  of  anything  he  could  do  or  say,  and  yet 
abe  felt  proud  of  him.  Wherefore,  she  could  not  tell.  On  the  well-filled 
shelves  of  the  large  book-case  near  at  hand,  were  many  volumes,  whose 


84  THX  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

fly-leayes  bore  testimonj  to  the  high  scholastic  merit  of  Johnny's  father ; 
but  not  one  in  the  whole  collection  bore  any  witness  of  similar  merit  on 
Johnny's  part.  Opposite  to  the  old  lady,  were  hanging  side  by  side 
portraits  of  both  son  and  grandson ;  the  former  looking  forth  from  his 
frame  in  all  the  hey-day  of  manhood ;  his  handsome  features  and  noble 
bearing  well  portrayed,  and  seen  to  the  best  advantage  in  his  regimen  tals, 
of  which  his  mother  had  been  so  proud ;  and  yet,  even  now,  as  she  looks 
up  at  him  with  fond  admiration,  and  putting  down  her  knitting,  goes 
closer  to  the  portrait,  the  smile  that  plays  upon  her  face  has  not  so  much 
Batisfaction  in  it  as  when  she  turns  to  the  other  likeness,  and  involuntarily 
says,  *Poor  Johnny!'  A  dall-looking  face,  plain  features,  and  unruly 
hair,  are  its  chief  characteristics ;  yet  the  grandmother  is  proud  of  that 
likeness. 

When  Johnny  returned  from  the  cricket-field,  at  tea-time,  he  brought 
one  of  his  school-fellows  with  him,  whom  he  ushered  into  his  grand- 
mother's presence,  saying,  '  I  have  brought  Mortimer  back  with  me, 
Qranny.' 

'  And  I  am  very  glad  to  see  him,'  she  answered,  shaking  him  warmly 
by  the  hand. 

*  When  we  have  had  some  tea,  Granny,  you  will  come  out  with  us  a 
little  while?'  asked  Johnny. 

'I  will,'  she  answered;  then  turning  to  Mortimer,  said,  ^Have  you 
had  a  good  game  V 

'  Famous,  thank  you,  Ma*am,'  he  replied ;  ^  John  is  a  first-rate  hand 
Bi  cricket.' 

*  Because  he  throws  his  whole  mind  into  it,  I  suppose,'  observed  the 
old  lady. 

*  It  cannot  be  quite  that,  Ma'am ;  because  he  does  that  in  everything, 
and  yet  is  not  always  successful.' 

Johnny  laughed,  saying,  '  In  Latin  verse  excepted.' 
When  tea  was  over,  they  set  out  for  their  walk,  his  grandmother 
asking  Johnny  where  he  intended  going. 

*  This  way.  Granny,  please,'  he  answered ;  and  although  she  had  no 
definite  idea  of  what  'this  way'  included,  she  walked  on  passively. 

They  had  proceeded  some  way  in  silence,  when  Johnny,  pointing  to 
the  west,  exclaimed,  '  The  sun.  Granny  I' 
Mortimer  stopped. 

*  Please  stay  a  minute,  Mrs.  Treville,'  he  cried ;  '  how  beautiful  that 
cloud  is,  just  tipped  with  that  golden  light ! — John,  did  you  ever  see  a 
cloud  more  beautiful?' 

*  No,'  he  answered  slowly,  '  not  more  beautiful ;  because  the  sun  is 
shining  through  it' 

Mortimer  pressed  the  shoulder  on  which  he  had  placed  his  hand,  but 
said  nothing. 

Presendy  they  went  on.  They  passed  through  the  town,  leaving  its 
many  houses,  its  noise  and  bustle,  behind.    One  other  street  and  a  short 


nunn's  coukt.  85 

lane  lay  between  it  and  the  green  fields,  where  nature  dwelt  alone  in  all 
her  quiet  beauty.     In  the  short  lane,  Johnny,  whose  step  had  been 
gradually  slackening,  stopped,  saying  in  his  slow  tone  and  with  a  slight 
hesitation,  *  Grandmother,  Jemmie  lives  here,  and  I  want  to  see  him/ 
^  Jemmie  1     What  Jemmie  V 

*  Jemmie  Giles,  Ma'am,'  said  Mortimer;  'a  boy  who  plays  on  the 
flute,  and  comes  sometimes  into  our  play-ground,  at  school,  to  play 
to  us.* 

*  You  want  to  see  him  now,  Johnny  ?' 

*  Yes,  now,  Granny ;  in  his  own  home.' 

*  Where  does  he  live  V 

Johnny  pointed  to  a  winding  path  in  the  lane,  and  interpreting  a  silent 
gesture  as  permission  to  proceed,  he  went  on,  followed  by  his  companions, 
until  he  reached  a  small  passage  which  led  them  into  a  court  walled  in 
by  human  habitations.  Human  houses,  wherein  dwelt  human  hearts — 
the  best  work  of  God's  creation.  The  creature,  man,  made  in  the  image 
of  the  King  of  kings,  the  Lord  of  lords,  and  after  Hb  own  likeness. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  court  a  young  girl  stood  leaning  against  a  post ; 
and  by  her  side  a  young  man,  unwashed,  unshorn,  and  uncombed.  Her 
hair,  which  was  dark  and  glossy,  was  tied  back  from  her  face  with  a 
band  of  greasy  ribbon;  a  stnng  of  glass  beads  encircled  her  finely 
shaped  throat,  and  brass  bracelets  adorned  her  arms;  her  dress  was 
gaudy  and  torn.  Her  pretty  face  afforded  no  pleasure  to  the  beholder ; 
her  eyes,  so  dark  and  bright,  never  dropped  before  the  gaze  of  a  stranger, 
nor  looked  forth  from  their  fringe  of  lashes  with  that  innocent  and 
modest  glance  which  characterizes  pure  maidenhood ;  and  her  companion, 
with  whom  she  was  so  freely  and  boisterously  conversing,  had  every 
mark  of  dissipation  in  his  countenance  and  attire.  Surely  no  coin, 
however  thinly  battered  and  worn,  ever  had  monarch's  impress  so 
thoroughly  defaced. 

In  the  middle  of  the  court  there  was  a  gutter,  in  which  several  little 
children  were  dabbling  with  pleasure ;  and  at  the  farther  end  two  boys 
of  corresponding  age  were  having  a  light.  With  one  bound  Johnny 
rushed  between  the  two  combatants,  with  the  exclamation,  '  Now,  hands 
off!     I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Jemmie.' 

Jemmie  looked  much  ashamed  at  being  caught  by  one  of  the  young 
gentlemen  from  the  Grammar  School  in  such  a  predicament;  yet,  not 
having  quite  exhausted  his  rage  in  fighting,  could  not  help  muttering, 
*  He  had  no  right — ' 

*  I  dare  say  not,'  said  Johnny  soothingly ;  but  I  want  yon  to  get  your 
flute  now.'  Then,  turning  to  his  grandmother,  said,  '  He  has  a  sick  sister, 
would  you  like  to  see  her  ?' 

Mrs.  Treville  had  unconsciously  drawn  tightly  round  her  the  folds  of 
her  silk  dress,  and  the  idea  of  entering  one  of  the  cottages  was  by  no 
means  grateful  to  her  feelings,  and  therefore  she  was  much  relieved 
when  Jemmie,  who  had  passed  through  one  of  the  doors,  returned,  and 


86  THE  MOKTHLT  PACKET. 

asked  if  Hhe  lady*  would  mind  coining  another  day?      To  this  aha 
readily  assented. 

'  Now,  Jemmie,  where  is  your  flute  V  asked  Mortimer. 

'  I  never  play,  Sir,  in  this  court' 

*  Where  do  you  practise  then  ?' 

*  Far  off ;  on  a  bank  in  one  of  the  Tydville  fields.' 
^  But  you  will  play  here  now,  to  us?'  said  Johnny. 

The  boy  fetched  his  flute,  and  without  any  further  comment  com- 
menced an  air,  which  he  knew  was  a  particular  favourite  at  the 
Grammar  School. 

His  comrade  in  the  fight  drew  near  to  listen ;  and  the  little  children 
dabbling  in  the  gutter  ceased  their  sport,  attracted  by  the  sweet  notes  of 
Jemmie's  fiate.  Door  after  door  flew  open,  and  out  hurried  women  and 
children,  and  old  and  young  alike  gathered  around  the  youthful  musician. 
A  motley  group  of  human  forms — each  form  triune — the  image  of  its 
Maker,  but  where,  oh  where  the  likeness  I 

The  sweet  notes  which  the  untutored  boy  drew  forth  from  the  simple 
instrument  had  drawn  them  together.  Their  attention  was  absorbed  in 
the  unusual  sounds ;  and  for  a  few  minutes,  at  least,  peace  reigned  in 
the  court,  where  even  the  name  of  it  was  unknown — unknown  I  The 
song  of  the  Angelic  multitude,  which  ushered  in  the  Kingdom  of  peace, 
would  have  been  strange  notes  to  their  ears,  although  from  time  to  time, 
not  far  away,  the  same  strain  might  be  heard  proclaiming  the  same 
glorious  tidings  of  Peace  and  Goodwill. 

Thoughts  akin  to  these  rose  in  Edwin  Mortimer's  mind,  as  his^eye 
wandered  over  the  motley  group,  and  not  being  so  absorbed  in  the  music 
as  his  friend,  he  had  leisure  to  think.  Leaning  his  arm  on  Johnny's 
shoulder,  he  whispered,  'Are  these  Christians?' 

*  I  know  nothing  about  them,'  was  the  answer. 

With  the  last  note  of  Jemmie's  air,  arose  such  a  Babel  of  voices,  and 
the  coarse  language  that  followed  made  Mrs,  Treville  long  to  hasten 
away. 

Johnny  understood  the  look  she  gave  him,  so  saying,  'Good-bye, 
Jemmie,  and  thank  you ;  I  shall  come  again  next  Saturday,'  he  turned 
to  leave  the  court ;  but  while  Mrs.  Treville  lingered  to  put  a  shilling  into 
Jemmie's  hand,  he  caught  up  one  of  the  dirty  little  children,  and  shouted 
in  his  ear,  'When  I  come  again,  don't  let  me  find  you  playing  in  the 
gutter,  you  dirty  little  wretch !' 

'What  a  den!'  exclaimed  Edwin,  as  soon  as  they  were  in  the  lane 
again. 

'Ay,  indeed!'  observed  Mrs.  Treville,  'a  horrible  place! — Why, 
Johnny,  what  induced  you  to  take  us  there?  Have  you  been  there 
before  ?' 

'  No,  never,'  he  sighed ;  and  in  a  lower  voice,  added,  '  Grandmother, 
that  court  belongs  to  the  Tydville  estate.' 

'  My  poor  Johnny !' 


HiSTOBICAL  SKETCHES  OF  ILLUMINATION.  87 

'  How  did  you  make  that  discovery,  Treville  V  asked  Mortimer. 

*  I  saw  an  account  of  it  in  the  history  of  the  town ;  it  is  called 
*^  Nunn's  Court/'  because  once  a  convent  stood  there ;  and  when  Jemmie 
told  me  he  lived  there,  I  wanted  to  see  the  place.' 

'  And  can  nothing  be  done  ?' 

*  Nothing,  I  fear,'  answered  Mrs.  Treville,  'until  Johnny  is  of  age, 
because  the  present  holder's  lease  does  not  expire  before  that  time ;  and 
the  executors  will  not  interfere.' 

A  silence  ensued^  interrupted  by  Johnny  reminding  his  grandmother 
th^t  he  needed  some  new  stockings,  and  followed  by  a  conversation  on 
general  things. 

On  arriving  at  Mrs.  Treville's  door,  Johnny  said,  '  We  must  not  come 
in,  Granny ;  I  heard  the  chapel  bell  as  we  came  through  the  town,  and 
the  doctor  will  be  on  his  hind  legs  if  we  are  late.' 

She  did  not  seek  to  detain  them,  after  they  had  wished  her  good- 
night ;  and,  as  arm-in-arm  they  went  on  their  way,  Mortimer  asked  why 
Treville  could  not  have  gone  alone  to  Nunn's  Court. 

*  Because,'  was  the  reply,  'I  am  of  a  sociable  turn  of  mind,  and  likes 
company.' 

*  O  Treville !  you  never  will  give  a  reasonable  answer.' 

'  Simply  because,  old  fellow,  my  reasons  will  never  go  into  words.' 
No  more  passed  on  the  subject;  and  in  the  meanwhile  the  old  lady 
had  entered  her  lonely  home  ;  she  did  not  at  once,  as  usual,  go  up-stairs 
and  lay  aside  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  but  walked  straight  to  the  dining- 
room,  where,  stopping  before  the  portrait  of  her  son,  she  gazed  steadfastly 
upon  it.  Floating  in  her  memory  were  the  words  he  uttered  with  such 
deep  remorse,  a  few  days  before  his  departure  from  this  world.  '  Mother! 
in  no  part  of  my  life  can  I  have  been  said  to  have  done  what  I  could.' 
Her  soldier  son !    The  pride  and  darling  of  her  widowed  heart  I 

(7b  be  continued,) 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES  OF  ILLUMINATION. 

(IN  SIX  PARTS.) 

PART  VT. — ENGLISH  ILLUMINATION. 

The  first  Scriptorium  on  record  is  that  of  Canterbury,  which  was  founded 
by  St.  Augustine  on  his  arrival  in  England ;  though  St.  David,  who  lived 
in  the  same  century,  and  was  a  famous  scribe,  is  said  to  have  had  a 
scriptorium  in  his  monastery.  The  ancient  Scriptorium,  or  writing-room, 
was  a  large  apartment  fitted  up  with  forms  and  desks  at  which  the  scribes 
sat  and  wrote,  while,  generally,  someone  read  aloud.  In  some  monasteries 
this  was  a  part  of  the  regular  day's  work  for  the  monks,  and  the  boys 


88  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

connected  with  the  establishment  here  learned  the  art  and  practised  it. 
The  Service-books  were  chiefly  copied,  and  always  revised,  by  the  older 
monks ;  and  none  but  those  advanced  in  age  were  allowed  to  transcribe 
the  Holy  Scriptures.  A  few  of  the  older  monks  of  well-known  learning 
and  devotion  were  allowed  separate  cells,  in  which  they  might  study  or 
write  by  themselves.  Scribes  were  sometimes  hired  for  the  day  to  write 
in  the  Scriptorium,  who  received  their  ^commons'  from  the  kitchen;  but 
in  some  Orders  this  was  not  allowed.  In  early  times,  when  books  were 
very  scarce,  and  lending  discouraged,  each  abbey  multiplied  the  works 
which  it  possessed  for  the  purpose  of  sale ;  this  became  a  regular  source 
of  income  to  many  monasteries,  and  the  monkish  writers  are  thought,  by 
some,  to  have  thus  deprived  the  scribes  of  a  part  of  their  business.  Great 
care  was  observed  in  the  revision  of  the  scribes'  work,  as  was  obviously 
necessary,  since  the  least  mistake  might  be  multiplied  through  an  un- 
limited number  of  copies.  If  one  monastery  borrowed  a  book  from 
another,  it  was  obliged  to  deposit  some  security  of  the  same  value.  The 
following  is  an  example  of  the  adjurations  so  frequently  found  in  ancient 
MSS.  ^  I  adjure  you  who  shall  transcribe  this  book,  by  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  and  by  His  glorious  coming  Who  will  come  to  judge  the  quick 
and  dead,  that  you  compare  what  you  transcribe,  and  diligently  correct 
it  by  the  copy  from  which  you  transcribe  it — this  adjuration  also-^ond 
insert  it  in  your  copy.'  There  is  a  prayer  extant  in  a  French  MS.  of  the 
eighth  century,  for  the  consecration  of  a  Scriptorium,  which  also  shews 
the  reverence  with  which  such  work  was  regarded  in  the  monasteries : 
*  Vouchsafe,  O  Lord,  to  bless  this  scriptorium  of  Thy  servants,  and  all 
that  dwell  therein ;  that  whatsoever  sacred  writing  shall  be  here  read  or 
written  by  them  they  may  receive  with  understanding,  and  bring  the 
same  to  good  effect,  through  our  Lord,  &c.' 

The  common  transcribers  of  books  were  called  Scriptores  or  Librarii, 
and  they  also  were  employed  to  draw  up  all  legal  documents,  and  were, 
in  fact,  lawyers'  clerks.  The  Antiquarii  were  monks,  who  also  copied 
books,  and  they  are  thought  to  have  deprived  the  Scriptores  of  a  part  of 
their  business;  but  a  great  part  of  their  work  consisted  in  repairing 
old  books,  correcting  new  copies,  and  re-writing  erased  words.  The 
Illuminators  belonged  to  another  branch  of  the  profession,  and  seldom 
were  employed  in  writing. 

It  was  an  ancient  proverb  that  '  A  monastery  without  a  libraiy  was 
like  a  castle  without  an  armoury.'  Knowledge  is  power.  So  thought 
the  monks  of  old ;  and  very  diligently  did  the  early  English  monks 
labour  to  strengthen  themselves  with  a  means  which  they  justly  con- 
sidered indispensable.  Theodore  of  Tarsus,  in  the  seventh  century,  was 
one  of  the  first  promoters  of  English  literature,  and  brought  home  with 
him  from  his  expedition  to  Rome  a  large  collection  of  Greek  and  Latin 
writers.  The  gradual  course  of  English  Illumination  may  be  traced  in 
tiie  collections  of  the  British  Museum,  and  other  such  libraries ;  but  no 
conception  can  be  formed  from  them  of  the  immense  quantities  of  MSS. 


HISTOUICAL  SKETCHES  OF  ILLUMINATION.  89 

<which  were  produced  in  England  daring  the  middle  ages.  Every  day, 
in  almost  all  monasteries,  the  work  of  transcribing  went  on,  down  to  the 
middle  of  the  fifteenth  century;  and  the  little  collections  which  remain  are 
but  the  merest  fragment  of  the  treasure-heap— a  gleaning  from  the 
harvest  so  utterly  annihilated  at  the  Reformation.  The  simple  tale  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle  tells  of  the  loss  of  whole  libraries,  so  precious 
in  those  early  days,  by  the  ravages  of  the  Danes  ;  and  more  than  seventy 
monasteries  are  said  by  Maitland  to  have  been  pillaged  or  destroyed 
during  the  ninth  century.  Of  the  destruction  worked  by  the  fanaticism 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  some  idea  may  be  gathered  from  the  pages  of 
Anthony  Wood,  and  from  Maitland's  Dark  Ages.  Whole  cart-loads 
of  books  must  have  been  destroyed  in  Oxford  alone ;  for  of  Duke 
Humphrey's  splendid  library,  to  be  mentioned  hereafter,  only  one 
specimen  remains,  and  almost  a  waggon-load  was  carried  off  from 
Merton  College  only. 

The  great  school  of  English  Illumination  was,  as  was  natural,  at 
Canterbury.  St  Augustine's  first  labours  were  there ;  and  his  successors, 
for  many  generations,  kept  up  the  brilliant  reputation  of  that  Cathedral- 
school.  One  of  the  largest  contributors  to  their  library  was  Lanfranc, 
who  brought  from  the  continent  numbers  of  books.  S.  Anselm,  it  is 
said,  devoted  the  greater  part  of  the  night  to  revising  the  copies  of  Holy 
Scripture,  of  which  there  were  twenty-five  copies  catalogued  by  Henry 
de  Estria,  Prior  of  Canterbury  in  the  thirteenth  century.  In  this 
catalogue  more  than  three  thousand  books  are  named,  in  which  was 
included  a  fine  collection  of  classics,  for  preserving  which  the  monks  of 
Canterbury  were  famous. 

In  1413,  Archbishop  Chicheley  rebuilt  and  added  to  the  library ;  and 
some  years  later,  the  Prior  William  Sellinge  travelled  to  Italy,  and  made 
a  fine  collection  of  Greek  and  Latin  authors,  which  were  placed  here. 

We  have  not  yet  mentioned  the  famous  '  Durham  book,'  second  only 
in  celebrity  to  the  book  of  Kells,  which  in  the  style  and  details  of  its 
work  it  very  much  resembles.  It  is  perhaps  the  earliest  English  book  of 
which  the  connected  history  is  known  ;  and  the  story  of  its  wanderings 
is  very  curious.  Towards  the  end  of  the  seventh  century  S.  Cuthbert  was 
Bishop  of  Lindisfame,  and  after  his  death  a  book  of  Gospels  was  written 
in  his  honour  by  Egfrith  a  monk,  and  illuminated,  and  each  Gospel  enriched 
with  a  frontispiece,  by  the  hermit  Bilfred,  who  was  in  high  repute  as  a 
Saxon  artist,  ^thelwald,  S.  Cuthbert's  successor,  caused  it  to  be  bound 
in  gold  and  jewels;  and  Adred,  a  priest  of  Durham,  afterwards  interlined 
it  with  a  Saxon  version,  which  is  perhaps  the  oldest  existing  example  of 
the  Saxon  Bible.  In  798  the  Danes  burned  the  monastery  of  Lindisfame^ 
and  again  in  less  than  a  century  the  same  misfortune  befell  iU  The 
second  time,  only  the  Bishop  and  seven  monks  were  left  to  wander  away, 
carrying  with  them  the  bones  of  S.  Cuthbert,  his  book  of  Gospels,  and 
such  treasures  as  they  could,  to  form  a  new  commuhity  whither  God 
should  lead  them ;  and  so  for  a  time  they  rested  at  Chester.    But  in  the 


90  TH£  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

tenth  centary  the  Danes  again  invaded  the  north,  and  again  the  monks 
fled  before  them  with  the  relics  of  their  Saint  By  a  vision,  sajs  the 
monkish  chronicler,  it  was  told  them  to  bear  their  holy  burden  to 
Durham,  where,  finally,  they  made  them  a  resting-place.  And  thus  was 
founded  the  See  of  Durham,  from  which  the  book  derives  its  name.  In 
the  twelfth  century  the  Durham  library  was  celebrated  for  the  number  and 
beauty  of  its  MSS.,  which  numbered  about  three  hundred  volumes;  and  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  their  library  was  large  enough  for  Prior  Hoxten  to 
furnish  his  colony  at  Oxford  with  books  from  it  In  the  same  century, 
Robert  de  Bury,  the  most  celebrated  book  collector  of  the  middle  ages, 
was  Bbhop  of  Durham.  He  spared  neither  time  nor  money  to  make  his 
library  one  of  the  finest  in  England;  and  in  his  sojourn  at  Rome  he 
collected  a  library  of  rare  and  valuable  classical  MSS.,  which  was  un* 
equalled  in  England.  The  list  of  his  books  includes  nearly  six  hundred 
volumes,  a  few  vestiges  of  which  remain  in  the  library  of  Balliol  College, 
Oxford. 

Benedict  Biscop,  the  most  renowned  of  England's  scholars  in  Saxon 
times,  lived  in  the  seventh  century,  and  founded  the  monasteries  of 
Wearmouth  and  Jarrow,  for  the  building  and  enriching  of  which  he 
brought  over  artists  from  France.  The  beauty  of  the  stained-glass 
windows  in  Wearmouth  Abbey  is  specially  recorded.  Benedict  made  no 
less  than  five  journeys  to  Rome,  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  books  for 
his  monasteries,  in  one  of  which  he  was  accompanied  by  Wilfred  of  York, 
who  brought  home  with  him  a  copy  of  the  Gospels  written  on  purple 
vellum,  which  is  said  to  be  the  earliest  example  of  stained  vellum  on 
record  in  England.  There  is,  however,  a  Bible  in  the  British  Museum, 
written  in  gold  on  purple  vellum,  which  is  thought  to  have  been  one  of 
the  books  sent  with  the  mission  to  England  by  S.  Gregory.  We  learn 
from  Bede  that  this  library  of  Benedict's  was  a  very  noble  one ;  but  it 
was  entirely  destroyed  by  the  Danes  in  the  eighth  century.  In  the  tenth 
century,  under  the  protection  of  King  Alfred,  art  and  learning  for  a  time 
flourished ;  old  monasteries  were  restored,  and  new  ones  built  The 
pretty  legend  of  King  Alfred's  childhood,  and  his  mother's  illuminated 
book,  has  been  handed  down  in  every  child's  history  of  England,  and  at 
least  represents  the  patience,  and  eagerness  in  acquiring  knowledge, 
which  seems  to  have  been  such  a  marked  element  in  his  character. 
Something  of  a  poet,  a  philosopher,  and  a  historian,  he  with  his  tutor 
Alcuin  have  made  the  tenth  century  famous  in  the  annals  of  literature. 
Of  Alcuin  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  here,  since  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  was  spent,  at  the  earnest  request  of  Charlemagne,  in  reviving  the  art 
and  literature  of  France  and  Germany.  'In  my  youth,'  he  wrote  to 
Charlemagne, '  I  sowed  the  seeds  of  learning  in  the  prosperous  seminaries 
of  Britain ;  and  now,  in  my  old  age,  I  am  doing  so  in  France  without 
ceasing,  praying  that  the  grace  of  Grod  may  bless  them  in  both 
countries.' 

The  finest  of  the  old  Saxon  libraries  was  totally  destroyed  by  fire  in 


HISTORICAL  SKETCHES  OF  ILLUMINATION.  91 

the  eleventh  century,  of  ^-hich  misfortune  Ingulpb,  who  wsb  Abbot  at 
the  time,  gives  a  full  account  '  Our  most  beautiful  chirographs,  written 
in  the  Roman  character,  and  adorned  with  golden  crosses  and  most 
beautiful  paintings  and  precious  materials,  which  were  reposited  in  that 
place,  were  all  destroyed.  The  privileges  also  of  the  Kings  of  Mercia,  the 
most  ancient  and  best,  in  like  manner  beautifully  executed  with  golden 
illuminations,  but  written  in  the  Saxon  tongue,  were  all  burned.  All  our 
documents  of  this  kind,  greater  and  less,  were  about  four  hundred  in 
Dumber,  and  in  one  moment  of  most  dismal  night  they  were  destroyed 
and  lost  to  us  by  lamentable  misfortune. .  • .  All  our  library  also  perished, 
which  contained  more  than  three  hundred  original  volumes,  beside  smaller 
volumes  which  were  more  than  four  hundred.' 

Perhaps  the  choicest  of  the  monastic  libraries  throughout  the  middle 
ages  was  that  of  Glastonbury.  This  noble  abbey  weathered  all  the 
storms  which  swept  away  so  many  of  the  literary  treasures  of  England  in 
its  earlier  centuries,  and  continued  to  increase  in  wealth  and  beauty  till 
the  last  days  of  English  monasticism,  when  it  fell  with  the  rest  before  the 
resistless  sweep  of  the  Heformation,  and  the  fine  library,  ^scarcely 
equalled  in  all  England,'  said  Leland,  was  scattered  to  the  winds. 
Probably,  like  the  library  of  Malmesbury  Abbey,  the  books  were  sold 
to  the  bakers  for  heating  their  ovens,  or  to  the  book-binders  for  waste 
vellum. 

One  of  the  greatest,  and  also  one  of  the  last,  of  the  mediaeval  book- 
coUectors  of  England,  was  Humphrey  Duke  of  Gloucester.  He  was  as 
munificent  in  giving,  as  he  was  unsparing  of  expense  in  possessing  himself 
of  the  choicest  illuminated  MSS.  of  his  day ;  and  no  less  than  538  books, 
at  different  times,  he  presented  to  the  university  of  Oxford.  But  before 
another  century  had  passed,  ignorance  and  fanaticism  had  annihilated 
that  magnificent  gift,  together  with  the  chief  part  of  the  accumulated 
wealth  of  English  art. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  point  out  any  leading  tendencies,  or  marked 
characteristics,  in  the  British  school  of  Illumination.  From  the  above 
remarks  on  English  monasteries  and  English  s<*,holars  of  the  middle  ages, 
it  may  be  seen  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  trace  the  course  of  art  in 
this  country  at  any  period,  independently  of  the  influence  of  foreign 
schools.  From  the  time  of  Benedict  Biscop  downwards,  foreign  artists 
enriched  our  churches,  foreign  scholars  and  painters  came  to  spend  their 
lives  in  our  peaceful  abbeys,  foreign  schools,  in  their  turn,  educated  many 
of  our  leading  Churchmen,  and  whole  libraries  of  foreign  books  were,  as 
has  been  seen,  collected  by  English  travellers.  All  the  beauties,  and 
roost  of  the  characteristics  of  the  British  school,  had  been  developed  and 
perfected  in  France  or  Italy  first.  Perhaps  the  feature  in  English 
Illumination  which  chiefly  strikes  an  observer,  is  the  tendency  to  keen 
humour  venting  itself  in  perpetual  caricature.  We  can  hardly  open  a 
MS.  without  finding  in  it  some  pictures  or  figures,  conveying  more  or 
less  of  satire.    Not  that  this  feature  is  pecuikir  to  English  work,  but  it 


93  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

seems  to  have  been  more  fally  developed  in  it.  The  thorny  leafiige,  which 
was  so  great  a  favourite  in  England,  is,  as  has  been  noticed  before, 
common  to  other  Northern  work.  With  regard  to  colouring,  the  English 
school  never,  in  its  best  days,  equalled  that  of  France  in  brilliancy  of 
tint,  or  harmony  of  arrangement,  neither  did  it  attain  to  the  same  per- 
fection in  grace  and  beauty  of  design. 

The  year  1472  was  the  last  in  the  history  of  mediaeval  Illumination. 
Very  quickly  after  Caxton's  great  invention  the  whole  system  of  book- 
making  was  transformed.  It  was  not  long  before  the  outlines  of  pictures 
were  printed  in  the  books,  and  filled  in  afterwards  by  the  artists.  At 
first  these  imitations  were  sold  at  the  same  price  as  the  old  laboriously- 
executed  drawings:  but  the  deception  was  soon  found  out,  and  then  came 
the  end  of  the  Art  of  Illumination. 

It  had  fulfilled  its  mission  and  purpose  as  a  means  of  teaching;  and  its 
end  being  come,  the  'old  order  yielded,  giving  place  to  new.'  Setting 
aside  fresco  and  sculpture,  it  seems  obvious  that,  in  the  middle  ages, 
Illumination  presented  the  widest  field  for  such  instruction  as  Art  can 
give.  It  was  a  kind  of  portable  art  when  easel-pictures  were  unknown, 
and  in  times  when  men's  lives  being  spent  as  much  in  camp  as  in  castle, 
much  religious  feeling  centred  itself  in  the  Hour-book  with  its  familiar 
and  prescribed  devotions.  And  it  might  well  be  that  if  it  were  duly  used, 
men's  minds  might  often  be  led  to  dwell  somewhat  on  the  thoughts 
suggested  in  the  lovely  borders,  or  on  the  history  so  forcibly  realized  in 
the  quaint  pictures.  It  is  a  question  whether  we,  with  our  four  hundred 
years  greater  experience,  and  our  still  larger  amount  of  knowledge,  can 
afford  to  laugh  at  what  we  think  the  vanity  or  uselessness  of  such  art» 
It  may  be  that  future  generations  will  marvel  at  our  nineteenth  century 
wisdom,  in  forcing  our  best  artists  to  work  perpetually  at  easel-pictures, 
in  order  to  gain  their  daily  bread;  and,  with  the  burning  names  of  Giotto 
and  Michael  Angelo  behind  us,  and  their  mighty  works  for  an  inheritance 
and  a  possession,  refuse  to  make  such  works  possible  for  our  own 
generation. 

The  progress  of  our  knowledge  in  Art,  as  all  true  artists,  and  indeed 
all  thoughtful  persons,  must  feel,  is  never  likely  to  give  us  cause  for  much 
exultation  :  still  less  can  it  justify  scorn  for  the  efforts  of  men  who  in  a 
different  age,  and  surrounded  by  widely  different  conditions  of  society, 
religion,  and  knowledge,  endeavoured  to  teach  their  fellow  men,  in  the 
best  way  they  could,  the  truths  which  they  considered  of  the  most  vital 
importance.  It  was  their  portion  which  was  given  them  to  do  in  the 
days  of  their  vanity.  Ours  is,  for  the  most  part,  of  another  and  a  very 
diflerent  kind :  let  us  see  that  we  do  it  as  well  as  in  the  '  Dark  Ages '  the 
old  Illuminators  did  theirs. 


93 


HINTS  ON  ITALIAN  READING. 

VI. 

THE  COKTEHPORART  PRESS. 

Thb  modern  rage  for  periodical  literatnre  has  fally  extended  to  Italy ;  erery  shade 
of  thought,  eveiy  colour,  as  the  peninsular  expression  is,  has  its  representatives,  pretty 
well  in  every  one  of  its  hundred  towns.*  The  periodical  press  has  been  the  great 
engine  used  with  such  fatal  effect  of  late  years  by  the  massontricL,  for  the  propagandism 
of  their  rerolutionary  and  irreligious  teaching. 

The  Catholic  party  is  not  asleep  to  this  danger,  but  seeing  the  havoc  which  is 
being  made  around,  has  girt  itself  to  meet  the  enemies  of  the  faith  on  their  own 
ground  and  with  their  own  weapons ;  and  though  the  so-called  Liberal  papers  still 
exceed  the  Catholic  papers  in  numbers,  it  is  because  there  are  such  varieties  of  Liberal 
opinions  that  they  need  many  organs  to  represent  them  all,  and  because  the  prevalent 
spirit  of  rivalry  brings  many  competitors  to  fight  for  popular  favour,  where  for  a 
Catholic  circle  of  readers  one  or  two  would  suffice,  rather  than  because  they  repr^ent 
a  majority  of  the  population,  which  I  believe  is  very  far  from  being  the  case. 
The  majority  of  these  Liberal  sheets  are  brought  out  with  the  worst  possible  paper, 
type,  and  form  ;  and  for  their  matter,  consist  mainly  of  calumnies  or  invectives  against 
the  Church,  the  government,  and  everything  which  has  hitherto  been  considered 
sacred  and  respectable. 

But  it  is  not  with  the  daily  and  weekly  papers  that  I  am  now  concerned,  but  with 
those  serials  which  may  contain  matter  of  interest  for  the  readers  of  these  *■  Hints.*  In 
Italy  publication  is  not  centralized,  as  with  us;  the  efforts  at  unification  which  a  self- 
imposed  government  has  made,  have  extended  but  little  beyond  the  actual  sphere  of 
government.  In  matters  in  which  the  people  are  free  to  act,  they  go  on  much  as 
formerly,  and  each  population  of  the  Italian  Heptarchy  looks  upon  its  old  capital  as 
its  real  capital,  just  as  if  there  were  no  one  at  Florence  calling  himself  King  of  Italy. 
And  besides  this,  it  never  was  the  habit,  at  any  time,  to  look  on  any  of  the  capitals 
as  the  sole  centre  of  life  and  activity  of  its  nationality.  Thus  it  happens  that  there 
is  scarcely  a  town  without  its  *  Monthly,'  which,  if  not  conducted  with  equal  lit^aiy 
ability  to  the  ordinary  run  of  our  own,  at  least  affords  some  entertaining  and  harmless 
reading,  from  which  acquaintance  with  the  most  modem  forms  of  expression  may  be 
gained  at  a  wonderfully  small  cost.t 

To  cite  some  few  in  the  principal  towns :  { — Bologna  has  the 

1.  Eco  ddla  gioventu  Cattolica.  (Monthly.  1/r.  80c.  a  year.  4to.  pamphlet  of  32  col.) 
Tipografia  Felsinati  Via  Usberti,  696.  Beligious  articles,  narratives,  general 
literature. 

2.  Qiardinetto  di  Maria.  (Weekly.  6/r.  a  year.  82  col.  small  newspaper  form.) 
Contains  articles  on  subjects  relating  to  B.  V.  M. ;  in  praise  of  her  attributes; 
biographical  notices  of  saints  and  others  specially  devoted  to  her ;  narratives  of 
graces  obtained  by  her  intercession ;  accounts  of  various  Sanctuaries  dedicated  to 
her ;  legends,  tales,  and  stories,  connected  with  her  cnltus. 

*  t.ff.  Torln  publishes  forty-two  to  itself. 

t  A  great  number  of  Italian  newspapers  and  periodicals  are  sent  to  me  finom  varioos  places,  reaching 
from  TYent  to  Kq>les,  and  I  can  therefore  render  the  testimony  of  my  experience  that  they  circulate  with 
very  gnat  exactness  and  legnlarity;  and  they  can  be  ordered  in  the  ways  suggested  in  my  last  Or,  I 
bcHeve,  the  ftireign  booksellers  will  undertake  any  of  them. 

t  We  give  our  kind  contributor's  Ust  of  periodicals  in  full,  as  our  readers  will  Judge  fbr  themselves,  by 
the  ■taftament  of  their  line  and  oontenti,  how  tu  any  may  be  suited  to  their  pnxpoMt.— Ei>. 


94  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

3.  La  Giovinetta  isiruita  nti  tuoi  lavm-i,  e  recreata,  (Monthly ;  illustrated,  and  giving 
patterns  of  frork.    5/r.  a  year.) 

4.  LaMadredifomiglia.  (Monthly.  12/r.  ayear.  66  pp.  8ro.)  Articles  on  snbjectfl 
of  general  literature  and  tbo  arts ;  fashions,  and  patterns  of  work ;  coloured  illustra- 
tions ;  embroidery  patterns  ;  music,  &c. 

6.  //  cestdh  di  lavoro.  (2%e  Wark-bcuket)  (Weekly,  illustrated.  2/r.  50c.  a  year. 
32  pages  pamphlet  form ;  giving  patterns  of  work. 

6.  La  Figlia  delT  Immacokita,    Bi-monthly.    82  pp.  small  4to.    2/r.  75c.  a  year. 
The  five  last  may  all  be  had  at  the  address  given  for  the  first. 

7.  La  prima  comunione,  (Fortnightly.  6/r.  a  year.)  Contains  religions  exhortations 
to  perseverance ;  Stories  and  anecdotes ;  hymns  and  poems  relating  to  the  Blessed 
Sacrament.    Chronicle  of  religious  news,  &c.    Office,  Via  Galliera,  Ko.  488. 

MODSNA  : — 

1.  OpuscoH  reltgioti^  hiUrarii  e  moraU.  Alternate  monthly  review  of  subjects  named, 
edited  by  Professor  Veratti.    ll/r.  a  year ;  published  at  Tipografia  Soliani. 

2.  VAngth  delU  Verginu    Published  at  the  Tipogi^afia  all*  Immacolata  Concezione. 

Florence : — 

1.  V  Educatore,  Articles  adapted  to  young  people ;  narratives,  stories,  poetry,  &c. 
7/r.  a  year.  Address  Alia  Direzione  ddC  Educatore^  Via  del  Malcontenti,  Ko.  24. 
(2».  p».)    Firenze. 

2.  La  Seltimana  ReJigtoaa,  Weekly.  Contains  notices  of  the  festivals  and  religious 
observances  of  the  week ;  notes  on  the  Gospel  for  the  feasts  as  they  occur,  narra- 
tives, pious  examples,  &c.  l/r.  a  year.  Gherardi  del  Turco.  Borgo  S.  Croce,  23. 
Firenze. 

8.  Eco  della  Fede,  Weekly.  Religions  articles  for  family  reading.  32  col.  large 
8vo.    10/r.  a  year. 

4.  Veglie  dtUe  oneste /amiglie, 

Kaples  : — 

1.  I gigli  di  Maria  (The  Lilies  of  Mary,)  is  for  Naples  much  what  No  2,  Bologna,  is 
for  that  city. 

2.  //  zefatore  del  SS.  Nome  di  6'«5u. 

8.  La  Carita.  It«  objects  may  be  perceived  from  the  following  list  of  Contents  for 
the  Number  of  March,  1870 : — '  Notes  on  some  points  in  the  theology  of  S.  Thomas 
Aquinas — ^The  Anglican  Synods  of  Canterbury  and  York — ^The  various  Oriental 
Rites  and  the  General  Council — Review  of  contemporary  literature — ^Chronicle  of 
Franciscan  Missions — ^Notes  on  the  Council — Miscellaneous  Notices.' 

4.  La  Scienza  e  la  Fede.  Monthly.  Among  the  articles  in  the  number  for  May, 
1870,  are  *  Protestantism  and  Revolution  in  relation  to  Literature,'  by  Luigi 
Palurabo.— Notes  on  questions  of  Moral  Philosophy. — A  Student's  notes  on  Easter. 
— ^The  question  of  the  Definition  of  the  Assumption. — Chronicle  of  the  Council. 
Tipografia  Manfredi.    Via  San  Nicandro,  4. 

Milan  : — 

1.  La  Palestra.     Articles  on   Literature,   science,   and   art.     OfiSce,   Via   Monte 
Napoleone,  26. 

2.  Lo  Staffile  di  Sanf  Ambrogio,  (Weekly.  5/r.  a  year.)  Office,  Presso  Antonio 
Guzzetti.    Via  S.  Maurilio,  7. 

8.  Annali  Francescanu    (Fortnightly.    24  pp.  large  8vo.    4Jr,  a  year.) 

Turin  :— 

I.  VApologista,  (Weekly.  16  pp.  8^.  a  year.)  Articles  on  Catholic  subjects 
chiefly  doctrinal. 


HINTS  ON  ITALIAN  READINa.  95 

2.  Strerma  di  Don  Mentore.  A  very  popnlar  annua],  containing  chieflj  namtiyes  and 
stories.    80c. 

3.  V Ateneo  rdigioso,  (Weekly.  10/r.  a  year;  illnstrated.)  Articles  on  Catholic 
doctrine,  on  sacred  bnildings ;  religions  biographies,  (this  year  it  contains  a  series  of 
biographies  of  the  Fathers  of  the  Council;)  contemporary  notices  of  religious, 
political,  scientific  subjects,  &c.  That  Tullio  Dandolo  was,  up  to  the  moment  of 
his  lamented  decease  a  few  weeks  ago,  one  of  its  contributors,  Is  a  pledge  of  its 
excellence.    Stampcria  Facale.    Piazza  Solferino. 

Reooio: — 

1.  II  genio  Cattolico,    Bi-monthly.     12/r.  a  month. 

2.  Zagcara,    Bi-monthly.    7fr,  a  year.    Literary  articles  for  young  people. 

Sixka: — 

La  voce  di  Maria.    Magazine  for  Christian  mothers.    2fr,  a  year. 

liODi: — 

II  huon  Pastore,  Weekly,  with  a  monthly  supplement  18^.  50c.  a  year.  Subjects 
religious  and  BiblicaL 

UftBiso: — 

1.  La  Rioista  Urhinate,    Science  and  art  review.    Monthly. 

2.  II  Raffaellot  edited  by  Fompeo  Gherardi.  Fortnightly ;  entirely  devoted  to  art- 
subjects. 

Genoa  : — 

The  Rivista  Generale ;  a  very  ably  conducted  Review  of  the  general  Literature  of 
Europe,  written  generally  from  a  Catholic  stand-point,  though  its  orthodoxy  has 
not  altogether  escaped  suspicion. 

This  list  might  be  drawn  out  to  any  extent,  but  the  selection  I  have  given  is 
perhaps  sufficient ;  and  even  to  those  who  are  not  minded  to  become  readers,  I  think 
it  will  be  interesting  to  know  what  religious  writers  are  doing  for  the  periodical  press 
of  the  peninsula.  There  is,  of  course,  no  lack  of  Reviews,  any  more  than  of  News- 
papers, with  no  religious  aim  ;  of  these  the  most  respectable  and  esteemed  is  perhaps 
the  Nuova  Antologia  of  Florence.    But  these  lie  out  of  my  present  beat. 

It  is  Rome,  of  course,  which  has  the  most  numerous  and  the  best  stock,  and  is 
probably  the  most  accessible  to  the  majority  of  us.  Here  are  the  titles  of  some  of 
the  principal :— • 

1.  Atti  ddt  Accademia  de*  nuovi  Lincei.  Scientific  Review.  Tipografia  Tiberina: 
Piazza  Poll,  91. 

2.  BulUuino  deir  insHtuto  di  Corrispondejvea  archeoloffica*  Contains  notices  and 
critical  notes  on  archsdological  observations  and  discoveries  in  different  parts. 
Same  office  as  above. 

8.  Bulkttino  di  archeologia  criatiana.  Edited  by  Cav.  de  Rossi.  Published  every 
other  month.   Piazza  SS.  Apostoli,  56. 

4.  Bulkttino  di  bUbtiografia  e  di  storia  delk  Scienze  nuxtematiche  ejinche,  Bnoncompagni 
Via  Lata,  211. 

5.  Chromcketta  Mensuak  delle  pih  importanti  scoperte  nelle  science  natnralL  Edited 
by  Don  Pietro  Armellini.    Via  Lata,  211. 

6.  Corritpondenza  Sdentifica  diretta  da  Caterina  Scarpellini.    Piazza  Poll,  91. 

[There  are  several  other  Scientific  Reviews  with  various  sp^ialit^s.] 

7.  II  Bwmarrottiy  edited  by  Enrico  Narducci.  Monthly.  Review  of  contemporary 
Italian  fine  art,  and  poetical,  dramatic,  and  general  literature.    Very  well  written. 


*  Aaher,  IS,  Bedford  Street,  Covent  Garden,  is  Engiiflh  agent  for  this;  it  is  pnbUibed  in  thi«« 
series— ittmoM;  \i».  a  year;  BuXktHnOy  6s. ;  sod  MonwnenH,  £i. 


^  THE  MONTHLY  PACEXT. 

8.  Xo  CimUh  CcUtoKca,    Fortnightly.    Theological. 

9.  L*  Eptacorda.  Published  three  times  a  month.  Contains  dramatic  and  mnsieal 
notices  of  European  interest,  and  fine-art  gossip. 

10.  //  Paleatruuu  (Monthly.)  Historical  and  critical  articles  on  ecclesiastical  and 
classical  music,  and  notices,  &c. ;  giTes  also  unedited  music  and  reprints.  7/r.  a 
year.    Via  della  Stamperia,  11. 

11.  Giomah  arcadko  di  scieuze  lettere  ed  arti.    Piazza  Puli,  91. 

12.  La  Vergine.  A  weekly  journal  of  the  same  character  as  the  Giardmetio  di  Maria 
of  Bologna. 

18.  La  JigUa  di  Maria.  Fortnightly;  contains  short  articles,  religious,  historical, 
literary,  and  entertaining.    5/r.  a  year.    Office  at  S.  Pietro  in  Vincoli. 

14.  The  DivirC  Scdvatore  contains  short  popular  articles  on  religious  subjects  of  the 
day ;  biographical  sketches ;  contemporary  notices  of  matters  of  religious  interest* 
Piazza  SS.  Apostoli,  56. 

15.  The  Campidoglio;  a  popular  annual,  containing — ^besides  the  usual  calendar, 
notices,  dates,  &c. — short  instructions,  religious  and  historical ;  stories,  traditions, 
charades,  Epigrams,  poems,  &c.    Price  50c. 

16.  D  Esposizione  Eomana.  An  illustrated  art-journal,  brought  out  in  monthly 
parts,  giving  notices  of  the  principal  objects  now  in  the  Exhibition  of  Christian 
Art,  and  beautifully  executed  wood-cuts  of  some.  Subscription  to  the  whole 
series,  8  francs.  Office,  11a,  Via  della  Stamperia  Camerale.  This  has  answered 
so  well,  that  its  projectors  feel  encouraged  to  announce  that  it  will  be  succeeded  by  a 
permanent  weekly  illustrated  paper  for  Rome,  which  has  been  without  one  since 
the  death  of  the  able  Editor  of  V Album.  The  new  paper  is  to  be  entitled 
Vlliustrazione  Romano,  and  the  subscription  is  20fr.  a  year;  it  will  give  notices 
of  the  excavations  and  works  of  art  which  continually  go  on  in  Rome,  besides 
papers  and  illustrations  of  general  interest. 

My  limits  will  not  permit  me  to  do  more  than  touch  upon  two  of  these. 

I  do  not  know  any  subject  that  can  be  of  greater  interest  to  the  Christian  student 
than  that  treated  in  Cav.  de  Rossi's  BulUttino  di  archeologia  cristtana. 

The  writer's  character  presents  a  combination  too  rarely  met  with  in  these  days ; 
he  is  a  devotee  of  both  science  and  religion.  The  study  of  antiquity  is  a  ]>aBsion  with 
him  ;  and  he  has  all  the  erudition  necessary  to  make  his  potient  researches  valuable, 
and  to  enable  him  to  take  advantage  of  the  singular  opportunities  by  which  he  is 
surrounded.  At  the  same  time,  the  light  of  faith  always  shines  round  his  path,  and 
directs  his  footsteps. 

The  earlier  years  of  the  BuUetttno  have  most  of  them  been  given,  in  great  measure, 
to  the  study  of  the  inferences  to  be  drawn  from  the  records  of  early  Faith  painted  on 
the  walls,  and  graven  on  the  stones,  and  stamped  into  the  very  soil,  of  the  Catacombs; 
amid  which  he  may  be  said  to  have  lined  so  many  years,  thus  forming,  one  may  almost 
say,  a  contemporary  history  of  the  earliest  ages  of  the  Church. 

But  de  Rossi  is  by  no  means  '  a  man  of  one  book ;  *  wherever  it  is  discovered  that 
the  religion  of  the  early  ages  of  Christianity  has  left  a  trace,  there  he  is  as  surely 
attracted  as  '  the  eagle'  to  '  the  carcass,'  and  in  the  ensuing  number  of  his  BvUettino 
he  puts  on  record  the  value  of  the  discovery.  The  three  numbers  of  the  last  half  of 
1868,  contain,  among  other  papers,  a  very  able  dissertation  on  the  last  agonies  of 
Paganism,  and  the  earliest  outward  triumph  of  Christianity  in  Rome ;  a  subject  of 
the  deepest  interest,  but  of  which  I  know  no  detailed  account  in  so  succinct  and 
accessible  a  form.  It  is  elicited  by  the  late  discovery  by  M.  Delisle  of  Paris,  of  an 
inedited  poem  of  the  year  394. 

Though  not  entirely  free  from  the  Italian  vice  of  wordiness,  Cav.  de  Rossi  knows 
how  to  make  his  subject  entertaining,  whatever  it  may  be ;  his  magazine  is  got  up  in 
the  best  style,  and  the  illustrations  which  accompany  it,  whether  on  wood,  or  in 


HINTS  ON  ITALIAN  READING.  97 

chromo-lithography,  are  not  only  of  fauUlesB  execution,  but  are  of  the  greatest  service 
to  the  student  by  their  faithfViIness. 

In  the  January  and  February  Number  of  1869,  Cav.  de  Kossi  returns  to  Roman 
subjects,  and  describes  the  newly-discovered  Cemetery  on  the  emplacement  of  the 
Grove  of  the  Arvales,  its  inscriptions,  and  the  curious  fresco  found  in  its  crypt. 

That  of  March  and  April  contains  a  very  ingenious  dissertation,  in  which  he  makes 
a  single  rough  and  broken  epitaph,  (found  in  the  pavement  of  Sta.  Maria  in 
Trastcvere,  during  the  lute  restorations,)  illustrate  the  history  of  Rome  under  the 
pontificate  of  Vigilins,  and  the  invasion  of  the  Goths ;  and  upon  the  use  of  the 
Chrism  in  Confirmation  in  the  early  Church.  Also  some  very  curious  researches  into 
the  meaning  symbolized  in  a  figure  on  an  earthen  ampolhy  lately  dug  out  at  Aries. 

My  last  notice  shall  be  of  a  much  lighter  production — the  Campidoglio  already 
mentioned  above — and  perhaps  I  cannot  give  a  better  idea  of  its  merits,  than  by 
extracting  some  paragraphs  from  one  of  its  Stories. 

CELLINrS  PERSEUS. 

' .  .  .  .  Cellini  set  himself  to  carry  out  the  wishes  of  Cosmo  dc*  Medici,  with  the 
ardour  which  uniformly  distinguished  him.    He  had  completed  his  colossal  model 
within  a  few  days,  and  the  Grand-duke  expressed  himself  fully  satisfied  with  his 
conception  ;  at  the  same  time  he  did  not  disguise  from  him  his  fears  that  the  casting 
was  well-nigh  impossible,  for  there  were  no  means  at  command  for  tuniing  out  a  statue 
of  such  magnitude.    Cellini  was  not  a  man  to  be  cast  down  by  fear  of  obstacles ;  he 
girt  himself  for  the  operation  with  redoubled  ardour.     He  set  to  work  and  produced  a 
plaster  model  of  greater  perfection  than  the  first;  this  he  covered  with  wax,  and 
washed  over  the  surface  with  a  liquid  he  had  composed  expressly  for  the  purpose ; 
this  he  covered  again  with  several  layers  of  argillaceous  earth,  and  then  exposed  it  to 
the  heat,  so  that  the  wax  within  gradually  melted  away,  leaving,  between  the  inner 
and  outer  mould,  a  space  (technically  called  the  anima,  the  soul,)  sufiScicnt  to  receive 
the  metal.   His  next  care  was  to  construct  a  fumaee,  and  the  melting  of  the  metal  to  the 
best  of  his  ability ;  then  he  had  to  collect  such  a  quantity  of  lumps  of  copper  and  tin 
as  he  thought  would  suffice;  and  having  all  in  readiness,  and  some  workmen,  who  had 
had  experience  in  founding  cannon,  to  help  him,  he  gave  orders  to  commence  fusing. 
Bat  before  the  work  had  progressed  far,  the  pine- wood,  which  he  had  collected  in 
great  quantities,  blazed  away  with  such  fury  that  it  set  fire  to  the  roof,  under  which 
the  operation  was  being  carried  on.    The  loss  of  the  roof  proved  disastrous,  for  it 
happened  to  be  terribly  bad  weather,  and  the  wind  and  rain  now  damped  the  fire  and 
hindered  the  fusion.    Cellini  stood  undaunted,  ordering  more  wood  to  be  heaped  on, 
BO  that  an  even  heat  should  be  kept  up  constantly  round  the  metal ;    but,  in  the 
meantime,  the  fatigue  and  excitement  began  to  tell  upon  him,  and  he  thought  to 
have  died  before  his  work  was  accomplished.    At  last  he  was  constrained  to  take 
some  repose,  to  which  he  only  consented  when  he  hnd  got  the  operation  into  such 
order  that  it  promised  to  go  on  steadily.    But  he  had  not  been  long  asleep,  however, 
before  one  of  the  men  came  running  wildly  in,  exclaiming,  ''  It's  all  no  use,  the  fire's 
going  out,  and  the  metal  is  cooling  down  !  "    Cellini  shook  ofiT  his  weariness  without 
the  delay  of  an  instant,  and  running  to  a  neighbour's,  bought  a  fresh  store  of  oak 
logs ;  but  in.stead  of  going  to  rest  again,  he  occupied  himself  with  getting  the  shed 
repaired  with  boards  and  old  hangings,  and  anything  he  could  lay  his  hand  on,  so 
as  to  keep  out  the  weather,  setting  the  men,  meantime,  to  blow  the  fires.    But,  it 
would  seem,  his  iron  determination  was  to  be  tried  in  every  way:  at  the  very  moment 
that  he  had  given  the  word  to  commence  the  casting,  a  fiash  of  lightning,  with  its 
attendant  thunder,  almost  blinded  and  deafened  him  at  once.    A  moment  later  he 
saw  that  the  lightning  had  struck  the  furnace,  and  the  molten  metal  was  pouring  out, 

vol-  10.  7  PART  55. 


98  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

hither  and  thither,  through  conntless  cracks.  What  was  to  he  done  ?  In  a  fnry  of 
disappointment  he  shouted  to  his  men  to  run  into  the  house,  and  hring  out  every 
article  in  metal  on  which  they  could  lay  their  hands,  so  as  to  make  up  for  that  which 
was  leaking  out  in  every  direction;  and  in  proportion  as  it  poured  off  into  the  mould, 
he  went  on  supplying  it  with  these  adventitious  aids ;  ready  to  sacrifice  everything 
to  his  statue. 

It  was  thus  his  great  work  was  at  last  hrought  to  a  close;  and  when  the  mould  was 
broken  there  came  to  light  the  grand  statue  of  Perseus,  which  takes  its  place  proudly 
beside  the  Judith  of  Donatello,  and  the  David  of  Michel  Angelo,  and  is  the  admira- 
tion of  our  own  age,  no  less  than  of  his  own.' 

(To  he  continued.)  R.  H.  B. 


HINTS  ON  READING. 

OuB  foreign  Correspondents  on  books  have  led  us  almost  to  neglect  our  own,  and  yet 
there  is  much  that  we  ought  not  to  pass  over.  Foremost,  of  course,  stands  that 
most  valuable  book  in  which  John  Eeble, '  though  dead,  yet  spcaketh  :*  the  collection 
of  his  Letters  of  Spiritual  Counsel,  made  by  the  Rev.  H.  F.  Wilson.  The  exceeding 
truth,  reality,  and  simplicity,  of  the  whole  character  of  the  man,  rendered  his  every 
word,  whether  of  poetry,  sermons,  or  letters,  peculiarly  individual ;  and  these  being 
written  out  of  his  very  soul,  with  his  most  deep  and  considerate  judgement,  and 
with  earnest  prayer,  are  some  of  the  most  important  utterances  he  has  left.  Everyone 
should  have  them  at  hand,  and  know  them  well  enough  to  become,  if  possible, 
saturated  with  their  tone  of  wisdom  and  humility — as  devout  and  spiritual  as  it  is 
practical  and  clear. 

It  is  not  our  province  to  enter  on  questions  that  belong  to  the  clerj»}%  but  if 
any  of  our  readers  are  grieved  by  the  debate  as  to  the  expediency  of  Evening 
Communions,  and  are  perplexed  by  customs  of  their  own  locality,  we  would 
recommend  them  the  reprint  of  Evening  Communions  Contrary  to  the  Church's  Mind, 
and  Why,  from  the  Literary  Churchman^  published  by  Skeffington.  We  think  it 
will  convince  them  that  to  abstain  from  attending  is  a  duty,  both  as  regards 
themselves  and  the  encouragement  of  the  practice. 

We  have  omitted  to  mention  the  appearance  of  the  Rev.  W.  il.  Ridley's  useful 
Comment  on  the  Gospels  of  St.  MatUiew  and  St.  Mark.  (Rivington.)  We  advise 
those  who  use  it  at  family  prayers  to  cast  an  eye  over  the  pages,  as  in  the  earlier 
sheets  the  amount  of  errors  of  the  press  is  wonderful. 

The  Poems  of  the  Rev.  Samuel  Rickards,  (Parker,)  are  a  very  tender  and  graceful 
collection.  The  thoughts  inspired  by  flowers,  often  the  flowers  that  have  by  others 
been  left  unrhymed,  are  very  sweet  and  touching ;  but  his  peculiar  forte  seems  to  us 
to  lie  in  epitaphs.  The  needful  brevity  led  to  a  compression  that  gives  force  to  the 
thoughts.    The  last  two  lines  of  that  on  Lady  Winchelsea  are  very  striking : 

•  When  In  the  kingdom  of  the  blest, 
Life  shall  be  liberty,  and  daty  rest.' 

t  The  following,  on  a  mason,  has  so  entirely  the  quaintness  of  the  Stewart  age,  that 
one  is  inclined  to  read  1636  for  1886  as  the  date : 

'  The  stones  men  hew  and  build  with,  most 
In  few  short  yean  go  bade  to  dast ; 
But  their  own  dust,  wtiich  here  we  lay, 
Shall  xiM  ere  long  and  stand  for  aye. 


CORBESPONDENCE.  99 

Be  trlfe,  ye  bnOden,  then ;  build  wcQ 
The  hooBe  ye  raise  for  heaven  or  helL* 

A  most  excellent  volume  of  Macmillan's  Sunday  Libraiy,  id  Miss  Eeary's  Nahom 
Around;  an  excellent  account  of  the  Egyptian,  Phcenician,  Assyrian,  and  Persian 
contemporaries  of  the  Israelites.  The  collation  of  the  Books  of  Kings,  Jeremiah, 
and  Ezekiel,  with  the  Babylonian  records,  is  full  of  interest,  and  delightfully 
written. 

Contemporary  Annals  of  Rome^  (Hichardson,)  is  the  reprint  of  some  very  amusing 
letters  to  the  Westminster  Gazette^  by  a  resident  in  Borne  during  the  canonization  of 
the  Japan  mart3Ts  and  Garibaldrs  last  attack. 

First  Teachings  about  the  Earth,  by  M.  J.  Ogle.  (Simpkin  and  Marshall.)  This  if 
a  second  edition  of  a  capital  little  book  for  laying  the  foundations  of  geography  in 
young  children  simply  scicntitically  and  quite  comprehensibly. 

Unawares,  by  tiie  author  of  One  Year,  (^Smith  and  Elder,)  has  that  special  grace 
with  which  F.  M.  P.  treads  on  French  soil,  and  describes  one  very  noble  and  another 
very  engaging  character,  set  in  a  delightful  frame. 

Theodora,  a  Tale  for  Girls,  (Griffith  and  Farran,)  is  not  to  our  taste.  Everybody  is 
exaggerated,  for  good  or  for  bad,  to  an  absolutely  ridiculous  extent. 

Sensation  ought  to  be  kept  out  of  good  books,  and  we  are  sorry  to  see  so  much  of 
it  in  the  Churchman*s  Companion  of  late.    It  is  not  a  taste  to  be  cultivated. 

We  own,  too,  to  feeling  some  regret  that  the  Sunday  Friend  is  not  more  carefnl  as 
to  the  poetry.  Is  there  not  something  irreTcrent  in  putting  anything  so  sacred  into 
the  mouth  of  a  jackdaw  ?  Moreover,  is  it  good  for  little  girls  of  t^velve  years  old  to 
see  their  verses  in  print,  especially  when  they  don*t  rhyme  ? 

Lost  and  Found,  by  Phcebe  Fielden,  (Macintosh,)  is  a  nicely  written  Confirmation 
story,  but  wc  wish  that  tales  on  this  rite  would  avoid  bringing  the  vow  (a 
merely  accidental  addition)  into  so  much  more  prominence  than  the  sacramental 
blessing. 

Life  of  a  Dominican  Artist,  [Pbre  Bessou,]  (Hivington)  is  a  beautiful  book, 
describing  the  most  saintly  and  very  individual  life  of  one  of  the  companions  of 
I«acordaire. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 

A  LETTEB  ON  FASHION. 
My  dear  Niece, 

We  arc  now  once  more  in  our  quiet  home,  after  all  the  turmoil  of  a 
fortnight  in  Pari.s  and  I  am  mindful  of  my  promise  to  send  to  you,  independently, 
some  account  of  the  Paris  fashions.  My  family  letters  have  told  you  the  other  news ; 
the  friends  we  met,  the  sights  we  saw,  especially  that  gem  of  Christian  architecture, 
the  Sainte  Chapclle,  with  its  gorgeous  glorious  colours  subdued  by  harmony,  and 
restful  through  their  perfection.  Even  the  old  gardien  told  us  how  the  sight  is 
constantly  a  fresh  joy  to  him,  and  how  he  8its  alone  in  his  niche  and  never  grows 
tired  of  looking,  and  repeats  constantly  to  himself, 

*  Cest  beau ;  e'eai  htau  !  * 

Our  journal,  then,  is  known  to  you,  and  I  may  proceed  at  once  to  the  fashions.  I 
must  begin  at  the  beginning,  by  recalling  our  own  University  Boat-race,  and  the 
£nglit>h  fashions  we  saw  there.    I  had,  you  know,  an  excellent  place  in  a  friend's 


I 


100  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

carriage  on  the  Mortlake  bank,  and  I  assure  jon  that  nothing  could  be  more  appalling 
than  the  dress  exhibited  around  us.  There  was  a  white  embroidered  muslin  without 
a  cloak,  fluttering  past  us  in  the  cold  wind.  It  made  us  instinctively  remember  the 
benefits  of  the  consumptive  hospital.  There  was  a  sort  of  Polish  jacket,  green,  laced 
with  gold ;  and  other  conspicuous  horrors.  Ill-mixed  colours,  of  course,  Id  abundance. 
But  nothing  could  equal  the  hair.  It  towered  two  feet  above  the  wearers'  heads ; 
it  hung  down  deep  upon  their  necks  in  splendid  plaits,  out  of  which  the  sausage-like 
pads  were  sticking  here  and  there.  Its  colours  were  crude  even  to  asperity ;  yellows 
and  blacks  such  as  kindly  nature  never  disfigured  human  head  with.  But  most 
striking  of  all  were  two  unlucky  girls — not  ladies  of  course,  but  still  modest-looking 
girls,  properly  red  and  uncomfortable  at  the  notice  they  attracted. 

They  had  bought  hats  of  fancy  straw  trimmed  with  an  azure  gauze  meant  to 
represent  the  Cambridge  blue ;  and  to  add  a  look  of  youthful  innocence,  the  milliner 
had  attached  to  the  back  of  each  hat  a  short  and  bushy  crop  of  frizzled  tow,  meant 
to  represent  flaxen  hair.  Doubtless  the  design  required  that  the  wearer's  own  hair 
should  be  put  out  of  sight  somewhere;  but  these  poor  girls,  fancying  that  the  shades 
matched,  had  let  theirs  down  in  a  mane.  And  the  shades  did  not  match  at  all,  and 
everyone  was  laughing  at  the  yellow  fuzz  above  the  light  brown  tail.  I  longed  to 
beckon  the  girls  up  to  me  and  say :  *  My  dears,  you  know  that  tow  is  rather 
ridiculous  ;  do  let  me  cut  it  out  for  you.'  But  one  does  not  dare  to  do  that  kind  of 
thing;  and  so  the  girls  went  by,  with  unutterable  shame  expressed  in  each  line  and 
movement  of  their  shoulders.  Then  I  looked  at  our  own  drajj,  and  saw  within  it, 
Janette  with  her  two  long  Iloman  rolls;  Knte  with  the  large  pin-cushion,  which 
against  all  persuasion,  she  still  cherished  on  the  top  of  her  head  ;  even  dear  old  Miss 
Sims  with  a  neat  potato-shaped  chignon  ;  and  I  thought  of  the  stntling  inside  each, 
and  wondered  if  it  were  really  more  refined,  or  half  as  honest,  to  cover  over  the  false 
hair,  as  to  let  it  float  a  caution  to  many. 

Then  I  went  to  Paris,  and  we  walked  and  sat  in  the  Champs  Elys^s.  The 
ditFerence  was  indescribable.  Almost  every  woman  who  passed  us  at  least  looked 
both  simple  and  refined.  The  dresses  were,  as  we  had  heard,  generally  black ;  if  not 
black,  they  were  grey  or  brown.  In  the  summer,  young  girls  walking  with  their 
mothers  would  wear  light  stuffs,  hut  all  in  quiet  shades.  They  were  exquisitely 
made.  All  of  a  nice  walking  length,  though  not  shewing  the  feet;  and  French  girls' 
panzers  arc  always  fresh — not  *the  crumpled  rag*  at  which  your  father  aims  his 
jokes — for  they  lift  them  when  they  sit  down.  If  it  is  warm,  no  jackets  are  worn  ; 
if  cold,  a  short  half-fltting  one  of  the  same  stuff  as  the  dress,  and  cut  up  at  the  back 
to  prevent  the  sash  from  making  a  hump.  Such  minutice,  carefully  attended  to,  make 
the  great  difference  which  all  observe  but  no  one  can  describe.  But  the  hair!  I 
looked  with  wonder  and  with  joy.  Where  were  the  pincushions  ?  where  the  Roman 
rolls?  where  the  stuffed  plaits  ?  We  knew  that  the  little  round  chignons  were  out  of 
fashion,  and  had  often  laughed  at  Miss  Sims's.  But  the  other  splendid  erections  also 
'  shone  by  absence.'  Ah  !  here  they  come  I  ITere  are  pads,  and  coloured  dresses,  on 
two  fine  girls  walking  alone.  *  Ves  Anglaiset,^  said  someone,  with  a  titter,  as  thej 
passed.  But  surely  not  English  alone  look  thus,  for  who  aro  those  whose  dress  is 
markedly  French  and  whose  plaits  are  so  unnaturally  big?    We  asked  Madame 

D ;  '  Des  JuiveSf  she  said,  and  assured  us  that  Jewesses  and  English  ladies  alone 

persisted  in  the  pads.  How  do  people  dress  their  hair  ?  you  ask.  The  young  girls 
wear  two  simple  plaits,  which  they  turn  up  and  fasten  with  a  small  bow  at  the  top  of 
the  head.  There  is  no  false  hair  worn  by  the  nice  Frenchwomen.  I  wrote  this  news 
to  Kate;  and  on  my  return,  her  pin*cushion,  which  had  been  inexorable  to  the 
entreaties  of  English  friends,  had  fallen  before  the  fiat  of  a  French  fashion. 

Altogether  then,  dress  is  just  now  beautifully  simple  iu  Paris  ;  the  fine  bonnets  in 
the  windows  are  notably  ^ponr  Ics  €tranyhre8 ; '  no  Parisian  would  wear  them.  The 
materials  worn  by  young  people  are  simple,  alpacas  or  light  silks.    The  exquisite 


NOTICES  TO  GORBXSPONBENTS.  101 

make  and  finish  alone  give  the  charm  and  style.  Even  for  reception  eyenings,  the 
same  toilette  is  worn.  A  Frenchwoman  wears  out  her  one  or  two  dresses  while 
they  are  fashionable,  instead  of  having  a  dozen  to  lay  aside  and  be  remodelled  next 
year. 

So  moch  for  my  details.  Bat  let  an  old  aunt  draw  a  moral.  Yon  English  girls 
will  soon  all  be  beanti fully  simple  too  in  dress  and  hair.  But  why  in  obedience  to 
fiishion  only,  and  not  to  your  own  feelings  of  what  is  not  only  tasteful  but  also  right? 
Think  of  those  poor  girls  with  the  tow  in  their  hats.  Tliey  were  sillier,  but  had  they 
done  worse  than  the  better«educated  girls  who  stuffed  their  own  hair  with  that  of 
others  ?  Is  it  quite  honest  to  use  false  hair  ?  Of  course  not ;  the  question  is  absurd. 
Then  can  you  not,  some  of  yoa,  be  brave  enough  to  be  honest,  and  henceforth,  what- 
ever the  fashion,  to  wear  none  ?  Yon,  as  a  girl,  have  more  influence  with  girls  than 
we  older  women  have.  May  I  ask  you,  dear,  to  think  upon  this  matter  not  lightly ; 
and  if,  like  me,  you  deem  it  well,  to  set  the  example  of  making  the  best  of  what 
nature  gives  you,  and  not  telling  an  untruth  by  your  dress  any  more  than  by  your 
lips.  Honestly,  and  without  making  too  serious  an  affiiir  of  this,  I  believe  that  you 
would  thos — and  even  by  forming,  if  possible,  some  little  band  of  English  maidens  so 
resolved — be  doing  a  little  bit  of  real  useful  work  for  Truth  and  Modesty  in  your  own 
generation. 

Believe  me,  dear  Niece, 

Your  loving  Aunt, 

AnivB  M. 


Notices  to  Correspondents, 

No  3fS.  can  he  returned  unless  the  Author's  name  and  address  he  written  on  it,  and 
stamps  he  sent  with  it. 

Contributions  mtist  often  he  delated  for  want  of  space,  but  their  writers  may  he  assured 
that  when  room  can  he  found  they  shall  appear. 

Received  by  the  Sister  Superior,   St.  Peter's   Mission    Home,  Plymouth — From 

D.  E.  R.,  a  parcel  of  various  articles ;  from  F.  Y.,  a  parcel  of  clothing;  from  F.  E.  M., 
hocks;  post'office  order  for  £lffrom  Eton ;  5s.  in  stamps,  (Anon.) ;  5s.  ta  stamps^  frttm 
A  Qovemess. — Let  us  mention  among  the  gifts  that  would  be  most  useful  here — hooks  for 
the  lending  library;  and  likewise  men's  and  hoys*  clothes ;  and  hoots,  old  or  new, 

Keceived,  witJi  many  thanks,  by  The  Sistera  of  the  Poor,  St.  Luke's,  Finsbnry,  from 

E.  M.  F.,  four  small  hooks. 

Also,  from  T.  0.,  for  The  Children's  Dinner,  the  six  weeks  allowance  of  a  Sunday 
Scholar, 

Acknowledged,  with  many  thanks,  2s,  6d,from  T.  H.  S.,  Marlborough,  ^or  the  Clewer 
Fields  Mission. 

The  Sisters  of  St.  Peter's  Home  and  Sisterhood,  Kilbum,  euJIcnowledge  with  grateful 
thanks  the  recent  of  a  Scrap 'hook  and  Text,  for  The  Children's  Ward,  from  A  Lover 
of  The  Monthly  Packet. 

The  Treasurer  of  the  St,  Andrew's  Waterside  Mission,  Gravesend,  is  greatly  indebted 
to  the  friends  who  have  sent  him  money,  all  of  which  he  has  acknowledged  by  post  except 
the  following,  for  which  he  now  returns  his  best  thanks : — S.  E.  8.,  Grimsby,  2s.  6rf. ; 
G.  S.,  Bridgewater,  10s.  Bd,  He  begs  the  favour,  when  money  is  sent,  that  an  addrese 
may  he  sent  with  it,  to  which  a  receipt  may  he  sent  by  return. 


102 


THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


Wiil  Ihe  Editor  of  The  Monthly  Packet  kindly  inform  M.  H.  wher€  these  lines  are  t» 

be  found — 

*  Like  oil  upon  the  troubled  waten,' 
and 

*  Tlioagh  lost  to  sight, 
To  memory  dear.' 

Enquirer  asks  where  to  find  a  poem  ending  with  the  words,  *  For  she  was  a  water-rat.* 
The  other  question  does  not  come  witldn  our  scope, 

B.  and  C.  ask  if  it  is  known  who  is  the  author  of  Una,  a  Double  Story ;  and  whether 
ihe  composer  there  mentioned  is  meant  for  Mendelssohn, 

Orchid  is  the  singular  of  the  English  form  of  the  botanical  term  Orchidia},  including  the 
whole  tribe  of  or cliis- like  plants.     Orchids  is  ihe  plural. 

The  Monthly  Packet  has  always  been  under  the  same  editorship. 

In  reply  to  A.  P.'s  request  for  an  addition  to  a  young  child*s  prefer,  I  may  mention 
that  for  some  years  I  have  used  the  following  adaptation  of  a  hymn  for  the  purpose : — 

Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild. 
Look  upon  a  little  child ; 
Watch  o*er  me  from  day  to  day, 
Hear  mc,  Jesus,  \rhen  I  pray. 

Amen.    Tliank  God. 

When  the  small  supplicant's  sense  of  Truth  may  be  offended  by  the  epit/tet  *■  little,*  '  Thine 
adopted  child*  can  be  substituted,  and  ihe  prayer  thus  rendered  not  entirely  unsuitable  for 
youth,  should  it  recur  to  a  person^s  mind  after  childhood  is  past  I  have  also  been  in  the 
habit  of  using  the  old  Evening  Hymn,  *  Glory  to  Thee,  my  God,  this  night,*  with  my 
children  before  going  to  bed,  in  tlie  hope  that  in  after  life  it  may  exercise  a  protective 
influence  over  them — boys  especially, — A  Mothkb. 

For  A.  P.,  sent  by  another  Correspondent, 


MORNING  HYMN, 

Father,  Thou  hast  heard  my  prayer. 
And  I  own  Thy  tender  care ; 
For,  by  Thee  in  safety  kept, 
I  have  laid  me  down  and  slept 
Teach  mo  now  my  heart  to  raise 
In  a  morning  hymn  of  praise ; 
And  for  Jbsub'  sake,  I  pray, 
Bless  and  keep  me  through  the  day. 


EVENING  HYMN. 

At  the  close  of  eyery  day, 
LOKD,  to  Thee  I  kneel  and  pray. 
Look  upon  Thy  little  child, 
I»ok  in  love  and  mercy  mild : 
O  forgave  and  wash  away 
All  my  naughtiness  this  day ; 
And  both  when  I  sleep  and  wake, 
Bless  me  for  my  Saviour's  sake. 


To  T.  JY.— Having  seen  your  advertisement  in  the  Jnne  Number  of  77ie  Monthly 
Packet,  I  have  much  pleasure  in  informing  you  of  the  manner  in  which  a  parochial 
lending  library  has  lately  been  formed  in  this  place.  We  first  collected  subscriptions 
from  dilTerent  friends ;  and  then,  on  forwarding  the  money  to  The  Pure  Literature 
Society,  11,  Buckingham  Street,  Strand,  obtained  a  grant  of  hooks  to  double  the 
amount  sent.  We  had  previously  obtained  all  particulars  of  the  Society  from  the 
Secretary,  Mr.  H.  Turner,  and  also  a  letter  of  recommendation  from  a  subscriber.  We 
chose  the  books  from  tlie  Society's  list,  which  is  a  very  good  one ;  and,  with  a  few 
more  books  given  by  friends,  opened  the  library.  The  books  are  kept  in  a  locked 
case  in  the  National  School  room,  and  two  ladies  attend  every  Monday  to  change 
them.  They  are  covered  with  red  glazed  linen,  for  which  we  gave  4J<f.  the  yard, 
but  it  might  i>e  had  for  less  if  bought  wholesale.  I  enclose  a  copy  of  the  rules,  which 
are  pasted  inside  each  book ;  also  a  label  for  the  name,  which  is  put  outside ;  and  a 
ticket,  which  is  put  on  the  back,  with  the  letter  and  number  of  the  book  on  it.  An 
alphabetical  list  of  the  books  is  kept  in  a  catalogue  published  for  the  purpose  by  the 
Christian  Knowledge  Society.    The  penny  payments,  with  the  half-crowns  from  the 


NOTICES  TO  CORRESPONDENTS. 


103 


Hon.  Sabscribers,  are  safficient  to  pay  all  expenses,  and  also  to  keep  np  a  fresh 
sapply  of  books.  We  have  all  kinds  of  books,  and  find  that  the  small  shop-keepers, 
as  wdl  as  the  labouring  poor,  are  glad  to  have  them.  Anj  further  particulars  you 
may  wish  for  I  shall  be  happy  to  give  at  any  time. — E,  S. 

RULES. 

1.  Subscribers  of  one  penny  per  month  are  entitled  to  one  volame  at  a  time ;  of  twopence, 
to  two  volames,  and  to  one  volume  fbr  each  additional  penny  subscribed. 

2.  Books  can  be  changed  at  the  National  School  Roou, ,  every  Monday,  between 

twelve  and  one  o'clock. 

8.  No  book  is  to  be  kept  longer  than  four  weeks ;  but  a  volume,  after  having  been  returned, 
can  be  re-Issued,  should  no  one  else  have  asked  for  it. 

4.  No  books  jnay  be  lent  out  of  the  house  of  the  Subscriber  who  took  them  firom  the 
Library. 

6.  If  a  book  be  carelessly  torn,  or  the  leaves  lost,  the  Subscriber  in  whose  possession  It  is 
when  injured  must  pay  a  fine  of  8dL    If  a  book  be  lost,  half  the  published  price  must  be  paid. 

tt.  All  Subscriptions  must  be  paid  in  advance. 

7.  Honorary  Subscribers  to  pay  is,6d.a  year.  These  subscriptions  will  fimn  a  ftmd  for 
the  purchase  of  books. 

In  reply  to  T.  N,*3  request  for  some  hints  as  to  rules  and  books  for  the  formation 
of  a  Lending  Library,  we  beg  to  say  that  in  this  village  a  library  has  existed  for 
more  than  twenty-two  years,  for  the  benefit  of  all  the  parishes  on  the  estate  of  the 
nobleman  by  whom  it  is  supported.  This  library  is  free  to  all  who  comply  with  the 
rules,  which  are  as  follows : — 


1.  The  books  of  this  Library  will  be  lent  to  none  but  persons  residing  in  the  parishes 


of . 

2.  No  persons  will  be  entitled  to  receive  books  from  this  Library  without  presenting  to  the 
Librarian  a  recommendation  from  the  Clergyman  of  the  parish  in  which  the  applicant  resides. 

ft.  Persons  desirous  of  obtaining  books  must  apply  to  the  Librarian  on  any  Monday,  when 
also  any  books  they  may  have  in  their  possession  must  be  returned  to  him. 

4.  Not  more  than  one  volume  will  be  lent  to  the  same  person  at  one  time. 

5.  Persons  borrowing  books  from  this  Library,  are  on  no  account  to  lend  them  again  to 
other  persons. 

6.  A  fine  of  Id  a  week  will  be  enforced  for  every  week  that  a  volume  Is  kept  beyond  the 
time  specified  in  it  And  any  persons  defacing  or  destroying  any  book,  will  be  required  to 
make  it  good,  and  will  not  be  allowed  to  borrow  a  fresh  volume  until  this  rule  be  complied 
witli.  AH  fines  will  be  placed  in  the  poor's  box  of  the  parish  in  which  the  damage  or  delay 
takes  place. 

Few  villages  are  so  favoured  as  these,  however;  and  in  many  places,  persons 
borrowing  one  volume  at  a  time  pay  Bd,  a  quarter,  for  two  volumes  6</.,  and  so  on. 
Among  the  principal  favourites  are — 


Ttie  Monthly  Packet 
Leisure  Hour. 
Sunday  at  Home. 
Churchman's  Companion. 
Magazine  for  the  Young. 

[The  first  three  of  which  are  taken  in  monthly 
numbers,  the  other  two  in  half-yearly  volumes.] 

Jowett*s  Christian  Visitor. 
Tracts  for  Christian  Seasons. 
Monro's  Allegories, 
mgiim's  Progress. 
Heartsease. 
HeirofRedcIyffe.- 
Good  Stories. 


History  of  England.  (Dr.  Neale's  and  Poole's.) 
Robinson  Crusoe. 
Swiss  Family  Robinson. 
Winnie's  Difflcuiaes. 
Stokesley  Swjret 
Friarswood  Post-office. 
Longley  Sdtool. 
Ben  Sylvester's  Word. 
Christmas  Mummers,   i 
Railroad  Children. 
Leonard  the  Lion-heart 
Vendale  Lost  Property  Office, 
and  most  of  the  more  recent  publications  of  the 
S.  P.  C.  E. ;  also  easy  works  on  Natural  History, 
Botany,  && 


If  T,  N,  would  communicate  with  us  through  the  Editor  of  The  Monthly  Packet^ 
we  thonld  be  very  pleased  to  send  a  catalogue  of  onr  library  books.— £.  and  E, 


104  THS  MONTHLY  PAC^DET. 

A.  has  had  ten  yean  experience  in  the  management  of  a  conntiy  Book  Cluh.  Her 
members  were  of  yarious  classes.  She  had  eighty  on  the  books  or  more ;  fewer  in 
summer  than  in  winter.  This  Clab  consisted  of  farmer's  sons  and  daughters,  domestic 
servants,  small  shop-keepers,  labourers,  their  wives  and  children,  and  a  few  narYies. 
The  books  were  laid  out  on  tables,  the  first  Tuesday  in  the  month,  so  that  each 
member  or  his  deputy  could  select.  Each  member  brought  or  sent  a  card  on  which 
the  dates  were  printed,  and  the  numbers  of  the  books  selected  were  entered.  A.  was 
yery  particular  about  having  the  cards  sent ;  and  if  a  card  was  lost,  there  was  a  fine. 
Each  volume  was  a  halfpenny.    There  were  some  few  charged  a  penny — those  which 

cost  more  than  five  shillings.    *  Please,  Miss,  H wants  a  big  book,'  was  a  frequent 

message,  and  a  penny  was  offered.  A.  rarely  missed  attending  herself.  If  absent, 
another  lady  attended.  It  needs  some  tact  to  choose  or  recommend  books,  and  many 
who  could  not  come  themselves,  would  request  A,  to  select  their  books.  *  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin,'  'Pilgrim's  Progress,'  *  Sunday  at  Home,'  'Life  of  Hedley  Vicars,' 
'  Sermons  for  Working  Men,'  all  the  smaller  Stories  by  the  Author  of  *  The  Heir  of 
Heddyffe,'  'Little  Maids,'  S.F.C.K.  Stories  by  the  Author  of  'Likes  and  Dislikes,' 
'Peter  Parley's  Annuals,'  some  of  Miss  Drnry's  Novels,  Mrs.  Sewell's  Ballads, 
'Masterman  Beady,'  and,  above  all,  'Bobinson  Crusoe,'  were  always  in  request. 

'Please,  Miss,  H wants  to  have  "Dick  Turpin's  Bide,"  or  "The  Newgate 

Calendar," '  was  sometimes  said.  A,  always  declined  these  books,  and  substituted 
something  exciting,  like  '  Ben  Sylvester's  Word.'  A,  would  not  advise  T.  N.  to  let 
the  books  be  passed  round  without  her  special  leave.  A,  had  a  fresh  payment  if  a 
book  was  kept  over  the  month,  and  the  card  was  filled  up  again.  AJ's  Book  Club, 
after  the  first  start,  was  self-supporting,  and  numbered  about  three  hundred  volumes. 
The  covering  and  re-covering  and  repairing  the  books  is  very  important.  This 
Book  Club  was  always  called  in  the  parish,  '  Mrs. 's  Lending  Library.' 

If  T.  N.  will  send  her  address,  A.  B,  can  also  give  her  some  experiences. 

Declined  with  thanks, — A.  P. 

June  9th. — Stories  and  Lessons  on  the  Collects,  edited  by  the  Rev,  WiUiam  Jachon, 
are  exactly  what  you  loant. 


John  and  Chnrlci  Mozlcy,  Friiitert,  Dcrbjr. 


A   I 


r 


GBAVESEND. 

patron : 

THE    LOBD    BISHOP    OP    ROOHEBTEB. 

gjissionat:^  €nt)xU: 

THE    REVEREND    WTLMOT   BUXTON,    M.  A., 
Of  Brazenose  College,  Oxford. 


PROPOSED   NEW   CHAPEL. 


HE  first  stone  of  the  New  Chapel  -was  laid  on  S.  Peter's  Day, 
June  29th,  1870,  by  Rear  Admiral  Inglefield,  C.B.  It  was 
laid  on  the  chalk  rock  a  few  feet  below  the  mud  in  front  of  the 
Mission  House.  For  this  purpose  it  was  necessary  to  choose 
a  time  when  it  was  low  water.  The  confined  space  and  other  circum- 
stances rendered  it  desirable  that  the  ceremony  should  be  as  simple  as 
poaeible.  A  Celebration  of  the  Holy  Communion  was  the  service 
fixad  on,  and  the  hour  8.d0  a,m.,  when  it  was  low  tide.  Due  notice 
was  given  to  every  supporter  of  the  Mission  in  every  part  of  England 
to  secure  their  kindly  presence  in  spirit.  The  early  hour  was 
purpo&ely  chosen  to  limit  the  attendance  in  person,  the  present 
hiunble  chapel  being  only  just  able  to  hold  the  60  or  70  worshippers 


who  assembled  in  it.  Immediately  after  the  reception  the  whole 
congregation  went  out  upon  the  wharf,  and  the  stone  was  lowered 
in  silence  into  its  resting  place,  where  it  was  placed  by  Admiral 
Inglefield  in  the  name  of  the  Eternal  Trinity.  It  was  a  plain  white 
block  of  stone,  weighing  about  a  ton,  with  no  mark  or  inscription 
on  it  but  a  simple  cross.  As  soon  as  Admiral  Inglefield  had  declared 
it  to  be  duly  laid— the  Oelebrant  conmienced  the  Lord's  Prayer  and 
concluded  the  Communion  Service  in  the  open  air  on  the  wharf,  the 
whole  congregation  being  there  with  uncovered  heads.  This  was  the 
whole  of  the  simple  and  affecting  service. 

The  Building  Committee  are  glad  to  communicate  the  following 
particulars  to  the  Subscribers.  It  will  be  remembered  that  the 
original  idea  was  that  the  Mission  House  should  be  purchased  and 
turned  into  a  ChapeL  That  could  have  been  done,  but  as  the  idea 
gained  consistency  it  was  seen  that  a  nobler  work  than  this  ought  to 
be  done.  The  present  wharf  is  exceedingly  crazy,  and  there  would 
be  a  danger  of  the  whole  thing  falling  bodily  into  the  river  in  20  or 
80  years,  unless  the  foundations  were  laid  upon  the  rock. 

Moreover  to  pull  down  the  House  and  put  a  Chapel  on  its  ruins 
was  to  destroy  a  large  number  of  rooms  wanted  for  the  present  work 
— ^Night  Schools — Mothers  Meetings,  storing  of  the  books  and  papers 
sent  to  us,  and  preparing  them  for  Libraries,  &o. 

Moreover  it  was  felt  to  be  a  duty  that  the  noble  gift  of  £1,000 
should  stimulate  the  benevolence  of  the  other  supporters  of  the 
Mission,  now  numbering  many  hundreds.  It  touches  our  honour 
that  we  should  not  stand  by  and  see  it  all  done  for  us. 

It  was  decided  therefore  to  purchase  a  strip  of  land  about  17  ft. 
wide,  to  the  west,  and  obtain  a  grant  from  the  Thames  Conservancy 
of  20ft.  on  the  river  side.  They  are  thankful  to  report  that  both 
these  points  have  been  gained,  and  by  God's  good  help  they  trust 
now  to  see  a  noble  block  of  buildings  with  a  sea  wall  built  down  to 
the  rock,  likely  to  last  hundreds  of  years,   comprising  a  Chapel 


8 


capable  of  holding  180  persons,  and  the  chief  part  of  the  present 
Mission  House,  as  it  will  now  only  be  necessary  to  cut  away  port  of  . 
it.  Boom  will  be  left  for  a  fature  addition  to  the  Chapel  and  a  fature 
addition  to  the  House.  The  Building  Committee  have  undertaken 
the  purchase  of  the  site,  the  construction  of  the  sea  wall,  (a  costly 
business,)  the  expense  of  putting  the  Mission  House  to  rights,  and 
the  building  of  the  foundation  up  to  the  level  of  the  street.  This 
will  cost  Jgl,500  at  least,  of  which  they  have  got  £500  or  £600  only. 
They  purpose  to  take  contracts  for  a  bit  at  a  time,  and  will  go  on  as 
they  get  money — not  incurring  debt  further  than  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  the  progress  of  the  work.  From  the  level  of  the 
street  the  cost  of  the  Chapel  will  be  borne  by  the  Benefactress. 

Donations  for  the  Building  Fund  may  be  sent  to  the  Building 
Committee,  who  are  as  follows  : — 

The  Bev.  C.  £.  B.  Bobinson,  Bural  Dean,  The  Castle, 
Qravesend^ 

The  Bev.  J.  Scarth,  Heath  Cottage,  Winkfield,  Windsor. 

Bear   Admiral  Inglefield,   C.B.,   10,   Grove  End  Boad, 
London,  N.  W. 

Or  the    Missionary  Curate.     The  Bev.   W.   Buxton,    8, 
Constitution  Cottages,  Gravesend. 

Small  Donations  in  Stamps  are  very  welcome. 
Donations  over  £1  Is.  Od,  may  be  paid  in  8  years. 
Donations  over  £6  may  be  paid  in  5  years. 

Those  who  send  money  in  Stamps,  Crossed  Cheques,  or  Post 
Office  Orders,  are  earnestly  requested  to  give  an  address  to  which  an 
acknowledgement  may  be  sent  by  return,  if  secrecy  is  desired  an 
initial  will  be  enough — but  a  request  for  acknowledgement  in  the 
Monthly  Packet, or  Penny  Post  gives  very  great  and  unnecessary 
trouble  to  the  Committee  and  the  Editors. 


« 


**  It  has  often  been  remai-ked,  and  not  without  good  reason,  that 
if  we  wish  to  spread  the  knowledge  of  the  one  living  and  true  God 
to  distant  lands,  our  best  plan  will  be  to  spread  ii  first  at  home,** 

'*  It  is  well  to  get  the  base  of  our  operations  sound  and  sure  before 
we  press  forward — ^to  get  the  foundation  of  our  house  well  laid  before 
we  build  the  upper  structure  ;  if  not  the  advanced  work  may  be  ever 
so  good,  ever  so  strong,  ever  so  beautiful,  but  it  will  signally  fail 
when  the  base  of  the  house  falls  away  for  want  of  strength." 

'*  Our  Missionary  Societies  are  doing  their  work  well  and  success- 
fally  in  foreign  countries.  They  are  bravely  and  liberally  sending 
out  staunch  and  zealous  men  into  the  farthest  comers  of  the  Lord's 
vineyard ;  but  their  hopes  of  success  are  often  blighted  by  an  evil 
which  issues  from  hom^e.  It  is  a  common  complaint  amongst  our 
clergy  abroad,  that  the  conduct  of  the  English  impedes  the  spread  of 
the  Gospel  which  has  been  undertaken  by  the  English.  This  is  shown 
partly  by  the  carelessness  and  irreligion  of  emigrants,  and  partly 
by  the  more  open  profligacy  and  crime  practised  by  sailors.** 

''It  is  a  very  sad  fact,  but  it  must  be  told,  that  many  of  those 
whose  lives  are  spent  trading  between  England  and  other  countries 
bring  a  scandal  on  her  fair  name,  cast  a  stain  on  her  memory,  and 
mar  the  good  which  the  truest  and  best  of  her  children  are  doing.** 

"  We  want,  then.  Missionary  labours  and  Missionary  labourers 

in  England,    We  want  to  influence  for  good  those  who  carry  our 

merchandise  to  other  parts." 

''Chubgh  Pbogbess.*'    July  1869. 

*5^*  ^  full  account  of  the  threefold  work  of  this  Mission  which 
attempts  to  bring  the  Gospel,  (1)  to  the  fishermen,  <itc,  on  shore,  (2)  to  ike 
*'  coolies  **  on  board  the  coal  hulks  moored  in  the  middle  of  the  river,  (8) 
to  the  Emigrants  and  merchant  seamen  in  the  hundreds  of  vessels  wkieh 
daily  pass  the  town  will  be  found  in  the  Monthly  Packet  for  October  ^ 
1868,  Vol.  vi.  p.  891.  and  in  the  Penny  Post  for  February  1870, 
voL  TLX.,p,  48. 

Printed  by  J.  S.  Oaddel,  "Orayoaeiid  Jonnial "  Office,  1  King  Street. 


THE 

V 

MONTHLY    PACKET 

OF 

EVENING    READINGS 

AUGUST,   1870. 


THREE  POEMS   BY  THE  REV.  J.  KEBLE. 

Ths  three  ensuing  poems  have  been  found  by  Mr.  Keb1e*s  fistmily 
written  on  the  blank  leaves  of  books,  which  were  in  use  during  the 
last  two  years  of  his  life.  They  are  in  his  hand,  and  written  in  his 
peculiar  manner,  the  lines  not  separate,  but  divided  by  marks.  We  are 
allowed^  by  the  kindness  of  the  family,  to  present  them  here. 

I. 

In  the  beginning  Thou  didst  all  create, 
Botk  worlds  in  sight,  and  worlds  no  eye  might  see ; 
Thou  ordered*st  all  in  number,  measure,  weight, 
Nor  void  nor  waste  in  Thy  new  work  might  be. 

But  now  this  agerl  Earth  in  all  her  deeps 
Dire  tokens  yields  of  rout  and  disarray ; 
Thy  creatures  lie  in  torn  and  slaughtered  heaps ; 
Did  Love  then  fail,  and  Wisdom  pass  away  ¥ 

Nay,  'twas  the  Will,  the  dread  Free-will,  allow'd 
To  souls  that  may  know  Thee.     A  star  from  Heaven 
Fell  down,  fell  hopeless ;  Angel  hearts  grew  proud. 
And  rais'd  the  storm  which  lower  worlds  hath  riven. 

But  Love  Almighty  on  the  ruin  built 
A  fresh  fair  home  where  all  might  please  Him  well ; 
Afid  Love  Allwise,  e'en  then  foreseeing  guilt. 
Wrought  against  wrath  to  come  a  wondrous  spell. 

When  eve  and  mom  had  three  times  brought  the  day, 
And  earth  and  seas  had  parted  at  Thy  word, 
And  herbs  began  beneath  their  green  array 
The  hope  of  coming  years  to  nurse  and  hoard  ; 

VOL.   10.  8  PART  56. 


106  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Then  didst  Thou  choose  (but  who  may  know)  the  tree 
Which  in  due  time  should  yield  Thy  saving  Rood, 
Then  sow  the  primal  seeds  on  hill  and  lea, 
Of  corn  and  wine,  to  be  Thy  Flesh  and  Blood. 

The  fourth  day  dawns,  Thou  speak'st  again,  and  lo  ! 
In  the  bright  maze  of  yonder  glorious  spheres 
Earth  takes  her  place,  henceforward  to  and  fro 
To  moye,  by  signs  and  seasons,  days  and  years. 

Such  His  decree,  adjusting  for  all  time, 

By  silent  wheels  of  His  dread  enginery, 

The  day,  hour,  moment,  when  His  Word  sublime 

A  Work  'mid  His  own  works  would  deign  to  be. 

What  seest  thou,  Sun,  first  glancing  o'er  the  main  T 
'  Motion  and  life  I  see,  beneath,  above. 
They  glide,  they  soar,  like  spirits  bom  again 
In  water,  now  to  mount  in  Paschal  Love.' 

So  dawned,  so  sank,  four  thousand  times  and  more, 
•  Our  Holy  Thursday's  type ;  but  holier  yet 
The  final  secret  of  Creative  Love, 
The  sign  He  gave  ere  Friday's  sun  had  set. 

That  mom  the  blood  that  should  the  Cross  foreshew. 
First  in  the  veins  of  lower  creatures  ran ; 
That  eve  He  spake  the  crowning  word,  and  lo ! 
The  seed  that  should  become  the  Perfect  Man. 

O  Lord  of  sacrifice,  O  God  of  grace, — 
Since  the  world  was  preparing  thus  alway 
Thine  awful  Feast  in  all  created  space, 
For  me  undean^— prepare  me.  Lord,  to-day. 


U. 

ADMmXSTRATION. 

O  All-contboluno,  Uncontroll'd, 
Sole  Cause  of  causes,  only  free 
At  Thine  own  willing  to  decree, 
To  use  Thy  greatness  or  withhold. 

Thou  of  old  time  hast  told  Thine  own 
Of  three  dread  loving  words  of  Thine, 
Three  voices  firom  the  inner  shrine 
Beserved  unto  Thyself  alone. 


THBBE  POEMS  BY  THE  REV.  J.  KEBLE.        107 

*  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light,' — 
No  other  tongue  might  speak  the  word ; 
Thou  to  no  creature  dost  afford 
Creating  and  preserving  might. 

'  Beside  Me  is  no  Saviour,  I 
That  wine-press  trod,  and  none  with  Me : ' 
The  Parent's  love  the  Child  must  free, 
And  pay  his  price,  and  for  him  die. 

The  reins  and  hearts  by  Thee  are  tried, 
And  to  none  other  would'st  Thou  give 
The  touch  that  makes  the  dead  soul  live ; 
Thou  must  convert^  and  none  beside. 

Thus  in  High  Mercy's  threefold  dole 
Each  Holy  One  His  proper  grace 
Vouchsafes,  allowing  there  no  space 
Between  Him  and  the  favour'd  soul. 

But  even  as  mothers  deeply  store 
The  incommunicable  love, 
Yet  with  no  grudging  smile  approve 
When  sisters  say,  '  The  babe  give  o'er,' 

Or  kindly  nurse  holds  out  her  arms  ; 
So  deigns  High  Mercy  to  diffuse 
Its  genial  airs  and  healing  dews 
By  virtue  of  created  charms. 

A  chain  hangs  down  from  Heaven  to  Earth ; 
He  holds  it,  Who  is  God  and  Man  : 
From  His  bright  Throne  of  world-wide  span 
A  thousand  lines  of  grace  go  forth. 

In  eUence  and  in  power  they  dart 
Along  His  mystic  wires,  to  find 
Each  one  his  place,  each  one  entwin'd 
With  Nature's  working,  or  Man's  heart. 

And  so  His  Priests  and  Sacraments 
Are  with  His  people  in  all  lands. 
Thro'  meanest  signs,  by  sinner's  hands 
To  seal  His  bounty  and  dispense. 


108  THE  MONTHIiT  PACKIT. 


m. 

June  13. 
Com'st  Thou  at  evening?     We  would  fain 
Be  found  before  Thee  meekly  kneeling, 
Where  through  the  far-off  storied  pane 
The  last  soft  gleam  is  upward  stealing. 

Com'st  Thou  at  midnight?     O  may  we 
Be  watching  found — some  lowly  moan 
Just  breathed  in  humbleness  to  Thee — 
Some  hidden  deed  of  Penance  done. 

Com'st  Thou  at  cock-crow  ?     Well  for  those 
Whose  pillows  vacant  shall  be  found, 
And  they  gone  forth  to  seek  repose 
Perchance  with  Thee  upon  the  ground. 

Com'st  Thou  at  mom  ?    The  home  how  blest 
Where  from  Thine  Altar  trimm'd  aright 
The  hallowed  lamp  hath  known  no  rest, 
The  chanted  Psalm  outworn  the  night. 


MUSINGS  OVER  THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR 
AND  LYRA  INNOCENTIUM. 

ST.  BARTHOLOMEW. 

Whbn  Hugh  Miller  visited  England,  he  unluckily  fell  upon  a  sermon 
preached  on  St.  Bartholomew's  Day,  which  discussed  the  question 
whether  the  Apostle  were  the  same  with  Nathanael.  Naturally,  it 
seemed  to  the  Scotsman  an  unprofitable  question ;  unused  to  Saints' 
Days,  he  could  not  understand  our  eagerness  to  cherish  and  apply  any 
characteristic  to  the  Apostle  whose  name  alone  is  recorded,  or  our 
desire  to  feel  that  we  may  rightly  place  on  our  August  festival  the 
meditations  suggested  by  the  presentation  of  the  Israelite  without  guile 
to  the  Saviour.  If  possible,  this  poem  has  rendered  that  interview  yet 
dearer  and  more  beautiful  in  our  ejea  by  the  thoughts  it  has  connected 
therewith.  The  opening  description  is  of  the  mirror,  flashing  out  the 
rays  of  the  sun  in  dazzling  radiance,  and  yet,  when  turned  away, 
perfectly  reflecting  every  ^  small  flower  of  bashful  hue '  towards  which 
it  is  directed.  In  like  manner,  Scripture  displays  one  Glorious  Image 
in  the  intense  brightness  of  holiness,  and  at  the  same  time  vividly  shews 
^  the  very  life  of  things  below.'    So  it  is,  that — as  we  are  reminded  in 


MUSINGS  OVEB  THE  CHKISTIAN  YEAB.  109 

the  quotation — we  cannot  dwell  on  Scripture  without  the  sense  (like 
what  some  pictures  give)  of  an  eye  being  fixed  on  us.  It  is  continually 
searching  into  us,  continually  making  us  feel  as  if  each  were  the  only 
individual  addressed ;  and  this  is  verily  one  of  the  great  tokens  o£ 
Inspiration. 

*  What  word  is  this  ?  whence  know'st  Thou  me  ? 

All  wondering  cries  the  humbled  heart ; 
To  hear  Thee  that  deep  mystery, 
The  knowledge  of  itself  impart/ 

That  conviction  of  the  conscience  makes  the  soul  cry  out,  '  This  is  the 
finger  of  God.'  The  Word  that  shewed  such  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
inmost  self  must  be  Divine;  therefore  belief  and  worship  must  follow, 
provided  the  heart  is  simple,  and  without  prejudice  or  pride.  So  it 
was  with  Nathanael  when  the  Incarnate  Word  shewed  that  perfect 
knowledge  of  his  lonely  hours  beneath  his  fig  tree.  He  owned  his  God 
at  once,  and  to  him  was  given  the  promise  thus  interpreted  for  us — 

*  The  childlike  faith,  that  asks  not  sight, 

Waits  not  for  wonder  or  for  sign. 
Believes,  because  it  loves,  aright. 

Shall  see  things  greater,  things  Divine. 

Heaven  to  that  gaze  shall  open  wide, 

And  blessed  Angels,  to  and  fro 
On  messages  of  love  shall  glide, 

Twixt  God  above  and  Christ  below.^ 

This  is  the  blessing  to  the  simple-hearted  guileless  man  ]  No  path  to 
him  is  crooked ;  he  goes  on  from  strength  to  strength,  hearing  and 
gathering  up  the  many  voices  of  the  great  cloud  of  witnesses,  whom 
others  fail  to  trace  or  comprehend,  yet  still  loving  better  than  all  the 
Voice  which  first  revealed  to  him  that  he  stood  before  the  All-seeing 
Christ. 

The  meeting  with  Nathanael  is,  after  all,  not  appointed  by  the  Church 
as  a  Gospel  or  Lesson  for  St.  Bartholomew's  Day ;  and  the  Lyra  poem 
is  on  the  narrative  in  the  Acts,  which  8er\'es  as  the  Epistle.  It  is  not 
one  of  which  the  exact  import  is  very  easy  to  define ;  it  is  suggestive 
rather  than  doctrinal,  and  seems  chiefiy  to  dwell  on  the  all-pervading 
Grace,  fiowing  out  on  all  sides  from  all  that  was  connected  with  the 
Saints,  and  through  them  with  their  Master.  The  hem  of  Christ's 
garment,  the  shadow  of  St.  Peter  touched  in  faith,  convey  virtue  from 
the  Godhead  made  Man — spreading  forth  the  '  shadow  of  a  great  Rock 
in  a  weary  land,'  and  affording  blessing  to  all  who  shelter  under  it. 

(To  be  continued.) 


110  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OF  DANTE. 

Before  leaving  the  seventh  gulf,  Dante  indulges  in  a  strain  of  ironical 
address  to  his  native  city  Florence,  which  had  grovm  to  such  importance 
in  Hell.  Perhaps  the  sarcasm  carries  increased  effect  with  it  from  the 
fact  of  the  five  offenders  having  been  all  men  of  high  position  in  the 
state,  and  yet  all  condemned  for  their  indulgence  in  a  vice  from  which 
the  ruling  classes  of  a  nation  may  be  supposed  generally  exempt.  What 
the  calamity  was,  which  all  the  neighbour  cities  of  Florence — even  the 
little  Frato — ^longed  for,  it  is  not  easy  to  say.  Dante's  general  feeling 
seems  to  be  that  such  a  course  of  wickedness  must  provoke  an  act 
of  providential  retribution,  and  that  the  longer  this  was  delayed,  the 
greater  the  suspense  to  himself,  and  the  more  overwhelming  the 
catastrophe  which  he  apprehended.  It  is  possible,  though  not  certain, 
that  he  refers  to  some  domestic  calamities  from  which  Florence  suffered 
in  May,  1304,  when  many  lives  were  lost  in  consequence  of  the  breaking 
down  of  a  bridge  over  the  Amo,  and  subsequently  in  a  large  con- 
flagration, which  destroyed  more  than  seventeen  hundred  houses.  If 
any  of  our  readers  think  these  hardly  adequate  to  the  occasion,  they 
can  still  interpret  Dante's  lines  as  a  general  sentiment  of  foreboding, 
and  prophetic  of  the  Nemesis  which  he  felt  must  come  soon  in  some 
form  or  another.  As  to  line  7,  Horace,  Ovid,  and  others  also  allude  to 
the  ancient  superstition,  that  dreams  appearing  after  midnight  come 
true ;  but  Dante  here  means  no  more  than  ^  If  I  am  not  mistaken.' 

Then  the  poets  remount  the  height,  and  descend  upon  the  bridge 
overhanging  the  eighth  gulf,  in  which  are  placed  the  givers  of  evil 
counsel ;  and  here  Dante  feels  that  there  is  a  lesson  needful  for  him  to 
learn.  As  a  prominent,  and  still  more  as  an  unsuccessful  politician,  he 
was  doubtless  tempted  at  times  to  swerve  from  the  right  course;  and 
considering  how  many  years  he  passed  in  exile,  it  seems  but  reasonable 
to  suppose  that  the  danger  against  which  he  warns  himself  lay  in  the 
negotiations  which  he  carried  on  at  Verona,  Ravenna,  and  other  places, 
for  his  restoration  to  his  native  city.  In  line  54,  Dante  either  forgets' 
or  alters  the  old  story  of  Thebes,  in  which,  while  the  funeral  of  Eteodes 
was  celebrated  with  all  due  honour,  Polynices  was  cast  out  by  order  of 
Greon,  till  Antigone  dared  to  elude  the  watchers,  and  bury  him  under 
cover  of  night.  In  line  60,  he  makes  the  wooden  horse  the  fountain 
head  of  the  Homan  race,  as  having  caused  that  overthrow  of  Troy 
which  drove  the  Trojan  remnant  to  settle  in  Italy.  Why  that  stratagem, 
or  the  others  mentioned  in  connexion  with  it,  should  be  considered  as 
moral  offences^  is  not  quite  clear.  Nor  is  it  at  first  sight  intelligible 
why  the  fact  of  Ulysses  and  Diomede  being  Greeks  should  make  them 
unwilling  to  answer  Elante ;  since,  if  he  was  an  Italian,  so  was  Virgil : 
but  the  stress  the  latter  lays  on  the  fame  they  have  acquired  through  his 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OF  DANTE.  Ill 

epic,  (not  an  enviable  fame,  it  must  be  owned,)  seems  to  indicate  the 
poet's  intention.  With  the  speech  of  Ulysses,  -which  occupies  the 
remainder  of  the  Canto,  our  readers  should  compare  Tennyson's  short 
piece  on  the  same  subject,  which  is  evidently  founded  upon  it  The 
whole  of  that  poem,  but  especially  the  lines  beginning 

*  My  mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toiled  and  wrought  and  thought  with  me :' — 

down  to 

*  It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down ; 
It  may  be  we  shaU  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew ' — 

receives  a  new  light  when  compared  with  this  Canto.  And  in  return 
Tennyson  supplies  that  inner  character  of  the  hero,  which,  though  not 
expressed  in  direct  language,  is  felt  to  be  necessarily  underlying  the 
whole  of  Dante's  conception.  Our  readers  will  not  need  to  have  pointed 
out  to  them  the  pathetic  beauty  of  this  episode,  letting  in,  as  it  does,  a 
ray  of  light  from  the  upper  world  into  the  midst  of  the  horrors  of  Hell, 
and  yet  ending  so  soon  and  so  disastrously.  The  mountain  whence 
sprang  the  fatal  whirlwind  is  the  mountain  of  Purgatory,  in  the 
antipodes  of  Jerusalem,  whither  Ulysses'  five  months  voyage  from  the 
straits  had  brought  him.  Why  he  and  his  crew  should  thus  have  been 
prevented  from  landing,  needs  no  explanation. 


THE  INFERNO.— CANTO  XXVI. 

Florekce,  rejoice,  of  all  thy  peers  the  grandest, 

Who  over  sea  and  land  thy  wings  hast  stretched. 

And  throughout  Hell  in  name  and  fame  expandest. 
Those  five  I  found  amidst  the  robbers  wretched 

Were  all  thy  sons ;  whence  shame  my  spirit  quelleth. 

But  thou  to  honourable  note  art  fetched. 
But  yet,  if  truth  in  dreams  near  morning  dweUeth, 

In  no  long  time  shalt  thou  be  feeling  surely 

What  Prato's  hopes,  ay  and  the  others',  swelleth ;  ' 

Which  coming  now  would  not  come  prematurely.  10 

Would  it  were  here,  since  come  it  must !  for  more 

It  pains,  the  older  that  I  grow.     Securely 
We  parted  thence,  and  by  the  steps,  before 

Trod  by  our  feet  the  border  while  descending. 

The  Master  climbed  back,  and  drew  me  o'er. 
And  there  amongst  the  rocks  and  boulders  wending 

Our  lonely  way,  the  feet  had  need  to  borrow 

The  hands'. assistance  often  in  ascending: 


113  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

And  then  I  sorrowed,  and  ev'n  now  jet  sorrow, 

When  upon  that  I  saw  my  mind  abideth,  20 

And  rein  my  spirit  within  bounds  more  narrow, 
So  that  it  run  not  save  where  virtue  gnideth, 

Nor  to  my  loss  pervert  what  boon  soever 

My  star  or  something  higher  for  me  provideth. 
Sparkles  of  flame  as  numerous  as  ever 

The  peasant  on  the  hill  side  who  redineth 

Beholds,  when  he  who  lights  our  world,  doth  sever 
His  presence  from  us  least,  what  time  resigneth 

The  fly  her  place  unto  the  gnat,  and  over 

Farm  land  and  vineyard  down  tfre  valley  shineth  80 

The  fire-flies'  swarm ;  so  many  then  did  hover 

0*er  the  eighth  chasm,  as  we  at  once  perceived. 

Approaching  where  the  depth  we  could  discover. 
As  he  who  by  the  bears  his  wrong  retrieved 

Beheld  the  chariot  of  Elias  starting 

And  horses  into  highest  heaven  received, 
But  could  not  follow  them  on  their  departing. 

Nor  aught  behold  save  one  thin  flame,  revealed 
.  In  shape  a  little  cloud,  and  upwards  darting  ;^ 
So  through  the  circuit  of  the  hollow  wheeled  40 

Flame  after  flame ;  and  none  its  theft  displayeth 

In  that  a  sinner  is  in  each  concealed. 
Down  o'er  the  bridge  to  gaze,  my  zeal  essayeth. 

In  danger  ev'n  without  a  push,  of  falling 

Save  that  a  rock  firm  clasped  my  posture  stayeth. 
Then  he  who  saw  me  thus  desirous,  calling 

Unto  me,  said,  '  Here  wander  in  detention 

Spirits,  each  wrapped  in  the  garb  appalling 
That  bums  them.'    And  I,  '  Master,  my  apprehension 

Is  now  more  sure ;  some  time  have  I  suspected  50 

That  so  it  was,  and  wished  to  hazard  mention, 
And  ask  who  fills  that  fire,  that  comes  bisected 

In  summit,  like  the  twofold  fiery  feather 

That  crowned  the  pyre  for  Theban  twins  erected.' 
Then  he,  '  That  holds  within  its  sorrow's  tether 

Diomede  and  Ulysses,  thus  combined 

In  pain,  as  erst  in  wrath  they  ran  together. 
There  they  lament  the  cunning  that  designed 

The  horse's  ambuscade,  that  did  awaken 

To  life  the  seed  wherein  was  Rome  enshrined.  60 

There  too  they  rue  the  act  whereby  forsaken 

Deidamia  yet  though  dead  bewaileth 

Achilles ;  and  for  Troy's  Palladium  taken.' 


THE  DIVINA  COMMBDIA  OF  DANTE.  113 

^  Unless  within  those  sparks  their  utterance  faileth,' 

I  said,  'I  earnestly  to  prayer  apply  me, 

And  pray  till  prayer  a  thousand  fold  availeth, 
That  thou  to  linger  here  wouldst  not  deny  me^ 

Until  the  homed  flame  toward  us  swerveth ; 

See,  how  with  longing  thitherwards  I  hie  me.' 
And  he  in  answer,  ^  This  thy  prayer  deserveth  70 

No  little  praise ;  therefore  shall  it  he  granted, 

But  take  good  care  thy  tongue  its  speech  reserveth. 
Leave  words  to  me ;  for  all  that  thou  hast  wanted 

I  know,  and  in  them  haply  some  suspicion 

Of  thee,  for  they  were  Greeks,  may  be  implanted.' 
Then  when  the  flame  had  gained  such  position 

Wherein  my  lord  fit  time  and  place  discerned. 

After  this  form  I  heard  him  make  petition : 
'  O  ye  who  both  within  one  fire  are  burned. 

If  aught  of  you  I  merited  while  living,  80 

If  aught  of  you  little  or  much  I  earned 
When  to  the  world  my  lofty  verses  giving ; 

Go  not  away,  but  one  of  you  so  pressed 

Say  where  he  went  self-lost  to  die.'    Receiving 
Such  words  the  old  flame's  greater  horn  addressed 

Itself  to  wave  with  murmurings,  conveying 

The  idea  of  one  by  freshening  wind  distressed ; 
Hither  and  thither  then  its  summit  swaying 

As  if  it  were  a  tongue  that  spake,  it  aimed 

A  voice,  and  said,  ^  When  after  much  delaying  90 

I  quitted  Circe,  who  my  presence  claimed 

Near  Gaeta  for  full  a  year's  long  leisure, 
-  Ere  that  Eneas  so  the  place  had  named ; 
Not  reverence  for  my  aged  sire,  not  pleasure 

In  my  sweet  son,  not  ev'n  the  due  affection 

That  should  have  been  Penelope's  best  treasure, 
Gould  quench  the  thirst  I  had  to  make  inspection 

Of  the  world's  life,  and  learn  the  lore  imparted 

By  men,  their  faults  and  virtues.    In  subjection 
To  this  idea,  in  one  sole  boat  I  started  100 

Through  the  mid  deep,  with  that  small  crew  that  braved 

The  voyage  with  me,  when  all  the  rest  departed. 
Then  either  coast  was  on  my  sight  engraved, 

As  Spain,  Marocco,  Sardinia  appeared 

With  all  the  isles  that  by  that  sea  are  laved. 
I  and  my  comrades  now  were  old  and  wearied, 

Ere  into  that  strait  throat  of  water  sailing. 

Where  Hercules  his  warning  pillars  reared. 


114  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

That  none  should  pass  beyond  them :  but  unquailing 

I  passed,  with  Seville  on  the  right  hand,  even  110 

As  I  had  erst  left  Ceuta.     Therefore  hailing 
Mj  crew,  I  spake,  ''  Brethren,  who  having  striven 

Through  many  thousand  dangers,  are  arrived 

At  the  great  West,  now  in  the  fading  even 
Of  sense,  whate'er  remaineth  to  be  lived. 

Make  not,  I  pray  you,  my  ambition  hollow 

In  the  sun's  track  to  explore  the  world  deprived 
Of  human  kind.     Think  whence  ye  sprang ;  to  wallow 

Through  life  like  brutes  ye  never  were  created. 

But  virtue  and  fair  sciences  to  follow."  120 

Thus  I  with  slight  entreaty  stimulated 

My  comrades  so,  that  for  the  quest  awaking 

Their  zeal  thereafler  scarce  could  be  abated. 
So  to  the  mom  our  bows  we  turned,  and  making 

Wings  of  our  oarage  in  the  vain  endeavour 

We  sped,  the  left  hand  aye  more  closely  taking. 
The  stars  of  the  other  pole  I  watched  ever 

Shine  nightly  all,  while  ours  so  low  were  placed 

That  from  the  watery  floor  arose  they  never. 
Five  times  was  kindled  and  again  effaced  130 

The  light  from  underneath  the  moon,  since  steering 

Due  west  between  the  lofty  straits  we  passed ; 
When  loomed  a  mountain  on  our  sight,  appearing 

Brown  in  the  distance ;  none  so  high  existed 

Of  all  that  I  had  seen.     Our  spirits  cheering 
At  first,  it  soon  lament  instead  enlisted ; 

For  from  the  new-found  land  a  whirlwind  springing 

Smote  full  the  fore-foot  of  our  bark,  and  twisted 
It  tiiree  times  round  with  all  the  waves ;  then  bringing 

A  fourth  attack,  our  stem  on  high  it  lifted,  140 

(For  so  it  pleased  another)  downwards  flinging 
The  prow,  till  o'er  our  heads  the  billows  drifted.' 

(To  be  continued,) 


115 


HYMN.POEMS  ON  NOTABLE  TEXTS. 

BY  THE  BEV.   S.  J.   STONE,  B.A. 

AUTHOR   OF   'LYBA   FIDBLIUM.' 

No.  Vm.— THE  CHURCH'S  SONG. 

'My  Beloved  is  mine,  and  I  am  His.* — Canticles,  ii.  16. 

{Tune,  Pilgrimage.) 

I  AM  Thine:  I  stand  before  Thee, 

Jesu,  evermore  Thine  own : 
Not  by  merit,  but  by  glory 

Of  Thy  grace,  elect  alone, 
Thy  beloved 

Unto  men  and  angels  shewn. 

Thou  art  mine :  I  did  not  choose  Thee, 

Only  came  when  Thou  didst  call ; 
Now,  oh  never  let  me  lose  Thee, 

From  Thy  Bstvour  never  fall ! 
My  Beloved, 

First  and  last,  and  All  in  all. 

I  am  Thine :  Thy  Word  remaineth,* 

That  no  creature  far  or  nigh. 
Where  the  lord  of  evil  reigneth 

In  deep  Hell  or  haunted  skyjf 
Shall  for  ever 

Part  of  love  the  mystic  tie. 

Thou  art  mine : — although  Thy  Vision 

Fills  not  yet  my  longing  sight. 
Though  the  doubting  world's  derision 

Holds  my  honour  in  despite, — 
Mine  in  darkness. 

Surely  as  at  last  in  light. 

I  am  Thine :  in  tribulation 
From  Thy  parted  Heavens  above 

*  Romans,  viii.  38,  89. 

t  Cf.  Eph.  ii.  2.—*  The  Prince  of  the  power  of  the  air;  also,  Eph.  vi.  12.—*  Wicked 
spirits  in  heavenly  places,*  It  is  the  opinion  of  all  the  doctors  of  the  Chnrch,  (says  S. 
Jerome,)  that  the  iuten'ening  air  between  Heaven  and  earth  is  full  of  adverse 
powers. 


116  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Gomes  divinest  consolation, 
Lighting  as  the  Holy  Dove, 

With  the  message 
Of  Thine  everlasting  love. 

Thou  art  mine :  in  bliss  and  sorrow, 
In  the  shade  as  in  the  shine : 

Yesterday,  to-day,  to-morrow. 

To  the  age  of  ages, — ^mine ; 

Yea,  my  Master, 

Mine  Thoa  art,  for  I  am  Thine. 

Amen. 


THE  TRANSFIGURATION. 

August  6th. 
BY.  F.  HARRISON. 

Lift  thine  eyes,  my  soul,  with  wonder. 
And  with  reverence  bow  the  head ; 

Earthly  clouds  are  rent  asunder. 
Heavenly  radiance  is  shed ; 

Sinai's  flame  and  Horeb's  thunder 
Were  not  half  so  strange  and  dread. 

It  is  Moses,  and  he  weareth 
O'er  his  saintly  face  no  veil ; 

When  the  Light  of  light  appeareth 
All  created  glories  pale ; 

And  the  law  the  old  world  feareth 
Fades,  and  newer  laws  prevail. 

Tib  Elias,  and  around  him 
Hangs  no  mantle's  mystic  fold, 

Rays  of  woven  light  surround  him, 
Beautiful  and  manifold ; 

Like  a  garment  they  have  wound  him 
In  a  tissue  bright  aa  gold. 

It  is  Jesus,  He  who  lately 

Toiled  to  earn  His  daily  bread ; 

And  His  own  friends  marvel  greatly 
At  the  glory  round  His  Head ; 

At  the  glistering  robes  and  stately, 
Dazzling  white  about  Him  spread. 


SKETCHES  FROM  HUNGAMAIJ  HISTORY.  117 

LoBD,  our  Friend  and  our  sweet  Master, 

It  is  well  that  we  are  here, 
For  our  torpid  hearts  beat  faster, 

And  our  wandering  souls  draw  near 
To  this  Light,  which  no  disaster 

Evermore  can  make  less  clear. 

Now  they  speak :  O  most  astounding  I 

For  they  speak  of  His  Decease ! 
How  amid  all  woes  abounding 

His  Tast  sufferings  must  increase, 
Till  from  cruel  foes  surrounding 

Shameful  death  shall  bring  release. 

Wondrous  Tision !  shewn  to  render 

Timid  hearts  more  bold  and  brave ; 
Jesus,  terrible  and  tender, 

"Weak  to  suffer,  strong  to  save ; 
Who  will  rise  with  tenfold  splendour 

From  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 

Who  for  evermore  remaineth 

King  and  Conqueror  alone. 
In  the  glory  where  He  reigneth 

O'er  the  Kingdom  all  His  own, 
Till  His  chosen  band  attaineth 

To  the  footstool  of  His  Throne. 


Sl^ETCHES  FROM  HUNGARIAN  HISTORY. 

9T  TH9  ▲OTKOB  OF  *  COURAGE  AVD  C0WA1U>B  ;*  *  r70N/  &C. 

XV. 

A  NEW  DTKASTT. 

iuO.   1810  TO  A.D.  1842. 

Save  me  from  my  friends  I  might  well  have  been  King  Charleses  cry, 
when,  after  his  fourth  coronation,  he  began  to  survey  the  position  which 
he  had  at  length  attaiaed.  He  had  enemies  enough,  both  open  and 
secreti  to  occupy  all  his  attention ;  but  with  them  he  could  not  deal  while 
he  was  hampered  by  his  so-called  friends,  the  nobles  who  had  been  hia 
chief  supporters,  and  to  whom  he  in  great  measure  owed  his  throne. 
Their  support  had  not  been  given  from  motives  of  pure  benevolence ; 


118  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

and  Charles  soon  found  that  it  would  he  in  no  wise  politic  to  refuse  them 
the  rewards  they  expected,  namely,  extension  of  lands  and  power,  or,  as 
not  unfrequently  happened,  the  royal  countenance  for  acts  of  usurpation 
already  committed.  The  Counts  of  Brehir,  for  instance,  had  usurped 
authority  over  Croatia,  Bosnia,  and  the  town  of  Jadra,  and,  growing  still 
bolder  after  the  coronation,  now  exercised  all  the  rights  of  royalty  over 
the  subject  provinces ;  nor  could  Charles  venture  to  interfere  with  them. 
The  Palatine  Omode  too  had  made  himself  virtually  king  of  the  north- 
east of  Hungary,  and  was  now  intent,  with  the  approbation  or  helpless 
acquiescence  of  Charles,  upon  brining  the  important  town  of  Kassa 
(Kaschau)  into  his  power,  an  attempt  which,  however,  cost  him  his  life. 
Being  thus  circumstanced  with  regard  to  those  professedly  his  friends, 
it  is  hardly  matter  for  astonishment  that  Charles  should,  for  the  time, 
have  contented  himself  with  the  surrender  of  the  regalia,  and  have  left; 
the  hostile  Yajda,  Apor  Ldszl6,  in  undisturbed  possession  of  all  the  lands 
and  powers  he  had  appropriated  in  Transylvania,  even  to  the  Countships 
of  the  Sz^kels  and  Saxons.  For  the  same  cogent  reasons  he  was 
obliged  to  overlook  the  yet  more  formidable  hostility  of  the  old  Palatine, 
Csak  Mdt^.  Cs&k  had  not  been  present  at  the  coronation,  and  no  threats 
or  persuasions  of  Cardinal  Gen  tills  had  succeeded  in  inducing  him  to 
greet  the  King,  when,  in  the  course  of  his  royal  progress  through  Upper 
Hungary,  Charles  was  passing  through  the  territories  of  the  haughty 
noble.  Csdk's  authority  was  implicitly  acknowledged  throughout  the 
valley  of  the  Yag,  and  from  Komarom  on  the  Danube  to  Kassa  and  the 
Zips.  So  great  was  the  impression  he  made  on  the  minds  of  the  people, 
that  to  this  day  the  land  which  once  owned  his  sway,  is  called  Matyus- 
foldje,  or  land  of  Malyus;  and  many  a  tradition  still  exists  of  his 
immense  treasure,  his  numerous  and  well-fortified  castles,  his  large 
garrisons  of  soldiery,  and  the  almost  royal  state  maintained  at  his  great 
stronghold  of  Trencsin.  His  court  was  rivalled  only  by  that  of  the  King 
himself,  if  indeed  it  was  rivalled,  for  it  is  not  improbable  that  the  offices 
of  Palatine,  treasurer,  &c.,  may  at  this  time  have  been  better  worth 
having  at  the  Court  of  King  Csak  than  of  King  Charles.  So  bold  did  he 
become,  that  even  while  Charles  was  travelling  in  his  neighbourhood,  he 
plundered  the  possessions  of  some  subjects  more  loyal  than  himself,  and 
shortly  after  marched  at  the  head  of  a  large  armed  force,  through  the 
district  lying  between  the  Tisza  and  Danube,  and  threatened  Buda,  where 
the  King  and  Queen  were  holding  their  court  The  ban  pronounced 
against  himself  and  his  aUies,  by  the  Cardinal,  had  no  other  effect  than  to 
excite  his  anger,  for  the  priests  and  even  tlie  bishop  within  his  territory 
dared  not  do  otherwise  than  perform  all  the  offices  of  religion  as  usual. 
Fresh  depredations,  however,  on  his  part,  and  a  league  made  by  him 
with  the  six  sons  of  the  late  Palatine  Omode,  who  were  supported  by 
the  citizens  of  Kassa,  obliged  Charles  at  length  to  take  some  decided 
step.  Not' that  he  dared  venture  on  a  struggle  with  the  great  chief  in  his 
stronghold ;  but  he  hoped,  by  cutting  off  his  allies,  g^dually  to  weaken 


SKETCHES  FROM  HUNGABIAN  HISTORY.  119 

his  power.  And  in  this  he  succeeded,  for  thoagh  the  rojal  banner  was 
captured,  the  rebels  fled  after  an  obstinate  fight,  having  lost  their  chief 
leaders ;  and  Kassa  opened  her  gates.  For  the  present,  Charles  thought 
it  advisable  to  attempt  no  more,  for  his  own  interest  and  attention  were 
fully  absorbed  by  the  affairs  of  Germany,  which  had  just  now  lost  her 
Emperor,  Heinrich  of  Luxemburg,  and  could  not  agree  upon  his  successor. 
Heinrich's  son  Johann,  who  had  been  invited  by  the  Bohemians  to  marry 
their  Princess  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  Wenzel  II.,  and  become  their  king 
at  the  early  age  of  fourteen,  though  now  four  or  five  years  older,  was 
still  considered  too  young  to  succeed  his  father;  and  the  Luxemburg 
party  consequently  made  choice  of  Ludwig  of  Bavaria,  while  the 
Habsburg  party  chose  Friedrich  the  Fair,  Duke  of  Austria,  to  be  the 
new  Emperor.  Friedrich  concluded  an  alliance  with  the  Hungarian 
king,  which  was  so  far  advantageous  to  the  latter  that  it  restored  to  him 
the  ci^  and  county  of  Pressburg,  hitherto  possessed  by  the  Austrian 
Princess  Agnes,  widow  of  Andi^  III.,  in  right  of  her  marriage  settle- 
ment. 

But  Csak,  who  by  the  defeat  of  his  allies  had  been  stopped  from 
fkrther  extending  his  possessions  at  home,  was  emboldened  by  the  league 
with  Friedrich  and  the  distracted  state  of  Bohemia,  to  try  and  indemnify 
himself  by  a  raid  into  Moravia,  then  attached  to  the  Bohemian  crown. 
The  expedition  was  successful  enough,  and  Csak  made  himself  master 
of  several  fortified  places,  the  possession  of  which  was  not,  however,  long 
left  to  him;  and  in  the  spring  of  1316  he  was  compelled  to  relinquish 
his  conquests  and  beat  a  retreat,  pursued  even  into  his  own  territory  by 
the  Bohemian  army,  which  proceeded  to  lay  siege  to  one  of  his  strong 
castles.  The  garrison  was  still  making  a  brave  defence,  and  great 
numbers  of  the  Bohemians  had  perished,  when  Csak  himself  coming  up 
at  the  head  of  his  mounted  soldiery,  by  an  unexpected  shower  of  arrows 
put  the  besiegers  to  flight  Soon,  however,  they  rallied,  returned  to  the 
charge,  and  by  their  superior  numbers  succeeded  in  gaining  the  victory, 
though  still  quite  unable  to  reduce  the  impregnable  stronghold,  before 
which  they  again  sat  down.  Seeing  their  numbers  daily  diminished  by 
want  of  food  and  other  hardships,  Johann  was  at  length  only  too  glad  to 
accept  the  peaceful  overtures  made  to  him  by  Csak,  though  he,  the  son 
of  one  Emperor,  the  destined  father  of  another,  and  King  of  Bohemia, 
had  to  submit  to  the  humiliation  of  treating  with  the  Hungarian  Magnate 
on  equal  terms.  The  articles  of  peace  were  drawn  up  by  eight  pleni- 
potentiaries, chosen  equally  by  the  King  and  the  noble,  and  Johann 
returned  ingloriously  to  Prague,  having  indeed  defeated  Csdk,  but  having 
been,  nevertheless,  obliged  to  accept  peace  at  his  hands.  Csak,  however, 
had  little  to  congratulate  himself  upon,  for  the  war  had  cost  him  dear. 
He  had  had  the  coolness  after  his  defeat  to  apply  to  King  Charles  for 
assistance,  believing,  or  afifecting  to  believe,  that  as  the  alliance  with 
Austria  had  been  directed  against  the  whole  Luxemburg  party,  including 
therefore  not  only  the  Emperor  Ludwig,  but  also  Johann  of  Bohemia, 


120  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

00  Charlee  could  bav9  do  objection  to  assist  in  any  attack  upon  the 
latter,  eyen  though  by  so  doing  he  strengthened  the  position  <^  hia 
refractoiy  aubject  Here,  however,  he  was  destined  to  disappointment, 
for  instead  of  sending  him  the  reinforcement  he  desired,  Charles  seized 
the  opportunity  to  take  possession  of  Eomarom,  and  Visegrad,  a  castle 
on  the  Danube  which  had  belonged  to  Csak.  The  Magnate  seems  to 
have  made  no  attempt  to  recover  these  places,  but  he  still  maintained 
himself  and  his  bold  adherents  among  the  impregnable  mountains,  every 
now  and  then  making  his  unwelcome  appearance  where  he  was  least 
expected.  No  district  suffered  more  from  his  depredations  than  the 
see  of  Nyitra.  In  vain  did  the  Bishop  excommunicate  his  dangerous 
neighbour ;  Csak  laughed  him  to  scorn,  and  obliged  him  to  fly.  As  for 
the  King,  he  either  could  not  or  would  not  enter  upon  a  dangerous 
conflict  with  an  old  and  childless  man,  whose  death  could  not  in  the 
course  of  nature  be  far  distant.  It  had  been  rumoured  many  times 
already  that  the  great  rebel  had  passed  away,  and  as  many  times  had 
he  suddenly  re-appeared  in  all  his  fierce  strength;  but  at  last  he  was 
missed  longer  than  usual,  and,  as  months  passed  on  and  still  he  did  not 
return,  it  was  generally  believed  that  he  had  perished ;  not,  however,  in 
his  own  immediate  neighbourhood,  nor  among  his  immediate  friends  and 
foes.  For  many  mauy  a  year,  he  was  expected  suddenly  to  return  as 
he  had  done  before,  but  he  never  came.  No  one  knew  what  had  become 
of  him,  nor  either  the  time  or  manner  of  his  death,  but  he  was  never 
seen  again ;  and  now  first  might  Charles  congratulate  himself  on  being 
really  king,  for  most  of  Csak's  adherents  did  homage  and  became 
faithful  subjects.  One  word  more  of  the  sturdy  brave  old  Palatine, 
before  we  turn  to  other  matters.  In  these  pages  he  has  not  shone  in  a 
very  favourable  light,  but  in  an  unfinished  play  of  Elisfaludy  Karoly,  he 
appears  to  much  better  advantage.  He  is  there  represented  as  most 
chivalrously  devoted  to  the  Princess  Erzsebet,  for  her  sake  supporting 
the  claims  of  her  betrothed  Prince  Wenzel,  and  on  the  withdrawal  of 
the  latter,  using  his  utmost  endeavours  to  obtain  her  recognition  as 
queen.  There  is  no  doubt  much  truth  in  representing  him  as  her 
champion,  but  whether  or  no  there  be  any  foundation  for  the  idea  that 
Erzsebet  at  one  time  found  an  asylum  in  Castle  Trencsin,  and  there 
received  the  homage  of  Csak's  adherents,  we  cannot  say.  Certain  it  is, 
that,  whether  for  her  sake,  or  from  hatred  to  a  foreign  dynasty,  or  from 
love  of  independence,  Cs^  remained  the  sworn  foe  of  Charles  to  the 
day  of  his  death. 

And  now  to  return  to  the  King,  who  had  meantime  suffered  a  domestic 
loss  in  the  death  of  his  Polish  wife,  and  had  received  a  warning  from  an 
episcopal  synod  at  Eal6csa,  touching  his  love  of  gaiety  and  amusement, 
his  neglect  of  the  clergy,  and  his  negligence  in  convoking  the  Diet.  For 
the  bishops  had  discovered  that  their  protege,  now  that  ho  was  firmly 
established  on  the  throne,  and  no  longer  needed  their  suppoii;,  had 
considerably  altered  his  behaviour  towards  them.    They  even  sent  a 


SKETCHES  FROM  HUNGARIAN  HI6T0RT.  121 

complaint  to  Rome,  which  evoked  a  letter  from  the  Pope,  and  brought 
about  a  marriage  between  Charles  and  Beatrix,  a  sister  of  Johann  of 
Bohemia,  who,  however,  died  the  following  jear.  Shortly  aflerwards, 
Charles  married  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  Wladislaw  Lokietek,  King  of 
Poland. 

If  the  Synod  had  once  had  cause  to  complain  of  the  Eang's  n^lect 
of  public  affairs,  that  time  had  now  passed  away.  So  soon  as  he  saw 
himself  freed  from  Csak,  Apor,  and  the  other  rebellious  nobles,  who  had 
hitherto  paralyzed  his  energies,  Charles  grasped  the  helm  of  the  state 
with  a  firm  hand,  and  never  henceforth  for  a  moment  wavered  in  the. 
course  he  had  marked  out  for  himself.  As  the  eldest  son  of  Charles 
Martell,  the  throne  of  Naples  should  have  been  his,  but  Boniface  had 
made  it  over  to  his  Uncle  Robert ;  and  now,  as  some  compensation  for 
its  loss,  Charies  demanded  the  Princedom  of  Salerno,  which  was  refused. 
Not  being  at  this  time  able,  or  perhaps  desirous,  to  enforce  his  demands, 
Charles  was  obliged  to  put  up  with  the  refusal ;  but  he  did  not  lose  sight 
either  of  his  rights  or  his  intention  to  recover  them  whenever  the 
opportunity  should  offer.  For  this  reason  it  may  be  that  he  contrived  to 
keep  on  good  terms  with  Venice,  in  spite  of  some  provocation.  The 
sea-coast  towns  were  always  a  bone  of  contention ;  and  Jadra,  which, 
during  the  war  between  Venice  and  Crenoa,  had  taken  the  occasion  to 
throw  off  the  yoke  of  the  former,  had  now  again  been  induced  to  seek 
her  protection  by  Mladin,  Count  Brebir,  who  renounced  his  assumed 
title  of  Count  of  Jadra,  and  was  in  exchange  made  a  patrician  of  Venice. 
Relying  henceforth  on  the  support  of  Venice,  he  became  the  tyrant  of 
the  sea-coast,  oppressing  the  towns  of  Traw,  Sebenigo,  d;c.,  to  such  a 
degree,  that  they,  despairing  of  help  from  Hungary,  also  concluded  a 
treaty  with  their  powerful  neighbour.  The  Doge  of  Venice  sent  to 
acquaint  Charles  with  the  nature  of  the  transaction,  and  to  assure  him 
at  the  same  time  that  the  rights  of  the  Hungarian  crown  should  not  be 
in  any  way  injured  by  it.  Charles  thanked  him  politely,  but  announced 
his  intention  of  coming  in  person  to  Dalmatia,  to  restore  peace.  Mladin, 
trusting  to  the  services  rendered  by  his  father  to  the  King,  boldly 
presented  himself  at  his  camp,  expecting,  by  means  of  the  presents  he 
had  brought  with  him,  to  gain  a  favourable  hearing.  But  in  this  he 
was  disappointed ;  his  crimes  had  been  too  great  for  pardon,  and  he  was 
taken  prisoner,  and  confined  for  life  in  one  of  the  castles  of  Hungary. 
Charles  had  intended  to  spend  some  time  in  Dalmatia;  but  no  sooner 
was  Mladin  secured,  than  he  was  summoned  back  to  Hungary  by  the 
news  of  the  battle  of  Mtihldorf,  in  which  his  ally  Friedrich  the  Fair 
had  been  taken  prisoner  by  the  Emperor  Ludwig.  What,  however,  still 
more  nearly  affected  Charles  was  that  the  Kumans  whom  he  had  sent  to 
tfie  assistance  of  Friedrich,  returning  home  in  disorder,  had  committed 
in  Hungary  the  same  terrible  depredations  to  which  they  had  become 
accustomed  in  the  enemy's  country.  They  were  speedily  reduced  to 
order;  and  Charles,  finding  that  they  still  hated  the  quiet  orderliness 

TOi^  10.  9  PikRt  56. 


122  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

of  town  life,  busied  himself  in  making  new  settlements  for  them,  and 
strove  by  various  political  and  military  regulations  to  bring  them  to  a 
higher  state  of  civilization. 

He  had  also  at  this  time  some  trouble  with  the  Saxons  of  Transylvania, 
who  had  never  regarded  him  with  much  favour,  and  were  now  greatly 
exasperated  by  the  attacks  made  on  their  rights  and  privileges  by  the 
two  Yajdas  who  had  been  entrusted  by  him  with  extraordinary  powers 
for  the  subjugation  of  Apor*s  sons  and  adherents.  At  last,  infected  by 
the  insurrectionary  spirit  of  the  time,  and  excited  by  their  leaders,  the 
whole  nation  rose  to  arms  under  the  command  of  their  Count  Henning. 
Charles  despatched  a  body  of  Kumans  to  the  assistance  of  Yajda 
Thomas,  and  the  Saxons  were  speedily  defeated,  their  count  being  slain 
on  the  field  of  battle.  His  estates  were  confiscated,  but  afterwards  sold 
at  a  merely  nominal  price  to  his  children,  and  the  rest  of  the  rebels  were 
treated  with  great  moderation;  yet  still,  though  there  was  no  further 
outbreak,  the  embers  of  rebellion  smouldered  on,  ready  at  any  moment 
to  be  fanned  into  a  flame  by  the  ill-advised  conduct  of  the  Yajdas. 
Perceiving  this,  Charles  took  the  surest  means  of  establishing  peace 
on  a  firm  basis,  by  restoring  to  the  Saxons  all  the  rights  and  privileges 
they  had  enjoyed  under  his  predecessors,  and  thus  converted  them  from 
malcontents  into  faithful  and  loyal  subjects.  Dalmatia,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  the  scene  of  constant  disturbances,  which  at  first  sight  is 
remarkable,  seeing  that  that  province  had  been  for  years  devoted  to  the 
Angevin  interest,  and  had  been  the  first  to  accept  Charles  as  her  king. 
Her  devotion  to  him,  however,  lasted  only  so  long  as  he  remained 
unrecognized  by  the  rest  of  the  kingdom,  and  opposed  by  the  leading 
par^  in  Hungary.  When  he  became  king,  acknowledged  throughout 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  and  having  a  lawful  claim  upon  her 
allegiance,  Dalmatia  was  not  inclined  to  yield  it,  for  in  the  interim  she 
had  become  so  habituated  to  anarchy  as  to  prefer  it  to  an  orderly 
government ;  opposition  to  the  leading  party  in  the  state  had  also  become 
so  customary  with  her,  that  she  continued  it,  even  now  when  it  had 
ceased  to  benefit,  and  was  indeed  prejudicial  to,  the  cause  she  had  in  the 
first  instance  espoused.  In  1325,  Charles  appointed  a  Ban,  who  was  to 
have  authority  over  the  whole  of  Sclavonia,  and  sent  him  thither  with 
an  army  to  re-establish  peace.  Mikas,  with  the  help  of  Count  Frange- 
p4n,  succeeded  in  getting  his  authority  everywhere  recognized,  and  then 
informed  the  King  that  one  principal  cause  of  the  frequent  disturbances, 
existed  in  the  numerous  privileges  which  had  been  from  time  to  time 
granted  to  the  nobles,  the  effect  of  which  was  to  withdraw  them  from 
the  jurisdiction,  and  make  them  independent  of  the  Ban.  Following 
his  advice,  Charles  withdrew  the  privileges,  and  made  the  Barons  subject 
to  Mikas,  but  still  the  latter  would  not  venture  upon  any  decisive  con- 
flict with  them,  nor  did  he  endeavour  to  attach  the  towns  more  closely  to 
the  state ;  but,  satisfied  with  having  restored  peace  for  the  time,  placed 
a  Hungarian  garrison  in  Bihacs,  and  quitted  Dalmatia.     No  sooner  was 


SKETCHES  FROM  HUNGARIAN  HISTORY.  123 

he  gone,  than  the  towns^  feeling  themselves  once  more  at  the  mercy 
of  the  Barons,  natarallj  again  sought  the  protection  of  Venice,  though 
yeiy  careful  to  have  a  saving  clause  inserted  in  the  treaty,  touching  the 
rights  of  the  Hungarian  kings.  In  time  the  Barons  too  were  won  over 
to  the  republic,  but  their  quarrels  continued  as  before.  Charles  paid 
but  little  attention  to  them,  thinking,  no  doubt,  that  if  lefl  to  themselves 
their  strength  would  be  gradually  worn  out ;  whereas,  an  attack  from  a 
common  foe  would  be  certain  to  unite  them. 

Moreover,  he  had  no  fleet,  and  without  one  the  struggle  would  have 
been  hopeless ;  and  yet  further — perhaps  the  most  weighty  reason  of  all 
—a  serious  attempt  at  reducing  Dalmatia  to  obedience  would  almost 
certainly  have  involved  a  war  with  Venice,  which  Charles,  with  his 
views  respecting  Naples,  was  most  anxious  to  avoid.  As  for  Venice, 
eager  as  she  was  to  gain  Dalmatia  for  herself,  she  played  her  part 
with  great  skill  and  cunning,  making  no  attempts  at  enforcing  her 
authority,  such  as  might  have  roused  the  pride  of  the  Dalmatians  against 
her,  but  appearing  as  a  mediator  and  peace-maker,  carefully  recognizing 
the  supremacy  of  the  Hungarian  king,  and  contenting  herself  with 
gradually  gaining  more  and  more  influence  in  the  affairs  of  the  province, 
while  she  secretly  fomented  its  discords,  and  patiently  waited  for  the 
time,  when,  without  trouble,  it  would  fall  into  her  hands. 

Meanwhile,  Charles,  indifferent  as  he  appeared  to  be  to  the  fate  of 
Dalmatia,  was  keenly  alive. to  the  interests  of  the  kingdom  at  large, 
and,  by  his  care  and  attention,  had  succeeded  in  once  more  bringing  it 
into  a  flourishing  condition.  When  this  was  effected,  and  the  revenue 
improved,  he  began  to  look  abroad.  Hitherto  the  relations  of  Hnngaiy 
with  foreign  nations  had  been  of  the  simplest,  being  almost  entirely 
confined  to  treaties  and  wars.  But  her  present  king  was  the  pupil  of 
Italian  statesmen,  bent  upon  the  advancement  of  his  family,  and  not 
satisfied  to  exercise  his  powers  only  in  such  a  circumscribed  field.  He 
was  determined  not  to  be  excluded  from  the  affairs  of  Europe,  but  to 
make  his  voice  heard  and  respected  in  her  councils ;  and,  as  ruler  of  a 
large  and  flourishing  state,  he  easily  succeeded.  His  first  important  step 
was  to  make  peace  between  Austria  and  Bohemia,  and  to  induce  Johann 
to  set  at  liberty  Duke  Heinrich,  who  had  been  his  prisoner  since  the 
battle  of  Muhldorf.  He  then  concluded  a  treaty,  offensive  and  defensive, 
with  the  King  of  Bohemia  and  his  sons,  even  promising  that  if,  at  any 
future  time,  he  should  be  involved  in  a  war  with  Austria,  he  would  not 
make  peace  without  Johann*s  consent.  But  when,  a  few  years  later, 
Johann  with  the  approbation  of  the  Bohemian  states  was  about  to  make 
an  attempt  to  drive  Lokietek  from  the  throne  of  Poland,  Charles  sent 
him  a  peremptory  message,  which  arrived  just  as  he  and  his  army  had 
reached  Cracow,  warning  him  to  desist,  for  he  should  resent  any  attack 
upon  his  father-in-law  Lokietek  as  much  as  if  it  were  directed  against 
himself.  Johann  obeyed,  as  indeed  he  could  hardly  help  doing;  and, 
as  some  consolation  or  reward  for  his  obedience,  Charles  then  proposed 


124  THE  MONTHLt  PACKET. 

to  betroth  his  eldest  son  Ldszld,  heir-presumpdve  to  the  Hungarian 
throne,  to  Johann's  daughter  Anna — ^a  proposal  which  Johann  gladly 
accepted.  The  following  year  the  two  kings  were  engaged  in  a  campaign 
against  Austria,  really  to  gratify  Johann's  hatred  of  the  Emperor 
Friedrich,  but  ostensibly  to  compel  the  Dukes  of  Austria  to  do  justice 
to  their  brother  Otto. 

The  kings  of  the  bouse  of  'Arpid  had  usually  had  their  fixed  residence 
at  the  palace  in  the  Castle  of  Oran ;  but  Bela  IV.  frequently  dwelt  in  his 
new  palace  at  Boda,  and  Andras  HI.  gave  up  the  one  at  Gran  entirely 
to  the  Archbishop.  Charles,  however,  baring  no  great  love  for  Buda^ 
whose  citizens  had  been  so  obstinately  opposed  to  him,  built  himself  a  new 
palace  at  Temesvdr,  in  the  south-east  of  Hungary,  a  rather  swampy 
district,  of  which  he  soon  wearied,  finding  it  probably  too  much  out  of  the 
way,  and  too  little  imposing,  for  a  man  in  such  constant  communication 
with  the  kings  of  Europe  as  himself.  His  next  choice  was  a  spot  on  the 
right  bank  of  the  Danube,  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain,  whose  summit  was 
crowned  by  the  old  Castle  of  Visegrad,  which  had  formerly  belonged  to 
Csak.  The  black  ruins,  which  now  look  down  with  such  an  air  of  melan- 
choly upon  the  river  as  it  fiows  for  ever  at  their  feet,  were  once  part  of 
the  magnificent  palace  built  by  Charles,  and  oont^ning  three  hundred  and 
fifty  apartments.  Near  the  palace  were  the  only  less  splendid  dwellings 
of  the  great  barons,  with  their  red  roofs  and  gables,  standing  in  a  long 
row  upon  the  bank  of  the  river.  Very,  magnificent  must  Charles's 
palace  have  been ;  and  most  splendid  of  all  the  great  reception  hall,  with 
its  fioor  of  valuable  mosaics,  its  ceiling  adorned  with  Italian  frescoes, 
and  its  pillars  hung  with  banners,  shields,  and  arms,  the  trophies  of  many 
a  victory.  Outnde  the  palace  all  was  life  and  gaiety.  Magnates  in 
their  flowing  men  tee,  and  with  fluttering  heron  plumes  in  their  fur  caps, 
galloped  up  and  down ;  noble  ladies  rode  about,  accompanied  by  their 
daughters  on  white  palfreys ;  and  the  royal  carriages,  with  a  great  deal 
of  gilding  about  them,  decorated  with  the  royal  arms,  and  drawn  by  six 
black  horses,  were  frequently  to  be  seen — such  carriages  as  were  then 
to  be  found  at  no  other  court  but  that  of  Hungary.  At  night,  when 
the  cold  moon  shone  through  the  lofty  windows  of  Solomon's  tower, 
casting  bright-coloured  shadows  from  the  stained  glass  upon  the  marble 
floor  of  the  hall,  what  different  scenes  it  beheld  in  the  castle-l  Below 
might  be  the  warriors,  drinlpng  from  foaming  goblets,  carousing  and 
making  merry,  while,  in  the  balcony  above,  some  fair  dame  would  be 
playing  on  her  lute,  and  higher  still  an  aged  astrologer  peered  into  the 
night,  inquiring  the  fate  of  kingdoms  from  the  distant  stars ;  and  again, 
down  below  in  the  deepest  depths,  in  a  dungeon  hollowed  out  of  the  rock, 
some  poor  prisoner  condemned  to  perpetual  imprisonment,  would  climb  up 
to  the  bars  of  his  narrow  window  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  melancholy 
moonlight,  or  a  few  broken  notes  of  the  music.  In  Solomon's  tower 
dwelt  Zach  Felician,  formerly  Palatine  to  Csdk,  and  now  one  of  the 
King's  most  faithful  servants.     The  King  and  Queen  were  at  Visegrad 


SKETCUSS  FROM  HIJKOABIAN  HISTOET.  125 

in  1830,  mouming  the  early  death  of  their  two  eldest  sons  LaszI6  and 
K^rolj ;  and  in  the  spring  of  the  same  year,  the  Queen  received  a  visit 
from  her  brother  Casimir,  the  Crown^Prince  of  Poland,  a  talented  but 
gay  and  worthless  young  man,  whose  love  of  amusement  and  want  of 
principle  brought  about  a  terrible  tragedy,  the  remembrance  of  which 
has  ever  since  been  connected  with  Yisegrad,  Caslmir  fixed  his  incon- 
stant affections  for  the  time  upon  Zich^s  daughter  Klara,  who  was  in 
waiting  upon  the  Queen ;  and  Klara  one  day  fled  from  the  palace  to  her 
father,  complaining  bitterly  of  his  conduct.  The  proud  old  noble, 
enraged  at  the  insult  offered  to  his  daughter,  and  suspecting  that  the 
Queen  had  been  a  party  to  it,  rushed  with  his  sword  drawn  into  the 
great  hall,  where  the  royal  family  were  just  sitting  at  table ;  dashed  up 
to  the  Queen  and  aimed  a  blow  at  her  head,  which,  however,  lighted 
upon  her  right  hand  and  cut  off  four  of  her  fingers.  The  King,  who 
threw  himself  before  his  wife,  also  received  a  wound  in  the  hand ;  and 
Zach,  quite  beside  himself  with  fury,  next  fell  upon  the  two  children, 
Lajos  and  Andras,  who,  however,  were  protected  by  their  attendants. 
At  length  the  madman  was  struck  to  the  ground  and  despatched,  and 
his  head  was  struck  off  and  exhibited  in  Buda.  Casimir,  the  real  cause 
of  aU  this  misery,  had  got  safely  out  of  the  way,  back  to  Poland,  leaving 
others  to  bear  the  fruit  of  his  misdeeds ;  and  bitter  enough  they  were,  for 
Chaiies  upon  this  occasion  shewed  himself  a  true  descendant  of  him  who 
had  murdered  the  last  of  the  Hohenstaufens.  Not  satisfied  with  the 
death  of  Zach,  he  caused  the  unfortunate  Klara  to  be  paraded  round  the 
town  on  horse-back,  with  nose,  lips,  and  hands  cut  off,  and  compelled  to 
exdaim,  'So  let  it  be  done  to  everyone  who  attacks  his  king!'  Zach's 
only  son  had  escaped  with  a  faithful  servant,  but  they  were  overtaken, 
brought  back,  tied  to  horses'  taib  and  dragged  to  death,  their  dead  bodies 
being  thrown  to  dogs.  Klara's  sister  was  beheaded,  her  husband  im- 
prisoned for  life,  and  her  sons,  who  escaped  to  Malta,  never  dared  return 
to  their  fatherland.  And  still  Charles's  blood-thirsty  vengeance  was  not 
satisfied.  At  a  meeting  which  was  held  shortly  after,  and  consisted 
almost  entirely  of  men  high  in  office,  bent  upon  gratifying  the  King,  a 
sentence  was  passed,  which  condemned  to  death  all  the  men  of  Zach's 
immediate  family,  even  to  the  third  generation.  More  distant  relations 
were  to  suffer  perpetual  servitude,  and  all  connected  with  the  family  by 
marriage  were  banished  from  court  and  deprived  of  their  estates,  which 
the  King  then  bestowed  upon  the  man  who  had  succeeded  in  killing 
Z&ch.  Such  was  the  vengeance  taken  by  Charles.  Unparalleled  in  the 
annals  of  Hungarian  history,  it  was  regarded  with  horror  as  an  in- 
delible blot  on  his  reign,  although  he  attempted  to  justify  it  by  declaring 
that  he  had  discovered  the  whole  family  of  Zdch  to  be  involved  in  a 
conspiracy  against  him.  This  excuse,  however,  deceived  none  but  those 
who  wished  to  be  deceived ;  and  the  misfortunes  which  overtook  Charles 
in  the  same  year,  were  very  generally  regarded  as  just  retribution. 

In  Wallachia,  called   by  the  Byzantines  Ungro-Blachia,  and  by  the 


126  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

Hungarians  Havas-Alfold,*  or  Land  beyond  the  Alps,  reigned  a  prince 
named  Michael  Bessarab  or  Bazar^,  who  had  greatly  improved  the 
condition  of  the  country,  and  had  moreover  added  to  it  the  castle  and 
district  of  Szoreny.  During  the  disorders,  to  which  Hungary  had  been 
a  prey,  the  bond  of  union  between  herself  and  Wallachia  had  been  well- 
nigh  severed ;  but  when  Charles  had  restored  the  peace  and  strength  of 
the  kingdom,  Bessarab  hastened  to  offer  his  homage,  and  to  promise  the 
accustomed  tribute ;  but  he  said  nothing  about  the  restitution  of  Szoreny. 
Without  trying  what  might  be  done  by  negociation,  Charles  determined 
to  attack  the  Prince,  and  take  possession  of  the  whole  province.  He 
set  out  with  a  large  army ;  Bessarab  withdrew  to  the  mountains,  whence 
he  sent  an  embassy  humbly  renouncing  Szoreny  and  praying  for  peace. 
But  Charles  would  not  heed  the  prayer,  and  still  pressed  on  among  the 
mountains  till  he  reached  a  narrow  pass,  into  which  he  entered  with  the 
whole  army.  Suddenly,  a  horn  sounded  above  their  heads  and  echoed 
among  the  mountains,  which  rose  on  all  sides  around  them.  At  the 
signal  the  heights  above  suddenly  swarmed  with  Wallachs,  who  instantly 
began  hurling  down  huge  stones  upon  the  troops  below.  Crowded 
together,  utterly  defenceless,  and  unable  to  escape,  the  men  perished 
miserably  by  thousands.  The  flower  of  the  Hungarian  and  Kuman 
nobility  fell  in  their  endeavour  to  defend  the  King,  and  he  himself 
escaped  with  difficulty  disguised  in  the  dress  of  one  of  his  attendants, 
who  devoted  himself  to  death  to  save  his  master.  Henceforward,  till 
the  end  of  this  reign,  Wallachia  remained  independent  of  Hungary. 

Charles's  restless  and  ambitious  disposition  still,  however,  left  him  no 
repose.  He  was  bent  upon  securing  the  throne  of  Naples,  and  therefore 
arranged  a  marriage  between  his  second  son  Andrds,  and  Giovannay 
the  granddaughter  of  his  uncle  Robert.  The  affairs  of  Poland  also 
seemed  to  him  to  demand  his  interference,  for  he  had  acquired  great 
influence  in  that  country,  by  sending  troops  at  different  times  to  its 
assistance  against  the  Lithuanians  and  Teutonic  Knights,  and  by  putting 
a  stop  to  the  aggressive  designs  of  Johann  of  Bohemia.  When,  there* 
fore,  Lokietek,  the  second  founder  of  the  Polish  kingdom,  died  in  1388, 
leaving  one  son  Casimir,  Charles  had  little  difficulty  in  bringing  about 
the  election  of  the  latter,  for  the  Poles  were  bound  to  Hungary  by  ties 
of  gratitude  for  the  past,  and  could  not  but  feel  the  advantage  of  securing 
her  alliance  for  the  future,  though  it  is  not  likely  that  they  were  as 
far-sighted  as  Charles,  whose  keen  eye  took  in  the  whole  situation  at  a 
glance.  Casimir  had  no  son  to  succeed  him,  and  he  was  much  attached 
to  his  sister  and  her  husband ;  what  more  likely,  then,  than  that  he  should 
recommend  one  of  their  sons  to  his  subjects  as  their  future  king? 

Not  until  the  Polish  election  was  satisfactorily  accomplished,  and 
provision  made  for  securing  the  throne  of  Hungary  to  his  eldest  son 
Lajos,  did  Charles  set  out  for  Italy,  with  his  second  son  Andras,  then 
seven  years  old.     On  landing  in  Apulia  he  was  received  by  the  Duke  of 

*  Literally,  the  Alpine  Lowland. 


SKETCHES  FROM  HUNGARIAN  HISTORY.  127 

Durazzo ;  and  soon  after,  the  grey-haired  King  Robei*t  came  at  the  head 
of  all  the  Barons  to  meet  him  and  conduct  him  to  Naples,  where  the 
betrothal  shortly  afterwards  took  place,  and  Andras  as  heir-apparent 
received  the  title  of  Duke  of  Calabria.  But  Charles,  though  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  his  son  would  in  all  human  probability  be 
King  of  Naples,  was  obliged  to  return  home  without  seeing  him  crowned 
as  he  had  hoped.  Andrd^  remained  at  Naples,  to  be  brought  up  with 
his  youthful  bride ;  and  with  him  stayed  his  Hungarian  nurse  Ysolde, 
his  governor,  and  his  preceptor,  a  Minorite  monk,  who,  if  Petrarch's 
description  of  him  be  half  true,  must  have  been  a  very  rough  diamond, 
and  not  particularly  fitted  to  train  the  young  prince  in  the  courtly  and 
at  least  outwardly  refined  manners  of  Naples. 

On  his  return  to  Hungary  Charles  set  to  work  in  earnest  to  carry  out 
his  plans  with  regard  to  Poland,  and  found  a  zealous  co-operator  in  his 
brother-in-law  Casimir.  But  to  ensure  success  it  was  absolutely  necessary 
for  him  to  be  on  peaceable  and  friendly  terms  with  the  neighbouring 
princes  of  Europe,  and  to  secure  the  consent  if  not  the  assistance  of  the 
knight-errant  Johann  of  Bohemia,  who  still  called  himself  King  of 
Poland,  and  might  yet  find  means  to  make  good  his  pretensions.  As 
it  happened,  the  juncture  of  events  was  favourable  to  Charles's  scheme. 

Johann,  who  had  been  careering  about  in  Paris  for  the  last  three 
years,  had  just  returned  home  to  maintain  the  rights  of  his  daughter-in- 
law  Margarethe  Maultasch,  daughter  of  the  late  Duke  of  Carinthia  and 
Count  of  Tirol,  whose  estates  had  been  bestowed  by  the  Emperor  Ludwig 
on  hid  ancient  enemies  the  Dukes  of  Austria,  for  Ludwig  was  now  more 
inclined  to  fear  the  increasing  greatness  of  Bohemia,  and  did  not  wish  to 
see  these  provinces  added  to  her  dominions.  Under  these  circumstances 
the  reconciliation  of  Hungary  and  Poland  with  Bohemia  was  easily  effected. 
Johann  renounced  all  claims  upon  Poland  for  himself  and  his  sons,  and 
the  three  kings  held  a  congi*ess  at  Yisegrad,  where  Charles  entirely  took  the 
lead,  and  settled  everything  as  he  wished.  The  struggle  between  Poland 
and  the  Teutonic  Knights  was  terminated,  the  latter  being  allowed  to  hold 
Pomerania  in  peace ;  and  Johann  was  indemnified,  after  a  fashion,  for  the 
loss  of  Poland,  by  the  promise  of  a  large  sum  of  money,  which  Casimir 
was  to  pay  him,  and  for  which  Charles  became  surety.  Charles  indeed 
was  the  moving  spring,  which  animated  the  whole  congress,  and  greatly 
must  his  vanity  have  been  flattered  to  find  himself  in  such  a  position  of 
importance.  Yet  farther  to  please  the  Bohemian  King,  a  league  was 
entered  into  against  the  Emperor ;  and  Johann  returned  home,  laden,  as 
were  all  the  princes  who  attended  the  congress,  with  magnificent  presents. 

In  the  spring  war  broke  out,  and  faithful  to  their  promises,  Charles  and 
Casimir  sent  troops  to  the  assistance  of  their  ally,  but  a  quarrel  between 
the  Emperor  and  the  Dukes  of  Austria  put  a  speedy  end  to  the  caropaigiif 
which  had  not  brought  much  advantage  to  Johann,  for  though  his  sons 
kept  the  Tirol,  Carinthia  remained  in  the  possession  of  the  Dukes  of  Austria. 

Having  now,  as  he  thought,  sufficiently  prepared  the  way,  Casimir  in 


128  THE  MONTHLY  FACKST^ 

1339  proposed  to  the  states  of  Poknd  that  he  should  adopt  an  heir, 

and  that  this  heir  should  be  his  nephew  Lnjos.     The  advantages  of  this 

step  were,  as  he  pointed  out,  many  and  obvious.     Lajos  was,  like  himself, 

of  the  race  of  Piastus  on  his  mothei'^s  side,  and  as  King -of  Hungary 

would  be  able  to  increase  the  power  of  Poland,  and  also  to  defend  her 

against  the  wild  Lithuanians,  and  her  old  enemies  the  Teutonic  Knights. 

Many  of  the  Poles  had  been  already  won  over  to  support  the  scheme ; 

and  the  rest,  influenced  by  their  example,  unanimously  agreed  to  accept 

Lajos  of  Hungary  as  their  future  king. 

Thus,  then,  had  Charles  apparently  succeeded  in  attaining  the  height 

of  his  ambitious  wishes :  and  henceforth,  to  his  death,  which  took  place 

in  three  years  from  this  time,  he  was  only  occupied  in  endeavours  to 

maintain  peace,  and  to  avoid  anything  which  might  frustrate  the  ends 

for  which  he  had  laboured  so  perseveringly.     He  died  at  Yisegrad,  in 

the  fifty-fifth  year  of  his  age.     The  day  following  his  death,  he  was  borne 

to  the  principal  church  of  the  lower  town,  wrapped  in  a  purple  mantle, 

with  a  crown  on  his  liead,  and  accompanied  by  a  number  of  priests. 

Thence  he  was  removed  to  Buda,  where  the  Magnates  of  the  kingdom 

and  the  burghers  of  the  city  assembled  around  him  for  tlie  last  time,  as  he 

lay  in  state  before  being  carried  to  his  final  resting-place,  by  the  side  of 

other  Hungarian  kings  at  Stuhlweissenburg.    Violently  as  his  pretensions 

to  the  throne  had  been  for  years  opposed,  he  was  much  regretted  by  his 

subjects ;  for  though  the  interests  of  his  own  family  had  been  foremost  with 

him,  he  had  raised  Hungary  to  such  prosperity  as  she  had  not  enjoyed  for 

many  a  long  year. 

(To  be  continued.) 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE: 

oa, 
UNDER  WODE,  UNDER  RODE. 

CHAPTER  VIIL 

THE  HOME. 

*  Within  those  walls  each  flattering  gaest 
Is  gently  lured  to  one  safe  nest ; 
Withont,  'tis  moaning  and  unrest.' 

KebU, 

A  6BEAT  delight  came  to  Wilmet  and  Geraldine  the  day  of  .the  Bishop's 
visit,  no  other  than  Alda's  being  able  to  spend  a  week  with  them.  Miss 
Pearson  spared  Wilmet  that  whole  afternoon,  that  she  might  go  up  to 
meet  her  at  the  station,  whither  she  was  escorted  by  a  maid  going  down 
to  Gentry. 


THB  PUXABS  OF  THE  HOUSE,  129 

There  she  was,  in  her  pretty  black  silk,  with  violet  trimmings,  looking 
thoroughly  the  grown  young  lady,  but  clinging  tight  to  her  twin  in  an 
oyerfjow  of  confused  happiness,  even  while  they  stood  together  to  get 
their  first  glance  of  the  Bishop,  who  came  down  by  the  same  train,  and 
was  met  by  Mr.  Beyan  with  the  carriage. 

^  Fm  glad  it  is  so  nice  and  warm ;  it  is  better  for  Feman,  and  Cherry 
can  go  I'  said  Wilmet,  ready  for  joy  about  everything. 

*  Nice  and  warm  I  'Tis  much  colder  than  in  liondon,'  said  Alda,  with 
a  shiver.     ^  Has  Cherry  kept  well  this  winter  ?  * 

^  Quite  welL    She  walks  much  better.    And  MarildaT* 

'  Oh,  Marilda  is  always  well.  Hude  health,  her  mother  caUs  it.  What 
do  yon  think  she  has  sent  you,  Wilmet?  A  darling  little  watch  I  just 
like  this  of  mine!' 

^O  Alda,  you  should  not  have  let  her.  It  is  too  much.  Feman 
wanted  to  give  Lance  a  watch,  but  Felix  would  not  let  him.' 

^Yes,  but  he  is  not  like  Unde  Thomas,  and  it  makes  you  like 
me.' 

'  That  we  shall  never  be  quite  again,'  sighed  Wilmet 

^  Oh  I  a  little  setting  off,  and  trimming  up !  I've  brought  down  lots 
of  things.  Aunt  Mary  said  I  might.  What  is  this  youth  like,  Wilmet— 
is  he  a  boy  or  a  young  man  f 

^  I  don't  know,'  said  Wilmet ;  ^  he  is  younger  than  Felix,  if  that  helps 
you.' 

^  Well,  Americans  are  old  of  their  age.  I  have  met  some  at  Mr. 
Boper's.  Oh,  and  do  you  know,  Mrs.  Roper  told  Aunt  Mary  that  these 
Travises  are  quite  millionaires,  and  that  this  youth's  mother  was  a 
prodigious  Mexican  heiress.  Aunt  Mary  wants  to  ask  him  to  Kensington 
Palace  Gardens  when  he  comes  up  to  Town !  I'm  glad  I  am  in  time  for 
the  christening.     Doesn't  he  have  godfathers  and  godmothers  ?' 

^  Yes ;  he  would  have  nobody  but  Felix  and  Mr.  Audley,  and  Lady 
Price  chose  to  be  his  godmother ;  indeed,  there  was  nobody  else.' 

^You  could  not  well  be,  cerUdnly,'  laughed  Alda.  ^Oh!  and  I've 
brought  a  dress  down.  I  thought  some  of  us  might  be  asked  to  the 
Rectoiy  in  the  evening. 

^  My  dear  Alda,  as  if  such  a  thing  ever  happened !' 

^Ah!  you  see  I  have  been  so  long  away  as  to  forget  my  Lady's 
manners.' 

'  Mr.  Audley  is  going,  and  Feman  was  asked,  but  he  is  not  anything 
like  well  enough.  So  when  Mamma  and  the  little  ones  go  to  bed,  we 
are  to  come  down  and  spend  the  evening  with  him.' 

'  Fancy,  Wilmet,  I  have  quite  been  preparing  Marilda  for  her  Confirm- 
ation. She  had  hardly  been  taught  anything,  and  never  could  have 
answered  the  questions  if  she  had  not  come  to  me.  She  is  always  asking 
me  what  Papa  said  about  this  and  that;  and  it  is  quite  awkward,  she 
will  carry  out  everything  so  literally,  poor  dear  girl.' 

*  She  must  be  very  good.' 


130  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'  Oh !  to  be  sure  she  is  1  But  just  fancy,  she  keeps  a  tithe  of  her 
pocket-money  to  give  to  the  Offertory  so  scrupulously !  She  would  reiilly 
not  buy  something  she  wanted  because  it  would  have  been  just  a  shilling 
into  her  tenth.  I'm  so  glad  she  is  confirmed.  I  never  knew  what  to  do 
at  church  before.  I  couldn't  go  home  by  myself,  and  now  a  servant 
always  waits  for  us.  Oh !  how  fast  the  poor  hotel  is  building  again ! 
It  will  brighten  our  street  a  little !  Dear  me,  I  did  not  know  how  dingy 
it  was !  * 

Nothing  could  look  dingy  where  two  such  fair  bright  faces  were ;  but 
Alda's  became  awe-struck  and  anxious  as  she  went  up  to  her  mother's 
room.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Underwood  looked  up  at  her  rather  confused,  and 
scarcely  knowing  the  fashionable  young  lady ;  and  it  was  only  when  the 
plumed  hat  was  laid  aside,  and  the  two  heads  laid  together,  their  fair 
locks  mingling,  that  she  knew  she  had  her  elder  twins  again,  and  stroked 
their  faces  with  quiet  delight. 

There  was  scarcely  more  than  time  to  kiss  the  little  ones,  and  contend 
with  Stella's  shyness,  before  first  Lance  hurried  in  and  then  Felix,  excused 
from  his  work  two  hours  earlier.  He  could  only  just  run  up  and  dress 
before  he  convoyed  Geraldine  to  church,  she  having  the  first  turn  of  the 
chair,  helped  her  to  her  seat  near  the  Font,  and  then  came  back  for 
Fernando,  who  was  under  his  special  charge. 

Fernando  sat  looking  very  pale,  and  with  the  set  expression  of  the 
mouth  that  always  made  Cherry  think  of  Indians  at  the  stake.  His  little 
new  Prayer-book  was  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  grasping  it  nervously,  but 
he  said  nothing,  as  Felix  helped  him  up  and  Lance  held  his  crutch  for 
him.  It  was  his  first  entrance  into  a  place  of  worship.  They  had 
intended  to  have  accustomed  him  a  little  to  the  sights  and  sounds,  but 
the  weather  and  his  ailment  had  prevented  them.  He  was  drawn  to  the 
porch,  and  there  Felix  partly  lifted  him  out  and  down  the  step,  while 
Lance  took  his  hat  for  him,  and  as  they  were  both  wanted  for  the  choir 
procession  that  was  to  usher  in  the  Bishop  into  church,  they  had  to  leave 
him  in  his  place  under  Geraldine's  protection. 

He  had  not  in  the  least  realized  the  eflfoct  of  the  interior  of  a  church. 
St.  Oswald's  was  a  very  grand  old  building,  with  a 'deep  chancel  a  good 
deal  raised,  seen  along  a  vista  of  heavy  columns,  and  arched  vaults, 
lighted  from  the  clerestor}',  and  with  a  magnificent  chancel-arch.  The 
season  was  Lent,  and  the  colouring  of  the  decorations  was  therefore 
grave,  but  all  the  richer,  and  the  light  coming  strongly  in  from  the  west 
window  immediately  over  the  children's  heads,  made  the  contrast  of  the 
bright  sunlight  and  of  the  soft  depths  of  mystery  more  striking,  and,  to 
an  eye  to  which  everything  ecclesiastical  was  absolutely  new,  the  effect 
was  almost  overwhelming.  That  solemnity  and  sanctity  of  long  centuries, 
the  peaceful  hush,  the  grave  beauty  and  grandeur,  almost  made  him  afraid 
to  breathe,  and  Cheny  sat  by  his  side  with  her  expressive  face  composed 
into  tlie  serious  but  happy  look  that  accorded  with  the  whole  scene. 

lie  dui*j»t  not  move  or  speak.     His  was  a  silent  passive  nature,  except 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  131 

when  under  strong  stimnlus,  nnd  Cherry  respected  his  silence  a  great  deal 
too  much  to  break  upon  it  by  any  information.  She  was  half  sorry  when 
the  noise  of  steps  shewed  that  the  congregation  were  beginning  to  drop 
in,  chiefly  of  the  other  young  Confirmation  candidates.  Then  presently 
Alda  came,  and  whispered  to  her  that  Wilmet  could  not  leave  Mamma ; 
and  presently  after,  Lady  Price  bustled  in  with  her  daughter,  looked 
severely  at  Alda  under  the  impression  that  she  was  Wilrnet  very 
improperly  tricked  out,  and  pi'essed  Femando*s  hand  before  going  on  to 
her  own  place.  Then  came  the  low  swell  of  the  organ,  another  new 
sensation  to  one  who  had  only  heard  opera  music ;  then  the  approaching 
sound  of  the  voices.  Geraldine  gave  him  the  book  open  at  the  pro- 
cessional psalra,  and  the  white-clad  choir  passed  by,  one  of  the  first  pair 
of  choristei^s  being  Lance,  singing  with  all  his  might,  and  that  merry 
monkey-face  full  of  a  child's  beautiful  happy  reverence.  And  again 
could  be  recognized  Felix,  Mr.  Audley,  Mr.  Be  van,  all  whom  the  poor 
sick  stranger  had  come  to  love  best,  all  to  his  present  perception  glorified 
and  beautiful.  They  had  told  him  it  would  be  all  faith  and  no  sight,  but 
he  seemed  to  find  himself  absolutely  within  that  brighter  better  sphere 
to  which  they  belonged,  to  see  them  walking  in  it  in  their  white  robes, 
to  hear  their  songs  of  praise,  and  to  know  whence  came  that  atmosphere 
that  they  carried  about  with  them,  and  that  he  had  felt  when  it  was  a 
riddle  to  him. 

And  so  the  early  parts  of  the  service  passed  by  him,  not  so  much 
attended  to  or  understood  as  filling  him  with  a  kind  of  dreamy  rapturous 
trances,  as  the  echoes  of  the  new  home,  to  which  he,  with  all  his  heavy 
sense  of  past  stain  and  present  evil  propensity,  was  gaining  admission 
and  adoption.  For  the  fii*st  time  he  was  really  sensible  of  the  happiness 
of  his  choice,  and  felt  the  compensation  for  what  he  gave  up. 

When  the  Second  Lesson  was  ended,  and  the  clergy  and  the  choir  in 
their  surplices  moved  down  to  encircle  the  Font,  it  was  as  if  they  came 
to  gather  him  in  among  them ;  Felix  came  and  helped  him  up.  He 
could  stand  now  with  one  support,  and  this  was  his  young  godfather's 
right  arm,  to  which  he  held  tightly,  but  without  any  nervous  convulsive- 
ness — he  was  too  happy  for  that  now — during  the  prayers  that  entreated 
for  his  being  safely  gathered  into  the  Ark,  and  the  Gospel  of  admission 
into  the  Kingdom.  He  had  an  impulse  to  loose  his  clasp  and  stand  alone 
at  the  beginning  of  the  vows,  but  he  could  not,  he  had  not  withdrawn 
his  hand  before  he  was  forced  again  to  lean  his  weight  upon  the  steady 
arm  beside  him. 

Nothing  had  been  able  to  persuade  Lady  Price  that  she  was  not  to 
make  all  the  vows  as  for  an  infant,  but  luckily  nobody  heard  her  except 
her  husband  and  the  other  sponsors,  for  it  was  a  full,  clear,  steadfast 
voice  that  made  reply,  *I  renounce  them  all!'  an4  as  the  dark  deep  eyes 
gazed  far  away  into  the  west  window,  and  Felix  felt  the  shudder  through 
the  whole  frame,  he  knew  the  force  of  that  renunciation;  and  how  it 
gave  up  that  one  excitement  that  the  lad  really  carrd  for.     And  when 


132  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

that  final  and  carefuUj-guarded  vow  of  obedience  was  uttered,  the 
pressure  on  his  arm  seemed  to  shew  that  the  moral  was  felt  of  that 
moment's  endeavour  to  stand  alone. 

The  sound  of  prayer,  save  in  his  own  chamber,  was  so  entirely  new, 
that  no  doubt  the  force  of  the  petitions  was  infinitely  enhanced,  and  the 
entreaty  for  the  death  of  the  old  Adam  had  a  definite  application  to 
those  old  habits  and  tastes  that  at  times  exerted  their  force.  The  right 
hand  was  ready  and  untrembling  when  the  Rector  took  it ;  the  stream 
of  water  glittered  as  it  fell  on  the  awe-struck  brow  and  jetty  hair,  and 
the  eyes  shone  out  with  a  deep  resolute  lustre  as  ^  Ferdinand  Audley  * 
was  baptized  into  the  Holy  Name,  and  sworn  a  faithful  soldier  and 
servant. 

He  had  begged  to  be  baptized  by  the  English  version  of  his  name ;  the 
Spanish  one  had  grown  up  by  a  sort  of  accident,  and  had  always  been 
regretted  by  his  father.  He  had  wished  much  to  take  the  name  of  Felix, 
but  they  were  so  certain  that  this  would  not  be  approved,  that  they  had 
persuaded  him  out  of  it.  He  was  soon  set  down  again  by  Geraldine's 
side ;  and  she  put  out  her  hand  and  squeezed  his  hu*d,  looking  up  into 
his  face  with  tearful  eyes  of  welcome. 

When  the  last  sounds  of  the  voluntary  had  died  away,  and  the 
congregation  had  gone,  she  ventured  again  to  look  up  at  him  and  say, 
^ I  am  so  glad!' 

^Why  did  you  never  tell  me  it  was  like  this?'  he  said.  ^I  should 
never  have  hung  back  one  moment  Now  nothing  can  touch  me,  since  I 
belong  to  this,* 

^Nothing  can  really^*  said  Geraldine  softly.  -  'Above  aH,  when  it  is 
sealed  to  us  to-morrow.' 

Then  there  came  a  movement  from  the  vestry,  and  the  Rector  and  Mr. 
Audley  were  seen  following  the  Bishop,  who  came  down  to  where  the 
two  lame  children  still  sat  together,  and  putting  his  hand  upon  Ferdinand's 
head  with  the  hair  still  wet,  gave  him  his  blessing  before  he  spoke  further. 
It  was  only  a  word  or  two  of  congratulation,  but  such  as  to  go  very 
deep ;  and  then  seeing  that  the  boy  looked  not  excited,  but  worn  and 
wearied,  he  added,  'You  are  going  home  to  rest  I  shall  see  you  to- 
morrow after  the  Confirmation ;'  and  then  he  shook  hands  with  him  and 
with  Geraldine,  asking  if  she  were  the  little  girl  of  whom  he  had  been 
told. 

'She  is  very  young,'  said  Mr.  Bevan,  strongly  impressed  with  the 
littleness  of  the  figure ;  '  but  she  has  been  a  Communicant  for  more  than 
a  year,  and  she  is— a  very  good  child.' 

'  I  can  believe  so,'  said  the  Bishop,  smiling  to  her.  '  I  have  heard  of 
your  father,  my  dear,  and  of  your  brother.' 

Cherry  coloured  rosy  red,  but  was  much  too  shy  to  speak ;  and  the 
Rector  and  Bishop  went  away,  leaving  only  Mr.  Audley.  'Are  you 
very  much  tired,  Femant' 

'  I  don't  know,'  he  half  smiled. 


THE  PILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  133 

*I  think  he  is,  he  is  too  happy  to  know  it,'  said  Geraldine.  ^Please 
let  him  go  home  first.' 

So  Mr.  Audlej  hdped  him  out  to  the  chair,  where  Felix,  Alda,  and 
I/ance,  were  waiting ;  and  he  said,  '  Thank  jou,'  and  held  out  his  hand, 
while  Lance  eagerly  shook  it,  saying,  ^  Now  it  is  right  at  last ;  and  here's 
Alda — isn't  she  a  stunner?' 

*  I  thought  it  was  Wilmet,'  said  Feman ;  and  Alda  went  into  church 
to  keep  Cherry  company,  thinking  how  curiously  blind  the  male  sex  were 
not  to  distinguish  between  her  dress  and  poor  dear  Wilmet's. 

Mr.  Andley  was  more  than  satisfied,  he  was  surprised  and  comforted. 
He  had  prepared  to  meet  either  disappointment  or  excitement  in  his 
charge ;  he  found  neither— only  a  perfect  placid  content,  as  of  one  who 
had  found  his  home  and  was  at  rest.  The  boy  was  too  much  tired  after 
his  many  bad  nights  and  the  day's  exertion  to  say  or  think  much ;  all  he 
did  say  was,  *  I  shall  mind  nothing  now  that  I  know  what  it  is  to  be  one 
of  you.' 

Mr.  Audley  tried  to  remember  that  there  must  be  a  reaction,  but  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  fear  or  to  warn,  or  do  anything  but  enjoy  the 
happiest  day  of  his  three  years  ministry. 

He  had  to  go  to  the  Rectory  dinner-party,  and  leave  his  neophyte  to 
the  tendance  of  the  Underwoods.  Felix  sat  with  him  in  a  great  calm 
silence,  while  the  rest  were  taken  up  by  the  counter  attraction  up-stairs, 
where  Alda  was  unpacking  an  unrivalled  store  of  presents  from  herself 
and  Marilda,  useful  and  ornamental,  such  as  seemed  a  perfect  embarras  de 
richesses  to  the  homely  scantily  endowed  children.  That  little  gold  watch 
was  the  prize  and  wonder  of  all.  It  was  the  first  in  the  family,  except 
that  Felix  wore  his  father's,  and  Alda  knew  how  an  elder  girl  was 
scorned  at  school  if  she  had  none ;  but  Wilmet,  though  very  happy  with 
hers,  smiled,  and  would  not  agree  to  having  met  with  disrespect  for  want 
of  it  Then  there  were  drawing-books  for  Cherry,  and  a  knife  of  endless 
blades  for  Lance,  and  toys  for  the  little  ones;  and  dresses — ^a  suit  for 
Wilmet  like  Alda's  plainest  Sunday  one,  and  Aida's  last  year's  silk  for 
Geraldine,  and  some  charming  little  cashmere  pelisses — ^Aunt  Mary's 
special  present  to  the  two  babies — things  that  would  lengthen  Wilmet's 
purse  for  many  a  day  to  come ;  and  a  writing-case  for  Felix ;  and  all 
the  absent  remembered  too.  Uncle  Thomas  had  given  Alda  a  five- 
pound  note  to  buy  presents,  and  Marilda  had  sent  everyone  something 
besides,  mostly  of  such  a  matter-of-fact  useful  tjrpe  that  Alda  stood  and 
laughed  at  them.  And  Mrs.  Underwood  was  pleased  with  the  exhibition, 
and  smiled  and  admired,  only  her  attention  was.  tired  out  at  last,  and 
she  was  taken  early  to  her  own  room. 

The  elder  ones  went  down  to  sit  round  the  fire  in  Mr.  Audley 's  room, 
where  Ferdinand  insisted  on  leaving  his  sofa  to  Geraldine,  and  betaking 
himself  to  the  easy-chair,  where  he  leant  back,  content  and  happy  to 
watch  the  others  through  his  eye-lashes.  Alda  was  a  little  on  her 
company  manners  at  the  first,  but  all  the  others  were  at  perfect  ease,  as 


134  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

they  sat  in  the  dim  light.  Felix  on  the  floor  bj  Cherry,  who  delighted 
in  a  chance  of  playing  fondling  tricks  with  his  hair  and  fingers ;  the  twins 
in  Mr.  Audley*B  big  chair,  where  they  could  lean  against  each  other ;  and 
Lance  cross-legged  on  the  hearth-rug  roasting  chestnuts,  of  which  a 
fellow  chorister  had  given  him  a  pocketful,  and  feeding  everyone  in 
turn. 

Geraldine  gave  a  sigh  to  the  wish  that  poor  dear  Edgar  were  there. 

'  He  is  very  happy  1 '  said  Alda. 

*0h  yes,  but  I  wish  he  had  not  missed  being  here  to-morrow.  I 
wonder  when  he  will  come  home.* 

^  I  cannot  guess ;  Aunt  Mary  wants  to  go  down  the  Rhine  next  summer, 
(only  she  is  not  quite  sure  it  is  not  the  Rhone,)  and  if  so,  I  suppose  he 
would  join  us  there.* 

^  It  is  a  whole  year  since  we  have  set  eyes  on  him,*  said  Felix. 

'But  I  believe  he  writes  more  to  Cheriy  than  anybody,  does  not 
he?' 

'  Oh  yes,  and  sends  me  lovely  photographs  to  copy.  Such  a  beauty  of 
himself!     Have  you  seen  it?* 

'  I  should  think  I  had !  They  have  set  it  up  in  a  little  gold  frame  on 
the  drawing-room  table,  and  everybody  stands  and  says  how  handsome 
it  is ;  and  Aunt  l^lary  explains  all  about  him  till  I  am  tired  of  hearing 
it.' 

*  And  Clem  ? ' 

*  Oh,  Clem  came  to  luncheon  yesterday.  He  is  very  much  grown,  and 
looks  uncommonly  demure,  and  as  much  disposed  to  set  everybody  to 
rights  as  ever.' 

But  Alda  did  not  enter  much  more  into  particulars ;  she  led  aw^ny  the 
conversation  to  the  sights  she  had  seen  in  their  summer  tour;  and  as 
she  had  a  good  dc:d  of  descriptive  power,  she  made  her  narratives  so 
interesting  that  time  slipped  quickly  past,  and  the  young  company  was 
as  much  surprised  as  Mr.  Audley  was  when  he  came  home  and  found  them 
all  there,  not  yet  gone  to  bed.  They  were  greatly  ashamed,  and  afraid 
they  had  done  Ferdinand  harm,  and  all  were  secretly  very  anxious  about 
the  night ;  but  though  the  wakeful  habit  and  night  feverishness  were  not 
at  once  to  be  broken  through,  yet  the  last  impression  was  the  strongest, 
and  the  long-drawn  aisle,  the  'dim  religious  light,'  and  the  white 
procession,  were  now  the  recurring  images,  all  joyful,  all  restful,  truly  as 
if  the  bird  had  escaped  out  of  the  snare  of  the  fowler.  Real  sleep  came 
sooner  than  usual,  and  Fcrnan  rose  quite  equal  to  the  fatigue  of  the 
coming  day,  the  Confirmation  day,  when  again  Geraldine  had  to  sit 
beside  him — this  newly  admitted  to  the  universal  brotherhood,  instead  of 
being  beside  that  dear  Edgar  of  her  own,  for  whom  her  whole  heart 
craved,  as  she  thought  how  their  preparation  had  begun  together  beside 
her  father's  chair. 

Their  place  w\is  now  as  near  the  choir  as  possible,  and  they  were 
brought  in  as  before,  very  early,  so  that  Fernan  gazed  with  the  same 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  135 

eager  unsated  eyes  into  the  chancel  and  at  the  altar,  admitted  as  he  was 
further  into  his  true  home. 

The  church  was  filled  with  candidates  from  the  villages  round  as  well 
as  from  the  town,  and  the  Litany  preceded  the  rite  which  was  to  seal 
the  young  champions  ere  the  strife.  The  Bishop  came  down  to  the  two 
lame  children,  and  laid  his  hands  on  the  two  bent  heads,  ere  he  gave  his 
final  brief  address,  exhorting  the  young  people  to  guard  preciously,  and 
preserve  by  many  a  faithful  Eucharist,  that  mark  which  had  sealed  them 
to  the  Day  of  Redemption,  through  all  this  world's  long  hot  trial  and 
conflict. 

There  was  holiday  at  both  schools,  and  Felix  had  been  spared  to  take 
his  place  in  the  choir,  but  Mr.  Froggatt  could  not  do  without  him  after- 
wards, as  the  presence  of  so  many  of  the  country  clergy  in  the  town 
was  sure  to  fill  the  reading-room  and  shop ;  and  he  was  obliged  to  huny 
off  as  soon  as  he  came  out  of  church.  Now  the  Bishop  had  the  evening 
before  asked  Lady  Price  whether  *  that  son  of  poor  Mr.  Underwood's ' 
were  present  among  the  numerous  smart  folk  who  thronged  her  drawing- 
room,  to  which  my  Lady  had  replied  *  No ;  he  was  a  nice  gentlemanly 
youth  certainly,  but  considering  all  things,  and  how  sadly  he  had  lowered 
himself,  she  thought  it  better  not.  In  fact,  some  might  not  be  so  well 
pleased  to  meet  him.' 

The  Bishop  took  the  opportunity  of  trying  to  learn  from  the  next 
person  he  fell  in  with,  namely,  Mr.  Ryder,  how  Felix  had  lowei-ed 
himself;  and  received  an  answer  that  shewed  a  good  deal  of  the 
school-master's  disappointment,  but  cei*tainly  did  not  shew  any  sense  of 
Felix's  degradation.  And  what  he  said  was  afterwards  amplified  by  Mr« 
Audley,  whom  the  Bishop  took  apart,  and  questioned  with  much  interest 
upon  both  Ferdinand  Travis  and  the  Underwood  family,  of  whom  he 
had  only  heard  when,  immediately  after  his  appointment,  his  vote  for  the 
orphan  school  had  been  solicited  for  the  two  boys,  and  he  had  been  asked 
to  subscribe  to  the  Comment  on  the  Philippians.  Mr.  Audley  felt  that 
he  had  a  sympathizing  listener,  and  was  not  slow  to  tell  the  whole  story 
of*  the  family — what  the  father  had  been,  what  Felix  now  was,  and  how 
his  influence  and  that  of  little  Lancelot  had  told  upon  their  young 
inmate.  The  Bishop  listened  with  emotion,  and  said,  'I  must  see  that 
boy !  Is  the  mother  in  a  state  in  which  she  would  like  a  call  from  me  V 
but  there  an  interruption  had  come ;  and  when  the  country  clergy  came 
in  the  morning,  Mr.  Audley  had  thought  it  fittest  not  to  swell  the 
numbers  unnecessarily,  and  had  kept  himself  out  of  the  way,  and  tried 
to  keep  his  fellow-curate. 

So  he  had  seen  no  more  of  the  Bishop  until  some  little  time  after 
be  and  Fernan  had  lunched,  and  were,  it  must  be  confessed,  making 
up  for  their  unrestful  nights  by  having  both  dropped  asleep,  one  in 
his  chair,  the  other  on  the  sofa ;  there  came  a  ring  to  the  door, 
and  Lance,  who  had  a  strong  turn  for  opening  it,  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  the  same  tall  grey-haired  gentleman,  at  whom  he 


136  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

bad  gazed  in  the  rochet  and  lawn  sleeves.  He  stood  gazing  up  open 
mouthed. 

'I  think  I  have  seen  jou  in  the  choir,  and  heard  you  too,'  said  the 
Bishop,  kindly  taking  Lance's  paw,  which  might  have  been  cleaner  had 
he  known  what  awaited  it     '  Mr.  Audley  lives  here,  I  think.' 

Lance  was  for  once  without  a  word  to  say  for  himself,  though  his 
mouth  remained  open.  All  he  did  was  unceremoniously  to  throw  wide 
Mr.  Audley's  door,  and  bolt  up-stairs,  leaving  his  Lordship  to  usher 
himself  in,  while  Mr.  Audley  started  up,  and  Ferdinand  would  have 
done  the  same,  had  he  been  able,  before  he  was  forbidden. 

There  was  a  kindly  talk  upon  his  health  and  plans,  how  he  was  to 
remain  at  Bexley  till  after  Easter  and  his  first  Communion,  and  then 
Mr.  Audley  would  take  him  up  to  London  to  be  inspected  by  a  first-rate 
surgeon  before  going  down  to  the  tutor's.  The  tutor  proved  to  be  an 
old  school-fellow  and  great  friend  of  the  Bishop;  and  what  Feman 
heard  of  him  from  both  the  friend  and  pupil  would  have  much  diminished 
his  dread,  even  if  he  had  not  been  in  the  full  force  of  the  feeling  that 
whatever  served  to  bind  him  more  closely  to  the  new  world  of  blessings 
within  the  Church  must  be  good  and  comfortable. 

This  visit  over,  the  Bishop  asked  whether  Mrs.  Underwood  would  like 
to  be  visited,  and  Mr.  Audley  went  up  to  ascertain.  She  was  a  woman 
who  never  was  happy  or  at  rest  in  an  untidy  room,  or  in  disordered 
garments;  and  all  was  in  as  fair  order  as  it  could  be  with  the  old 
furniture,  that  all  Wilmet's  mending  could  not  preserve  from  the  verge 
of  rags.  Her  widow's  cap  and  soil  shawl  were  as  neat  as  possible,  and 
so  were  the  little  ones  in  their  brown-holland,  Theodore  sitting  at  her 
feet-,  and  Stella  on  Wilmet's  lap,  where  she  was  being  kept  out  of  the 
way  of  the  more  advanced  amusement  of  a  feast  of  wooden  tea-things, 
carried  on  in  a  comer  between  Angela  and  Bernard,  under  Lance's 
somewhat  embarrassing  patronage. 

Alda  sprung  up,  stared  about  in  consternation  at  the  utter  unlikeness 
to  the  drawing-room  in  Kensington  Palace  Gardens ;  and  exclaimed, 
*  Oh !  if  Sibby  had  only  come  to  take  the  children  out !  Take  them 
away,  Lance.' 

'  Sibby  will  come  presently,  or  I  will  take  them  to  her,'  whispered 
Wilmet.     '  I  should  like  them  just  to  have  his  blessing.' 

^  So  many,'  sighed  Alda ;  but  meantime  Mr.  Audley  had  seen  that  all 
was  right  at  the  first  coup  d^ceilj  had  bent  over  Mrs.  Underwood,  told 
her  that  the  Bishop  wished  to  call  upon  her,  and  asked  her  leave  to  bring 
him  up ;  and  she  smUed,  looked  pleased,  and  said,  *  He  is  very  kind. 
That  is  for  your  Papa,  my  dears.     You  must  talk  to  him,  you  know.' 

The  Bishop  came  up  almost  immediately,  and  the  perfect  tranquillity 
and  absence  of  fiutter  fully  shewed  poor  Mrs.  Underwood's  old  high-bred 
instinct.  She  was  really  gratified  when  he  sat  down  by  her  after  greeting 
the  three  girls,  and  held  out  his  hands  to  make  friends  with  the  lesser 
ones,  whom  their  sisters  led  up,  Angela  submissive  and  pretty  behaved, 


THE  PILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  137 

Bernard  trying  to  hide  his  face,  and  Stella  in  Wilmet's  arms,  staring  to 
the  widest  extent  of  eyes.  The  sisters  had  their  wish — ^the  fatherless 
babes  received  the  pastoral  blessing;  and  the  Bishop  said  a  few  kind 
words  of  real  sympathy  that  made  Mrs.  Underwood  look  up  at  him 
affectionately,  and  say,  ^  Indeed  I  have  much  to  be  thankful  for.  My 
children  are  very  good  to  me.' 

'  I  am  sure  they  are,'  said  the  Bishop.  ^  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much 
I  respect  your  eldest  son.' 

The  colour  rose  in  the  pale  face.     '  He  is  a  very  dear  boy,'  she  said. 

'  I  should  like  to  see  him  before  I  go.     Is  he  at  home  ? ' 

^  Lance  shall  run  and  call  him,'  said  Alda ;  but  the  Bishop  had  asked 
where  he  was,  and  Wilmet  had,  not  unblushingly,  for  she  was  red  with 
pleasure,  but  shamelessly,  answered  that  he  was  at  Mr.  Froggatt's, 
offering  to  send  Lance  in  search  of  him. 

'  I  had  rather  he  would  shew  me  the  way,'  said  the  Bishop.  '  Will 
you,  my  boy?' 

The  way  to  Mr.  Froggatt's  was  not  very  long,  but  it  was  long  enough 
to  overcome  Lance's  never  very  large  amount  of  bashfulness ;  and  he 
had  made  reply  that  he  went  to  the  Grammar  School,  and  was  in  the 
second  form,  that  he  liked  singing  in  the  choir  better  than—no,  not  than 
anything — anything  except — except  what  ?  Oh,  a  jolly  good  snow-balling, 
or  a  game  at  hockey.  Did  he  like  the  school?  Pretty  well,  on  the 
whole ;  but  he  did  not  suppose  he  should  stay  there  long,  his  brother  at 
the  Clergy  Orphan  said  there  were  such  a  lot  of  cads,  and  that  he  was 
always  grubbing  his  nose  among  them ;  but  now,  ^  do  you  really  think 
now  that  cads  are  always  such  bad  fellows  ? ' 

His  Lordship  was  too  much  diverted  to  be  easily  able  to  speak,  but  he 
observed  that  it  depended  on  what  was  meant  by  a  cad. 

*  That's  just  it  r  exclaimed  Lauc%^  ^  I'm  sure  some  that  he  calls  cads 
are  as  good  fellows  as  any  going ! ' 

'  And  what  does  your  eldest  brother  say  ? ' 

'  Felix  I  Oh !  he  does  not  mind,  as  long  as  one  does  not  get  into  a  real 
Bcrape.' 

'And  then?' 

'  Oh,  then  he  minds  so  much  that  one  can't  do  it,  you  know.* 

'What,  does  he  punish  you  ?' 

*N — ^no— he  never  licks  any  of  us  now — but  he  is  so  horridly  sorry — 
and  it  bothers  him  so,'  said  Lance.  ^  Here's  old  Froggatt's,'  he  concluded, 
stopping  at  the  glass  door.  ^My  eyes!  what  a  sight  of  parsons  P 
(Lance  had  pretty  well  forgotten  who  he  was  talking  to.)  •  *  There,  that's 
Felix — no,  no,  not  that  one  serving  Mr.  Burrowes,  that's  Redstone ;  Felix 
is  out  there,  getting  out  the  sermon  paper  for  that  fat  one,  and  that's  old 
Froggy  himself  bowing  away.  Shall  I  go  and  call  Felix  ?  I  suppose  he 
will  not  mind  this  time,' 

'  No,  thank  you,  I  will  go  in  myself.  Good-bye,  my  little  guide,  and 
thank  you.' 

VOL.   10.  10  PART  5fi. 


188  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

And  tance,  when  his  hand  came  out  of  the  Bishop's,  found  something  in 
it,  which  proved  to  he  a  tiny  Prayer-book,  and  moreover  a  half-sovereign. 
He  would  have  looked  up  and  thanked,  but  the  Bishop  and  that  *fat 
one '  were  absorbed  in  conversation  on  the  step ;  and  when  he  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  the  little  blue  morocco  book,  with  its  inlaid  red  cross, 
he  found  full  in  his  face  in  the  first  page  the  words,  ^  Lancelot  Under- 
wood, March  15th,  1855,'  and  then  followed  an  initial,  and  a  name  that 
utterly  defeated  Lance's  powers,  so  that  perceiving  the  shop  to  be  far  too 
densely  full  of  parsons  for  him  to  have  a  chance  there,  he  galloped  off 
at  full  speed  to  Cherry,  who  happily  could  interpret  the  contracted  Latin 
by  the  name  of  the  See,  and  was  not  quite  so  much  astonished  as  Lance, 
though  even  more  gratified. 

Meantime,  the  Bishop  had  made  his  way  to  the  bowing  Mr.  Froggatt, 
and  asked  to  speak  with  him  in  his  private  room,  where  he  mentioned 
his  kindness  to  young  Underwood,  and  was  answered  by  a  gratified 
disclaimer  of  having  done  anything  that  was  not  of  great  advantage  to 
himself.  The  good  man  seemed  divided  between  desire  to  do  justice  to 
Felix  and  not  to  stand  in  his  light,  and  alarm  lest  he  should  have  to 
lose  an  assistant  whom  he  had  always  known  to  be  above  his  mark, 
and  who  was  growing  more  valuable  every  month ;  and  he  was  greatly 
relieved  and  delighted  when  the  Bishop  only  rejoiced  at  his  character 
of  Felix,  and  complimented  the  Pursuivant  by  being  glad  that  a  paper 
of  such  good  principles  should  be  likely  to  have  such  a  youth  on  its 
staff;  it  had  been  well  for  the  lad  to  meet  with  so  good  a  friend.  Mr. 
Froggatt  could  not  be  denied  an  eulogium  on  the  father,  for  whose  sake 
he  had  first  noticed  the  son;  and  when  the  Bishop  had  expressed  his 
sorrow  at  never  having  known  so  bright  a  light  as  all  described  the  late 
•Curate  to  have  been,  he  courteously  regretted  the  interruption  on  a  busy 
day,  but  begged  just  to  see  the  young  man.  He  had  little  time  himself, 
but  if  he  could  be  spared  to  walk  up  to  the  station — 

Mr.  Froggatt  bustled  out  with  great  alacrity,  and  taking  the  charge  of 
the  customer  on  himself,  announced,  for  the  benefit  of  all  who  might  be 
within  earshot :  '  Mr.  Underwood,  his  Lordship  wishes  to  speak  with 
you.  He  wishes  you  to  walk  up  to  the  station  with  him.  You  had 
better  go  out  by  the  private  door.' 

Felix  was  red  up  to  the  ears.  His  eight  years  seniority  to  Lance  were 
eight  times  eight  more  shyness  and  embarrassment,  but  he  could  only 
obey ;  and  at  his  first  greeting  his  hand  was  taken — *•  I  hoped  to  have 
seen  you  sooner,'  the  Bishop  said ;  '  but  you  had  always  escaped  me  in 
the  vestry.'      • 

*•  I  had  to  go  to  help  my  sister,  my  Lord,'  said  Felix. 

^  And  your  friend,'  said  the  Bishop.  ^  That  is  a  good  work  that  has 
been  done  in  your  house.' 

Felix  coloured  more,  not  knowing  what  to  say. 

*I  wish  to  see  you,'  continued  the  Bishop,  ^partly  to  tell  you  how 
much  I  honour  you  for  the  step  you  have  taken.    I  wish  there  were 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  139 

more  who  would  understand  the  true  uprightness  and  duti fulness  of 
thinking  no  shame  of  any  honest  employment.  I  am  afraid  you  do 
sometimes  meet  with  what  may  be  trying,'  he  added,  no  doubt  remem- 
bering Lady  Price's  tone. 

*  I  do  not  care  now,  not  much.     I  did  at  first,'  said  Felix. 

.'No  one  whose  approval  is  worth  having  can  consider  yours  really  a 
loss  of  position.     You  are  in  a  profession  everyone  respects,  and  yoa 
seem  to  have  great  means  of  influence  likely  to  be  open  to  you.' 
^  So  my  father  said,  when  he  consented,'  said  Felix. 

*  I  shall  always  regret  having  just  missed  knowing  your  father.  Some 
passages  in  that  book  T)f  his  struck  me  greatly.  But  what  I  wished  to 
say  was  to  ask  whether  there  is  any  way  in  which  I  can  be  useful  to  you 
in  the  education  of  any  of  the  younger  ones,  or — ' 

'  Thank  you,  my  Lord,'  said  Felix.  *  I  think  you  kindly  voted  for  my 
brothers  last  year  for  the  Clergy  Orphan  school.  Only  one  got  in,  and 
if  you  would  vote  again  for  little  Lancelot — * 

^  My  droll  little  companion,  who  Mr.  Audley  tells  me  did  so  much  for 
that  poor  young  American.' 

^  Indeed  he  did,'  said  Felix.  '  I  doubt  if  any  of  us  would  have  got  at 
faim  but  for  Lance,  who  did  not  mean  anything  but  good  nature  all  the 
tSne.' 

*  He  is  just  the  boy  I  want  for  our  Cathedral  schooL'  And  then  he 
went  on  to  explain  that  a  great  reformation  was  going  on.  Tliere  was 
a  foundation  school  attached  to  the  Cathedral,  with  exhibitions  at  the 
University,  to  which  the  Cathedral  choristers  had  the  first  claim.  There 
had  been  of  course  a  period  of  decay,  but  an  excellent  Precentor  had 
been  just  appointed,  who  would  act  as  head-master;  and  the  singing 
boys  would  be  kept  on  free  of  expense  ailter  their  voices  became 
unavailable,  provided  that  by  such  time  they  had  passed  a  certain 
examination.  Such  a  voice  as  Lance's  was  sure  to  recommend  him; 
and  besides,  the  Bishop  said  with  a  smile,  he  wanted  to  raise  the 
character  of  the  school,  and  he  thought  there  was  the  stuff  here  that 
would  do  so. 

Fdix  could  only  be  thankful  and  rejoiced ;  but  it  was  a  pang  to  think 
of  Lance  being  as  entirely  separated  firom  home  as  was  Clement ;  with 
no  regular  holidays,  and  always  most  needed  at  his  post  at  the  great 
festivals.  There  was  something  in  his  tone  that  made  the  Bishop  say, 
*  You  do  not  like  to  part  with  him  ? ' 

*  No,  my  Lord,  but  I  am  glad  it  should  be  so.  My  father  was  not 
happy  about — things  here,  and  charged  me  to  get  m^  brothers  away 
when  I  could/ 

'  And  as  to  holidays,  you  are  near  at  hand,  and  most  of  the  choir  are 
of  our  own  town.  I  think  he  may  generally  be  spared  for  a  good  term 
at  each  holiday  time.  The  organist  is  very  considerate  in  giving  leave  of 
absence,  even  if  he  should  turn  out  to  have  a  dangerously  good  voice  for 
solos.    I  will  let  you  know  when  to  send  him  up  for  the  examination, 


140  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

which  he  will  pass  easily.  Good-bye.  You  must  write  to  me  if  there 
is  anything  for  me  to  do  for  you.  One  month  more,  and  your  father 
would  have  been  one  of  my  clergy,  remember.' 

Felix  went  back,  flushed  with  gratification,  and  yet,  to  a  certain  degree, 
with  confusion,  and  not  exactly  liking  the  prospect  of  being  interrogated 
as  to  what  the  Bishop  had  said  to  him  ;  indeed,  he  never  told  the  whole 
of  it  to  anyone  but  Cherry.  Somehow,  though  Wilmet  was  his  coun- 
sellor and  mainstay,  Geraldine  was  the  sharer  of  all  those  confidences 
that  come  spontaneously  out  of  the  full  but  reserved  heart. 

Besides,  Wilmet  was  at  present  in  such  a  trance  of  enjoyment  of  her 
twin  sister,  that  she  seemed  scarcely  able  to  enter  into  anything  else. 
She  went  through  her  duties  as  usual,  but  with  an  effort  to  shake  off  her 
absorption  in  the  thought  of  having  Alda  at  home ;  and  every  moment 
she  was  not  in  sight  of  her  darling  seemed  a  cruel  diminution  of  her  one 
poor  fortnight.  Indeed  it  was  tete'd-tetes  that  her  exclusive  tenderness 
craved  above  all ;  and  she  was  often  disappointed  that  Alda  should  b0 
willing  to  go  and  visit  Feman  Travis  when  they  might  have  had  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  together  alone.  How  much  more  selfish  she  must 
have  grown  than  Alda  in  this  last  half  year ! 

Alda's  talk  was  indeed  full  of  interest,  and  gave  a  much  better  notion 
of  her  way  of  life  than  her  letters  did.  She  seemed  to  have  been  fully 
adopted  as  a  daughter  of  the  house,  and  to  enjoy  all  the  same  privileges 
AS  Marilda ;  indeed,  she  had  a  good  deal  more  credit  with  all  varieties 
of  teachers,  since  she  learnt  rapidly  and  eagerly ;  and  Marilda,  while 
encouraging  her  successes,  without  a  shade  of  jealousy,  made  no  attempt 
to  conquer  her  own  clumsiness  and  tardiness.  Even  '  Aunt  Mary,'  as 
Alda  called  Mrs.  Thomas  Underwood,  often  had  recourse  to  Alda  for 
sympathy  in  her  endeavours  to  be  tasteful,  and  continually  held  her  up 
as  an  example  to  Marilda. 

^  And  poor  dear  good  woman,'  said  Alda,  '  she  has  such  a  respect  for 
Underwood  breeding  and  our  education,  that  I  believe  I  could  persuade 
her  to  anything  by  telling  her  it  was  what  she  calls  '  comifoJ  Even 
when  she  was  going  to  get  the  boudoir  done  with  apple-green  picked  out 
with  mauve,  enough  to  set  one's  teeth  on  edge,  and  Marilda  would  do 
nothing  but  laugh,  she  let  me  persuade  her  into  a  lovely  pale  sea-green.' 

*Is  not  sea-green  rather  too  delicate  for  her?'  asked  Cherry. 

*Why,  it  was. very  wicked  of  Eklgar,  to  be  sure,  but  he  said  that  it 
was  to  suit  the  nymph  reining  in  the  porpoises.  He  made  a  sketch,  and 
Marilda  was  delighted  with  it;  she  really  is  the  most  good-natured 
creature  in  the  world.' 

*  She  must  be!'  ejaculated  Wilmet;  'but  surely  she  ought  not  to  like 
laughing  at  her  mother.' 

*  Oh,  everybody  laughs  at  Aunt  Mary,  and  she  hardly  ever  finds  it  out, 
and  when  she  does,  she  does  not  mind!  Even  old  Mrs.  Kedge,  her 
mother,  does  nothing  but  laugh  at  her  for  trying  to  be  fine.  Old  Granny 
is  not  a  bit  by  way  of  being  a  lady,  you  know ;  she  lives  in  a  little  house 


THE  PILLAKS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  141 

in  the  City  with  one  maid,  and  I  believe  she  rubs  her  own  tables.  I  am 
sure  she  goes  about  in  omnibuses,  though  she  has  lots  of  money ;  and 
Marilda  is  so  fond  of  her,  and  so  like  her,  only  not  so  clever  and  shrewd/ 

'  But  why  does  she  live  in  such  a  small  way  ?' 

^  Because  she  never  was  used  to  anything  else,  and  does  not  like  it. 
She  hates  grand  servants,  and  never  will  come  to  Kensington  Palace 
Gardens,  but  she  really  is  good-natured.  She  told  Clement  to  drop  in 
on  her  whenever  he  likes,  and  bring  any  of  his  friends ;  and  she  always 
gives  them  a  superb  piece  of  plum-cake,  and  once  she  took  them  to  the 
Tower,  and  once  to  the  Zoological  Gardens,  for  she  thinks  that  she 
cannot  do  enough  to  make  up  to  them  for  being  bred  up  to  be  little 
monks,  with  cords  and  sandals,  and  everything  popish.' 

*  You  don't  let  her  think  so  ?' 

'  Well,  really  when  she  has  got  a  thing  into  her  head  nothing  will 
uproot  it ;  and  after  all,  they  do  carry  things  very  far  there,  and  Clement 
goes  on  so  that  I  don't  wonder.' 

'  Goes  on  how  ?* 

*  Why,  just  fancy,  the  other  day  when  Uncle  Thomas  fetched  him  in 
his  brougham  because  I  was  coming  home,  there  he  sat  at  luncheon  and 
would  not  eat  a  scrap  of  meat.' 

*  Ah !  it  was  a  Wednesday  in  Lent,'  said  Cherry. 

*  Only  a  Wednesday,  you  know  ;  and  thercy  with  four  or  five  strange 
people  too.  One  of  them  asked  if  he  was  a  Catholic,  and  of  course 
Clement  looked  very  wise  and  greatly  pleased,  and  said,  *  Yes,  he  was,' 
and  that  'brought  down  Aunt  Mary  with  her  heavy  artillery.  'Bless 
me,  Clement,  you  don't  say  so.     Is  Mr.  Fulmort  really  gone  over  T 

*  Yes,'  said  Clem.  (I  know  he  did  it  on  purpose.)  *  He  is  gone  over  to 
preach  at  St.  Peter's.'  And  then  one  of  the  gentlemen  asked  if  Clem 
meant  Mr.  Fulmort  of  St.  Matthew's,  Whittingtonia,  and  when  he  said 

*  Yes,  he  lived  in  tlie  clergy- ho  use,'  he  began  regularly  to  play  him  off, 
asking  the  most  absurd  questions  about  fasts  and  feasts  and  vigils  and 
decorations,  and  Clem  answered  them  all  in  his  prim  little  self-sufficient 
way,  just  as  if  he  thought  he  was  on  the  high  road  to  be  St.  Clement 
the  Martyr,  till  I  was  ready  to  run  away.' 

'Couldn't  you  have  given  him  a  hint?'  asked  Wilmet. 

*  My  dear,  have  you  lived  twelve  years  with  Clem  without  knowing 
that  hints  are  lost  on  him  ?' 

'  Dear  Clem,  he  is  a  very  good  steady-hearted  little  fellow,'  said  Cherry. 

*  It  was  very  nice  of  him.' 

^  Well,  I  only  hope  he'll  never  come  to  luncheon  again  in  Lent.  There 
are  times  and  seasons  for  everything,  and  certainly  not  for  display  I 
And  to  make  it  worse,  Marilda  is  the  most  literal  minded  girl.  Fasting 
was  quite  a  new  light  to  her,  for  she  never  realizes  what  she  does  not 
see;  and  she  got  Clem  into  a  corner,  where  1  heard  him  going  on, 
nothing  loth,  about  days  of  abstinence,  out  of  Mr.  Fulmort's  last 
catechizing,   I  should   think;   nnd  she  ended   by  asking  what  Cousin 


142  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Edward  did,  go  that  I  fully  expected  that  I  should  find  her  eating  nothings 
and  that  I  should  be  called  to  account' 

^And  what  did  jou  tell  her,  then?' 

'  Oh,  you  know  I  could  say  quite  truly  that  he  did  not/ 

*  I  don't  think  that  was  quite  fair,'  said  Wilmet  gravely.  *  You  know 
it  was  only  because  he  really  could  not.' 

'  You  don't  know  how  glad  I  was  to  have  an  answer  that  would  hinder 
the  horrid  commotion  we  should  have  had  if  Marilda  had  taken  to  fasting. 
And  after  all,  you  knowy  Papa  would  have  said  minding  her  mother  was 
her  first  duty.' 

<  Why  did  not  you  tell  her  that  ?' 

'  I  have,  dozens  of  times ;  but  you  know  there  are  mothers  and  mothers^ 
and  nobody  can  always  mind  Aunt  Mary,  good  soul !  .  Marilda  has  just 
made  herself,  with  her  own  good  rough  plain  sense.  I  wish  she  was  a 
man,  she  would  be  a  capital  merchant  like  her  father ;  but  it  is  hard 
to  be  a  great  heiress,  with  nothing  she  really  likes  to  do.  She  is  always 
longing  to  come  down  to  Gentry,  and  tramp  about  the  lanes  among  th^ 
cottages.' 

^  Oh  I  I  wish  they  would  ! ' 

^  I  don't  think  Aunt  Mary  will  ever  let  them.  She  hates  the  country ; 
and  though  she  likes  to  have  a  place  for  the  name  of  the  thing,  she  does 
not  want  to  live  there,  especially  where  there  are  so  many  of  us ;  and 
then,  Felix's  situation!' 

<  For  shame,  Alda !' 

*Well,  I  did  not  say  anything  myself.  It  is  only  Aunt  Mary- 
it  is  very  foolish  of  people,  but,  you  see,  they  wilL  As  to  Marilda^ 
I  believe  she  would  like  to  stand  behind  the  counter  with  him  this 
minute.' 

'Marilda  is  the  oddest  and  best  girl  I  ever  heard  of!' 

'You  may  say  that.  And  so  ignorant  she  was!  She  had  a  great 
velvet  and  gold  Church  Service,  and  hardly  guessed  there  was  any  Bible 
or  Prayer  Book  besides.  I  am  sure  Felix  cannot  have  had  more  work 
to  teach  that  youth  than  I  have  had  with  Marilda.  Such  a  jumble  as 
she  had  picked  up !  She  really  had  only  little  baby  prayers  to  say,  till 
she  saw  my  book.' 

'  What  a  blessing  you  must  be  to  her !'  said  Wilmet,  fondly  looking  at 
her  sister. 

'  Well,  I  do  hope  so.  You  must  know  she  was  regularly  struck  with 
dear  Papa.  I  am  sure  he  is  the  first  saint  in  her  calendar,  and  everything 
is —  *  What  did  Cousin  Edward  say  ?'  And  when  once  she  has  made 
up  her  mind  that  a  thing  is  right,  she  will  blunder  on  through  fire  and 
water,  but  she  will  do  it.' 

'  Then,'  said  Cherry, '  she  ought  to  try  and  learn,  and  not  to  be  awkward 
because  of  obedience.' 

Alda  bur^^t  out  laughing.  'People  can  only  do  what  they  can. 
^arilda  trying  to  be  graceful  would  be  worse  than  Marilda  floundering 


nunn's  court.  143 

her  own  way.     But  she  really  is  the  best  and  kindest  girl  living,  and 
she  gets  on  much  better  for  having  me  to  keep  her  out  of  scrapes.' 

Wilmet  went  to  bed  that  night  thankful  to  have  Alda's  head  on  the 
pillow  beside  her,  and  most  thankful  for  the  tokens  that  she  watched 
among  her  brothers  and  sisters,  which  shewed  how  much  her  father's 
influence  was  extending  beyond  his  short  life. 

(Jfo  he  continued.) 


NUNN'S   COURT. 

CHAPTER  II. 

*  No  Church  can  truly  Apostolic  prove, 
That  wants  the  lire  of  Eyangelic  love.' 

Monsfdl, 

Could  nothing  be  done  for  Nunn's  Court  ? 

How  often  did  this  question  arise  in  the  minds  of  the  trio,  who  had 
been  eye-witnesses  to  its  unfortunate  condition !  Mrs.  Treville's  knitting 
suffered  in  consequence.  Stitch  after  stitch  went  down  while  she  was 
endeavouring  to  form  some  plan  for  the  benefit  of  its  miserable  inhab* 
itants;  but  she  seemed  powerless  to  act;  and  becoming  somewhat 
impatient  on  finding  how  much  her  knitting  was  at  fault,  she  put  it 
away,  saying,  '  I  am  doing  no  good  here ;  I  can  at  least  go  and  see  the 
poor  sick  child.' 

Summoning  her  maid,  she  bade  her  prepare  to  go  with  her;  and 
carefully  putting  into  a  basket  a  few  delicacies  for  the  invalid,  and  a 
little  story-book,  she  was  soon  on  her  way  to  Nunn's  Court. 

She  found  Jemmie  sitting  on  a  door-step,  rubbing  up  his  fiute, 
preparatory  to  going  out  for  the  day;  his  face  flushed  when  he  saw 
her,  and  rising  from  the  step  he  shut  the  door.  Mrs.  Treville  asked  if 
she  could  see  his  sister;  but  the  deepening  flush  in  his  face,  and  his 
hesitating  manner,  caused  her  to  say,  *  I  suppose  I  must  come  again— 
but  when  ?' 

^Will  you  come  with  Master  Treville  on  Saturday,  Ma'am!'  he 
answered,  in  a  tone  of  relief ;  '  she  shall  be  ready  to  see  you  then.' 

'  I  will  do  so ;  but  take  these  to  your  sister,  she  may  like  them ;'  and 
the  old  lady  uncovered  the  basket. 

Jemmie's  eyes  glistened  as  he  saw  its  contents,  and  he  murmured, 
^  Shie  will  be  so  pleased!'  and  hurried  into  the  house  with  the  basket, 
not,  however,  forgetting  to  shut  the  door  after  him.  When  he  returned, 
there  were  tears  in  his  eyes,  but  he  only  said  that  his  sister  sent  her 
thanks  to  *  the  lady.' 

'Jemmie!'  said  Mrs.  Treville,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm,  'I  should 


144  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

like  to  do  something  for  all  of  you.     Something  that  would  give  you  the 
same  hope  that  I  have.' 

He  shrank  from  her  touch,  exclaiming,  '  You  are  too  good  for  such 
as  we — we  are  all  dirty  and  bad  here,  and  not  fit  for  such  as  you  to 
talk  to.' 

'  But,  Jemmie,  I  want  you  all  to  be  good  and  clean.' 

*  No  use,  no  use,'  he  said,  half  defiantly,  half  sorrowfully ;  and  taking 
up  his  fiute,  seemed  anxious  to  be  going. 

Mrs.  Treville  did  not  like  to  detain  him,  so  she  bade  him  good- 
bye, and  left  the  court;  but  had  not  gone  on  far  before  ho  overtook 
her. 

'  You  are  very  good.  Ma'am,  to  care  about  us  at  all ;  only  we  are  too 
bad  for  such  as  you  to  care  about.  You  will  come  on  Saturday,  Ma'am  ? 
My  poor  sister  will  like  you  to  come ;  she  does  want  to  be  good,  and 
you  will  tell  her  how.'  And  before  an  answer  could  be  given  he  had 
hastened  away. 

Who  could  tell  these  poor  desolate  people  of  a  Saviour's  love!  TVho 
guide  them  into  the  path  overshadowed  by  His  Cross!  She  could  not 
tell!  'How  feed  this  muliitude  here  in  this  wilderness!'  was  the  cry 
of  the  astonished  disciples  in  answer  to  the  bidding  of  their  Blessed 
Master.  '  What  are  fiv^  loaves  and  a  few  fishes  amongst  so  many !' 
Amd  what  indeed  would  be  the  few  poor  words  that  she  could  speak,  or 
the  simple  deeds  that  she  could  do,  amidst  such  ignorance  and  misery f 
Alas,  as  nothing !  Not  the  planting  even,  nor  the  watering,  can  produce 
one  blade  of  grass,  or  cause  it  to  ripen  into  an  ear  of  corn.  Then  could 
planting  and  watering  supply  a  world  with  bread  f  Indeed  no !  Yet, 
*put  thy  hand  to  the  plough  and  look  not  back.'  *  In  the  morning  sow 
thy  seed,  and  in  the  evening  withhold  not  thy  hand.'  '  Do  good  and 
communicate,'  and  God  will  give  the  increase. 

Similar  thoughts  to  these  beset  Mrs.  Treville  on  her  way  homewards, 
and  still  she  seemed  bewildered  in  her  plans.  ^  Tell  it  to  the  Church.' 
Ah,  that  surely  was  the  right  way — our  Blessed  Lord  had  said  so ;  and 
she  decided,  at  once,  to  take  her  newly-found  burden  to  the  clergyman, 
whose  care  that  district  was  in.  Here,  again,  she  met  only  with  dis- 
appointment, for  after  a  prolonged  walk  to  reach  his  house,  she  found 
him  scarcely  cognizant  of  the  existence  of  Nunn's  Court,  which  was 
quite  at  the  extremity  of  his  parish,  and  none  of  the  people  attended 
the  church ;  and  although  he  had  once  or  twice  called  upon  them  to 
urge  them  to  send  their  children  to  the  school,  he  had  found  them  so 
unimpressionable  that  he  felt  it  was  useless  to  attempt  doing  more, 
and  concluded  that  nothing  short  of  a  miracle  would  convert  them,  so 
that  he  had  ceased  to  interest  himself  in  them. 

Mi*s.  Treville  had  no  persuasive  eloquence  in  which  to  plead  their 
cause  ;  she  could  make  no  earnest  appeal  for  them,  while  yet  her 
whole  mind  was  bent  to  do  them  good.  She  did  not  vex  herself  on 
finding   that   she   could  not  argue   with   him,   but  she  asked   in   her 


nunn's  court.  145 

simple  straight-forward  manner,  ^Will  yoa  kindly  tell  me  what  / 
can  do?' 

'  Really,  my  dear  Madam/  was  the  reply,  ^  the  case  is  a  very  sad  one, 
and  nothing  can  be  done.  It  is  one  of  those  cases  that  must  be  left  to 
God's  mercy.' 

'  But  I  should  be  glad  to  know  that  I  had  at  least  tried  to  do  some- 
thing. Must  all  the  little  children  there  grow  up  in  the  same  wretched 
state  as  their  parents  ?  It  is  quite  a  question^  if  one  of  them  has  been 
baptized !' 

'  I  dare  say  not ;  who  could  expect  it  ?  And  we  are  forbidden  to  cast 
'^  pearls  before  swine,"  who  would  only  trample  them  under  their  feet ; 
it  would  be  wrong  to  waste  upon  them  what  is  so  gladly  received  by 
"the  faithful."' 

Did  he  know  the  story  of  the  Good  Shepherd!  Did  he  remember 
that  the  Angels'  joy  grows  brighter  on  the  return  of  one  lost  One  to  the 
fold,  or  at  the  regeneration  of  one  little  lamb !  At  any  rate,  who  was 
she,  that  she  should  judge,  or  presume  to  teach  one  of  Christ's  duly 
appointed  ministers!  She  sighed,  however,  as  she  rose  to  depart,  and 
said,  *  We  must  pray  for  them,  then.' 

Her  simple  earnestness  somewhat  touched  him,  for  he  answered,  'I 
will  go  to  the  Court  when  the  first  opportunity  offers,  and  make  another 
effort  to  bring  them  to  Jesus.  You  see  I  have  so  many  pressing  demands 
upon  my  time,  that  I  have  not  a  minute  to  waste.' 

'  To  waste !'  The  expression  haunted  Mrs.  Treville  all  that  day;  but  not 
for  worlds  would  she  have  put  into  words  the  bitter  thoughts  it  suggested. 

'  Johnny !'  she  said,  on  the  following  Saturday,  ^  I  have  been  to  Nunn'» 
Court  again.' 

He  put  down  his  book  suddenly,  exclaiming,  '  Not  alone.  Granny !' 

*  No,  Jarvis  went  with  me.' 

'  You  dear  old  Granny  I     Tell  me  all  about  it.' 

And  most  touchingly  did  she  tell  all,  while  Johnny  listened  patiently, 
his  dull  face  betraying  not  one  spark  of  interest ;  but  when  she  had 
ended  the  recital  something  impelled  her  to  repeat  in  an  indignant  tone, 
'  Not  one  minute  to  waste !' 

A  flash  of  fun  then  shot  forth  from  the  boy's  eyes,  and  in  a  very  high 
key,  without  any  modulation  in  his  voice,  he  shouted,  rather  than  sang, 

*  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear 
To  maDsions  in  the  skies, 
I'll  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 
And  wipe  my  weeping  eyes.' 

'  Johnny  I'  said  the  old  lady  reprovingly. 
'  Well,  Granny,  that  is  so  exactly  like  it.' 

*  What  can  you  mean,  my  dear  boy  V 

'  Oh,  I  know,  Gran'mother,  though  I  can't  say  it  so  that  you  can 
understand.' 


146  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

*  I  can  understand,  I  fear,  that  you  were  singing  a  hymn  in  mockery.' 

*  Not  exactly  that,  Granny,  though  I  dare  say  Ned  Mortimer  would 
be  shocked.  There  really  is  nothing  in  those  lines,  and  that  is  why  they 
seem  to  me  appropriate  to  this  occasion.' 

Mrs.  Treville  did  not  understand  him.  Johnny's  practical  sense, 
despite  his  dullness,  was  too  deep  for  her. 

*I  wonder  what  Dr.  Murray  would  say,'  said  Johnny,  after  a  long 
pause ;  *'  he  always  seems  to  know  the  right  thing.' 

*  Yes,  he  does ;  and  even  in  this  puzzling  matter  his  advice  would,  at 
any  rate,  do  no  harm.' 

'  I  am  sorry,  Granny,  you  should  have  so  much  trouble,  when  all  the 
burden  ought  really  to  fall  upon  me.' 

Mi*s.  Treville  did  not  reply. 

Not  many  hours  later  she  was  kneeling  by  the  bed-side  of  Jemmie's 
sick  sister,  feeling  relieved  of  half  her  burden. 

Dr.  Murray  had  been  brought  into  counsel,  and  had  voluntarily  accom- 
panied her  and  Johnny  to  the  court,  and  being  recognised  by  Jemmie 
as  the  head-master  of  the  Grammar  School,  easily  gained  permission 
to  see  the  sick  girl.  The  tears  trembled  in  Mrs.  Treville's  eyes  as 
she  took  the  wasted  hand  in  hers,  and  noted  around  her  every  mark 
of  extreme  poverty.  A  few  questions  sufficed  to  prove  that  Jemmie 
was  sole  nurse  and  doctor,  and  that  the  brother  and  sister  were  all 
the  world  to  each  other.  Early  motherless,  and  having  a  wretched 
father,  their  means  of  subsistence  had  been  distressingly  scanty,  and 
in  consequence  her  constitution  was  fast  giving  way  to  the  ravages  of 
a  consumption. 

The  entrance  of  the  strangers  brought  on  such  a  prolonged  fit  of 
coughing,  that  Mrs.  Treville  began  to  fear  their  visit  was  likely  to  be 
productive  of  evil,  particularly  when  the  cough  was  followed  by  such 
apparent  exhaustion  as  to  alarm  even  Jemmie. 

*  You  shall  have  some  nice  broth,  and  wine,  my  poor  child ;  and  a  sofl 
pillow  for  your  head,  to  make  you  more  comfortable ;  and  the  doctor  will 
come  to  see  you,  and  give  you  some  medicine  for  your  cough.'  And  the 
old  lady  stroked  the  blue  and  chilly  fingers  with  her  own.  A  disap- 
pointed look  rested  on  the  young  girl's  face;  and  Mrs.  Treville  looked 
at  Jemmie,  who  answered,  'You  are  very  good,  Ma'am;  indeed  you 
are  ;  but  Lizzie  wants  to  go  to  Mother,  and  she  thought  yon  would 
tell  her  the  way,  because  you  are  so  good — but,  O  Lizzie,  Lizzie!  I 
cannot  let  you  go !'  and  burying  his  face  in  his  sister's  pillow,  he  sobbed 
bitterly. 

Mr8.  Treville's  tears  now  fell  fast ;  and  Dr.  Murray,  drawing  close  to 
the  bed,  said  in  a  clear  and  distinct  voice,  '  Jesus  said,  '^  Him  that 
cometh  unto  Me,  I  will  in  no  wise  cast  out."    Let  us  pray.' 

And  side  by  side,  Mrs.  Treville  and  Jemmie  knelt,  while  Dr.  Murray 
repeated  that  short  and  comprehensive  prayer: 

*0  God,  whose  nature  and  property  is  ever  to  have  mercy  and  to 


nunn's  court.  147 

forgive,  receive  our  humble  petitions;  and  although  we  be  tied  and 
bound  with  the  chain  of  our  sins,  yet  let  the  pitifulness  of  Thy  great 
mercy  loose  us;  for  the  honour  of  Jesus  Christ,  our  Mediator  and 
Advocate.     Amen.' 

Lizzie  would  have  spoken  when  they  had  risen;  but  Dr.  Murray 
stopped  her,  by  saying,  *  We  must  not  tire  you,  but  come  again  soon^ 
Jesus  can  and  will  save  you  if  you  trust  Him,  my  child.' 

Such  a  gleam  of  happiness  animated  her  poor  shrunken  face,  that  Mrs. 
Treville  followed  Dr.  Murray  down-stairs  with  a  considerably  lightened 
heart. 

*  What  parish  does  this  court  belong  to?'  asked  the  Doctor.  *I 
think  I  had  better  see  the  clergyman. — Have  you  been  christened, 
Jemmie  ?' 

'  Yes,  Sir ;  and  Mother  wanted  Lizzie  to  be  christened  too ;  but  she 
died,  and  nobody  else  cared.' 

Mrs.  Treville  looked  anxiously  at  the  Doctor;  but  he  was  silently 
thinking.  When  they  emerged  from  the  house,  they  found  Johnny 
having  a  game  of  marbles  with  the  dirty  little  children,  to  reward  them 
for  not  dabbling  in  the  gutter. 

*  Good-bye,  young  uns,'  he  exclaimed,  as  he  was  leaving  the  court. 
*  Keep  out  of  the  gutter !  And  mind,  I  will  give  six  new  marbles  to  the 
boy  with  the  cleanest  face  and  hands  next  Saturday.' 

Such  promises  were  shouted  out  by  the  little  shrill  voices,  that,  almost 
deafened  by  the  outburst,  he  ran  quickly  on  to  join  Dr.  Murray  and  his 
grandmother,  who  were  in  earnest  conversation,  the  former  saying,  as 
Johnny  came  up  with  them,  *  Then  your  grandson  has  no  claim  to  the 
property  until  he  is  of  age  V 

*  None ;  no  minor  can  have ;  and  Johnny  is  the  last  direct  heir — the 
last  Treville.' 

*  Then,  my  boy,  you  can  do  nothing  to  the  wretched  place  f ' 

*Only  play  marbles  with  the  boys,  and  bribe  them  to  wash  their 
faces.' 

'  Thai  will  be  something,  at  least,'  said  the  Doctor  musingly. 

'  Baptized  and  gone,  my  boy  I'  was  Dr.  Murray's  answer  to  the  eagerly 
inquiring  face  which  greeted  his  entrance  on  the  following  Saturday 
morning,  at  Mrs.  Treville's  house. 

He  shook  hands  with  the  old  lady,  and  for  several  minutes  no  word 
was  spoken.  The  Doctor  then  said,  *We  must  think  of  some  plan, 
Treville,  for  putting  those  children  under  instruction.' 

Johnny  sighed. 

^  Disheartened,  my  boy !'  continued  the  Doctor ;  '  think  how  God  has 
blessed  your  first  attempt  I' 

'  But  poor  Jemmie  I'  answered  the  boy. 

'  Will  look  to  you  for  comfort,  and  you  must  not  fail  him.  A  gi*eai 
work  is  opening  upon  you,  and  you  must  not  shrink  from  it.' 


148  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Mrs.  Treville  turned  anxiously  to  catch  her  grandson's  answer,  bul 
none  came ;  for  overpowered  with  the  responsibilities  now  dawning  on 
him,  he  had  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  to  hide  the  tears  he  could  not 
control. 

'  What  plan  do  you  suggest  ?'  asked  Mrs.  Treville,  in  order  to  give 
Johnny  time  to  recover  his  self-possession. 

'  Jemmie's  father,  softened  for  a  time  by  the  death  of  his  child,  agrees 
to  permit  the  use  of  a  room  in  his  cottage  at  a  small  rent,  which  I 
ventured  to  say  Treville  would  take  upon  himself.  To  convert  this 
into  a  school  and  lecture  room  would  be,  I  think,  a  most  desirable 
step.' 

Johnny  looked  up  eagerly,  and  asked  how  it  could  be  supplied. 

'  Treville !'  said  the  Doctor  gravely,  '  these  poor  benighted  ones  could 
be  taught  without  our  aid.  You  are  simply  required  to  do  what  you 
can.' 

'And  that  is  almost  nothing.' 

'  That  I  admit ;  but,  Treville,  lie  who  has  given  you  the  will  to  do, 
will  bless  your  most  paltry  effort.  I  think,'  continued  the  Doctor, 
turning  to  Mrs.  Treville,  '  we  must  try  to  form  a  staff  of  teachers.  Do 
you  think  you  could  enlist  your  maid  in  the  cause,  dear  Madam,  and  get 
her  to  teach  the  girls  to  work  V 

^  Jarvis  could  do  that  well,'  replied  the  old  lady ;  *  and  I  too  should 
like  to  do  anything  I  could.' 

'  Mrs.  Murray  and  Agnes  are  desirous  of  becoming  helpers  also,  and 
others  too,  so  that  we  are  ready  to  commence  operations  at  once,  if  we 
can  only  secure  assent  from  head-quarters;'  and  the  Doctor  bowed 
playfully  to  Treville  as  he  rose  to  go, 

Mrs.  Treville  rose  also.  '  If  you  wish  us  God  speed,  I  think  we  may 
make  any  venture,'  she  said  quietly,  with  one  glance  at  her  grandson, 
hoping  that  he  would  vouchsafe  some  acknowledgement  to  the  Doctor's 
kindness,  but  none  came. 

Johnny  had  once  more  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  nor  did  he  look 
up  again  until  the  Doctor  had  departed,  and  then  he  was  aroused  by  his 
grandmother  saying,  in  the  most  severe  tone  she  could  assume,  'You 
should  have  counted  the  cost  before  you  moved  in  this  matter.  It  would 
even  now  be  better  to  say  that  you  wish  to  retract  than  to  do  anything 
grudgingly,  or  act  ungraciously  to  Dr.  Murray !' 

Johnny  groaned.  Responsibility,  in  a  very  heavy  form,  seemed  sud- 
denly laid  upon  him  ;  and  his  naturally  bright  spirit  was  overpowered. 

{To  be  continued.) 


149 


BYGONES. 

BY  A.  MILUKOFF. 

(translated  FBOM  the  buss   BT  H.   C.   ROMANOFF.) 

CHAPTER  I.  (continued.) 
FIRST  RECOLLECTIONS. 

Our  garden,  laid  out  according  to  my  uncle's  desire,  flourished  beauti- 
fully. At  the  time  I  speak  of,  its  dimensions  seemed  to  me  boundless ; 
its  really  long  alleys  stretched,  to  my  eyes,  to  an  endless  distance ;  and 
when  my  mother  or  nurse  took  roe  to  the  arbour  from  whence  we  could 
see  the  Moskva-river,  and  the  platform  with  the  prints  being  rinsed,  the 
walk  seemed  a  perfect  journey  to  me.  Here  I  generally  played  with 
my  younger  brother,  or  with  'Malia,*  the  daughter  of  our  German 
paitem-carver,  who  lived  in  the  same  wing  as  we  did.  She  was  a  little 
girl  of  my  own  age,  a  rosy  curly-haired  blonde,  always  merry  and 
mischievous.  We  used  to  have  capital  races  with  her,  and  sometimes 
penetrated  into  the  very  depths  of  the  garden. 

Two  little  expeditions  of  ours  remain  in  my  memory  to  this  day, 
probably  from  my  having  heard  about  them  more  than  once  from 
various  members  of  my  family. 

Once  upon  a  time,  in  the  spring,  when  the  lilacs  were  just  beginning 
to  flower,  we  were  playing  together  in  that  same  garden,  chasing  each 
other  down  one  alley  and  up  another,  till  at  last  we  came  to  the  brink 
of  the  lake,  where,  on  the  island  in  the  middle,  surrounded  by  abundant 
shrubs,  rose  the  little  Chinese  pagoda,  with  the  comers  of  its  roof 
turned  upwards.  My  companion  held  in  her  arms  a  large  doll,  and  by 
some  mischance  she  let  it  fall  into  the  water;  and  although  it  did  not 
sink,  somehow  or  other  we  could  not  recover  it.  I  hunted  for  a  stick, 
with  the  intention  of  dragging  the  drowning  doll  to  shore  by  its  means, 
but  I  used  it  so  awkwardly,  that  I  only  pushed  it  further  into  the 
water,  and  it  floated  away  so  far,  that  a  grown  person  could  not  have 
got  it  from  the  bank.  I  looked  inquiringly  at  Malia,  and  perceived  that 
her  dark  blue  eyes  were  fllled  with  tears. 

*  It  will  be  drowned  V  she  whispered. 

I  felt  vexed  and  sorry.  I  looked  around,  and  espied  the  boat,  fastened 
at  the  landing-place  to  an  iron  hook  by  a  rope.  It  was  rather  a  large 
boat,  and  in  it  was  neither  oar  nor  scull,  though  to  be  sure  I  had  not 
the  strength  to  raise  either.  This,  however,  did  not  hinder  me ;  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  save  the  doll.  No  sooner  thought  than  done. 
I  scrambled  into  the  boat,  and  detached  the  loop  from  the  hook.     At 

*  Amalia. 


150  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

first  all  went  well;  bat  suddenly  an  unintentional  movement  of  mine 
gave  an  impulse  to  the  boat,  and  before  I  had  time  to  catch  at  the  long 
grass,  it  moved  from  the  landing-place,  and  under  the  influence  of  the 
push  I  gave  it,  it  floated  farther  and  farther.  At  last,  when  I  found 
myself  some  twenty  feet  from  the  shore,  without  any  hope  of  being 
able  to  regain  it,  I  began  to  cry,  and  at  the  same  time  I  perceived  that 
Malia  was  crying  also  on  the  shore. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  we  may  have  been  in  this  situation,  when 
we  heard  shouts  in  the  garden.  My  tears  immediately  ceased  to  flow, 
and  a  feeling  of  shame  or  dread  made  me  sink  to  the  bottom  of  the 
boat. 

'  Where  is  he  ?*  I  heard  the  voice  of  my  nurse  inquire. 

*  There  !*  answered  the  little  girl. 

She  probably  pointed  to  the  place  where  the  boat  floated ;  and  Nurse, 
not  seeing  me,  naturally  supposed  I  had  fallen  into  the  water,  and 
screamed  accordingly.  And  I  still  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  Ten 
minutes  must  have  passed,  when  I  heard  the  mingled  sound  of  several 
voices,  then  a  heavy  splash,  as  though  somebody  had  thrown  himself 
into  the  water;  and  a  moment  or  two  afterwards  I  felt  that  my  boat 
moved. 

*  Here  he  is !'  said  a  voice  close  to  my  ear. 

It  was  one  of  the  workmen,  who,  on  the  alarm  given  by  my  nurse, 
swam  to  the  boat,  and  then  dragged  it  to  the  shore,  where  I  was 
received  with  warm  kisses  from  my  mother,  and  with  a  severe  scolding 
from  my  father. 

For  a  long  time  after  this  adventure  I  was  not  allowed  to  go  into  the 
garden  at  all,  but  at  last  obtained  permission,  on  condition  that  I  would 
not  approach  the  pond. 

In  the  course  of  the  same  year  I  had  another  adventure  in  the  same 
garden,  and  with  the  same  companion  of  my  play.  I  have  spoken  before 
of  the  labyrinth  which  my  uncle  laid  out,  as  his  brother  expressed 
himself,  '  to  the  destruction  of  his  soul.'  I  had  formed  a  horrible  and 
fantastic  notion  of  this  place ;  and  even  at  a  distance,  its  green  walls 
raised  an  involuntary  feeling  of  dread.  When  we  happened  to  stray 
near  the  labyrinth  with  my  nurse,  she  had  sometimes  led  me  into  its 
first  passages,  but  she  never  attempted  to  penetrate  into  the  interior  of 
that  entanglement  of  paths  and  hedges.  They  told  me  that  it  was 
impossible  to  get  out  of  it  unless  one  knew  certain  mysterious  words 
of  enchantment  in  an  unknown  tongue.  Whether  from  its  situation, 
or  the  mere  existence  of  its  winding  hedge,  a  slight  sound,  like  that 
caused  by  a  sofl  wind,  was  to  be  heard  at  all  times,  and  this  gave  it  a 
tone  of  still  greater  mystery.  My  nurse  was  fond  of  telling  stories,  of 
which  she  knew  a  great  number ;  and  under  their  influence  my  childish 
imagination  filled  the  place  with  wonders.  With  the  idea  of  that 
labyrinth  were  connected  all  the  fantastic  creatures  of  that  world  of 
fltory.    There,  I  imagined,  grew  golden  apples,  which  were  pecked  by 


BYGONES.  15 1 

the  fabulous  Jar-bird — there  live  those  beautiful  Tzarevnas,*  who,  after 
being  turned  into  white  ducks,  fly  to  the  pond  to  bathe  and  swim  there-— 
there,  the  wonderful  cave  of  Aladin,  in  which  grew  fruits  of  precious 
stones. 

Early  in  the  evening,  while  running  about  with  Malia,  we  came  upon 
the  entrance  of  this  mysterious  labyrinth. 

*  Have  you  ever  been  in  the  middle  V  asked  Malia. 

*  No.     Have  you  V 
*No,  never.' 

*  What  do  you  think  there  is  there  ?  In  the  very  middle  there  is  a 
garden  full  of  flowers ;  and  there  is  a  well  there,  in  which  a  golden 
ladle  floats.  Whoever  wants  to  drink,  and  stretches  out  his  hand  for  it, 
it  splashes  him  in  the  face  with  live  water !' 

^That's  not  true,'  said  Malia. 
^My  nurse  told  me  so.' 

*  She  told  you  fables  then.     But  I  know  what  there  is  there.' 
^What?'  I  inquired,  with  intense  curiosity. 

'  New  little  babies.' 

*  Whose  babies  ?' 

^  All  sorts  of  babies,  such  as  you  and  I  were.  Mamma  told  me  so. 
I  asked  her  where  I  came  from,  and  she  said,  "  Out  of  the  labyrinth." 
They  all  lie  in  little  silver  cradles  hung  to  the  flowers,  and  whoever 
wants  one  comes  and  takes  which  he  pleases,  a  boy  or  a  girl.' 

'  I  should  like  to  see  if  that's  true !  Wouldn't  you  ?  Let  us  go  and 
see !' 

^  I  am  frightened.' 

*  Never  mind ;  we  will  go  together.' 

'And  if  we  lose  our  way?  You  know,  we  ought  to  learn  certain 
words  to  get  out. — Do  you  know  them  V 

'No.  I  asked  Nurse  to  tell  me,  but  she  would  not  I'll  tell  you 
what  we  will  do :  we  will  take  a  stick  with  us,  and  mark  the  paths  as 
we  go  along,  then  we  shall  be  sure  to  be  able  to  get  out.' 

Malia  was  of  opinion  that  my  invention  was  equal  to  the  certain 
mysterious  words  in  an  unknown  tongue  that  grown-up  people  made 
use  of.  We  listened  attentively.  All  around  was  perfectly  still,  except 
the  gentle  whispering  of  the  slightly-stirred  leaves,  and  the  chiming  of 
the  clock  in  the  Convent  with  musical  bells. 

From  the  nearest  shrub  I  broke  a  branch,  which  was  to  serve  us  as 
guide  or  clue.  We  passed  the  entrance  arch,  and  found  ourselves  in  a 
corridor  bordered  by  thick-set  hedges;  it  extended  spirally,  forming 
circles,  connecting  itself  with  another  and  yet  another  corridor,  and 
then  with  an  impassable  no-thoroughfare:  we  walked  slowly  on,  and 
I  carefully  marked  the  ground  with  my  stick  as  I  went  along. 

How  long  we  proceeded  thus  I  cannot  say ;  but  all  at  once  I  perceived 
that  there  was  a  double  line  in  the  path,  and  consequently  understood 

♦  Daughters  of  a  Tzar.  (Trans.') 


152  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

that  we  had  got  into  the  same  path  a  second  time.  This  puzzled  us. 
We  hastily  turned  into  the  nearest  corridor,  passed  a  few  more,  and 
again  found  ourselves  in  the  doubly-marked  passage.  This  circumstance 
alarmed  us  seriously. 

'  We've  lost  our  way !'  said  Malia. 

'  Let  us  go  back/  I  replied. 

The  same  silence  reigned  as  before,  broken '^)nly  by  the  bell  of  the 
Convent,  gently  but  clearly  chiming  the  minutes.  After  a  short 
consultation,  we  decided  to  proceed  further  by  the  doubly-marked  path, 
but  soon  we  again  found  ourselves  in  the  same  place  as  before ! 
Further  and  further,  and  still  no  end  to  the  labyrinth.  At  last  we 
came  to  a  four-cross  path,  into  one  of  the  turnings  of  which  we  directed 
our  steps ;  and  after  twisting  and  turning  in  innumerable  paths,  we  all 
at  once  found  ourselves  in  a  small  round  space,  surrounded  by  a  thick 
hedge,  and  with  a  circle  of  blue  sky  over  it.  We  were  in  the  centre  at 
last! 

We  glanced  at  each  other  with  a  feeling  of  fear  that  neither  of  us 
cared  to  conceal,  mingled  with  disappointment.  Before  us  there  was 
no  well  with  a  golden  ladle,  as  my  nurse  had  informed  me — no  babies 
rocked  in  their  silver  cradles,  as  Malia  expected.  It  was  merely  a  plot 
of  ground,  about  the  same  size  as  the  circle  that  our  horse-mill  occupied, 
and  with  several  narrow  passages  leading  from  it.  On  either  side  was 
an  iron  garden-seat,  supported  by  legs  representing  those  of  some 
monstrous  animal,  with  long  toes  and  claws.  In  the  middle  was  a 
small  circular  flower-bed,  surrounding  a  marble  column,  which  was 
ornamented  with  three  iron  snakes  twisting  about  it,  resting  on  their 
hideous  wide-opened  jaws,  and  supporting  on  their  united  tails  a  vase, 
in  which  grew  a  thick  climbing,  or  rather  hanging,  plant. 

All  this  appeared  strange  and  horrible  in  our  eyes,  and  our  only 
thought  now  was  how  to  get  out.  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  hedge, 
but  could  see  nothing  but  the  tops  of  the  green  walls  of  the  labyrinth ; 
and  in  the  distance,  the  roof  of  our  house  on  one  hand,  and  the  crosses 
aod  cupolas  of  the  churches  of  the  Convent  on  the  other.  I  shouted 
with  all  my  might,  but  the  only  effect  of  my  endeavours  was  to 
frighten  a  little  bird  out  of  the  hedge ;  and  again  all  became  tranquil. 
I  jumped  down,  and  the  awful  thought  that  we  never  never  should  get 
out  of  the  labyrinth  made  me  shake  again.  Malia  evidently  thought  as 
I  did.  We  looked  pitifully  at  each  other,  and  burst  into  tears  from  the 
feeling  of  our  utter  helplessness. 

'  Tm  so  frightened !'  said  Malia  through  her  tears. 

'  Let  us  sit  down.     Perhaps  somebody  will  come  for  us,*  said  I. 

'  No !  Oh,  I  am  so  frightened  I  Look  how  that  black  snake  is 
glaring  at  usT 

*  Then  let  us  look  for  the  way  out.' 

*  We  had  better  say  our  prayers  first.' 

We  knelt  down  and  prayed ;  then  rising,  we  took  each  other  by  the 


BYGONBS.  153 

hand,  and  rushed  headlong  through  the  windings  of  the  labyrinth, 
running  as  fast  as  our  legs  would  carrj  us,  and  increasing  our  speed 
at  every  instant,  as  though  we  were  pursued  by  irresistible  destruction. 
The  noise  of  our  own  steps  alarmed  us — we  fancied  the  black  snakes 
were  creeping  after  us.  But  suddenly  it  became  lighter  and  lighter  in 
a  certain  direction ;  we  rushed  impatiently  forward,  and  found  ourselves 
in  the  circular  plot,  the  open-jawed  serpents  still  glaring  at  us,  and  the 
minute  bells  of  the  Convent  chinking  more  clearly  than  ever !  I  could 
hardly  gain  my  breath,  and  Malia  had  quite  lost  hers ;  her  little  hot 
hand  trembled  in  my  cold  one.  A  little  bird  came  flying  towards  us ; 
it  perched  on  the  edge  of  the  marble  vase,  settled  its  wings,  chirruped, 
and  flew  away  from  our  prison ;  we  gazed  at  each  other  in  despair. 

*  What  will  become  of  us  ?  said  the  little  girl. 

*  We  shall  die  here !'  I  whispered. 

She  snatched  her  hand  from  mine.  'It's  all  you  T  she  cried;  'you 
wicked  creature !  it  was  you  who  enticed  me  here !'  and  she  glanced  at 
the  twisted  black  serpents. 

At  this  reproach  I  completely  lost  heart;  I  fell  on  my  face  to  the 
earth,  and  wept  bitterly.  Malia  knelt  down  by  my  side,  and  said  gently, 
Don't  cry  I     It  is  I  that  am  wicked.     I  was  unkind  to  you.' 

Thus  comforted,  I  got  up,  and  we  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the  iron 
seat,  clinging  to  each  other  in  dumb  despair,  and  only  now  and  then 
were  startled  from  our  silence  by  the  quarter  chimes,  which  reminded 
us  how  slowly  the  minutes  of  our  suflerings  passed. 

But  hush !  we  raised  our  heads  briskly.  Somebody  was  shouting  in 
the  distance.  What  can  it  be?  they  are  looking  for  us!  We  strained 
our  ears  to  listen.  Yes,  the  shout  became  distinct  enough,  though 
distant,  and  I  even  fancied  that  I  heard  my  name.  I  jumped  up,  and 
scrambling  on  the  hedge,  cried  with  all  the  force  of  my  childish  lungs, 
'We  are  here  I  we  are  here!  here!'  But  at  that  very  moment  the 
chimes  began  again,  and  completely  drowned  my  little  voice.  It  seemed 
ages  to  us  while  the  different- toned  bells  pealed  forth  their  periodical 
song.  What  if  my  voice  were  not  heard?  they  would  return  home 
without  us  I  thought  I.  But  the  bells  ceased  at  last,  and  I  again 
shouted  with  all  my  might.  And  now  indeed  the  voices  were  distinctly 
audible — nearer  and  nearer.  They  were  calling  me  and  Malia :  we 
came  to  life  again.  Soon  afterwards  my  nurse  entered  the  plot  with 
the  gardener,  and  finally  led  us  out  of  the  enchanted  labyrinth. 

Next  to  the  garden  we  loved  best  to  play  in  the  coach-house,  where 
stood  the  '  Enemy's  Coach.'  This  we  called  the  travelling  carriage  of 
Marshal  Davoust,  which  the  French  left  behind  them  in  our  premises 
when  they  fled  from  Moscow.  I  recollect  every  particular  of  that 
trophy,  which  my  uncle  used  to  shew  off  to  his  guests  with  such  pride, 
that  one  would  think  he  had  won  it  from  the  enemy.  It  was  an 
immense  coach  of  the  old-fashioned  form  called  a  tumbrel,  of  a  dark 
green  colour,  much  faded;   with  high  old-fashioned  springs,  bending 

VOL.   10.  11  PAllT  56. 


154  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

upwards;  and  with  a  sort  of  hut  for  the  driver,  something  like  the 
little  sort  of  guard-houses  that  are  attached  to  post-diligences  for  the 
conductor.  The  steps,  which  were  always  in  a  let-down  state,  appeared  to 
me  to  be  of  an  irontense  height,  and  always  reminded  me  of  Jacob's  ladder. 

In  the  inside  of  this  coach,  between  the  two  seats,  which  were 
covered  with  tattered  and  faded  cushions,  was  a  folding  table,  on  which 
the  Marshal  used  to  write  when  on  the  march.  Beneath  the  seats  were 
various  commodious  boxes,  and  all  round  the  sides  were  pockets  and 
shelves^  where  we  used  to  keep  our  toys.  On  the  table  we  used  to 
make  pies  and  cakes  out  of  yellow  sand,  in  little  wooden  plates  and  cups. 

In  bad  weather,  when  they  would  not  let  us  go  into  the  garden  to 
play,  we  used  to  amuse  ourselves  in  this  coach.  Sometimes  as  many 
as  ten  of  us  would  assemble  there,  when  we  got  up  various  games,  now 
playing  the  part  of  the  French  Marshal,  dining  at  the  table,  of  sand 
pancakes  and  pies ;  now  admiring  the  movements  of  Malia,  figuring  on 
the  said  table  in  a  fancy  dance  that  she  had  learnt  of  her  German 
relations.  Galotchka  often  took  part  in  these  diversions ;  sometimes 
she  made  models  of  tlie  New  Maiden  Monastery  out  of  damp  sand,  and 
in  particular  excelled  in  the  representation  of  her  own  cell;  at  others 
she  would  bring  us  tiny  rag  dolls,  representing  monks  and  nuns,  which 
were  fastened  to  little  round  bits  of  card-board,  with  little  bunches  of 
harsh  strong  bristles  glued  to  the  under  side.  These  she  used  to  place 
on  the  table,  and  by  thumping  it  in  a  peculiar  manner,  she  made  the 
little  figures  spring  and  twist  about,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  spectators 
and  of  the  performer  herself. 

The  end  of  the  Enemy's  Coach  was  a  very  sad  one.  The  coach-house 
in  which  it  stood  was  required  for  another  purpose,  and  the  equipage  of 
Marshal  Davoust  was  sold  at  the  Rag  Fair.*  I  could  hardly  refrain 
from  tears  when  our  dear  old  coach  was  rolled  out  into  the  yard,  and 
when  they  began  to  secure  it  by  means  of  various  ropes  to  a  heavy  cart, 
drawn  by  a  pair  of  lumber-horses.  I  remember  how  the  driver  seated 
himself  lazily  on  the  cart,  waving  his  whip ;  the  horses  began  to  pull, 
and  our  coach  rolled  towards  the  gates,  squeaking  with  its  unoiled 
wheels,  and  mournfully  creaking  and  clanking  with  all  its  rusty  joints 
and  screws.  I  felt  as  though  1  were  parting  with  my  home,  where  I 
had  played  so  merrily  and  lived  so  joyously. 

And  in  very  deed  we  soon  had  to  say  good-bye  to  our  home.  My 
uncle  died,  and  with  his  life  ended  my  father's  appointment  at  the 
counting-house.  Simeon  Afanasievitch  terminated  his  existence  under 
very  remarkable  circumstances.  The  cause  of  his  death  was — a  wedding ! 
My  aunt  had  given  away  a  distant  relation  in  marriage.  In  the  autumn 
the  girl  had  chopped  cabbage  at  our  house,  and  there  she  had  met  with  a 
young  dye-merchant,  and  as  they  worked  together  at  one  tub  they  became 
acquainted,  and  ultimately  took  a  fancy  to  each  other ;  he  made  her  an 

♦  A  market  for  the  sale  and  pnrcha.sc  of  second-hand  goods  of  eyeiy  description,  to 
be  found  in  every  large  town  in  Russia.  (TVaiw.) 


BYGONES.  155 

offer,  and  was  accepted.  My  aunt  gave  the  dowry  for  the  bride,  and  got 
up  a  wedding  on  a  tremendous  scale.  For  two  or  three*weeks  before  the 
carnival,  we  had  nothing  but  festivals  and  diversions ;  and  then,  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  I  saw  all  the  comico-ceremonious  customs  attendant 
on  a  wedding  in  the  merchant-class. 

A  regular  bevy  of  young  girls  assembled  in  the  house,  all  relations  or 
intimate  acquaintances  of  my  aunt's.  During  the  day-time  they  used  to 
sit  round  a  large  table,  heaped  with  linen  and  other  materials,  and  cut 
out  and  sewed  under-clothing,  gowns,  and  other  necessaries  for  the  bride's 
toilette.  But  as  soon  as  it  became  dusk,  singing  and  other  amusements 
were  substituted  for  the  needle-work.  They  ran  to  slide  down  the  ice- 
hill,  dragged  each  other  about  in  little  sledges  in  the  yard,  or  played 
at  blind- man's  buff,  or  the  ring,  in  the  great  saloon.  Although  the 
bridegroom  was  personally  acquainted  with  the  bride,  a  man'iage-broker* 
made  her  appearance  in  the  house,  (why,  I  cannot  make  out,)  a  little  fat 
woman  with  a  wide  red  face,  with  a  silk  handkerchief  on  her  head,  the 
ends  of  whicli  stuck  up  like  horns.  She  played  the  part  of  a  she-clown 
in  the  comedy,  and  was  eternally  inventing  some  stupid  nonsense  or 
other;  the  girls  made  great  fun  of  her,  and  got  up  every  description  of 
trick  and  practical  joke  to  serve  their  ends. 

Almost  every  evening  the  bridegroom  used  to  come.  He  wore  very 
high  shiny  boots,  which  creaked  so  loudly  that  we  were  always  aware  of 
his  arrival  at  the  distance  of  two  or  three  rooms ;  and  at  ten  paces  off  we 
could  smell  his  pomatum  and  perfumes.  As  soon  as  ever  he  entered,  the 
girls  used  to  sing  him  songs  of  exaltation,f  and  my  aunt  placed  him 
beside  the  bride  on  the  sofa,  where"  they  sat  and  held  their  tongues  the 
whole  evening*  Tea  and  sweetmeats  were  handed.  When  beer  or 
home-made  wine  were  presented,  the  bridegroom  used  scarcely  to  touch 
the  glass  with  his  lips,  putting  it  immediately  on  the  tray  again. 

*He  is  sure  to  turn  out  a  drunkard !'  said  my  nurse  in  reference  to  this. 

*  Why  do  you  think  so?'  I  asked. 

*  It  is  always  the  way !  If  a  bridegroom  does  not  wet  his  moustache 
with  wine,  he  is  sure  to  drink  too  much  when  he  is  a  husband.' 

At  the  end  of  the  evening,  after  a  ceremoniously  cold  parting  between 
the  bride  and  bridegroom,  the  latter  used  to  go  up  to  the  table  where  tlie 
girls  sat,  and  lay  before  them  a  half-imper-alj  or  a  ten  rouble  note,§ 

*  Generally  an  elderly  woman,  whose  profession  it  is  to  make  matches.  She  is 
employed  by  the  gentleman  to  ascertain  what  dowry  the  girl  he  fancies  is  likely  to  have, 
and  to  make  all  necessary  arrangements,  the  offer  included.  By  the  girl's  friends, 
occasionally,  to  find  out  a  man  who  wants  a  wife.  Unknown  among  the  nobles. 
(Trans.) 

t  A  difficnlt  term  to  translate.  It  means  reaUy,  songs  in  which  a  bridegroom,  or 
bride,  or  any  person  figuring  in  the  marriage  festivities,  is  named  by  name  and 
patronymic;  for  instance,  Lord  Ivan  Maximoviteh,  Lndy  An  astasia  Nilovna,  King- 
Father  Nil  Petrovitch,  &c.  The  names  are  introduced,  regardless  of  metre,  into 
songs  suitable  to  the  occa.sion.  {Trans.) 

t  Value  about  15s.  §  Value  about  .€1  10s. 


156  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

when  the  singers  would  smile  at  him,  and  instantly  begin  a  refrain  for 

the  occasion. 

'  Return,  Sir ! 
Come  back,  Sir ! 
Make  presents  to  us  girls  I 
Part  with  another  gold  piece  I' 

Occasionallj  he  answered  to  this  call  by  giving  them  another  coin,  on 
which  they  always  accompanied  him  home  to  his  residence  with  a  merry 
song,  expressive  of  gratitude,  good  wishes,  and  personal  compliments. 

But  the  grandest  time  was  the  farewell  maiden  party ;  and  what  did 
they  not  do,  those  girl?!  There  were  a  great  number  of  guests,  and  Uie 
large  saloon  was  lighted  up  with  unusual  lustre.  The  waiters  handed 
wine  and  refreshments  without  giving  the  paiHakers  either  'rest  or 
interval,'  while  all  the  time  one  amusement  followed  another.  The 
workmen  of  the  manufactory  were  brought  in,  and  they  seated  themselves 
in  two  rows  on  the  floor,  after  the  manner  of  the  rowers  of  a  boat, 
and  sang  in  chorus,  'Down  our  mother  the  Vol-ga,'  accompanied  by 
pantomime.  The  marriage-broker  danced  the  Russian  national  dance 
with  a  merchant  as  short  and  as  fat  as  herself,  and  the  girls  sang  songs 
of  exaltation  to  the  betrothed,  and  to  all  the  guests,  naming  each  by 
name  and  patronymic.  The  grander  of  the  guests,  when  they  took  a 
glass  of  wine,  observed  that  it  was  not  nice — that  it  was  bitter — and* 
begged  the  bridegroom  to  sweeten  it,  that  is,  to  kiss  the  bride. 

'  How  bitter  it  is  V  said  one  merchant,  an  important  personage,  touching 
the  glass  with  his  lips ;  '  have  the  goodness  to  sweeten  it  with  ten  kisses !' 
And  the  betrothed  rose  from  their  seats  and  stiffly  exchanged  the  ten 
kisses ;  after  which  the  merchant  made  them  a  low  bow  and  drank  off  the 
wine.  Sometimes  he  would  sip  a  little,  and  making  a  face  of  pretended 
disgust,  would  turn  to  them  again. 

'  Still  it  is  not  sweet  enough  to  my  taste.  Be  so  kind  as  to  add 
half-a-dozen.     Rather  warmer  ones,  please.' 

And  again  the  bridegroom  would  imprint  on  the  bride's  cheeks 
(alternately)  the  stipulated  number  of  kisses  in  the  same  apathetic 
manner.  I  do  not  suppose  that  that  couple  exchanged  as  many  kisses 
during  the  whole  of  their  married  life,  as  they  did  that  evening. 

When  the  bridegroom  went  home,  the  girls  accompanied  him  to  the 
gates,  and  sang  him  the  last  song;  my  aunt  was  in  such  spirits  that 
evening,  that  when  his  sledge  was  brought  up,  she  ordered  a  bottle  of 
champagne  to  be  poured  down  the  throats  of  each  of  the  horses,  little 
thinking  what  might  be  the  fate  of  the  bridegroom,  with  tipsy  horses  and 
a  tipsy  coachman  to  boot.  However,  it  turned  out  that  they  all  got 
home  safe  and  sound. 

It  was  after  this  wedding  that  the  disaster  befell  our  house,  of  which  I 
spoke  before,  and  which  completely  altered  my  father's  circumstances. 
The  fact  was,  that  three  days  after  the  marriage,  a  grand  dinner  was 
given  to  all  the  relatives  and  near  acquaintances,  at  the  house  of  the 


BTGONES.  157 

newly- wedded  pair ;  and  it  happened  that  a  pasty,  made  of  the  livers  of 
eel-pouts,  was  served  at  that  dinner.  That  it  was  that  altered  our 
fortunes !  The  father  of  the  hridegroom  partook  too  freely  of  it,  and 
died  in  consequence.  At  the  funeral  festival,  celebrated  in  remembrance 
of  Ibis  victim,  a  similar  pasty  was  prepared,  maybe  by  chance,  maybe 
from  a  wish  on  the  part  of  the  relatives  to  bring  to  mind  the  taste  of  the 
deceased  in  the  most  effectual  manner.  But  however  tliat  may  have 
been,  the  pasty  of  eel-pouts'  liver  appeared  for  the  second  time  among  the 
same  party  of  relatives  and  acquaintances,  and  marked  another  victim  as 
its  own.  Simeon  Afanasievitch,  firmly  persuaded  of  the  fine  condition 
of  his  organs  of  digestion,  which  he  described  as  *  varnished  and  tinned,' 
so  heartily  commemorated  the  deceased  by  profuse  partakings  of  the  fatal 
p^ty,  that  he  in  his  turn  slept  with  his  fathers.  The  same  evening  he 
began  to  complain  of  inconvenience,  and  notwithstanding  his  dislike  of 
medicine,  sent  for  the  doctor,  but  on  the  following  day  he  was  carried 
from  his  bed  to  the  table.* 

The  funeral  was  a  magnificent  affair,  with  a  canopy,  a  numerous  choir, 
a  bishop)  and  a  perfect  regiment  of  torch-bearers,  with  tears,  sobs,  and  a 
luxurious  luncheon,  at  which,  however,  the  death-dealing  pasty  was  not 
to  be  seen,  though  it  formed,  I  was  told,  tbe  principal  subject  of  con- 
versation among  the  guests. 

On  the  demise  of  my  uncle,  everything  changed  for  us.  The  widow, 
to  whom  the  deceased  lefl  the  whole  of  his  property,  stopped  the  works 
and  eventually  sold  them.     My  father  began  to  look  out  for  employment, 

and  at  last  found  a  situation  with  K ,  a  merchant,  and  manufacturer 

of  gold  and  silver  cloth.  We  lefl  the  New  Maiden  Field,  and  removed 
to  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Soukhareff'  tower. 

I  deeply  regretted  leaving  the  house,  but  especially  the  garden,  although 
it  was  early  spring,  and  the  trees  still  stood  leafless.  I  was  soiTy  too  to 
part  with  Malia ;  we  were  very  fond  of  each  other,  and  we  so  seldom 
quarrelled  at  our  play,  and  so  often  enjoyed  ourselves  together,  that  in 
saying  good-bye  to  her,  I  seemed  to  bid  farewell  to  all  play  and  fun. 
The  day  before  we  left  I  went  with  my  mother  to  the  Convent,  where 
she  had  several  acquaintances  among  the  nuns.  I  too  said  good-bye  to 
Galotchka,  who  took  me  to  her  cell,  crammed  me  with  sweetmeats, 
calling  me  her  betrothed,  and  smothering  me  with  kisses ;  she  gave  me 
as  a  keep-sake  a  little  cross,  which  long  remained  in  my  mother's  care. 

Fifteen  years  afterwards  I  came  from  St.  Petersburg  to  Moscow,  and 
had  to  go  to  the  New  Maiden  Field  on  business.  I  thought  I  should  like 
to  look  at  the  house  where  the  first  ye^s  of  my  childhood  passed,  and  an 
opportunity  presented  itself  for  me  to  gain  admittance  in  order  to  examine 
the  garden  with  which  were  connected  so  many  reminiscences.  The 
works  and  the  dwelling-house  were  much  altered  by  the  new  owner,  but 
the  garden  remained  the  same,  though  it  had  become  much  more  shady 
and  overgrown.     But  it  appeared  to  me  infinitely  smaller  than  it  did  to 

♦  Russians  are  laid  out  on  a  table,  where  they  remain,  in  their  coffin  or  not,  till  burial. 


158  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

my  childish  imagination.  How  miserable  did  that  vast  lake  now  appear! 
how  short  and  narrow  the  alleys !  how  snaall  and  mean  the  flower-beds 
and  plots !  The  labyrinth  was  completely  removed,  but  to  judge  from 
the  space  it  occupied,  it  must  really  have  been  large.  Altogether  this 
walk  in  the  old  garden  much  affected  me.  Although  student  life  and 
bead-work  over  books  had  tended  to  crush  my  former  dreams  and 
thoughts,  and  although,  under  the  influence  of  the  literature  of  the  day, 
I  was  an  intense  worshipper  of '  the  West,'  and  looked  down  with  pitiful 
condescension  on  Moscow,  yet  the  recollection  of  childhood  awakened  in 
my  heart  a  feeling  painfully  sweet,  and  I  was  ready  to  shed  tears.  But  I 
hastened  to  cool  down  such  gusts  with  reflecting  on  the  absurdity  of  such 
childishness,  and  mercilessly  laughed  to  scorn  my  uninvited  sentimentality. 

(7b  be  continued.) 


THE  HEKMIT'S  PILLAR. 

BV  MART  BRAM8TOK,  AUTHOR  OF  '  ERICK  THORBURN/ 

At  the  end  of  the  sixth  century,  Europe  presented  perhaps  a  drearier 
picture  than  at  any  other  time  in  the  history  of  Christianity.  As  in  the 
dreary  days  of  December,  when  the  rain  lies  in  pools  on  the  ground, 
and  the  golden  leaves  of  November  are  rotting  into  leaf-mould,  we  find 
it  difficult  to  remember  that  this  is  a  necessary  clement  in  the  life  of 
nature,  and  that  below  this  gloom  and  corruption  the  sap  of  a  new  spring 
is  rising — so  it  must  have  been  to  the  thoughtful  men  of  that  age.  For 
the  old  Roman  rule  and  order  had  perished,  and  the  savage  lawlessness  of 
the  Teuton^ tribes  bad  not  yet  been  brought  under  that  self-rule  which 
alone  can  make  an  intelligent  member  of  a  state,  not  a  helpless  prey  to 
his  own  passions. 

In  the  old  Roman  towns,  however,  something  of  the  ancient  civilization 
still  remained.  Those  which  had  strong  natural  position,  such  as 
Coblentz  on  the  Rhine,  still  retained  their  old  walls,  their  old  heathen 
temples  turned  into  churches,  and  something  of  their  old  laws,  admin- 
istered, however,  no  longer  by  Roman  magistrates  but  by  Christian 
priests  and  bishops.  Into  their  hands  the  power  had  fallen,  not  b^icause 
they  had  eagerly  seized  it,  but  simply  because  at  that  time  they  were  the 
fittest,  strongest,  and  wisest  men  existing. 

Abbot  Ebbo  of  Coblentz,  at  least,  found  his  task  no  sinecure.  Every 
morning,  after  hearing  Matins  in  the  chapel  of  his  monastery  on  the  side 
of  the  hill,  whence  could  be  seen  the  broad  waters  of  the  Rhine,  and  the 
swiftly  rushing  Moselle  joining  it — the  highway  of  the  nations,  not  for 
})eaceful  purposes  of  commerce,  but  for  war-ships  of  the  contending 
tribes  round  about — he  went  down  to  the  town  hall,  and  sat  there  all  the 
forenoon  to  hear  causes,  and  to  judge  like  some  oriental  chief:  and  no 


THE  hermit's  pillar.  159 

oiire  thought  of  rebelling  against  his  authority,  for  they  knew  he  was  a 
good  and  just  man,  and  that  they  would  not  be  likely  to  better  themselves 
by  any  change.  Neither  did  he  neglect  his  spiritual  functions  either,  for 
in  the  afternoon  he  would  visit  his  schools,  superintended  by  monks  of 
his  monastery,  where  the  boys  of  Coblentz  were  taught  a  certain  degree 
of  reading  off  a  black  board,  the  chanting  of  the  Gregorian  tones,  and 
the  recitation  of  a  small  amount  of  Scripture  history,  mingled  with  a 
great  deal  of  the  legends  of  the  saints,  in  inculcating  which  the  rod  was 
freely  used;  and  then,  accompanied  by  one  or  more  monks,  he  would 
sally  forth  and  visit  his  parishioners  who  were  sick,  or  otherwise  needed 
him,  returning  to  the  evening  meal  at  the  refectory,  and  sp^iding  the 
few  hours  after  Evensong  in  study,  or  in  genial  converse  with  his  monks. 

Such  men,  hard-working,  brave,  and  honest,  were  not  uncommon 
among  the  clergy  of  those  days.  Ignorant  they  might  be,  mistaken 
doubtless  they  often  were ;  yet  but  for  true  and  conscientious  work  like 
theirs,  Europe  might  now  be  in  the  same  state  as  it  was  then. 

It  was  a  summer  evening :  Abbot  Ebbo  sat  at  the  gate  of  his 
monastery,  enjoying  the  cool  breeze  which  blew  softly  off  the  opaline 
river,  and  the  still  bhie  sky  which  faded  into  green,  and  thence  into  gold, 
before  it  went  down  behind  the  purple  hills  which  border  the  Moselle. 
A  manuscript  of  St.  Augustine  lay  open  on  his  knee ;  but  he  was  resting 
rather  than  studying,  as  ho  well  might  do,  considering  his  hard  day's 
work  in  the  hot  sun.  As  he  sat,  a  young  man  in  a  monk's  dress  came 
up  to  him,  and  waited  to  be  bidden  to  speak. 

'  Thou  wouldest  speak  to  me,  Wulflaich  V  said  Ebbo  kindly.  *  Sit 
down,  my  son,  and  let  me  hear.' 

The  young  man  was  somewhat  remarkable  both  in  aspect  and  coun- 
tenance. He  was  tall,  thin,  and  pale ;  his  eyes  were  light  blue,  and  had 
a. far-away  dreamy  look;  his  lips  were  thin,  and  almost  always  pai*ted; 
and  the  hair  that  bordered  his  freckled  face  wiis  of  a  bright  red,  almost 
scarlet,  the  only  i)ositive  piece  of  colour  about  him. 

'  My  Father,'  said  Wulflaich,  finding  that  Ebbo  waited  for  him  to 
speak,  '  the  two  years  of  my  probation  are  over  to-morrow.' 

'  So  soon  r  said  Ebbo  kindly.  '  VVhy,  my^son,  it  appears  to  me  but 
the  other  day  that  thou  earnest  with  brother  Alboin's  commendatory 
letter  from  Lombardy.  Two  years.  AVclI,  thou  hiist  well  acquired  our 
tongue ;  no  man  hearing  thee  would  say,  '*  That  man  is  a  foreigner." ' 

*I  have  laboured  much  thereto,  my  Father,  that  I  might  the  better 
fulfil  the  purpose  for  which  the  Lord  cidled  me  hither,'  said  Wulflaich. 

Ebbo  turned  upon  him  his  keen  eyes.    '  And  thy  purpose  stands,  my  son.' 

^  My  purpose  cannot  but  stand,'  said  Wulfiaich.  *•  It  will  not  die  until 
I  do.  How  could  it  ?  Was  it  not  the  Lord's  call  that  I  heard,  far  away 
among  the  olive  groves  of  Ravenna,  saying  unto  me,  ^'  My  son,  go  into 
the  land  of  the  north,  and  preach  the  Gospel  unto  the  miserable  nations 
that  know  Me  not"?  And  I  said,  ^^  Lord,  who  am  I  that  I  should  go?" 
and  the  answer  came,  "  How  did  Noah's  dove  differ  from  the  rest  of  the 


160  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

birds  in  the  Ark?  yet  was  she  chosen  to  bear  the  first  token  of  the 
subsiding  of  the  waters.*'  And  when  I  looked  down,  behold,  in  my  hand 
was  an  olive  leaf  plucked  off,  whereby  I  knew  that  the  Lord  had  called 
me  unto  this  work.' 

A  certain  struggle  took  place  in  Ebbo's  mind.  His  common  sense 
revolted  at  the  wildness  of  Wulflaich's  story,  while  yet  his  conscience 
reproached  him  for  not  having  sufficient  faith  to  believe  it. 

*  Therefore,  my  Father/  Wulflaich  went  on,  '  I  pray  that  it  may  seem 
good  unto  thee  to  ordain  me  to  the  holy  office  of  a  deacon ;  for,  unworthy 
as  I  am,  such  is  my  great  desire.' 

^  And  in  which  direction  thinkest  thou  to  go,  my  son  V  said  Ebbo. 

'  Up  the  valley  of  the  Moselle.  There  are  hundreds  and  thousands 
who  have  never  heard  the  name  of  Christ,  and  who  worship  an  accursed 
Boman  idol.     So  saith  Brother  Wilrad,  who  hath  traversed  those  parts.' 

'And  thou  hast  counted  the  cost?'  said  Ebbo  gravely,  laying  his  hand 
on  that  of  the  young  monk.  ^  They  who  go  as  apostles  to  the  heathen, 
must  not  dread  toil,  weariness,  pain,  or  death.' 

A  gleam  lighted  up  Wulflaich's  face.  '  My  Father,  I  dread  them  not ! 
Should  God  call  me  to  be  worthy  of  the  honour  of  martyrdom,  He  will 
then  sustain  me.  But  that  glory,  I  fear,  is  too  great  for  me.  Let  come 
what  pleases  Him ;  it  is  His  will  alone  that  I  seek.' 

Then  Ebbo  smiled  a  smile  of  approving  pleasure :  but  a  little  sadness 
mingled  with  the  smile,  as,  with  the  true  humility  of  a  good  man,  he  con- 
trasted his  own  less  highly  pitched  feelings  with  those  of  this  young  monk. 

*My  son,'  he  said,  'I  will  grant  thy  desire.  Well  are  known  to  me 
thy  piety  and  thy  zeal.  Go  forth  upon  thy  mission  with  joy,  and  the 
Lord  be  with  thee.' 

A  week  later,  Wulflaich  the  deacon  set  off  for  the  scene  of  his  new 
life,  carrying  in  his  hand  a  staff,  and  in  his  wallet  a  loaf  of  rye  bread, 
an  iron  drinking  cup,  and  a  missal  of  which  he  was  able  to  make  out  the 
meaning  of  the  more  familiar  passages  without  much  difficulty.  But  a 
journey  in  those  days  was  little  like  a  journey  now.  Even  the  journeys 
of  such  men  as  Livingstone  or  Eyre  give  us  little  idea  of  it,  for  there 
was  no  prestige  attaching  tp  the  face  and  speech  of  the  traveller,  as  being 
of  different  race  from  the  rest.  And  though  then,  as  now,  some  men  by 
the  mere  force  of  their  presence  were  able  to  impress  others,  such  was 
not  the  case  with  the  strange-looking  visionary  Wulflaich. 

For  the  first  few  miles,  Wulflaich  came  upon  scattered  villages,  served 
by  monks  from  the  monastery  whence  he  himself  came;  then  all  traces 
of  human  habitation  grew  more  and  more  scarce,  and  at  last  ceased 
altogether.  The  forest  grew  thicker  and  more  tangled,  as  it  reached 
away  up  the  rounded  hills ;  the  afternoon  grew  gloomy  and  grey ;  the 
bark  of  the  wolf,  or  the  grunt  of  the  wild  boar,  came  to  his  ears ;  and 
in  his  path,  more  than  once,  he  saw  what  had  once  been  a  human 
skeleton,  now  hardly  to  be  detected  as  such.  A  less  imaginative  man 
than  Wulflaich  might  well  have   been   awed  by  the  loneliness ;    and 


THE  hermit's  pillar*  161 

Wulflaich,  brave  aa  he  was,  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  the  demoniac 
enchantments  which  he  believed  to  haunt  such  places :  but  he  had  an 
infallible  charm  against  such.  He  lifted  up  his  voice  and  chanted  a 
Latin  Psalm  which  he  knew  by  heart.  His  voice  was  a  loud  sweet 
tenor,  and  the  silent  forest  arches  re-echoed  it,  and  the  birds  began  to 
chirp  at  the  sound  of  the  strange  new  music. 

Then  the  evening  came.  Wulflaich  filled  his  iron  cup  with  water  from 
the  river,  ate  a  piece  of  his  rye  loaf,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  under  a  tree, 
coDunitting  his  soul  to  God.  It  was  a  clear  moonlight  night ;  and  the 
moon  was  high  in  the  heaven  when  he  awoke  suddenly,  and  saw  a  dark 
figure  bending  over  him.  Ite  eyes  were  black  and  fierce,  its  face  was 
hairy,  its  shoulders  and  breast  were  bare ;  it  looked  like  an  animal  in 
human  form.  Wulfiaich  had  no  doubt  what  it  was.  ^  Avaunt,  SatanaT 
he  cried  with  a  stentorian  voice ;  and  the  creature  fied.  Wulfiaich,  whose 
nerves  were  not  easily  affected,  quietly  turned  to  sleep  again,  making  the 
sign  of  the  cross,  and  sajdng,  '  No  wonder  that  the  devil  seeks  to  slay  me, 
and  to  hinder  my  work  among  his  servants.  Is  it  not  a  proof  that  my 
labour  among  these  people  will  not  be  in  vain  ?' 

Wulfiaich  had,  indeed,  escaped  a  great  danger,  though  not  of  the  kind 
he  thought.  The  creature  which  he  had  seen  was  a  wild  man  of  the 
woods — the  actual  prototype  of  the  Orson  of  our  nursery  tales — a  brutal 
maniac  who  had  found  his  way  into  the  forest,  and  who  managed  to 
support  life  there  much  in  the  same  manner  as  the  beasts  among  whom 
he  dwelt.  Had  it  not  been  for  Wulflaich's  sudden  shout,  which  had 
frightened  him  away,  the  creature  would  probably  have  strangled  him 
with  his  powerful  hands,  and  might  have  proceeded  to  feed  upon  his 
body,  like  the  beasts  whom  he  resembled. 

The  next  day  he  continued  his  journey,  and  he  observed  other  portents 
on  his  way.  The  demons  still  followed  in  his  wake,  and  made  strange 
croaking  and  barking  noises,  which  a  naturalist,  or  even  a  forester,  could 
have  attributed  to  their  right  causes — frogs  and  water-birds.  And  late  one 
evening  he  saw  three  mermaidens  playing  in  the  water,  and  as  he  made 
the  sign  of  the  cross  and  bade  them  avaunt,  they  vanished  in  the  long 
reeds ;  and  he  knew  that  they,  toa,  were  devices  of  the  Evil  One  to  delay 
his  journey.  But  at  length  he  came  to  a  place  where  he  beheld  that 
sight  of  which  he  had  heard  Brother  Wilrad  speak.  For  on  a  green 
platform  of  grass,  carefully  mown  and  tended,  he  saw  a  white  marble 
statue  standing  out,  pure  and  lucent,  against  a  background  of  dark  green 
oak  boughs.  A  draped  female  figure,  with  a  clear  still  face,  larger  than 
life,  stood  upon  a  granite  pedestal ;  and  upon  her  head  was  a  crescent  moon, 
upon  the  horns  of  which  her  most  recent  votaries  had  hung  wreaths  of 
fiowers,  in  a  manner  more  suggestive  of  their  devotion  than  of  their  taste. 

Wulfiaich  had  seen  such  things  before  in  the  Lombard  churches,  where 
they  had  been  quietly  converted  from  heathen  to  Christian  use,  and 
remained  until  the  Iconoclastic  fury  had  set  in ;  and  thus  his  first  feeling 
was  not  unmixed  horror  at  the  sight.     Weary  with  his  journey,  he  eat 


162  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

down  to  look  at  the  imager  wondering  whether  she  represented  an  idol  or 
the  Blessed  Virgin. 

Soon  a  woman  came  hj  with  her  child,  and  Wulflaich  asked  her  whose 
the  statue  was  ? 

'The  Goddess  Horsel,'  was  the  answer;  and jWulflaich  was  further 
told  that  in  the  next  week  there  would  he  a  great  festival  in  the 
goddess's  honour.  '  Ay,  stranger,  you  will  see  something  then  ! — Come 
away,  Mahault.' 

The  history  of  that  statue  was  an  example  of  the  confusion  of  ideas 
jind  races  which  prevailed  at  this  time  in  France  and  on  the  Rhineland. 
This  statue  of  Diana  had  first  been  placed  in  this  secluded  place  by  a 
Roman  gentleman  of  eccentric  tastes,  who  had  there  had  a  villa ;  he  had 
had  an  idea  of  restoring  the  primitive  worship  of  the  Roman  gods,  and 
had  taught  the  villagers  to  pay  it  homage.  When  the  Romans  were  no 
longer  the  ruling  element  in  Gaul,  and  the  aged  votary  of  Diana  had 
long  been  dead,  the  statue  still  remained,  a  treasure  to  the  simple 
villagers,  to  whom  it  became  the  single  representative  of  the  unseen 
worid,  and  degenerated  into  a  mere  idol  possessed  of  magical  powers. 
Then  came  the  irruption  of  the  Franks  over  the  Rhineland  into  France ; 
and  as  they  gradually  overspread  the  country  and  settled  down,  softening 
their  German  accents  into  the  Latin  speech  of  their  Celtic  slaves,  some 
of  them  reached  this  little  village,  where  they  continued  the  worship  of 
the  Roman  goddess,  only  changing  her  name  for  that  of  their  own 
Horsel,  the  moon- queen. 

Wulflaich  was  again  left  alone  with  the  silent  white  statue  facing  him  ; 
but  now  he  knew  it  was  no  saint,  but  a  horrible  idol.  He  walked  up  to 
it,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  as  a  protection  against  heathen  charms, 
and  examined  it  carefully.  It  was  a  beautiful  statue,  even  now,  though 
it  bore  the  signs  of  age.  It  seemed  to  have  been  kept  in  good  repair, 
though  the  sharpness  of  its  outlines  was  less  clear  than  they  had  once 
been;  here  and  there  a  fragment  had  been  chipped  off,  but  it  had 
evidently  been  carefully  tended,  and  cleaned  from  the  moss  and  damp 
which  would  otherwise  have  accumulated  there.  Wulflaich  turned  his 
back  to  the  idol  and*fell  on  his  knees.   * 

*  I  vow,'  he  said,  stretching  forth  his  hands  to  heaven,  *  to  destroy  this 
abominable  idolatry  which  they  who  know  not  Thee,  O  Lord,  offer  to 
this  accursed  piece  of  stone.  And  if  this  I  may  not  do,  then  let  me  yield 
up  my  life  a  testimony  to  Thee,  that  by  my  death,  at  least,  1  may  witness 
against  it.' 

Then  Wulflaich  sat  deeply  lost  in  thought,  pondering  on  the  right  way 
to  do  that  which  he  wished  to  begin.  As  usual  with  a  monk  of  his 
time,  the  legends  of  the  saints  were  more  familiar  to  him  than  the  Acts 
of  the  Apostles,  and  he  began  to  think  what  course  would  have  been 
taken  by  those  whom  he  wished  to  imitate.  Suddenly  the  story  of  St. 
Simeon  Stylites,  the  pillar-saint  of  Antioch,  came  into  his  mind,  and  how 
thousands  had  been  converted  to  Christianity  by  hearing  the  preaching 


THE  hermit's  pillar.  163 

and  seeing  the  austerities  of  the  hermit.  Suddenly  into  Wulflaich's 
mind  came  the  thought,  '  Wherefore  should  I  not  do  likewise  ?'  and 
with  a  light  in  his  eye,  he  proceeded  to  the  neighbouring  village  to  ask  for 
an  axe  wherewith  he  might  erect  himself  a  wooden  pillar  for  his  purpose. 

Some  four  months  later,  a  party  of  travellers  arrived  at  Coblentz,  and 
were  immediately  conducted  to  the  monastery  as  the  obvious  resting- 
place  for  such.  An  inn  conducted  on  modern  principles  would  hardly 
have  paid  the  innkeeper  in  the  sixth  century. 

Stray  travellers  were  the  newspapers  of  that  time,  and,  as  the  custom 
was,  all  the  chief  men  of  Coblentz  found  some  excuse  that  evening  for 
coming  into  the  refectory  of  the  monastery,  where  sat  good  Abbot  Ebbo, 
obeying  the  command  of  St.  Paul  to  his  order  by  shewing  hospitality 
without  grudging.  He  was  now  listening,  and  the  strangers  were 
speaking — telling  of  the  incidents  of  a  journey  through  that  Oster-reich, 
or  eastern  kingdom,  which  the  Franks  had  not  yet  learnt  to  call 
Austrasie — the  land  which  afterwards  came  to  be  known  as  Burgundy, 
Lorraine,  and  Champagne. 

*  Then,  holy  Father,'  pursued  the  traveller,  *  we  having  thus  erred  from 
our  way,  feared  greatly  to  be  lost  in  the  forest  by  night,  for  therein,  as 
all  men  know,  are  fearful  demons  and  all  manner  of  evil  enchantments. 
But  in  the  evening  we  perceived  a  village,  wherein  to  we  entered,  when, 
to  our  amazement,  none  were  to  be  seen  in  the  streets  but  small  infants 
and  aged  persons ;  and  on  our  asking  why,  they  said  that  the  rest  had 
gone  to  hear  the  •  pillar-man  preach.  We  therefore,  wondering  what 
they  might  mean,  went  in  the  direction  whither  they  pointed  us,  and 
there  we  beheld,  on  a  tall  wooden  pillar,  a  man  in  monk's  garments, 
preaching  to  the  assembled  multitude  beneath.  We  listened,  and  heard 
that  he  was  exhorting  them  to  leave  their  accursed  idolatry,  and  to  be 
baptized ;  and  turning  to  a  white  stone  idol  in  the  likeness  of  a  woman 
nigh  at  hand,  he  defied  it,  insulted  it,  and  spat  at  it ;  and  then  jeered 
at  it,  in  that  it  did  not  answer  nor  reply.  And  we  learnt  from  the  people 
that  from  morning  till  night  he  stood  upon  the  pillar,  partaking  only  of 
a  little  bread,  oil,  and  water ;  that  his  name  was  Wulflaich.' 

'  Wulflaich!'  said  Ebbo,  looking  at  his  monks. 

'  Ay,  holy  Father :  a  man  pale  and  freckled,  long  and  lean,  with 
wild  eyes  and  red  hair.  The  people  held  that  he  was  somewhat  more 
than  mortal ;  for  no  mortal  man,  said  they,  could  bear  so  little  sustenance.' 

'And  what  fruit  had  his  labours  had?'  said  Ebbo,  much  interested. 

*  We  know  not,  my  Father.  Some  seemed  to  listen  to  him  with 
veneration,  others  with  mockery.  But  at  least  he  had  round  him  a 
crowd  of  folk,  some  of  whom  might  have  been  listening  in  faith.* 

The  rest  of  the  travellers'  tales  were  less  interesting  to  Ebbo :  and  late 
that  evening  he  paced  the  court-yard  of  the  monastery,  deep  in  thought. 
Presently  he  saw  an  aged  brother  creeping  towards  the  chapel  for  his 
midnight  devotions,  and  called  him  to  him  for  counsel. 


164  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'My  mind  misgives  me,  Brother/  he  said,  'coneerning  our  son 
Wulflaich.  For  though  far  be  it  from  me  to  undervalue  the  deeds  of  the 
blessed  saints,  such  as  St.  Simeon  of  Antioch,  who,  as  we  know,  spent 
his  life  upon  just  such  a  pillar  as  Wulflaich  has  built  for  himself;  yet  it 
seemeth  to  roe  that  not  by  outdoing  other  men  in  strange  feats  of 
endurance  which  excite  the  marvel  and  curiositv  of  the  vulgar,  but 
rather  by  shewing  forth  the  virtues  of  a  godly,  temperate,  and  Christian 
life,  the  Kingdom  of  God  is  to  be  spread.     What  sayest  thou  V 

^  So  also  think  I,'  said  the  old  monk.  '  The  marvel  of  Wulflaich's 
austerities  may  effect  somewhat  for  the  time ;  but  when  they  have  killed 
him — as  in  this  land  of  the  north  they  surely  will,  ere  long — the  effects 
of  his  teaching  will  vanish  like  the  dew  beneath  a  July  sun.' 

*  I  am  therefore  minded,'  said  Ebbo  quietly,  '  to  go  and  to  reason  with 
him,  that  he  may  leave  his  pillar,  and  work  more  manfully,  if  less  con- 
spicuously, at  building  up  the  people  among  whom  he  labours  into  the 
Christian  Church ;  that  when  his  work  is  tried  by  fire,  it  may  not  be 
found  wood,  hay,  or  stubble.' 

'Thou,  my  Father?'  said  the  monk,  looking  astonished;  'thou  to 
brave  the  perils  of  the  journey,  which  must  be  at  least  thirty  leagues 
hence,  through  the  enchanted  forest  all  the  way !  Coblentz,  my  Father, 
needs  thee  more  than  that  mad  young  Wulflaich,  with  his  visions  and  his 
talk  of  heavenly  voices,  and  doves,  and  olive  branches.  What  should 
we  do  wert  thou  taken  from  us  f ' 

'  Brother  Aldmar,'  said  Ebbo,  smiling,  '  it  is  not  the  part  of  a  man  of 
God  to  seek  to  terrify  his  brother  from  walking  in  that  path  to  which 
the  Lord  calls  him,  and  my  life  is  not  so  invaluable  as  thou  wouldst  have 
it.  Surely,  it  would  not  be  the  part  of  a  Christian  man  should  I  shrink 
from  seeking  my  son,  Wulflaich,  and  giving  to  him  that  advice  which 
may  chasten  his  youthful  z^pl,  and  temper  it  with  that  wisdom  wliich 
may  make  his  work  lasting,  like  an  oak  of  the  forest,  rather  than  fleeting, 
like  a  Jonah's  gourd.' 

Ebbo's  determination  was  not  to  be  shaken ;  but  the  consternation 
which  prevailed  in  Coblentz  when  it  was  known  that  he  was  actually 
going  a  journey  of  thirty  leagues  into  the  forest,  was  as  great  as  it  would 
be  in  England  were  it  known  that  the  most  important  statesman  of  the 
^  day  was  going  on  a  journey  of  exploration  in  central  Africa.  Indeed, 
for  the  last  fifteen  years  he  had  never  been  a  distance  of  above  ten  miles 
from  Coblentz.  His  time  was  fully  taken  up  there,  and  the  rest  of  his 
diocese  was  occupied  by  shifting  and  unsettled  tribes  of  Franks  and 
Saxons,  incessantly  at  war  with  each  other,  and  fighting  and  devastating 
all  the  land,  so  that  any  peaceful  settlement  was  absolutely  impossible. 
And  thus,  indeed,  it  remained  until  the  next  century,  when  the  Irish 
missionaries  began  the  work  which  the  English  Boniface  and  his  com- 
panions finished. 

At  first  Ebbo  had  intended  to  go  on  his  journey  alone,  not  choosing 
to  risk  the  safety  of  any  other  man  with  his  own ;  but  the  brethren  of 


THE  hermit's  PILLAB.  165 

the  monasteiy  would  not  hear  of  this,  and  he  eventaally  set  forth 
accompanied  by  two  brethren,  Witmar  and  Ingram,  armed  with  strong 
axes  to  hew  their  way  through  the  forest,  or  to  defend  themselves  against 
Ituman  foes;  the  spiritual,  it  was  believed,  would  be  effectually  scared 
by  a  relic  of  St.  Martin's  tooth,  which  each  wore  in  a  little  amalet-case 
suspended  round  his  neck,  to  be  returned  to  the  chapel-shrine  should 
they  safely  return. 

However,  the  three  ecclesiastics  met  with  few  adventures :  they  were 
less  imaginative  than  Wulflaich,  and  Ebbo,  at  least,  had  been  a  hunts- 
man and  warrior  in  his  youth,  before  that  had  occurred  which  had 
changed  his  life,  and  made  him  into  a  monk  and  a  priest.  What  that 
was  he  never  spoke  of:  but  some  whispered  of  a  tender  and  gentle 
maiden  whom  he  had  loved,  who  had  been  borne  away  in  some  Saxon 
raid  to  be  the  slave  and  plaything  of  her  heathen  conquerors :  how  he 
had  raised  a  band,  and  had  come  to  rescue  her,  and  had  found  that  she 
had  never  reached  lier  destination  alive — having  died  on  the  journey 
from  grief  and  terror.  Thougli  a  long  life  Imd  passed  between  that  time 
and  this,  Ebbo's  keen  genial  face  still  shewed  the  lines  of  pain  on  it 
when  young,  and  perhaps  his  kindliness,  tenderness,  and  sympathy— 
rather  unusual  qualities  in  the  monks  of  those  days,  might  be  traced  to 
the  fact  that  he  himself  had  loved  and  suffered. 

He  heard  his  companions*  remarks  upon  the  strange  sights  and  sounds 
of  the  forest  with  a  humourous  smile,  now  and  then  gently  dispelling 
some  cherished  illusion.  For  they  too  heard  the  frogs  croak,  and  the 
water- fowl  cry ;  and  they  too  saw  the  mer maidens  bathing  in  the  river 
vanish  at  their  approach  (for  it  was  a  warm  sunny  October);  but  Ebbo 
told  them  that  they  were  no  mermaidens,  but  village  girls,  enjoying  the 
water  in  this  solitary  place.  And  the  real  danger  that  had  come  so  near 
to  Wulflaich,  the  wild  man  of  the  woods,  left  them  unmolested.  So, 
after  travelling  day  after  day  through  the  forest,  at  length  they  reached 
the  spot  where  Wulflaich  lived,  or  rather  existed,  upon  his  wooden  pillar. 
The  first  sight  of  the  place  was  striking.  A  mass  of  perhaps  a 
thousand  people — men,  women,  and  children,  were  standing  at  the  foot 
of  the  wooden  pillar,  whence  Wulflaich  was  addressing  them.  They 
heard  his  voice  rise  and  fall  on  the  wind,  they  saw  the  wild  energy  with 
which  he  gesticulated,  and  Ebbo  said,  '  Let  us  abide  here,  my  bretliren : 
let  us  not  disturb  our  friend's  work.  We  will  watch  here,  and  see  what 
takes  place.' 

So  they  sat  down,  somewhat  screened  from  Wulflaich's  sight  by  a  low 
thicket,  while  yet  they  could  hear  his  words.  Ebbo  looked  keenly  at  the 
thin  expressive  face,  with  its  hectic  pallor,  and  its  intensity  of  earnest- 
ness, and  marked  how  it  seemed  to  dominate  and  influence  the  listening 
crowds  beneath.  Wulflaich  had  at  least  the  gift  of  popular  oratory,  just 
such  as  was  wanted  for  these  wild  heathen  Franks  who  heard  him: 
though,  if  reproduced  in  this  our  day,  it  would  be  more  likely  to  raise  a 
smile^  so  quaint  and  grotesque  was  it. 


166  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET* 

*  Why  then,  O  men  of  Frankenland !'  he  concluded,  *  do  you  delay  that 
which  80  long  I  have  urged  upon  you!  Why  do  you  not  get  your 
instruments,  and  at  once  destroy  the  image  of  that  accursed  Horsel,  that 
she  may  destroy  no  new  souls  from  among  you  ?  Away  with  her,  pull 
her  down,  chop  her  into  small  pieces,  into  dust — cast  her  into  yonder 
river,  that  she  may  never  be  seen  again  by  mortal  man.  No  more 
acceptable  sacrifice  can  God  behold.     Destroy  her — now  !* 

V  '  Ropes  r  shouted  out  one  of  the  audience,  catching  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  speaker;  and  there  was  a  surging  movement  of  the  crowd,  which 
resulted  in  a  sudden  rush  towards  the  marble  image  which  still  faced 
them,  serene  in  its  lifeless  beauty.  Then  ropes  were  thrown  round  her, 
and  by  the  united  strength  of  a  hundred  men,  she  was  pulled  from  her 
pedestal,  and  fell  upon  the  ground,  shivering  into  a  thousand  pieces  as 
she  fell.  There  was  a  sudden  stillness  at  the  sound  of  the  crash  :  then 
at  once  came  a  groan  of  horror  and  a  yell  of  triumph.  Wulfiafch's  task 
was  not  done  by  the  simultaneous  assent  of  his  hearers. 

Then  the  crowd  separated  slowly,  talking  of  the  wonderful  deed  of  the 
afternoon :  but  Wulflaich  did  not  seem  to  hear  them.  He  knelt  on  his 
pillar  in  prayer;  when  suddenly  he  reeled,  sank  sideways,  and  barely 
saved  himself  from  falling  altogether.  In  an  instant  Ebbo  was  up  the 
ladder,  and  by  his  side,  raising  him,  fur  he  had  swooned  away. 

*  Wulflaich,  my  son,'  he  said  tenderly,  pouring  a  little  of  the  water 
which  was  in  the  iron  cup  upon  the  young  raonk*s  brow. 

Wulflaich  opened  his  eyes.  '  Tempt  me  not,'  he  said  feebly ;  *  I  have 
withstood  thee  often.  Wherefore  now  comest  thou  to  me  in  this  guise? 
Away,  tempter,  away ! ' 

*  Wulflaich,'  said  his  friend,  *  I  am  thy  father,  Ebbo  the  Abbot,  I  am 
no  tempter. — Witmar,  fetch  that  flask  of  Rhine  wine  which  I  bade  them 
put  into  the  wallet.  Quick — here  !'  and  he  tried  to  force  it  down 
Wulflaich's  throat;  but  he  shut  his  mouth  resolutely  as  soon  as  the  first 
drop  touched  his  palate. 

'  Winel'  he  said,  *no,  holy  Father.  I  must  subdue  my  flesh,  I  have 
sworn  thereto.  Wine  is  not  for  me ;'  and  he  seemed  upon  the  point  of 
sinking  back  into  the  swoon  ;  but  Ebbo  said  resolutely,  'Wulflaich,  as  thy 
Abbot  and  thy  spiritual  superior,  I  command  ihee  to  drink  this  wine.' 

*  For  thy  stomach's  sake  and  thine  often  infirmities  as  said  the  holy 
Paul,'  said  Witmar,  as  he  forced  a  few  drops  down  the  young  hermit's 
throat. 

*  Who  art  thou  that  wouldest  call  me  back  into  a  world  where  my 
work  is  done  ?'  said  Wulflaich,  in  a  hollow  sepulchral  tone,  sinking  back. 
'  The  idol  is  destroyed,  the  joys  of  Heaven  are  in  my  grasp.  Away, 
Brother !  leave  me  to  die.' 

And  he  looked  upwards  with  a  rapt  expression,  as  if  he  already  beheld 
the  golden  gates  opening.  Ebbo  watched  him  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence,  with  a  wistful  gravity  in  which  admiration  was  blended  with 
doubt.      Good  Abbot  Ebbo,  amidst  his  active   laborious   life,  always 


THE  hermit's  pillar.  167 

regarded  with  humble  veneration  those  whose  religion  possessed  a  more 
contemplative  character ;  yet  his  native  good  sense  forbade  him  to 
believe  Wulflaich*s  words,  that,  because  the  idol  was  destroyed,  therefore 
his  work  was  done. 

Then  Ebbo  began  to  try  to  persuade  the  hermit  to  come  down  from 
his  pillar,  and  to  seek  the  needful  food  and  rest  which  his  bodily  state 
required.  But  WulHaich  was  obstinate.  Perhaps  his  solitary  life,  apart 
from  wholesome  human  companionship,  and  with  all  his  ideas  bent  upon 
one  fixed  end,  had  somewhat  disturbed  the  balance  of  his  brain ;  and  all 
his  answer  to  Ebbo's  persuasions  was  the  reiteration  that  the  pillar  was 
his  allotted  place,  and  that  he  would  be  committing  a  deadly  sin  were 
he  to  descend  from  it.  Ebbo,  therefore,  considering  that  Wulflaich  was 
in  no  state  to  be  left  alone  upon  the  pillar,  gave  up  his  night's  rest,  and 
watched  beside  him  while  he  slept.  At  first  his  sleep  was  disturbed  and 
uneasy:  but  towards  morning  he  grew  quiet,  and  Ebbo  had  leisure  to 
consider  what  steps  would  be  best  to  take  with  regard  to  him. 

He  would  have  liked  to  look  up  to  and  admire  his  former  pupil 
TVulflaich  as  a  saint,  for  Ebbo*s  mind  was  of  that  noble  order  to  which 
detraction  is  not  a  pleasure,  but  a  pain.  But  yet  he  hardly  knew :  for 
though  Wulflaich  had,  by  his  preaching,  and  by  the  sight  of  his  austerities, 
persuaded  a  portion  of  his  hearers  to  break  their  idol  in  pieces,  Ebbo 
'  knew  well  that  such  a  work  was  but  the  beginning,  and  by  no  means  the 
end,  as  the  young  hermit  seemed  to  consider  it.  How,  he  questioned, 
could  Wulflaich,  the  self-condemned  solitary,  even  see  wlmt  were  the 
needs  of  these  people  among  whom  he  laboured?  how  could  he  judge  of 
their  tempers,  their  characters,  their  temptations,  tlieir  sorrow,  or  their 
joy  ?  Surely  his  work,  though  less  striking,  would  be  more  effeotive  .if 
he  were  to  leave  his  pillar  and  labour  like  other  men  in  a  similar  and 
more  commonplace  way. 

When  the  morning  broke,  and  Wulflaich  awoke  refreshed  by  sleep  and 
Ebbo's  enforced  stimulants,  the  latter  took  the  opportunity  of  gently 
reasoning  with  him,  and  pointing  out  to  him  these  arguments.  But 
Wulflaich  was  not  easily  accessible  to  argument.  A  latter  age  would 
have  said  that  his  long  solitude  and  austerities  had  somewhat  crazed  his 
brain;  but  Ebbo's  monks,  who  heard  the  dialogue,  only  sighed,  and 
listened  with  reverent  wonder  to  the  wild  rhapsodies  with  which  he 
answered  the  Abbot's  gentle  good  sense. 

At  first  he  seemed  to  think  that  Ebbo's  counsel  to  him  to  come  down 
from  his  pillar  was  equivalent  to  desiring  him  to  renounce  his  mission ; 
and  he  turned  upon  him  and  rebuked  him  sternly,  calling  him  Asmodeus 
the  evil  spirit,  who  wished  to  undo  the  holy  work  of  God. 

*  Wulflaich,  my  son,'  said  Ebbo,  *  thou  knowest  not  what  thou  sayest ; 
I  call  God,  whom  I  serve  as  well  as  thou,  to  witness  that  in  this  matter 
I  desire  only  His  glory  and  naught  beside.  Prove  to  me  that  thy  work 
is  better  performed  by  starving  thyself  on  a  pillar  than  by  mingling  with 
thy  fellow-men,  and  I  have  done.' 


168  TH£  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'  Unbeliever  r  shouted  Wulflaich;  (courtesy,  generally  speaking,  was 
not  a  monastic  virtue  in  those  rough  times ;)  *  who  should  convince  thee 
if  not  yesterday's  scene?  Four  months  the  accursed  Horsel  has  stood 
yonder,  and  glared  at  me  and  bewitched  me  almost  into  falling  down  and 
worshipping  her  marble  likeness,  until  only  through  prayer  and  mortifi* 
cation  of  the  flesh  have  I  withstood  her ;  to-day  she  lies  broken  in 
fragments,  cast  out  to  the  moles  and  to  the  bats.  Who,  if  not  I,  should 
now  say,  "Lord,  now  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace"?  For 
I  am  ready  to  depart,  and  my  strength  is  failing  me  day  by  day.  Should 
I  then  renounce  my  post  for  the  short  life  that  still  remains  to  me?' 

Witmar  and  Ingram  looked  at  one  another. 

*  The  holy  man  is  indeed  ripe  for  the  Heavenly  City,'  said  Ingram. 

*  I  marvel  that  Ebbo  doth  not  fall  upon  his  knees,  this  moment,  to 
confess  his  sin,'  whispered  Witmar,  '  after  so  sharp  a  rebuke.' 

There  was,  indeed,  a  moment's  silence  ;  then  Ebbo's  voice  again  raised 
its  grave  mellow  tones. 

*  My'Brother,'  he  said,  'in  the  name  of  the  Lord  I  say  unto  thee — If 
by  leaving  thy  pillar,  and  mingling  with  thy  brethren,  thou  canst  do 
better  work  for  Him,  by  that  same  token  is  the  same  tliy  duty,  and  thy 
Master  needeth  thee  yet  on  earth.  Doubtless  thou  hast  done  much  on 
thy  pillar,  in  leading  these  people  thus  with  their  own  hands  to  break 
in  pieces  their  idol ;  but  canst  thou,  there  abiding,  teach  them  to  order 
their  lives  by  the  Gospel,  as  much  as  if  thou  wert  dwelling  among  them? 
For  three  weeks  will  I  abide  here,  and  judge  by  what  I  see:  at  the  end 
of  the  time  both  I  and  thy  brethren  will  deliver  thee  our  judgement ;  and 
after  that,  if  thy  mind  be  so  fixed,  we  will  urge  thee  no  more.' 

Ebbo,  who  added  to  his  ecclesiastical  learning  that  which,  in  these 
days,  was  its  indispensable  auxiliary — a  slight  knowledge  of  medicine- 
soon  satisfied  himself  that  Wulflaich's  state  of  health  was  in  no  respect 
dangerous,  but  that  he  was  merely  suffering  from  weakness  brought  on 
by  long  austerities,  which  sufficient  rest  and  food  for  a  short  time  would 
quite  cure.  He  and  his  monks  employed  themselves  in  building  a 
temporary  hut  wherein  to  sojourn,  just  on  the  edge  of  the  beech -wood, 
and  not  far  from  Wulflaich's  pillar;  and  then  they  set  to  work  to 
explore  the  country,  and  to  see  how  much  effect  Wulflaich's  preaching 
had  had. 

The  result  greatly  justified  Ebbo's  words.  The  sight  and  preaching 
of  the  hermit  had  made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  people  around ;  but 
the  impression,  it  seemed,  was  principally  that  he  was  a  great  magician, 
who  could  do  without  food  or  sleep,  and  that  it  would  be  dangerous  to 
cross  his  will.  However,  from  this  very  impression,  it  happened  that 
Ebbo  and  his  monks  were  received  with  great  respect,  and  allowed  many 
opportunities  of  declaring  their  message,  which,  in  Ebbo's  mouth,  as 
may  be  imagined,  took  a  kindlier  and  more  practical  shape  than  in 
Wulflaich's. 

Every  evening  Ebbo  returned   to  WulHaich,  and   told   him  of  his 


THE  hermit's  pillar.  169 

labours  daring  the  day ;  and  though  Wulflaich  said  nothing,  a  saddened 
look  came  over  his  face,  and  he  answered  less  confidently  than  before, 
when  Ebbo  alluded  to  his  pillar.  His  influence  over  the  two  monks, 
who  had  at  first  been  so  mucli  struck  by  his  wondrous  sanctity,  certainly 
declined  under  the  influence  of  Ebbo's  common  sense.  The  hermit 
might  have  succeeded  in  clearing  the  ground  for  future  work  by 
his  pillar-life ;  but  a  recital  of  one  of  Ebbo's  days  compared  with  his, 
shewed  how  much  more  could  be  done  among  men  than  apart  from 
them. 

At  length  on  the  last  day  of  the  three  weeks,  Ebbo  came  up  hurriedly 
to  Wulflaich.  *  Brother,'  he  said,  *  would'st  thou  prevent  a  deadly  sin, 
leave  thy  scruples  and  descend  from  thy  pillar.  One  half  the  village  is 
at  feud  with  the  other,  and  all  the  fighting  men  are  whetting  their  swords : 
tills  evening  they  are  to  fight  it  out.' 

Wulflaich  demurred  for  a  moment. 

'Come!'  said  Ebbo  impatiently,  'it  is  ill  for  thee  to  ape  the  holy 
ISmeon  of  Antioch,  in  this  northern  climate  too,  where  thou  wilt  come 
by  thy  death  ere  another  month  is  out,  and  to  forget  the  Master  Christ, 
who  said,  ^*  Blessed  are  the  peace-makers."     Descend,  my  son.' 

And,  wrought  upon  by  a  stronger  will  than  his  own,  Wulflaich 
descended  the  ladder,  and  walked  away  with  Ebbo ;  Witmar  and  Ingram 
were  about  to  follow,  when  suddenly  the  former  stopped  and  called  his 
companion  to  him. 

'  Brother  Ingram,'  he  said,  *  a  thought  has  struck  me.  Would  it  not 
be  a  good  deed  were  we  to  do  that  which  should  restore  our  holy  Father 
Ebbo  and  ourselves  to  the  city  Coblentz,  which  hath  so  much  need  of  us ; 
and  also  sever  the  tie  which  binds  the  holy  hermit  to  his  pillar,  as  with 
an  iron  chain,  while  his  presence  is  so  much  needed  elsewhere,  to  fulfil 
that  which  Father  Ebbo  hath  begun?' 

*  How  so,  my  Brother  f ' 

Witmar  brandished  the  axe,  with  which  he  had  come  provided  from 
Coblentz,  and  winked  towards  the  wooden  pillar:  for,  monk  though  he 
was,  he  had  a  vein  of  humour,  as  many  of  the  other  monks  knew  to  their 
cost,  from  experience  of  his  practical  jokes. 

Ingram,  who  had  had  enough  of  forest  life,  readily  assented,  and  the 
two  monks  employed  themselves  for  the  next  hour  in  catting  down  the 
wooden  structure,  and  removing  the  logs  of  which  it  was  made,  so  that 
no  trace  of  it  should  remain. 

After  which  they  followed  in  the  direction  in  which  Ebbo  and 
Wulflaich  had  gone,  until  they  came  in  sight  of  all  the  village  folk 
assembled,  and  Wulflaich  mounted  on  a  bench  preaching  to  them  with 
his  wild  forcible  eloquence,  which  won  its  way  to  their  hearts  sooner 
than  the  quieter  and  more  measured  speech  of  good  Abbot  Ebbo.  It 
was  a  striking  scene,  though  none  of  those  who  then  beheld  it  had  the 
power  of  looking  at  it  in  a  sufficiently  dispassionate  way  to  consider  it  as 
such.    The  evening  sunshine  shed  a  golden  light  upon  a  hundred  eager 

VOL.   10.  12  PART  56. 


1 70  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

upturned  faces — many  savage,  some  brutal,  but  none  merely  animal  or 
stolid.  Among  them  were  stately  matrons,  and  comely  maidens  with 
long  uncovered  hair,  and  eager  young  boyish  faees,  all  enthralled  by 
the  strange  eloquence,  magical  in  its  effect,  which  fell  from  the  Irps  of 
that  wild  and  coarsely-clad  shaven-crowned  enthusiast.  When  ho 
paused,  as  be  did  now  and  then,  after  asking  them  some  searching 
questions,  there  was  such  perfect  stillness  in  the  crowd,  that  you  might 
hear  the  rustle  of  the  faded  leaf  as  it  fell  from  the  autumn  bough. 

*  Men  of  Frankenland!'  he  said,  'the  Lord,  whose  servant  I  am,  and 
whom  ye  owned  but  the  other  day  in  destroying  the  noisome  idol  in 
whom  ye  heretofore  believed,  says  to  you  by  my  mouth,  Fight  not.  I 
have  told  you  before  how  He  died  for  you,  and  how,  as  He  loved  you,  ye 
should  love  one  another.  By  the  glory  of  the  country  whence  He 
watches  you' — and  Wulfiaich  pointed  to  the  western  sky,  arrayed  in 
all  the  splendour  of  an  October  sunset — *  brighter  than  the  sun,  richer 
than  gold,  keener  than  the  sword  of  the  warrior — which  He  will  also 
give  to  you  if  ye  obey  him — I  say  to  you,  throw  away  your  weapons. 
Thou,  I  say,'  (he  pointed  to  one  among  his  hearers,  and  spoke  in  a  deep 
terrible  voice,  so  that  the  man  quaked  before  him,)  '  would'st  thou  suffer 
the  pains  of  burning  fire,  make  one  thrust  with  that  sword  to-night. 
Would'st  thou  reign  as  a  king  in  that  golden  Heaven-Kingdom,  cast  thy 
weapon  away.'  And  the  man,  so  addressed,  obeying  the  imperious 
gesture,  drew  his  sword  from  his  belt  and  threw  it  on  the  ground.  *  O 
happy  man,'  went  on  Wulfiaich,  '  who  hath  chosen  the  good  part !  Who 
will  not  follow  so  worthy  an  example,  and  share  the  reward  which  awaits 
him  !  Away,  away  with  the  armour  of  darkness,  and  put  oa  the  armour 
of  light!' 

Then  there  came  a  clash  of  steel,  as  others  among  the  audience  canghft 
the  infection,  and  threw  their  weapons  down  in  a  heap  at  Wulflaich's 
feet ;  and  one  old  warrior  threw  his  down  angrily,  with  a  cry,  *  I  yield 
Fireflash  to  Wulflaich's  God,  hot  for  fear  of  Conrad  the  One-eyed!* 
Then  came  a  tumult  of  confused  cries  and  weeping:  and  Wulflaich's 
colour  changed,  as,  the  excitement  over,  his  weakness  began  to  make 
itself  felt.  He  descended  from  his  bench  and  sat  down ;  and  there 
seemed  to  be  a  reactionary  movement  among  the  crowd,  when  suddenly 
Ebbo  mounted  the  bench,  and  said,  in  his  clear  voice, 

'  Men  of  Frankenland,  Ulrich  the  Whitebeard  is  the  oldest  and  wisest 
among  you :  is  it  not  so?  Let  him  take  your  swords  and  keep  them  until 
this  matter  is  settled ;  and  for  the  rest,  choose  you  on  each  side  three 
men  who  shall  consult  together  and  decide  who  is  in  the  right,  and  who 
in  the  wrong;  and  how  much  restitution  the  injurers  shall  give  to  the 
injured.     What  say  yet' 

*  It  is  good,'  was  the  answer ;  the  wild  lust  of  fighting  had  passed  from 
them  for  the  present  under  the  influence  of  Wulflaich's  words. 

So,  with  the  thrill  of  strong  triumph  in  his  veins,  Ebbo  saw  the 
assembly  disperse  peaceably,  having  chosen  their  arbiters :  and  himself 


THE  hermit's  pillar.  I7l 

led  Wulflaich  back  to  his  abode,  though  more  tlian  once  the  hermit  wad 
near  swooning  on  the  way.  Bat,  to  the  astonishment  of  both,  when 
they  reached  the  spot — though  Ebbo's  hut  was  perfectly  safe,  no  pillar 
was  to  be  seen !  Wulflaich  gave  one  piteous  cry,  *  For  my  sins  hath  it 
been  removed!  Who  was  I  that  I  should  seek  to  be  like  the  holy 
Simeon  ?'  and  fell  back  in  Ebbo's  arms,  fainting.  When  he  recovered 
from  his  swoon,  it  was  to  fall  on  his  knees  in  agonies  of  penitence ;  being 
under  the  delusion — so  great  had  grown  the  confusion  of  small  and  great 
things  in  his  mind — that  his  pillar  had  been  removed  from  its  place  by 
angelic  visitation. 

But  Ebbo,  who  had  seen  a  tell-tale  look  of  consciousness  on  the  faces 
of  Witmar  and  Ingram,  was  inclined  to  attribute  the  event  to  other 
agency  than  that  of  angels,  and  going  outside  the  hut,  he  charged  them 
with  the  deed.  He  was  just  beginning  to  blame  them  severely  for  their 
practical  jokes,  when  suddenly  the  comical  side  of  the  matter  struck  him, 
and  the  good  Abbot  burst  out  laughing.  Witmar  and  Ingram  escaped 
with  a  reprimand,  and  Ebbo  went  into  the  hut  to  console  the  poor 
hermit,  and  to  tell  him  that  his  pillar  had  been  removed,  by  no  miraculous 
intervention,  but  by  the  two  monks. 

But  the  last  stroke  had  completely  broken  Wulflaich's  proud  and  self- 
sufficient  resistance  to  Ebbo's  counsel;  and  for  the  next  fortnight  he 
was  content  to  lie  in  the  hut,  and  to  be  nursed,  with  almost  womanly 
tenderness,  by  the  kindly  Abbot.  From  that  sickness  he  arose  a  saner 
and  a  wiser  man :  gentler  and  more  humble ;  shorn  of  his  overweening 
pride  and  fanaticism,  and  content,  henceforward,  to  accept  the  good 
things  which  God  provided  for  him,  knowing  that  his  Father  in  Heaven 
knew  that  he  had  need  of  all  these  things. 

He  parted  from  Ebbo  in  a  far  different  mood  from  that  in  which  he 
had  met  him.  He  accompanied  the  Bishop  several  miles  into  the  forest, 
to  set  him  on  his  way,  craving  his  advice,  meanwhile,  as  to  various 
matters  in  dealing  with  the  people  under  his  care.  Ebbo's  parting 
words,  gravely  said,  were,  *  Farewell,  Wulflaich,  my  son.  Thou  hast  the 
ear  of  this  people,  and  I  well  believe  their  heart ;  take  heed  that  God 
hath  their  souls.'  And  Wulflaich  read  in  these  words  a  gentle  rebuke 
for  the  unconscious  self-seeking  which  had  almost  led  him  on  to  blind 
fanaticism, 

Ebbo  and  Wulflnich  never  met  again.  The  one  lived  to  a  ripe  old  age 
in  his  Coblentz  monastery,  guiding  the  townspeople,  administering  law 
and  order,  and  keeping  up  a  small  oasis  of  government  and  liberty  among 
those  wild  races  who  knew  little  law  but  that  of  brute  force.  The  other 
laboured  to  middle  life  among  his  adopted  people,  converting  individuals 
if  not  nations,  and  keeping  up  in  their  minds  a  high  and  noble  ideal  of 
earnest  and  helpful  Christian  life,  to  bear  good  fruit  in  the  course  of  a 
hundred  years  or  so,  in  the  national  conversions  under  Boniface  and  hia 
disciples.  The  wood,  hay,  and  stubble,  of  their  work — the  ignorance, 
fanaticism,  and  misconception,  which  marred  it — vanished  in  time,  and 


172  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

were  as  though  they  had  not  heen ;  hut  the  pure  gold,  the  fervour, 
love,  and  unselfishness,  which  actuated  them — endures  yet,  though 
invisible  to  us,  and  overlaid  by  other  more  easily  recognized  material ; 
for  it  was  built  into  the  ever-rising  walls  of  the  City  of  God. 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL. 

XIV. 

NORTH  TIROL— WORGL  TO  VIENNA.    L 


WORGL,  THE  'post,  TORRENTS,  WATER-FALLS,  WAY-SIDE  SANCTUARY— 
6RATTENBERGL — ROMAN  REMAINS — ITTERS,  ALTAR-PIECE — THE  CASTEL- 
LANS OF  SCHLOSS  ITTER,  SCHLOSS  HOGAU  AND  FORT  ENGELSBUR6, 
LEGEND  OF  THE  POOR  MAN's  CRUST,  ELSBOTHEN. 

BRIXENTHAL — HOPFGARTEN — THE  ACHE  —  HOF,  THE  ZEHENTENVIERE  — 
BRIXEN,  FRESCOES  AND  CARVINGS  IN  PARISH  CHITRCH — THE  HOHE 
SALVE,  ITS  ASCENT,  EHRENTRAUD  AND  HER  SON  JOHN-BAPTIST,  THE 
SALYENKIRCHLEIN,  ANOTHER  ROBBER-PENITENT,  CONTEST  BETWEEN  THE 
OIAIH'S   OF  THE   HOHE   SAI.VE  AND  THE  MARBACHJOCH — WESTERNDOBP 

^WRANGLE  OF  RACKING  AND  STEINHARING,  VISION  OF  THE  UNBELIEVING 

BRIXNER  PEASANT — EIRCHBERG 'OUR  DEAR  LADY  OF  KIRCHANGER,'  ITS 

ALTAR-PIECE — FLORA  OF  THE  BRIXENTHAL,  VILLAGE  BOTANISTS — THE 
ANTLA8RITT,  ITS  CONTEMNERS,  PATRIOTIC  ORIGIN,  'CAVALIERS  A  TROIS 
visages' — THE  MANHARTERS — THE  MICHELSRTETERS — KITZBUHL  TO  S. 
JOHANN. 

START  AGAIN  FROM  WORGL — THE  SOLLETHAL — STAMPFANGER — SCHEFFA, 
ECCE-HOMO-BILD  OF  BERNSTADT,  THE  STEINERNE  STIEGE — ^ELMAU — THE 
KAISER-GEBIRG ^THE  KAISERSTRASSE. 

S.  JOHANN,  ITS  SITUATION,  PARISH  CHURCH,  ANTONIUSKAPELLE,  INVASION 
OP  1809,  VALOUR  OF  ITS  LANDESSCHUTZEN  ;  REPRISALS  OF  THE  BAVA- 
RIANS ;  DEAN  WIESHOFER's  SELF-SACRIFICE,  ITS  EFFECT  ON  GENERAL 
WREDE — WETTAU,  SPITALKIRCHE,  PAINTED  GLASS. 

'  People  who  live  in  the  neighbourhood  of  mountaina  and  lakes,  rocks  and  rains, 
mighty  trees  and  beautiful  plants,  learn  to  invest  them  with  individual  personality, 
which  makes  them  consider  their  nearness,  companionship,  and  attribute  their 
phenomena  to  actual  volition.    Hence  arise  many  local  traditions.' — Grimm. 

One  day  while  still  IingeriDg  at  Innsbruck,  the  post  brought  a  tempting 
reminder  of  a  long-talked-of  plan  for  visiting  Hungary  with  some  friends 
already  at  Vienna.  This  plan  carried  me  back  through  a  most  interesting 
tract  of  Tirol,  which  I  had  missed  exploring  hitherto ;  taking  the  rail 


TBADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  173 

back  to  Worgl,  and  doing  the  rest  of  the  journey  in  the  less  commodious 
but  far  more  interesting  style,  afforded  by  the  carriages  of  the  countiy. 

The  railway  station  at  Worgl,  like  that  of  Schwatz,  shuns  to  invade 
the  old  town.  JTe  slept  at  the  'Post,'  which  displays  the  *KK' 
(imperial-royal)  Arms  over  the  door,  because  Ferdinand  II.  slept  there 
one  night  in  1622.  There  are  two  torrents  which  fall  into  the  Inn  here, 
one  running  through  the  midst  of  the  town,  and  one  a  little  way  north  of 
it ;  they  add  much  to  its  picturesqueness,  but  often  commit  great  havoc 
with  an  overflow.  In  the  LahnthaJ,  about  half  way  between  Worgl  and 
Kundl,  are  three  water-falls  amid  most  picturesque  scenery,  to  which  a 
little  way-side  sanctuary  lends  a  consecrating  charm.  There  is  another 
such  chapel  of  more  pretentious  design  a  little  way  out  of  Worgl  on  the 
so-called  Grattenbergl,  which  occupies  the  site  of  the  Roman  fortress 
Maxiacum,  when  it  stood  on  guard  over  several  ways  which  meet  there, 
and  now  serves  to  recall  a  thought  of  heaven  to  all  who  pass  along  them 
for  their  various  destinations.  Roman  remains  are  constantly  being  dis- 
covered all  round  it.  There  are  several  stories  about  here  of  a  flourishing 
Roman  town  in  the  neighbourhood,  the  entire  population  of  which  was 
swept  away  by  the  plague.  When  Christians  afterwards  came  to  colonize 
the  neighbourhood,  they  avoided  building  on  the  same  spot ;  the  memory 
of  its  locality  indeed  is  lost,  but  the  people  long  retained  a  great  devotion 
for  the  three  PestschHizsheiUgen* 

There  is  a  pleasant  excursion  to  be  made  hence  into  the  Brixenthal, 
and  if  time  presses,  advantage  may  be  taken  of  a  SteUwagen  which 
meets  every  train,  and  may  be  made  use  of  as  far  as  Kitzbiihl  for 
two  florins;  to  walk  it  would  require  six  hours.  It  is  worth  while 
to  turn  aside  at  Itters,  the  first  village  passed,  to  visit  the  altar- 
piece  of  the  parish  church,  which  represents  the  Flight  into  £g3rpt: 
though  not  of  striking  artistic  merit,  its  treatment  is  peculiar;  for  a 
number  of  angels  on  the  wing  accompany  the  Holy  Family,  bearing 
their  humble  household  goods,  the  Infant's  swaddling-clothes,  the 
Mother's  distaff,  S.  Joseph's  implements,  through  the  air.  Around 
it  are  the  remains  of  three  castles :  on  the  neighbouring  height  Schloss 
Itter;  opposite  this  Schloss  Hogau  on  the  Finersdorf;  and  further 
down  the  valley.  Fort  Engelsburg.  In  Schloss  Hogau  once  lived  a 
pious  but  poor  nobleman,  whose  only  daughter  had  been  placed  under 
the  invocation  of  S.  Elizabeth.  Though  she  lived  with  her  father  in 
a  retirement  devoted  to  holy  works  of  charity,  her  charms  were  not 
altogether  unobserved,  but  won  the  hearts  of  the  only  two  youths  of  equal 
position  who  had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  her,  the  scions  of  the  noble 
residents  of  Itter  and  Engelsburg.  Friedl  v.  Engelsburg  was  by 
character  and  pursuits  well  adapted  to  engage  the  affection  of  Elsbeth  v. 

•  Viz :  S.  Martha,  who,  the  legendi  tell,  consecrated  her  preference  for  the  active 
life  by  nursing  the  plague-stricken ;  S.  Sebastian,  whose  intercession  once  saved 
Rome,  under  a  visitation  of  the  plague ;  and  S.  Bocchos,  who  fell  a  victim  to  hit 
devotion  to  sufferers  from  the  same  infliction. 


174  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Hogau,  so  that  Uiough  still  poorer  than  herself,  he  was  pi*eferred  to  Rodolf 
V.  Itter,  whose  wild  and  haughty  nature  made  him  shunned  hy  all  the 
country  round,  in  spite  of  his  broad  lands  and  well-filled  purse.  Der 
Bissen  Brot  eines  ehrlichen  amien  Mannes  macht  sie  glucklicher  als  Dein 
Reichthum^*  was  her  father's  answer;  and  Rodolf  v.  Itter  went  down 
from  the  Pinersdorf  vowing  that  a  poor  devil  like  Friedl  v.  Engelsburg 
should  not  leave  him  in  the  lurch  without  rueing  the  rivalship. 

The  bridal  day  came,  and  in  the  glad  festivities  Rudolf  v.  Itter  and 
his  threats  were  forgotten ;  but  suddenly,  at  night-fall,  when  the  excite- 
ment of  the  Kranzltanz  was  at  its  highest,  with  a  band  of  ruffians  hired 
from  afar  by  his  gold,  he  rushed  in  and  dispersed  the  peaceful  guests,  and 
carried  off  the  newly-wedded  pair  to  the  Schloss  Itter,  where  he  shut 
them  up  in  a  deep  dungeon,  giving  them  no  food  but  dry  bread,  which 
was  sent  every  day  with  a  mocking  message  to  inquire  how  they  liked 
^the  poor  man's  crust.'  In  vain  they  begged  for  so  much  as  a  drop  of 
water  to  relieve  their  thirst.  In  their  dire  suffering,  the  pious  pair  never 
ceased  to  cry  to  God  and  8.  Elizabeth  for  help.  Then,  behold,  as 
suddenly  as  Rodolf  had  with  his  black  band  broken  in  on  the  bright 
wedding  feast,  the  gloomy  wall  of  their  prison  ceil  was  burst  asunder, 
and  S.  Elizabeth  appeared  to  their  astonished  gaze,  surrounded  by  a 
troop  of  angels  who  struck  off  their  chains,  while  a  sparkling  stream 
gushed  from  the  cleft  rock.  News  being  brought  to  Rodolf  of  voices 
in  his  prisoners'  cell,  he  ran  in  furious  haste  to  inquire  the  cause,  when 
the  bright  vision  convicted  him  of  his  sin.  He  fell  at  the  feet  of  his 
victims,  obtained  their  forgiveness,  and  conducted  them  back  barefoot  and 
with  uncovered  head  to  Engelsburg,  where  they  spent  the  rest  of  their 
lives  in  innocent  happiness.  Nor  did  they  forget  their  deliverance.  At 
the  spot  where  the  miraculous  stream,  now  called  the  Kelchsanerbach, 
flows  into  the  Brixenthaler  Ache,  they  built  a  church  to  their  patrons, 
which  still  goes  by  the  name  of  Elabothen,  (o  often  taking  the  place  of  e 
in  the  dialect  of  the  valley,)  and  continues  to  be  an  honoured  pilgrimage. 
Schloss  Itter  is  now  almost  a  ruin,  though  rebuilt  in  1532.  It  serves  to 
house  some  old  and  homeless  poor  people. 

After  crossing  the  torrent,  the  road  winds  round  the  base  of  the  Hohe 
Salve,  and  Hopfgarten  is  reached.  The  Ache,  which  flows  through  it,  is 
very  tui-bulent,  and  often  does  great  damage  to  the  village,  sometimes 
inundating  the  surrounding  fields.  Ilof,  another  village  nearer  Bnxen, 
is  subject  to  still  more  dangerous  overflows  of  the  torrent  in  its  neigh- 
bourhood. A  very  curious  custom  once  prevailed  here,  which,  like  the 
so-called  Schiidkofe  in  Passeierthal,  is  interesting  as  an  instance  of  the 
earliest  beginnings  in  importance  of  a  middle  class.  Four  of  the  chief 
inhabitants  were  invested — the  record  of  how  and  when  is  lost — with  the 
right  of  collecting  the  tithes  of  the  scattered  parishioners  around.  This 
right  gave  other  tokens  of  local  influence,  one  of  which  was  that  every 
peasant  had  to  come  yearly  to  them,  and  holding  his  hat  under  his  arm, 

*  She  will  be  happier  on  an  upright  i»oor  man's  crust,  than  on  your  riches. 


TBADITIONS  OF  TIROIr.  175 

erave  of  them  permission  to  tarn  out  their  cattle  into  the  pastures  which 
were  their  own  of  right.  They  received  the  applicants  sitting,  and 
conveyed  their  assent  by  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hands,  and  by  offering 
them  a  bumper  of  wine.  There  is  a  story  that  one  well-to-do  peasant 
offered  to  buy  himself  off  from  going  through  this  ceremony,  by  an  offer 
of  two  hundred  gulden,  but  the  Zehtntenviere  decided  that  their  powers 
did  not  include  one  to  barter  away  their  rights. 

Brixen*  is  one  of  the  largest  villages  of  the  valley ;  the  picture  of  the 
Assumption  over  the  high  altar  is  one  of  Joseph  Schopf 's  best  works. 
The  frescoes  on  the  roof  are  also  worthy  attention.     The  centre  one  is 
also  by  Schopf,  and  is  intended  to  shew  forth  the  joys  of  heaven ;  the 
other  two  are  by  Nesselthaler.     The  wood-carvings  of  the  Confessional 
and  the  Pieta  are  good  examples  of  Nissl's  work.     Hence  the  ascent  of 
the  Hohe  Salve  is  usually  made,  though  it  can  also  be  reached  from 
Hopfgaiten  in  three  hours,  by  some  as  a  pilgrimage,  by  some  to  enjoy 
the  wonderful  panoramic  view  its  isolated  summit  affords.     Though  a 
height  of  5,656  feet,  the  road  is  so  good  tliat  with  favourable  weiither 
little  hardship  is  involved  either  on  foot  or  on  horseback,  and  above  a 
thousand  persons  pass  up  it  yearly,  including  many  ladies.     It  would  be 
beside  my  purpose  to  describe  the  way  minutely,  particularly  as  there  are 
many  traditions  to  tell  of  it,  and  it  is  no  wonder  if  so  grand  and  lovely 
scenery  has  inspired  the  imagination.     The  church  which  adorns  its  very 
summit  is  said  to  have  the  following  touching  origin  : — There  lived  in  one 
of  the  peasants'  cottages  of  the  Brixenthal,  a  fine  young  man  whose 
strength  and  skill  in  wrestling  won  him  universal  fear.     The  sense  of 
superiority  made  him  reckless,  and  many  a  lawless  deed  went  unpunished 
because  no  one  had  the  courage  to  denounce  him ;  the  very  authorities 
were  awed  by  his  fierce  daring.     There  was  indeed   one  whom  love 
inspired  with  the  boldness  to  warn  him,  his  widowed  mother,  Ehrentraud, 
whose  only  son  he  was,  and  her  affectionate  admonitions  long  kept  him 
in  check.     But  his  adventurous  spirit  pined  under  the  restraint  of  home 
life ;  the  temptation  to  assume  the  headship  of  a  robber  band  whose  chief 
had  just  been  executed,  reached  him  one  day  when  his  mother^s  infiuence 
was  not  by  to  check  him.     When  she  returned  from  following  the  herds 
in  the  evening,  he  had  fied.    For  long  she  lost  all  trace  of  him,  and  though 
she  prayed  for  him  at  every  shrine  in  fear  and  trembling,  she  never 
suspected  anything  so  bad  as  the  truth,  that  the  leader  of  the  heartless 
band  of  plunderers,  who  were  the  terror  of  all  poor  herdsmen  for  miles 
around,  was  no  other  than  he.    And  yet  some  hidden  prompting,  she  knew 
not  whence,  moved  her  to  seek  this  man  out.     Alone  and  undefended  she 
set  out  on  her  dangerous  mission,  and  days  of  search  at  last  brought  her 
at  fall  of  evening  to  the  summit  of  the  Hohe  Salve,  a  much  more  difificult 
task  than  at  present ;  safe  in  their  then  unfrequented  retreat,  the  robber 
band  were  carelessly  bivouacking  and  counting  their  spoil.     But  the  lonely 

•  Not  to  be  confounded  with  Brixen  or  Bres^anonc  in  South  Tirol;  of  ^jluch, 
hitcr. 


176  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

woman  might  be  a  spj ;  she  was  no  sooner  seen  than  she  was  seized  and 
brought  before  the  chief.  The  widow  at  once  recognized  the  guidance  of 
Providence  in  the  mysterious  impulse,  which  had  brought  her  thus  to 
speak  words  of  truth  to  her  boy.  True  to  his  one  good  spring  of  action 
— filial  affection — ^he  ordered  the  ruffians  to  unhand  her  and  leave  her  to 
him ;  but  the  courageous  woman  called  them  all  together,  then  explained 
to  them  how  she  had  been  led  into  their  midst,  spoke  to  tliem  of  the  evil 
of  their  lives,  the  wrongs  done  their  countrymen ;  the  offences  offered  to 
God,  and  the  terrors  of  the  judgement  of  heaven,  to  be  best  averted  by 
submitting  themselves  to  the  tribunal  of  earth,  and  offering  what  remained 
<>f  their  lives  in  expiation  for  the  sin  of  the  past.  Her  words,  winged  by 
charity,  found  their  way  into  the  hearts  of  all,  but  touched  none  more 
deeply  than  that  of  her  son,  who,  knowing  her  intense  affection  for 
him,  felt  how  small  was  the  sacrifice  she  called  upon  him  to  make  by 
comparison  with  that  she  had  herself  made  first  in  proposing  it  When 
overcome  by  contending  emotions,  they  laid  them  down  upon  the  ground 
ibr  their  night's  repose,  they  all  dreamt  one  dream.  They  saw  a  dark 
pnson,  in  which  was  one  who,  clothed  in  the  robe  of  innocence,  was 
bound  there  because  he  had  devoted  himself  to  preaching  penance  to 
others ;  then  they  saw  the  cell  fill  with  soldiers,  and  as  one  advanced 
with  drawn  sword  and  fierce  gesture  to  strike  off  the  prisoner's  head, 
they  saw  the  smile  of  complacent  peace  with  which  the  holy  Baptist  met 
his  doom,  and  which  seemed  to  say  that  the  spirit  of  compunction  robbed 
suffering  of  Us  pang.  Silently  they  rose  in  the  morning,  and  descended 
before  the  judge,  offering  an  example  of  lowly  penitence  where  their 
long  career  of  licence  had  given  grievous  scandal  hitherto.  They  were 
sentenced  to  death,  and  met  their  end,  encouraging  each  other  by  the 
Baptist's  holy  example.  The  widowed  and  now  childless  mother  gathered 
their  heads  and  buried  them  on  the  summit  of  the  Hohe  Salve,  and  then 
went  down  to  her  lonely  house  and  wept.  Too  desolate  to  resume  her 
wonted  toil,  she  asked  herself  in  bitterness  for  whom  should  her  labour 
henceforth  be ;  who  was  to  inherit  the  soil  she  tilled ;  on  whom  would 
the  herds  she  tended  devolve.  In  the  visions  of  the  night  she  received  her 
.answer.  She  saw  the  glory  of  heaven,  and  amid  all  the  jubilant  troops 
of  the  blessed,  none  brighter  than  that  of  the  penitents  marshalled  behind 
the  Holy  Precursor,  to  whose  patronage  her  son  had  been  devoted  in 
baptism,  and  among  them  her  son  and  his  companions.  When  she  saw 
that  token  she  rose  with  joy,  and  said  the  spot  where  they  lay  was  holy 
ground,  and  was  only  worthy  to  be  the  site  of  a  church ;  so  she  sold  the 
house,  and  the  land,  and  the  herds,  and  with  the  price  she  built  the 
Salvenkirchlein^  which  was  dedicated  in  honour  of  S.  John  the  Baptist. 
The  church  was  destroyed  by  lightning  in  1640,  but  rebuilt  four  years  later. 
Out  of  the  many  traditions  about  the  Hohe  Salve,  I  will  select  another 
about  a  robber.  There  once  lived  in  Bavaria  a  notorious  outlaw,  who 
after  many  years  of  a  predatory  existence,  was  at  last  captured  and  put 
in  prison.     If  he  was  not  so  deep  a  penitent  as  the  robber-chief  of  the 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL-  177 

• 
Hohe  Salve,  neither  had  he  such  gi'eat  crimes  to  answer  for;  still  hie 

early  lessons  of  religion  recurred  to  him  in  his  silent  cell,  and  without 

being  devoted  enough  to  deem  his  misdeeds  called  for  the  sacrifice  of  his 

life,  he  made  a  vow  that  if  on  his  trial  he  was  let  off,  he  would  never 

return  to  his  former  way  of  life,  but  would  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the 

shrine  of  the  Preacher  of  Penance  on  the  Ilohc  Salve.     The  evidence 

against  him  not  being  conclusive,  it  happened  that  he  was  dismissed  from 

the  court  of  justice ;  but  he  forgot  the  promised  pilgrimage  to  the  end  of 

his  days.     On  the  day  he  died,  a  toad  was  seen  making  its  way  up  the 

Hohe  Salve  with  great  difficulty ;  people  looked  and  wondered,  and  many 

a  downward  kick  necessitated  the  repetition  of  the  toil.     Nevertheless, 

after  a  long  period  the  toad  actually  did  make  its  way  up  to  the  very 

summit ;  but  the  people  would  not  on  any  account  let  him  make  his  way 

into  the  church.     By  dint  of  great  perseverance,  however,  he  contrived 

at  last  to  squeeze  himself  in  one  day  when  the  door  was  not  quite  closed, 

he  crept  up  to  the  altar,  which  he  had   no  sooner  reached  than  he 

appeared  before  all  the  people  in  the  form  of  a  comely  youth  all  clothed 

in  light,  and  told  them  he  was  the  Bavarian  robber^  who  having  repented 

of  his  neglected  vow  in  his  last  moments,  had  by  the  intercession  of  S. 

John  Baptist  been  permitted  thus  to  fulfil  it.     Then  he  fell  asleep  in 

peace,  and  was  buried  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel.     The  warden  of 

this  Ktrchiem  has  a  little  house  near  the  sanctuary,  which  serves  as  a 

place  of  refreshment  for  the  pilgrims;  he  is  provided  with  wood  by  a 

curious  and  interesting  custom.     He  goes  down  to  cut  it  into  the  woods 

skirting  the  mountain,   and    then    lays  the  faggots  beside  the  path. 

Pilgrims  reckon  it  part  of  their  penance  to  carry  it  up,  each  a  longer 

or  shorter  stage  according  to  their  strength.     In  the  little  piazza  in  front 

of  the  church,  a  lightning-conductor  has  been  erected,  to  guarantee  it 

from  accidents  of  a  kind  to  which  it  had  frequently  fallen  a  victim. 

A  huge  rough  stone  is  pointed  out  in  the  wall  of  the  Scdvenkircklem^  of 

which  it  is  told  that  two  giants  of  former  ages,  the  one  inhabiting  the 

Hohe  Salve,  and  the  other  the  Marbachjoch  in  the  Wildschonau,  and 

who  were  always  disputing  which  was  the  stronger,  at  last  decided  on  a 

final  trial  of  strength,  which  was  that  each  should  throw  a  stone  over 

towards  the  other  from  their  respective  heights,  (a  distance  of  about  five 

miles  as  the  crow  fiies,)  and  whichever  hit  the  point  of  the  mountain,  to 

be  acknowledged  conqueror  of  the  othcn     The  stone  thrown  by  the  giant 

of  the  Hohe  Salve  is  to  be  seen  at  some  distance  from  the  top  of  the 

Marbachjoch,  but  the  giant  of  the  Marbachjoch  won  the  day  by  flinging 

his  with  such  nice  aim,  that  it  alighted  on  the  very  tip  of  the  Hohe 

Salve,  where  it  was  gladly  made  use  of  by  the  builders  of  the  chapel.* 

*  The  popular  observation  which  makes  every  high  peak  a  weather-prophet  for 
the  dwcUera  in  its  neighbourhood,  is  here  thus  expressed  in  tlic  local  dialect : 

*  Hat  d'  Salrcn  an  Ilnat, 
Blelbt's  Wettu  nit  guat' 

{An  »tandin{{  for  ein,  Huat  for  Hut,  Wttla  for  WcUf-r^  nit  for  nicht^  and  guat  for  gut.) 


178  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

• 
At  a  little  distance  before  reaching  Brixen,  on  the  other  side  the  Ache, 

in  Wcstemdorf,  and  at  the  meeting  of  the  Schleicherbach  and  the 
Brixenbach  is  Lauterbach.  Here,  it  is  said,  formerly  stood,  one  on 
either  side,  two  important  hamlets,  Racking  and  Steinhiiring:  of  these 
it  is  told  that  their  inhabitants  could  never  agree  to  which  the 
Schleicherbach  belonged,  one  or  the  other  would  continually  divert  its 
waters  for  the  imgation  of  their  land,  and  then  the  opposite  neighbours 
would  break  out  in  fearful  imprecations.  No  mediation  could  make 
them  come  to  a  compromise,  no  warning  could  make  them  leave  off 
cursing  each  other.  When  they  died  their  souls  could  find  no  rest; 
for  the  curses  of  their  neighbours,  which  both  had  alike  called  down 
and  bandied  back,  were  upon  them.  At  hist  the  measure  of  their 
iniquities  was  filled  up ;  one  night  when  the  heaven  was  clear  and  serene, 
the  Rackingers  and  Steinhiiringers  were  alike  engaged  in  getting  in  their 
harvest;  before  they  were  aware,  the  sky  became  covei'ed  with  black 
clouds,  the  rain  poured  down  in  floods,  the  thunder  roared,  and  the 
lightning  flashed  through  the  valley,  nor  could  the  village  bells  be  moved 
to  deprecate  the  fierce  action  of  the  elements ;  messengers  were  sent  to 
crave  the  ringing  of  others,  but  neither  the  groat  bell  of  Kitzbiihl  or  that 
named  the  Bricner  Siiery^  nor  the  Salvenhundleiny^  nor  the  Ittei-er  Katzl;^ 
could  be  prevailed  to  move  their  clappers  ;  the  air  was  full  of  the  spirits 
of  the  unrested  villagers,  and  their  punishment  was  to  drive  on  the 
storm.  Thus  it  raged  unallayed  for  days ;  and  when  it  ceased.  Racking 
and  Steinhiiring  were  found  buried  under  noods  of  mud  and  fragments  of 
broken  rocks.  Not  long  ago  it  happened  that  a  Brixner  who  refused  to 
believe  the  stoiy,  had  occasion  to  go  from  Brixen  to  Kirchberg  by  night : 
he  went  safely  past  Bockam  and  the  Jdgerskapelle ;  a  little  further  on,  he 
came  to  a  pLice  with  houses  on  both  sides  of  the  road,  and  among  these 
he  wandered  all  night :  when  the  Ave  bells  rang  in  the  morning  he  found 
himself  on  the  place  where  Racking  and  Steinhiiring  had  stood,  but  where 
by  daylight  no  houses  at  all  were  to  be  seen.  I  do  not  know  whether  it 
was  this  story  of  these  restless  spirits  tliiit  made  the  people  of  the 
neighbouring  village  of  Bockam  afraid  to  be  laid  in  their  own  church- 
yard, but  for  some  reason  their  buiying-placc  is  at  Brixen. 

About  a  mile  beyond  Lautenbach  is  Kirchberg,  the  last  village 
properly  belonging  to  the  Brixentlial,  of  which  it  is  one  of  the  greatest 
ornaments ;  the  church,  presbytery,  and  schools,  form  a  pleasing  group 
of  buildings,  crowning  a  little  eminence,  with  the  houses  of  the  village 
nestled  under  its  shade ;  and  there  is  besides,  on  the  Gaisberg,  the 
chapel  of  '  our  dear  Lady  of  Kirchanger,'  with  a  fountain  and  a  statue 
of  S.  Anthony.  The  altar-piece  of  this  chapel,  representing  S.  Michael 
and  the  Devil,  again  displays  an  instance  of  original  §  treatment ;  as  in 
place  of  making  the  Evil  One  *  as  black  as  he  is  (usually)  painted,'  his 

*  The  ox  of  Brixen.        t  The  little  dog  of  the  Salve.        }  The  cat  of  Itters. 

§  Perhaps  I  ought  rather  to  say,  infrequent,  as  I  have  met  with  other  instances 
elsewhere. 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  179 

alluring  wiles  are  symbolized  by  depicting  him  as  a  well-favoured  youth, 
his  horns  and  hoofs  rendered  ornamental  by  gilding.     There  are  one  or 
two  more  unimpoiiant,  though  not  uninteresting,  groups  of  houses,  and 
then  rise  the  greater  and  lesser  Rettenstein.     The  mountain  Senners  have 
made  of  a  fantastic  cave  in  their  rocky  slope  a  Lady-chapel,  which 
receives  many  flower-laden  pilgrims  in  the  summer  months.     The  flora 
of  this  valley,  as  also  its  mineral  curiosities,  are  justly  celebrated,  but 
require  an  expert  climber  to  explore ;  they  have  led  many  of  ita  people 
to  become  diligent  observers  of  nature,  and  many  collections  worthy  of 
study  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  villages,  particularly  Brixen.     The 
occasion   on  which   the  lover  of  local  customs  should  visit  it  is  on 
Corpus  Christi,  when  a  very  singular  procession,  called  the  Antlasrittj 
takes  place  between  Brixen  and  Kirchberg.     The  priest  carrying  the 
Blessed  Sacrament  on  horseback,  and  the  population  of  all  the  neigh- 
bouring villages  also — that  is,  as  many  of  them  as  can  find  mounts ;  the 
vill^e  authorities  first  in  order,  and  the  rest  following  according  to  their 
various  degrees,  all  dressed  in  their  old  national  costume,  but  some  also 
in  strange  and  uncouth  dresses.     I  have  met  some  superficial  German 
tourists,  who  made  game  of  the  quaint  pageant  and  its  grotesque  devices, 
and   condemned    the   whole   thing   as   unworthy   and   absurd.      But   I 
subsequently  found  the  Antlasritt  had  a  heart-stirring  origin  in  local 
liistory,  and  they  who  gave  rise  to  it  bore  nobler  hearts  than  they  who 
contemned  it.     On  the  direct  way  between  Kirchberg  and  Kitzbiihl, 
is  a  little  group  of  not  more  than  ten  houses,  called  Klausen,  daringly 
situated  between  the  lines  of  three  mountain  torrents ;  a  chapel,  standing 
on  the  former  parish  boundary  between  the  above-named  communes, 
contains  a  very  curious  historical  picture,  setting  forth  an  episode  in  the 
warlike  annals  of  the  year  1 648.     It  will  be  remembered  that  at  that 
time  Tirol  was  surrounded  with   foreign   foes ;    and   it  was  just  on 
Corpus  Christi  of  the  year  named  that  an  incursion  of  French  and 
Swedish  troops  poured  in  from  the  Salzburg  frontier,  and  attempted  to 
overrun  tlie  Brixenthal.     All  the  people  of  the  valley  were  gathered  iii 
from  their  respective  occupations,  waiting  to  take  part  in  the  ordinai-y 
procession  of  the  Blessed   Sacrament,  and   to   spend   the  rest  of  the 
holiday  in  their  favourite  target-practice;   both   men  and  arms  were 
thus  at  hand.     Not  a  moment  was  lost  in  repelling  the  foe,  who,  little 
expecting  such  a  rough  and  ready  greeting,  retired  in  great  disorder. 
The  Tirolese  readily  recognized  how  their  obedience  to  the  ordinances 
of  religion  had  stood  them  in.  stead  on  this  occasion,  and  every  Corpus 
Christi  bears  witness  to  their  gratitude.     The  men  carry  their  rifles  in 
memory  of  their  victoiy ;  and  if  the  costume  is,  as  elsewhere,  becoming 
modernized,  they  love  on  this  day  to  wear  it  just  as  their  fathers  wore 
it.     Thus  worn,  the  knees  are  left  bare;  a  circumstance  which,  together 
with  their  fondness  for  appearing  on  horseback,  won  for  them  from  the 
French  the  nick -name  of  Cavaliers  a  trois  visages.     The  laistic  musicians 
lead  the  procession  with  the  nearest  approach  to  martial  music  they  can 


180  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

attain,  and  it  is  the  discomfited  Swedes  who  are  represented  by  the 
grotesque  figures. 

Before  passing  on  to  Kitzbiihl  out  of  the  Brixenthal,  I  ought  to  say  a 
word  about  the  sect  of  the  Manharters,  as  it  is  rare  indeed  that  one  can 
find  anything  to  say  about  sects  in  Tirol.  The  Manharters,  however, 
erred  by  excess  of  Catholic  zeal,  and  were  something  like  the  ^petite 
eglise^  among  the  Legitimists  of  Brittany.  In  consequence  of  the 
partition  agreed  on  between  France  and  Bavaria  in  1803,  the  Brixenthal 
fell  to  the  share  of  the  former,  as  part  of  the  ancient  province  of  the 
Prince-Bishop  of  Salzburg;  on  the  30th  of  May,  1809,  all  persons  in 
authority,  and  particularly  priests,  were  required  to  take  an  oath  of 
fealty  to  the  French  Emperor.  As  Austria  had  already  abdicated  her 
rights  to  Tirol,  and  as  there  was  nothing  ofiensive  to  religion  in  the 
wording  of  the  oath,  all  the  priests  took  it,  with  one  single  exception, 
in  the  person  of  a  curate  of  Worgl,  named  Hagleitner.  Nothing  could 
induce  him  to  make  common  cause  with  a  people  who  had  so  lately 
made  war  on  religion ;  he  escaped  from  the  neighbourhood,  and 
succeeded  in  eluding  pursuit  After  the  expulsion  of  the  French,  he 
returned  to  his  native  valley,  and  soon  after  was  appointed  curate  in  a 
church  in  Worgl.  Meantime,  his  determined  and  single-handed  stand 
against  the  hated  foreigners  made  him  appear  a  hero  in  the  sight  of  the 
people ;  the  more  his  courage  was  talked  about,  the  more  he  thought  of 
his  feat,  and  the  more  he  was  led  to  speak  disparagingly  of  those  who 
had  acted  differently  from  himself:  gradually  a  party  formed  round 
him,  which  not  only  extolled  him  to  the  skies,  but  grew  gradually 
opposed  to  the  other  priests  of  the  valley ;  since  Napoleon  had  laid  violent 
hands  on  the  Vicar  of  Christ,  they  argued,  and  laid  himself  open  to 
the  censures  of  the  Church,  those  priests  who  subscribed  an  oath  of 
allegiance  to  him  were  equally  under  the  censures  of  the  Church ;  from 
this  premiss  getting  still  deeper  into  false  argument,  they  concluded  that 
all  the  sacramental  acts  of  these  said  priests  were  invalid,  and  that 
Hagleitner  was  the  only  one  who  ought  to  be  listened  to :  there  is  no 
need  to  detail  the  confusion  and  excitement  which  followed.  Hagleitner 
was  removed,  but  this  made  little  difference ;  his  followers  continued  to 
meet  for  worship  at  a  place  called  Manhart,  whence  they  are  usually 
called  Manharters;  they  baptized  their  children  themselves,  and  buried 
their  dead  in  secret  in  remote  places  of  pilgrimage.  Early  in  the  year 
of  1816,  a  sect  called  the  Mickelsritters,  which  had  arisen  in  Karinthia, 
maintaining  that  the  reign  of  Christ  was  at  an  end,  and  that  of  S. 
Michael  at  hand,  found  an  entrance  into  the  neighbouring  Brixenthal. 
The  unsettled  spirits  of  the  Manharter  party  eagerly  fastened  themselves 
on  to  these,  but  the  evil  brought  its  cure  with  it ;  their  present 
extravagance  was  more  easily  suspected  than  their  former  exaggeration, 
and  at  last  the  wiser  ones  among  them  determined  to  send  a  deputation 
to  Rome  to  have  their  case  decided  for  them.  Three  of  tlieir  number 
were   acrordingly   sent    thither   in    1825,    and    were    received    with   all 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  181 

gentleness  by  Leo  XII.  Duly  instructed  in  the  bearing  of  Catholic 
doctrine,  and  canon  law  upon  the  points  at  issue,  they  returned,  bringing 
with  them  many  memorials  with  which  the  Holy  Father  had  gifted 
them,  to  their  native  valley.  Their  message  was  readily  accepted  by 
the  majority  of  the  party,  and  peace  and  order  returned  once  more. 
One  energetic  woman  there  was,  however,  who  could  not  be  brought 
to  see  their  arguments ;  she  still  maintained  the  former  erroneous 
conclusions;  a  small  number  followed  her  determination,  and  these 
have  perhaps  not  yet  all  died  out. 

At  Kitzbuhl,  the  soil,  which  has  been  rising  all  the  way,  but  more 
rapidly  since  passing  Kirchberg,  attains  an  elevation  of  2,100  feet.  The 
road  here  takes  a  sharp  bend  northwards  by  way  of  Oberdorf  to  S. 
Johann,  almost  skirting  the  base  of  the  Glemmer  mountains,  which 
divide  the  Jochbergthal  in  Tirol  from  the  Pinzgau  in  the  Principality 
of  Salzburg.  In  the  Jochberg  rises  the  Great  Ache,  which  flows  in  a 
northerly  direction  past  S.  Johann  into  the  Chiemsee  in  Bavaria ;  and 
all  the  country  through  which  it  passes  within  the  Tirolean  frontier  is 
called  the  Gebieth  *  der  grossen  Ache, 

It  is  time,  however,  to  take  up  our  direct  course  for  Vienna  through 
Salzburg.  There  is  a  diligence,  which  undertakes  to  perform  the  dis- 
tance from  Worgl  (somewhat  under  a  hundred  miles)  in  thirteen  hours ; 
but  there  is  quite  interest  enough  by  the  way  to  justify  preferring  a 
private  carriage — that  is,  such  ftn  one  as  the  place  affords.  The  road 
follows  the  river  Inn  for  a  very  little  distance,  then  crosses  the 
Brixenthaler  Ache  by  the  Grattenbrucke,  and  then  takes  a  direct  easterly 
direction  past  Itters  to  Soil,  a  picturesque  and  thriving  viUage,  whence 
the  country  we  are  traversing  is  called  the  Sollethal,  or  SoUand.  From 
Soil  there  are  two  or  three  pilgrimages :  the  nearest  and  easiest  is  that 
to  Stampfanger,  on  a  detached  hill  of  nearly  square  base,  to  the  south 
of  Soil ;  the  secluded  path  thither  is  enlivened  by  a  babbling  brook,  and 
rendered  solemn  by  the  nearness  of  the  towering  height  of  the  Hohe 
Salve.  Much  more  difficult  is  the  one  to  Bemstatt,  with  its  Ecce-Homo- 
Bild,  reached  from  Scheffau,  romantically  situated  on  the  Hintersteiner 
lake,  which  is  so  deep,  that  its  forellerij  said  to  be  peculiarly  excellent, 
can  only  be  caught  after  a  storm,  or  when  the  spawning  season  brings 
them  near  the  banks ;  but  the  path  can  only  be  attempted  by  those  who 
are  quite  schmndelfrei.^  An  almost  more  difficult  path  reaches  it  from 
Eufstein — whence  it  is  at  about  equal  distance — ^known  by  the  name  of 
the  Stone  Staircase,  die  steineime  Stiege. 

The  seven  miles  from  Soil  to  Elmau,  the  next  post-village,  is  the 
steepest  part  of  the  trajet ;  and  all  the  way,  on  the  north  side,  as  also 
along  the  descent  from  Elmau  to  S.  Johann,  nine  miles  further,  yon 
have  a  look  out — now  across  smiling  fields,  now  over  jagged  peaks  of 
lower  hills,  now  over  dark  green  woods — to  the  long  stretch  of  the 
jagged  Kaisergebirg,  its  highest  spires  nearly  always  covered  with  mist. 
•  District.  t  Free  from  nervousness. 


182  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

I  was  trying  to  learn  what  imperial  progress  had  given  this  bit  of  road 
the  name  of  the  Kaiserstrasse,  when  I  found  that  it  was  from  no  mere 
imperial  majesty  that  the  title  was  derived,  but  from  the  natural  majesty 
of  this  grand  old  mountain.  The  people  look  up  to  him  with  a  feeling 
almost  akin  to  filial  reverence ;  they  have  a  name  for  every  one  of  his 
splintered  peaks,  and  they  reckon  that  the  shelter  he  affords  them 
enables  them  to  keep  their  cattle  a  month  longer  on  their  pastures, 
and  that  the  refraction  of  the  sun's  rays  against  his  side  ripens  their 
ci*ops  a  week  earlier  than  their  neighbours*.  The  name  of  Johann 
Schlecbter,  one  of  the  heroes  of  '  the  year  Nine,'  is  a  household  name  in 
Elmau. 

Descending  from  Elmau  by  the  side  of  the  Rheinache,  wc  reach  S. 
Johann,  where  we  once  more  find  ouraelves  in  the  Gebicth  der  grossen 
Ache ;  and  as  we  may  never  be  so  near  it  again,  it  is  well  to  pursue 
its  various  ramifications.  8.  Johann  itself  is  charmingly  situated  amid 
various  gradations  of  heights,  the  giant  Kaisergebirg  towering  over 
all,  and  broad  green  meadows  spread  before  it.  The  church  has  an 
important  appearance,  and  the  Antoniuskapelle  contains  some  frescoes 
by  Schopf. 

On  occasion  of  the  conjoined  French  and  Bavarian  inroad  of  the 
11th  of  May,  1809,  (it  was  Ascension  Day,)  having  found  it  impossible 
to  effect  an  entiy  by  way  of  Kufstein,  they  determined  on  forcing  Pass 
Strub.  The  Landesschutzen  were  no  less  determined  here,  but  they  had 
not  the  advantage  of  a  foHress  to  protect  them ;  strong,  however,  in  the 
defence  of  their  dear  native  mountains  and  their  own  bravery,  two 
hundred  and  seventy-five  of  them,  and  half  a  company  of  Austrian 
soldiers,  held  it  long  against  twelve  thousand  veterans  under  Marshal 
Lefevre  and  General  AVrede,  and  it  was  only  after  five  desperate  assaults 
tbat  they  forced  their  way  through.  The  obstinate  resistance  they  met 
with  at  every  step  of  the  way  determined  them  by  the  time  they  came 
to  S.  Johann  to  take  the  fiercest  reprisals.  Their  greatest  fury  was 
vented  against  the  Dean,  Matthias  Wieshofer,  to  revenge  the  influence 
he  had  exerted  in  supporting  the  patriotism  of  the  people :  and  the  order 
went  forth  to  hang  him.  Dean  Wieshofer  uttered  not  a  word  in  his 
own  defence;  he  received  the  last  consolations  of  religion  from  one  of 
his  curates,  and  walked  from  the  spot  where  he  luid  been  condemned 
back  towards  the  lintel  of  his  own  door,  where  the  sentence  was  to  be 
carried  out,  with  a  firm  step,  and  cheerily  comforting  the  people,  who 
filled  the  air  with  their  lamentations.  But  as  he  started  on  his  doleful 
way,  a  fearful  sight  met  his  eye ;  the  troops  had  set  fire  to  the  town  at 
various  points.  It  was  all  so  familiar  to  him,  that  he  could  have  told 
the  name  of  each  house-father  round  whose  devoted  roof  the  white 
smoke  was  curling,  the  tastily  carved  verandahs,  once  the  pride  of 
their  owners,  now  acting  as  conductors  of  the  leaping  fiames.  Dean 
Wieshofer,  who  had  uttered  no  word  in  his  own  behoof,  now  suddenly 
tamed  aside,  and  fiinging  himself  at  the  General's  feet,  pleaded  aloud 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MANXLAND.  183 

for  his  beloved  parishioners.      The  Genera],   as  might  be   supposed, 

turned  a  deaf  ear,  and  called  to  the  soldiers  to  take  him  away.     The 

soldiers  seized  him  roughly,  but  they  could  not  drag  him  away;   he 

clung  to  the  General's  knees,  and  while  yet  in  the  attitude  of  supplication, 

sternly  represented  to  him  the  sufferings  of  his  people.     At  last  charity 

prevailed  over  wrath,  and  General  Wrede  himself  directed  his  own  men 

in  extinguishing  the  flames  which  he  had  anon  ordered  them  to  kindle. 

Further,  with  a  soldier's  honesty,  he  owned  himself  so  much  struck 

with  the  faithful  pastor's  devotion  to  his  flock,  that  he  rescinded  the 

order  for  his  execution,  and  restored  him  to  liberty. 

A   little  way  outside    S.   Johann    is  Weitau,   with   a    Spitalkirche 

dedicated  in  honour  of  S.  Nicholas  in    1262,  by  Baron  Gebhard  v. 

Velben ;  and  his  son  Ulrich,  who  lies  buried  there,  was  its  first  chaplain. 

Behind  the  high-altar  is  a  curious  old  glass  painting;   the  subject  is 

^  All  Saints,'  the  favourite  invocation  of  the  Velben  family ;  its  date  is 

1483. 

{To  he  continued.)  TL  H.  B. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MANXLAND. 

Op  no  place  probably  with  more  truth,  and  of  few  with  so  much,  might 
it  be  said,  that  the  life  of  the  church  was  the  life  of  the  people,  as  of  the 
Isle  of  Man  in  the  olden  time.  The  Church,  as  some  are  again  beginning 
to  think  she  ought  to  do,  both  influenced  political  institutions,  and 
leavened  all  the  social  and  domestic  habits  of  the  people.  Most  of  all 
this  has  been  swept  away,  but  a  few  traces  and  relics  still  remain,  even 
in  this  nineteenth  century. 

Ethnologically  tlie  Manx  are  interesting,  as  being  perhaps  the  only 
known  people,  entirely  Celtic  in  race  and  language,  who  possess 
Scandinavian  civil  and  political  institutions.  Tlie  Manx  Church, 
founded  by  St.  Patrick  about  the  middle  of  the  fifth  century,  was  not 
dissimilar  from  the  well-known  Irish  or  Cornish  type :  the  little  kingdom 
or  state  of  Man  was  a  reproduction  in  miniature  of  the  Norwegian 
monarchy. 

There  are,  I  think,  few  problems  more  interesting,  and  to  a  certain 
extent  more  important,  than  to  ascertain  why  it  is  that  Anglicanism — I 
am  using  the  word  in  its  best  sense — seems  never  yet  to  have  been  able 
to  reach  the  innermost  heart,  or  permanently  to  retain  the  affections  of 
a  Celtic  race.  Candid  observers  must,  I  am  afraid,  acknowledge  that 
hitherto  the  Anglican  system  has  been  a  failure  in  Ireland,  in  Wales, 
in  Cornwall,  and,  I  am  grieved  to  add  from  personal  knowledge,  in  the 
Isle  of  Man.  This  is  the  more  striking,  because  the  inhabitants  of 
Brittany,  who  are  of  the  same  race  as  the  Welsh,  are  allowed  to  be  the 


184  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

mo9t  intensely  Catholic  people  in  Europe.  And  the  devotion  of  the 
Irish  Celts  to  their  Church  and  priesthood  is  proverbial.  That  the 
alienation  of  the  Celtic  races  from  the  English  Church  does  not  arise 
from  any  essential  incompatibility  between  her  mind  and  spirit,  and 
their  temperament,  is  shewn  in  this,  that  the  English  Church  did  actually 
secure  the  entire  allegiance  of  the  Manx  during  the  sixty  and  more  years 
Episcopacy  of  Bishop  Wilson. 

But  now  they,  in  common  with  the  people  of  Wales  and  Cornwall, 
have  fallen  away  into  various  forms  of  Methodistic  Dissent.  So  then 
surely  one  of  the  greatest  problems  for  this  age  to  solve  is,  how  to  com- 
bine the  calm  '  soothing '  features  of  the  English  Church,  which  to  one 
class  of  mind  and  heart  is  her  greatest  charm,  with  such  a  spirit-stirring 
heartiness,  and  such  expansiveness,  and  such  latitude,  if  I  may  use  the 
expression,  in  non-essential  doctrine  and  ritual  as  will  win  and  retain  the 
love  and  the  affection  of  minds  and  hearts  which  have  been  cast  in  a 
different  mould. 

There  must  have  been  something  very  warm  in  the  affection  with 
which  that  little  isolated  Manx  nation  embraced  the  Catholic  Faith  when 
first  preached  to  them  by  St.  Patrick  some  fourteen  hundred  years  ago, 
when  we  think  that  they  gave  their  own  peculiar  names  to  almost  all 
the  great  Seasons,  Fasts  and  Festivals,  of  the  Church's  Year,  and  even 
to  some  of  the  minor  Saints  Days.  Many  of  these  have  come  down  to 
the  present  time,  and  it  is  not  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  several  may 
have  been  lost. 

The  infancy  of  a  Church  seems  very  like  the  infancy  of  a  language  in 
respect  to  its  flexibility.  As  an  infant  language  easily  modulates  the 
forms  and  idioms  of  words,  so  does  an  infant  Church  form  almost  at  will, 
ritual,  and  ceremonies,  Breviaries,  and  the  varying  and  non-essential 
parts  of  Liturgies. 

Dr.  Neale  in  one  of  his  celebrated  Liturgical  Essays  gives  a  few 
specimens  of  the  Manx  names  of  Fasts  and  Festivals.  I  propose  in  the 
present  paper  to  enlarge  a  little  from  personal  knowledge  upon  one  of 
these.  The  one  which  I  will  take  is  the  name  for  Christmas  Eve — Oie*l- 
yn-Voirrey,  literally  the  *  Eve  of  Mary.*  Moirrcy  is  the  Manx  for  Mary, 
and  the  letters  M  and  V  are  constantly  interchanged  in  construction. 

It  is  sometimes  remarked  that  at  the  present  day  Christmas  has 
usurped  the  position  of  Easter;  the  former  having  become  practically 
what  the  latter  is  still  theoretically,  the  greatest  Festival  of  the  Christian 
Year.  And  there  is  an  idea  prevalent  that  the  change  has  arisen  since 
the  Reformation,  and  is  a  kind  of  Protestant  tradition.  But  I  am 
inclined  to  think  this  theory  very  doubtful.  I  am  disposed  to  believe 
that  with  most  of  the  northern  nations,  Christmas,  with  its  peculiar  and 
touching  associations,  took,  from  the  very  first  preaching  of  Christianity 
amongst  them,  a  firmer  hold  of  their  imaginations  and  their  heai'ts  than 
any  of  the  other  seasons  which  commemorate  the  great  facts  of  the 
Gospel  History.     It  will  not  be  forgotten  what  an  important  share  the 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MANXLAND.  185 

midnfght  Bfass  on  Christmas  Eve  had  in  the  conversion  of  Iceland,  and 
of  several  parts  of  Norway.  There  maj  also  be  something  in  this,  that 
the  devotion  of  the  Eastern  Church  has  in  a  special  manner  been  lavished 
upon  the  Cross  and  Passion  and  Resurrection  of  Christ,  the  devotion  of 
the  Western  Church,  most  of  all  perhaps  in  medisBval  times,  upon  His 
Incarnation,  Birth,  and  Infancy.  I  suppose  there  is  more  in  these  events 
which  appeals  to  the  spirit  of  romance,  which  lies  deep  down  in  the 
breast  of  every  Northman.  Something  too  may  be  due  to  the  time  of 
year:  for  of  course  the  iron-bound  winters  of  ice  and  snow,  and  the 
storms  and  tempests  of  the  Atlantic  and  the  North  Sea,  were  transferred 
to  the  vales  of  Judtea,  where  the  *  shepherds  were  abiding  in  the  field, 
keeping  watch  over  their  flocks  by  night.' 

So  I  have  no  doubt  that  practically  Christmas  was  always  the  Festival 
of  the  Manx  Church ;  and  that  those  customs  which  have  survived  to  our 
own  time,  are  relics  and  indications  of  the  love  and  the  honour  in  which 
it  was  held.  So  late  as  a  generation  ago,  I  believe  there  was  not  a  single 
church  in  the  Island  in  which  there  was  not  a  service  on  the  Oie'l-yn- 
Yoirrey.  This  consisted  of  the  usual  Evensong  of  the  English  Book  of 
Common  Prayer,  followed  by  a  sermon.  The  sermon  over,  carol-singing 
began.  Each  person  who  intended  to  sing  a  carol  or  hymn,  placed  a  thin 
lighted  taper  on  the  desk,  a  book-board  before  him,  and  went  on  singing 
as  long  as  the  taper  lasted.  Then  another  would  light  his  taper  and  begin 
to  sing ;  and  so  on.  There  is  at  least  one  church  in  the  Island  where  this 
curious  and  ancient  custom  is  retained  to  the  present  day.  But  it  may 
easily  be  understood  how  very  liable  such  a  practice  would  be  to  degenerate 
into  abuse,  unless  the  singers  were  kept  in  order  with  a  very  tight  hand 
by  the  parish  priest.  In  fact,  the  reason  why  the  Oie'1-yn-Voirrey  was 
discontinued  in  one  church  was,  because  one  man,  instead  of  singing  a 
hymn  or  a  carol,  sung  the  secular  piece  called  '  The  Burial  of  Sir  John 
Moore.'  And  I  myself  recollect  perfectly,  when  a  young  child,  more  thau 
thirty  years  ago,  being  taken  to  the  last  of  the  old  Oie*l-yn-Voirrey 
services  in  the  town  in  which  I  lived.  The  large  church  was  quite  full, 
and  I  remember  distinctly  the  scene  of  disorder,  almost  of  riot,  which 
prevailed  in  the  gallery  in  which  I  was.  Some  were  eating  nuts  and 
oranges,  and  some  were  drinking  spirits  which  they  had  under  the  seats, 
and  even  smoking  tobacco.  The  voice  of  the  venerable  old  vicar  could 
scarcely  be  heard  from  the  buzz  of  conversation ;  and  at  last  he  was 
struck  by  a  nut-shell  which  someone  threw  at  him.  After  this  Christmas 
Eve,  he  discontinued  the  service.  The  present  vicar  has  again  revived 
it ;  but  it  is  now  simply  the  ordinary  Evensong,  followed  by  a  sermon-* 
no  carol-singing,  and  attended  by  a  scanty  congregation  of  perhaps  a 
score. 

The  writer  of  this  paper,  having  passed  his  childhood  and  early  youth 
in  the  Isle  of  Man,  has  a  very  vivid  recollection  of  many  interesting 
customs  and  practices,  relics  of  an  earlier  and  far  different  age — customs 
and  practices  now  extinct,  and  only  surviving  in  the  memories  of  those 

VOL.    10.  13  PART  56. 


186  THK  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

who  witnessed  them.  No  stranger  at  the  present  day,  though  Itving  for 
years  in  Manxland,  would  probably  have  the  slightest  idea  that  such 
customs  had  ever  existed,  so  completely  have  most  of  them  at  least  passed 
away. 

One  of  the  writer's  earliest  recollections  is  of  a  Manx  public  Baptism-^ 
public,  that  is,  so  far,  that  it  took  place  in  the  parish  church,  and  thai 
the  child  had  sponsors,  though  it  was  after  the  Sunday  Evensong  waa 
over.  It  must  be  more  than  three  and  thirty  years  ago,  but  he 
remembers  *  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  his  friends  saying  after  service, 

*  We  have  never  seen  a  Baptism  in  P Church ;  let  us  stay  to  the 

Baptisms  this  afternoon.'  There  were  always  a  number  of  children 
christened  aller  Sunday  Evening  Service.  And  the  way  in  which  the 
Baptism  was  administered  is  this.  The  Vicar  thrice  dipped  his  hand 
into  the  water  in  the  basin,  and  thrice,  once  at  each  of  the  Uoly  Names, 
sprinkled,  not  poured,  water  upon  the  face  of  the  child,  and  carefully 
made  the  aspersions  in  such  a  manner  as  to  form  the  sij^  of  the  Cross. 
And  child  as  he  was,  the  writer  well  remembers  his  relations  saying  a» 
they  walked  home,  '  Did  you  observe  how  the  Vicar  sprinkled  all  the 
children  three  times,  and  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross  in  the  sprinkling,  as 
well  as  at  the  appointed  place  at  the  reception  T  At  any  rate,  there  could 
be  no  doubt  as  to  the  validity  of  the  Baptism  administered  by  this  dear 
good  old  Priest. 

And  it  strikes  one  as  being  somewhat  interesting  just  at  present,  when 
doubts  are  being  cast  by  a  very  high  authority  upon  the  validity  of 
Anglican  Baptisms.  There  has  doubtless  been  great  and  culpable 
carelessness  in  many  instances — in  some  cases,  to  the  writer's  knowledge, 
far  worse  than  carelessness,  in  our  Communion;  bnt  carelessness  and 
profanity  have  been  the  exception,  hot  the  rule,  in  the  Anglican  Church. 
And  where  is  the  Church  which  can  wholly  exclude  an  improper  and 
invalid  administration  of  the  Sacraments?    The  Priest,  whose  method 

of  giving  Baptism  has  been  described  above,  had  been  Vicar  of  P 

for  forty  years  when  he  died,  now  thirty  years  ago.  The  population  of 
the  parish  was  between  four  and  five  thousand,  and  as  no  Baptism  waa 
ever  performed  by  anyone  except  the  parish  priest,  he  must  in  his  forty 
years  incumbency  have  baptized  some  five  or  six  thousand  childrent 
every  one  doubtless  as  carefully  as  those  the  writer  witnessed.    This 

Priest  was  the  immediate  successor  in  the  Vicarage  of  P of  the 

student  who  is  mentioned  in  Bishop  Wilson's  Life,  as  being  with  him 
at  Bishopeoourt,  and  reading  the  Greek  Testament,  when  the  saintly 
Prelate  suddenly  exclaimed, '  Do  yon  see  them— do  you  see  them  V  *  See 
what,  my  Lord?'  said  the  young  student,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
where  he  saw  the  Bishop  gazing  so  earnestly.  *  See  the  angels  of  Ood 
ascending  and  descending  on  those  trees,'  was  the  reply.  No  one  would 
think  that  one  thus  trained  for  the  Priesthood  in  the  house  and  under  the 
eye  of  Bishop  Wilson  would  be  other  than  a  careful  administerer  of 
Baptism.    And  he,  too,  was  Vicar  of  P for  forty  years.     Ajid  we 


RBCOLLECTIONS  OF  MAKXLAKD.  187 

^nll  readily  voach  for  the  carefalness  of  the  present  Vicar,  who  has  been 
there  thirty  years.  It  may  not  perhaps  be  very  much,  still  there  is  some 
interest  in  tracing  back  the  administration  of  the  Ht>ly  Sacrament  of 
Baptism,  in  at  least  one  Anglican  parish,  and  that,  a  parish  containing 
fire  thousand  souls,  for  the  long  period  of  one  hundred  and  ten  years, 
and  that  the  last  one  hundred  and  ten  years. 

One  more  very  pleasing  reminiscence  of  this  venerable  parish  priest 

shall  be  given.    In  addition  to  being  Vicar  of  P ^  he  was  also  master 

t>f  the  Grammar  School.  Morning  school  was  over  at  twelve  o'clock ; 
and  it  was  his  almost  invariable  practice  to  take  a  walk  immediately 

afterwards  upon  the  beautiful  beach  of  P ,  with  the  romantically 

sitvated  but  ruined  Cathedral  of  St  Germain  on  one  side  of  the  bay, 
«nd  some  noble  crags  on  the  other. 

Again  the  mists  of  many  by-gone  years  seem  to  roll  away,  and  the 
writer  beholds  his  Vicar  and  beloved  tutor,  walking  beside  Uie  crystal 
waves ;  for  the  sea  aroand  the  shores  of  Mona  is  as  clear  as  crystal  in 
fine  weather;  and  onoe  again  he  hears  the  yoang  children  of  the  town 
raying  to  each  other,  *  See,  there's  the  Parson,' — Parson  is  the  invariable 
name  given  to  a  clergyman  by  the  Manx — 'let  us  run  and  get  Ims 
blessing.'  And  on  such  occasions  I  have  seen  the  little  boys  and  girls 
run  down  to  the  sea-side  and  curtsey,  and  bob  their  heads,  and  then  the 
Vicar  would  stop  in  his  walk  and  solemnly  lay  his  hand  upon  their 
beads  and  bless  them.  Few  persons  probably  think  that  less  than  forty 
years  ago,  in  at  any  rate  one  remote  comer  ef  the  Anglican  Church,  the 
Priest's  blessing  was  asked  for  and  bestowed  just  as  a  matter  of  coarse» 
at  least  by  and  upon  the  little  ones  of  the  fold. 

The  Manx,  in  common  apparently  with  several  other  portions  of  the 
Celtic  races,  have  what^  for  want  t>f  a  better  term  to  express  one's 
meaning,  may  be  ealled  a  natural  turn  of  mind  for  theology  and 
theological  questions.  A  rather  curious  example  of  this  occurs  to  my 
mind.  When  qui^  a  young  boy,  one  of  my  friends  amongst  the  poor 
was  a  middle-aged  widow,  who  lived  near,  and  kept  a  very  small  shop. 
For  a  wonder,  she  was  a  Churchwoman — that  is  to  say,  she  did  not  belong 
to  any  other  religions  body  except  the  Church ;  in  other  words,  she  was 
not  ^joined  among  the  Methodists,'  as  the  phrase  went  She  was  quite 
tUilerate — at  least,  reading  and  writing  were  the  extent  of  her  acquire* 
ments.  One  day  I  was  having  a  chat  with  her  about  fairies,  and  hearing 
from  her  some  very  wonderful  tales  about  them.  In  those  days  no  real 
poor  native  Manxman  or  Manxwoman  could  be  found  who  did  not 
believe  in  the  existence  of  the  fairies.  I  of  course  had  been  taught  to 
look  upon  it  as  all  nonsense :  so  when  my  friend  had  related  her  stories 
of  what  she  herself  and  others  whom  she  had  known  had  seen  and 
heard  of  the  fairies,  I  began  good-humouredly  to  laugh  at  her;  and  at 

last  wound  up  by  saying,  '  Now,  Mrs.  C j  do  you  really  mean  to  say 

that  you  believe  in  fairies! '  Her  answer  was  certainly  very  striking. 
*  No,  Master  T ^  I  do  not  believe  in  fairies ;  I  believe  in  Qod :  bui 


188  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

/  believe  that  there  are  fairies.    Master  T scarcely  knew  why, 

but  he  well  remembers  that,  child  as  he  was,  he  felt  very  considerably 
shut  up.  In  afler  years  he  has  often  marvelled  how  that  illiterate  woman, 
who  long  years  ago  has  been  in  eternity,  came  by  her  perfectly  accurate, 
not  only  thought  about,  but  way  of  expressing,  one  of  the  first  and 
greatest  doctrines  of  the  Catholic  Faith.  Whenever  since  he  has  read 
Bishop  Pearson,  the  thought  of  his  boyhood's  Manx  friend  has  come  into 
his  mind ;  and  he  has  said  to  himself  that  even  Bishop  Pearson  or  St. 
Thomas  Aquinas  could  not  have  expressed  themselves  with  greater 
clearness. 

Ought  one  to  put  away  the  thought  which  rises  unbidden — '  I  thank 
Thee,  O  Father,  because  Thou  hast  hid  these  tilings  from  the  wise  and 
prudent,  and  hast  revealed  them  unto  babes'? 

And  perhaps  not  the  least  curious  or  noteworthy  circumstance  is,  that 
one  who  could  thus  clearly  think,  and  accurately  express  her  thoughts, 
should  be  what  most  educated  people  would  consider  sunk  in  the  depths 
of  superstition.  Somewhere  about  the  time  that  this  conversation  took 
place,  small-pox  raged  to  a  great  extent  in  the  town,  and  there  were 
many  deaths.  The  writer  remembers  perfectly  her  telling  him  that  the 
mother  of  the  small-pox  was  to  be  seen  every  night  brooding  over  the 
town;  and  when  he  asked  her  what  it  or  rather  she  was  like,  it  was 
described  in  terms  which  gave  him  the  idea  of  something  huge  and 
vast  and  white,  as  big  at  least  as  a  house,  hovering  like  a  bird  of  prey 
over  the  parish.  Most  of  the  superstitions,  of  which  she  used  constantly 
to  speak,  she  undoubtedly  believed  firmly  herself.  Others  again  were 
clearly  pious  frauds,  got  up  with  the  best  of  motives,  and  for  practical 
purposes.  For  instance,  she  had  an  only  child,  a  son,  about  fourteen 
years  old,  who  had  got  into  the  habit  of  going  out  and  spending  the 
winter  evenings  with  some  not  very  desirable  companions,  at  a  place 
close  to  the  sea  called  the  Gable.  One  night,  just  after  dark,  I  happened 
to  be  in  the  cottage,  when  John  took  up  his  cap,  and  was  stealing  out  to 
go  off  as  usual  to  the  Gable.  His  mother  called  him  back,  saying,  *  I  only 
want  to  speak  to  you  for  a  minute.'  John  came  back  half  into  the  house, 
when  his  mother  bent  down  her  lips  close  to  his  face,  and  said  solemnly, 
making  her  words  all  the  more  effective  by  dropping  her  voice  to  a  half 
whisper,  *  Hav'n't  you  heard,  there's  something  taking  every  night  down 
at  the  Gable — something  without  a  head?'  It  should  be  explained  that 
the  Manx  use  the  expression  '  taking,'  when  we  should  say  haunting. 
Instead  of  saying  such  a  place  is  haunted,  the  Manx  would  say,  there's 
something  'taking'  in  such  a  place.  The  effect  of  this  evidently  im- 
provised invention  was  perfectly  successful.  John  instantly  came  back 
into  the  house,  hung  up  his  cap  upon  the  nail,  and  sat  down  by  the 
fire  thoughtful  and  silent.  And  never  again  did  he  spend  his  winter 
evenings  at  the  Gable.  The  anxious  mother  surely  deserved  her 
success.  For  it  must  be  remembered  that  she  had  a  firm  belief  in  the 
existence  of  ghosts  generally.     She  believed  that  '  things  without  heads 


J 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  MANXLAND.  189 

took'  somewhere,  either  at  the  Gable  or  at  some  other  place.  Why 
then  not  at  the  Gable  as  well  as  anywhere  else?  So  that  the  actual 
invention,  or  amount  of  fiction,  on  her  part  was  reduced  to  a  minimum. 
It  will  be  observed,  too,  how  artistically  constructed  was  her  little  ghost 
story  ;  and  how  the  very  Manx  expression  itself,  ^  taking,'  gives  far  more 
than  haunting  does,  an  indefinable  sense  of  mystery  and  horror  and 
dread  to  intimations  of  supernatural  oppearances.  Again,  how  fisur  more 
effective  it  was  to  speak  of  '  something  without  a  head  taking,'  than  to 
say  that  there  was  a  man  or  a  woman  to  be  seen  without  a  head.  The 
something  was  the  word  of  dread.  It  was  the  Hebrew  *  Davar*  of 
the  ninety-first  Psalm,  which  we  translate,  following  the  Masoretic 
punctuation,  '  Pestilence ;'  but  which  the  Vulgate,  following  in  this  place 
the  old  Italic  version,  gives  so  grandly,  ^  Negotium  perambulans  in 
tenebris.* 

Speaking  above  of  fairies  leads  one  to  say  that  the  belief  about  them, 
for  one  must  not  say  in  them,  was  universal  amongst  the  Manx 
peasantry  so  late  as  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago,  and  very  possibly  is 
even  now. 

Many  were  the  farm-houses  which  the  writer  knew  as  a  boy,  where 
the  pan  of  milk  was  scrupulously  left  in  the  kitchen  at  night  for  the  good 
folks;  and  many  the  houses  where  the  human  inhabitants  would  go  early 
to  bed  on  wet  and  stormy  nights  to  leave  the  coast  clear  for  their  fairy 
neighbours,  who  were  believed  to  come  trooping  in  on  such  occasions, 
to  enjoy  themselves  by  the  turf  fire. 

The  superatitions  too  about  the  fairies  and  unbaptized  children  were 
very  cui-ious,  and  were  in  full  force  so  late  as  twelve  or  fifteen  years  ago. 
It  was  only  over  an  unbaptized  child  that  the  fairies  were  supposed  to 
have  any  power.  But  if  an  infant  were  lefl  unbaptized,  it  might,  unless 
carefully  watched,  be  carried  off  to  fairy-land,  and  a  scion  of  the  good 
folks  substituted  for  it.  To  prevent  such  an  untoward  event,  a  light  was 
always  kept  burning  through  the  night  in  the  chamber  where  the  infant 
slept,  reminding  us  of  Scott's  lines — 

*  Within  it  bums  a  wondrous  light. 
To  quell  the  spirits  that  love  the  night ; 
That  light  shall  bum  unquenchably, 
Until  the  eternal  doom  shall  be.* 

With  some  a  Bible  placed  under  the  infant's  pillow  was  considered  as 
efficacious  as  a  light.  Others  again  would  use  the  Book  of  Common 
Prayer  either  in  Manx  or  English.  And  with  the  great  prevalence  of 
Wesleyanism,  the  use  of  a  copy  of  Wesley's  Hymns  was  just  beginning 
to  creep  in.  But  this  was  by  no  means  considered  a  legitimate  or 
orthodox  protection  by  the  generality  of  the  people. 

Superstition  of  a  certain  kind  seems  to  be  engrained  in  the  Celtic  races, 
and  is  not  in  any  way  dependent,  as  might  at  first  be  supposed,  upon  the 
particular  form  of  religion  which  they  profess.    Protestantism  no  more 


1 


1 90  THE  MONTHLY  PACKBT. 

uproots  tbese  superstitions  than  Catholicism  does.  The  Manx  of  the 
present  day  are  some  of  the  firmest  Protestants  in  the  world ;  but  as  • 
class  thej  could  scarcely  be  more  superstitious  than  they  are* 

Another  instance  shall  be  given.  The  writer  well  remembers,  when  a 
very  young  child,  that  there  was  a  most  destructive  murrain  amongst  the 
cattle  in  the  parish.  It  visited *with  peculiar  severity  the  beasts  belonging 
to  a  large  farmer,  who  was  also  a  very  popular  Methodist  local  preacher. 
But  his  dissent  gave  him  no  immunity  from  what  we  should  now  call 
superstition.  In  the  south  of  England  this  fimner  would  have  been 
almost  a  smaU  squire,  for  he  had  about  six  hundred  acres  of  his  own 
freehold  land.  I  suppose  that  he  tried  the  different  methods  which  would 
be  in  vogue  for  checking  the  cattle  plague.  But  whatever  he  did,  all 
was  unavailing.  The  cattle  continued  to  ricken  and  die,  and  he  wa» 
threatened  with  the  loss  of  his  entire  stock.  In  this  extremity  he 
solemnly  sacrifrced  a  heifer,  not  of  course  to  any  idol  or  demon  or  wicked 
spirit,  but  to  Almighty  God.  This  action,  which  certainly  se^ns  a  very 
strange  one,  and  must,  one  would  think,  be  unprecedented  in  the  nineteenth 

century,  was  quite  a  nine  days  wonder  in  P ^  within  a  mile  or  two 

of  which  town  the  sacrifice  took  place.  The  i»opriety  or  impropriety 
of  the  act  was  eagerly  debated  by  all  dasses  of  the  inhabitants. 
Some  defended  it  upon  the  ground,  that  as  the  heifer  was  offered 
in  sacrifice  to  the  true  Grod,  it  could  not  be  wrong ;  others  condemned, 
because  all  such  sacrifices  had  been  abolished  under  the  Christian 
Dispensation. 

It  is  not  worth  while  to  enter  into  the  discussion  ol  so  knotty  a  poinL 
For,  though  what  has  been  related  did  actually  take  i^ace  less  than  forty 
years  ago,  such  a  sacrifice,  which  to  the  best  of  the  writer's  recollection^ 
was  consumed  by  fire,  as  a  whole  burnt  offering,  is  scarcely  likely  ever 
to  occur  again  in  any  nook  or  comer  of  the  British  Isles.  One  thing 
only  remains  to  be  chronicled.  Afiter  the  sacrifice  the  plague  was 
stayed* 

I  am  jotting  down  my  recollections  of  Manxland  without  much  order, 
as  they  oocnr  to  me;  but  I  hope  they  may  not  be  entirely  devoid  of 
interest 

The  customs  at  funerals  used  to  be  very  curious,  and  I  suppose  that 
even  now  they  are  not  very  much  changed. 

When  anyone  died,  it  was  usual  on  the  day  of  the  funeral,  for  the  parish 
clerk  to  go  to  the  house,  and  accompany  the  corpse  to  church,  singing 
hymns  and  psalms  the  whole  way.  In  some  cases  I  have  known  the 
funeral  procession  set  off  from  a  house  five  and  six  miles  distant  from 
the  parish  churchyard.  In  such  cases  the  clerk  would  precede  the  Iner, 
singing  a  psalm;  after  that  there  would  be  silence  for  a  space,  then 
another  hymn  or  psalm  would  be  sung ;  and  so  there  would  be  alternate 
singing  and  silence  for  the  whole  six  miles  until  the  church  gates  were 
reached.  In  the  Isle  of  Man  the  parish  clerks  are,  I  believe,  without 
exception,  moderately  skilled   in    ecclesiastical    music,   as    the   Canon 


RECOLLBCTIONS  OF  MANXLAND.  191 

requires.  At  funerals  I  have  no  doubt  they  represent  the  procession  of 
priests,  who,  together  with  the  clergy  in  minor  Orders,  in  Catholic  times 
sang  Requiem,  and  De  Proftindis,  and  the  Dies  Iraa,  and  the  other  parts 
of  the  service  for  the  dead,  as  they  accompanied  a  funeral  to  church. 
As  shewing  the  relative  estimation  in  which  the  respective  offices  of 
parson  and  clerk  are  now  held,  so  far  as  burying  the  dead  is  concerned, 
I  may  mention,  that  in  the  parish  of  P  ,  and  probably  in  other 
parishes  of  the  island,  the  clerk's  fee  for  a  funeral  is  just  three  times  as 
much  as  the  Vicar's.  And  considering  the  relative  amount  of  work,  this 
is  not  an  unfair  proportion.  The  only  thing  which  is  now  sung  upon 
these  occasions  is  Brady  and  Tate's  Y^-sion  of  the  Psalms.  This 
selection  is  not  of  course  very  poetical.  Still  I  should  think,  there 
are  few  more  imposing  sights  to  be  witnessed  in  the  British  Isles,  than 
one  of  these  funeral  processions  winding  over  some  wild  mountain  road, 
or  among  the  defiles  of  a  romantic  glen,  or  along  a  lonely  sea-shore. 
All  the  neighbours  and  acquaintance  of  the  deceased,  often  amounting  to 
hundreds,  accompany  him  to  his  last  resting-place,  and  join  in  the  solemn 
Uines  of  the  funeral  Psalms;  for  the  Manx  are  all  musical,  and  minor 
keyed  tunes  are  chosen  for  such  occasions,  of  course  rendering  the  effect 
more  striking.  1  believe  the  Manx  have  a  rhythmical,  or  rather  rhyming 
version  of  the  Psalms  in  their  own  language,  which  is  sometimes  used 
in  carrying  old  people  to  their  burial,  but  I  do  not  know  what  are  its 
poetical  merits.  It  is  to.  be  hoped  they  are  superior  to  Brady  and  Tate. 
In  calling  to  mind  the  vast  crowds  which  I  have  seen  accompanying 
Manx  funerals,  I  always  seem  to  have  brought  vividly  before  my  mind's 
eye  the  scene  described  in  the  seventh  chapter  of  St.  Luke :  '  And  He 
went  into  a  city  called  Nain  ;  and  many  of  His  disciples  went  with  Him, 
and  much  people.  Now  when  He  came  nigh  to  the  gate  of  the  city, 
behold,  there  was  a  dead  man  carried  out,  the  only  son  of  his  mother, 
and  she  was  a  widow :  and  much  people  of  the  city  was  mth  her^ 
The  Manx  are,  or  at  least  used  to  be,  very  reverent  at  funerals ;  anyone 
meeting  a  funeral  would  remove  his  hat,  and  stand  bare-headed  until  the 
procession  had  gone  past  In  this  respect  their  customs  were  rather 
Continental  than  English.  Indeed,  although  the  Manx  of  the  present 
day  are,  like  their  Welsh  cousins,  most  ardent  Protestants,  they  do  not 
seem  to  have  taken  very  kindly  to  the  Reformation  in  the  first  instance. 
Practically,  during  Henry  the  Eighth's  reign,  there  was  probably  no 
change  at  all  in  religion,  except  that  the  monastic  establishments  were 
suppressed.  One  of  these,  Rushen  Abbey,  is  said  to  have  been  the  last 
surrendered  to  Henry's  Commissioners.  In  Edward  the  Sixth's  short 
reign  there  seems  to  have  been  no  change.  In  Mary's  time  the  old 
worship  would  of  course  go  on  as  before.  Then  came  Elizabeth.  And 
it  is  under  her,  and  late  in  her  reign,  that  one  of  the  very  few  notices  of 
the  Reformation  occurs  in  connection  with  the  Island.  It  seems  that  the 
Manx  would  persist  in  visiting  the  graves  of  their  relations,  and  that 
they  knelt  down  beside  them  and  prayed  for  the  souls  of  their  departed 


192  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

friends.  For  there  is  still  extant  amongst  ihe  records  in  the  Manx  Rolls 
Office,  an  order  of  the  Lieutenant-governor  of  the  Island  at  the  time, 
that  is  about  1580,  forbidding  tlie  people  praying  at  the  graves  of  their 
relations,  and  threatening  them  with  punishment  in  case  they  should 
persist.  This  order  seems  to  have  had  the  desired  effect,  for  we  hear  no 
more  of  the  practice.  One  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  Governor's 
Ordinance  was  an  infringement  of  religious  liberty,  which  in  our  day 
would  be  severely  condemned  by  all  parties,  but  which  of  course  was  in 
entire  conformity  with  the  spirit  of  the  age  in  which  it  was  issued.  It 
certainly  was  unnecessary,  for  the  custom  would  have  gradually  died  out 
with  the  advance  of  the  Reformation. 

Indeed,  the  Protestant  Reformation,  with  this  exception,  seems  to  have 
been  brought  about  in  the  Isle  of  Man  by  the  spontaneous,  and  probably 
gradual,  adoption  of  it  by  the  clergy  and  people  themselves.  There  is  a 
somewhat  curious  incidental  proof  of  this  to  be  found  in  the  parish 

church  of  M .     There  still  remain  there,  but  stowed  away,  I  believe, 

in  a  lumber  closet,  the  old  Instruments  of  the  Altar,  as  used  in  Catholic 
times.  They  are  in  an  excellent  state  of  preservation,  and  consist  of  a 
Crucifix  and  two  candlesticks  of  bronze.  They  are  not  artistically 
beautiful,  but  not  devoid  of  a  rude  kind  of  grace :  and  at  any  rate  are 
interesting  from  by-gone  associations.  One  can  imagine  that  they  were 
carefully  removed  three  hundred  years  ago,  by  some  lover  of  the  old 
religion,  who  perhaps  looked  upon  the  advancing  wave  of  the  Reformation 
as  a  tide  that  he  would  see  afler  a  few  years  again  recede.  So  he 
preserved  the  old  symbols,  for  what  to  his  mind  were  the  better  dsnys* 
coming,  that  he  hoped  and  longed  for,  but  which,  in  common  with  ali 
things  that  are  really  past,  were  never  to  come  again  after  the  old 
form. 

I  do  not  suppose  I  have  by  any  means  exhausted  all  my  recollections 
of  Mannand  in  the  generation  past,  or  fast  passing  away,  but  I  have 
probably  said  quite  enough  for  the  present. 


THE   EDINBURGH   LADIES*  EDUCATIONAL 

ASSOCIATION. 

When,  in  Miss  Edgeworth's  '  Rosamond,'  old  Lady  Worral  asks  if  the 
heroine's  education  will  soon  be  finished,  the  answer  is,  *  Never  while 
she  lives.'    Brave  words,  but  sometimes  difficult  of  fulfilment. 

The  girl  of  eighteen  whose  interest  in  her  lessons  has  perhaps  only 
lately  been  aroused,  and  who  for  the  last  year  has  been  working  harder, 
and  with  more  pleasure,  than  ever  before  in  her  life,  is  oflen  suddenly 
thrown  on  her  own  resources ;  her  time  her  own,  but  all  guidance  and 
help  in  further  study  taken  away.     It  requires  exceptional  energy,  even 


EDINBUEGH  LADIBS'  EDUCATIONAL  ASSOCIATION.         193 

exceptional  talent,  to  carry  on  good  work  at  that  age  without  super- 
intendence. 

The  Bishop  of  Orleans  in  his  recent  little  book  on  women's  education, 
says — 'In  order  to  give  women  the  habit  of  work,  they  must  be  impressed 
as  girls  with  the  fact  that  their  education  is  not  finished  at  eighteen,  and 
that  their  first  ball-dress  does  not  possess,  any  more  than  a  bachelor's 
degree  for  young  men,  the  power  of  giving  the  finishing  touch  to  their 
attainments.  At  that  age  they  scarcely  know  even  the  primary  notions 
that  would  enable  them  to  study  by  themselves.  They  no  longer  want 
any  leading-stnngs  in  their  education,  and  that  is  all.  They  are  only 
ready  to  go  on  and  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  working  for  themselves.'  Happy 
are  those  who  have  some  cultivated  friend,  best  of  all  a  father,  with  time 
and  inclination  to  pilot  them  in  their  further  studies.  But  these  are  the 
exceptional  cases :  as  a  rule  it  is  otherwise;  and  from  all  sides  we  hear  now 
the  same  complaint,  that  a  lady's  education  is  too  desultory,  and  stops  too 
soon.  EfiTorts  have  been  made  in  various  places  to  supply  this  want;  such 
as,  lectures  to  ladies  in  several  towns — the  College  at  Hitchen — the  Cam- 
bridge examinations,  &c, ;  but  nowhere,  I  believe,  has  a  more  systematic 
and  successful  attempt  been  made  to  meet  it  than  in  Edinburgh,  by  the 
Association  I  am  about  to  describe.  It  was  founded  three  or  four  years 
ago,  by  a  few  ladies  interested  in  such  matters,  but  now  numbers  many 
members,  under  the  presidentship  of  the  Duchess  of  Argyle ;  and  it  offers 
to  women  over  seventeen,  the  essentials  of  a  liberal  education.  Liberal, 
not  professional  training,  which  latter  is  also  to  be  had  in  Edinburgh,  but 
4v4Ufib  I  only  mention  to  dismiss  from  all  consideration,  except  to  remark 
^iukljtjmust  always  be  exceptional.  The  Association  only  carries  on 
fiirtfa<|i,  and  in  a  form  fitted  for  grown*up  girls  in  society,  the  ordinary 
education  of  a  lady.  It  offers  precise  accurate  teaching,  giving  such  a 
grasp  of  subjects  as  may  enable  the  student  to  work  at  them  afterwards 
with  a  prospect  of  success;  and  it  offers  it  under  such  protection  that  any 
young  lady  may  avail  herself  of  it  alone.  The  committee  arranges  with 
several  Professors  of  the  Edinburgh  nnivei*sity,  to  deliver  their  College 
lectures  to  separate  Classes  of  ladies,  in  a  room  hired  for  the  purpose. 
These,  unlike  popular  lectures,  consist  of  a  full  course  of  from  thirty  to 
forty  lectures  from  each  professor,  and  extend  over  the  winter  session. 
The  Professor  of  English  Literature  began  the  experiment ;  the  following 
year  Mental  Philosophy  and  Experimental  Physics  were  added ;  last  session 
a  class  of  Mathematics  was  also  started,  and  a  class  under  the  Professor 
of  Botany  now  works  in  the  Botanical  Gardens.  These  were  all  working 
Classes;  students  were  expected  to  take  notes  of  the  lectures — their 
progress  was  tested  by  three  written  examinations,  and  by  the  writing  of 
Essays.  These  were  judged  by  the  same  standards  used  in  the  University^ 
and  final  Certificates  were  given  which  indicated  the  place  of  each 
student.  These  Certificates,  signed  by  the  professors,  in  which  honours 
of  the  fi^st  or  second  class  were  assigned,  or  pass- work  certified,  have  their 
real  value  in  the  educational  world  at  home,  or  in  foreign  universities. 


194  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  three  branches  of  the  Arts  Curriculum  are 
represented ;  viz.  literature  proper,  mathematical  and  physical  science, 
and  mental  philosophy  and  logic.  Students  of  all  ages  attended  the 
lectures ;  many  only  one  of  the  ox>ur8es — and  a  certain  proportion  gave 
in  no  work.  But  as  to  the  quality  of  the  work  given  in,  the  different 
Professors  report  highly  of  it.  Of  the  English  Literature  Class,  Professor 
Masson  says,  'I  had  a  lai^e  and  excellent  class,  conducted  as  nearly 
as  possible  as  a  university  Class — the  same  standards  were  applied  in 
judging  of  results — the  averages  came  up  fully  to  averages  elsewhere — 
the  best  here  were  closely  comparable  to  the  best  there.'  The  Professor 
of  Natural  Philosophy  remarks,  *  I  never  had  a  more  attentive  or  in- 
telligent class,  nor  one  in  which  the  progress  was  more  marked.'  And 
Professor  Fraser  reports  that  one-twelfth  of  his  Mental  Philosophy  Class 
gained  more  than  eighty  per  cent  of  the  marks,  that  one  or  two  of  the 
best  papers  were,  on  the  whole,  superior  to  any  of  the  corresponding 
university  class — and  that  the  answers  given  at  the  examinations,  which 
were  nearly  the  same,  and  equal  in  difficulty  to  those  at  the  university, 
shewed  powers  not  inferior  to  that  of  successful  candidates  for  honours  in 
mental  philosophy  at  Graduation.  And  Professor  Masson  said,  in  a 
recent  lecture,  that  while  the  extent  of  the  higher  education  given  to 
ladies  in  Edinburgh  might  be  guaged  by  the  fact  that  he  had  lectured  to 
between  five  and  six  hundred  students,  its  depth  might  be  estimated  by 
ike  &ct  that  the  Professor  of  Mathematics  had  brought  his  class  in  one 
session  to  quaternions. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  appreciation  of  these  lectures,  in  tho 
minds  of  those  who  have  seen  with  what  regularity  and  delight  they  were 
attended  last  session*  Not  only  the  Literature  Class,  which  seems  more 
akin  to  former  studies,  but  that  of  pure  Mathematics ;  and  also  Natural 
Philosophy,  in  which  Class  the  '  fiiiry  tales  of  science '  were  expounded 
with  great  clearness  and  interest  Yielding  to  none  in  interest  was  the 
course  of  Mental  Philosophy  based  on  Sir  W.  Hamilton's  works,  but 
giving  ample  scope  for  individual  ideas  ;  needing  no  preparation  but  a 
lively  intelligence,  but  giving  accuracy  and  point  to  vague  thinking,  and 
that  in  a  direction  especially  useful  in  this  present  time  of  encroaching 
materialism.  Indeed,  it  seems  to  be  proved  that  ladies  enjoy  snch  studies, 
which  give  most  wholesome  employment  for  that  young  activity  which 
one  regrets  to  see  squandered  on  croquet-parties,  and  afternoon  teas; 
and  that  such  work  has  also  a  direct  influence  on  the  character,  making 
it  more  developed,  more  womanly  and  capable.  And,  be  it  remarked, 
nothing  can  be  more  annihilating  to  the  conceit  of  a  clever  shallow  girl, 
than  the  contact  with  real  scholarship.  To  quote  again  the  Bishop  of 
Orieans— such  culture  *  would  reveal  to  women  in  their  own  minds, 
admirable  resources  for  their  happiness,  virtue,  and  whole  existence— 
either  in  society,  where  their  influence  can  raise  or  lower  everything,  or 
in  their  families.' 

Some  ladies  have  already  come  from  England  and  America  to  attend 


r 


MISSION  WORK  AT  HOME.  195 

these  classesy  and  more  may  wish  to  do  so.  Further  information  can  be 
had  on  application  to  the  Honorary  Secretary, 

Mbs.  Crudblius, 

CuAPEL-siDB,  Trinity, 

Edinburgh, 

who  always  takes  the  kindest  interest  in  the  Association,  in  great  part 
founded-  by  her  own  exertions. 

in  music  also,  the  University  extends  its  benefits  to  the  town.  It  is 
pretty  to  see  the  hard-working  students  with  their  books  under  their 
arms,  crowding  into  the  music  class-room,  to  hear  the  Professor  of  Music 
perform  on  the  magnificent  organ  the  finest  classical  music — Bach, 
Handel,  Beethoven,  &c. — after  an  exposition  of  its  construction  and 
history,  which  helps  them  towards  the  intellectual  conception,  so  needed 
in  music  of  the  highest  class,  and  especially  by  a  Scottish  audience. 
These  recitals  the  ladies  have  opportunities  of  attending,  and  perhaps  the 
hard  brain-work  makes  that  strand  of  etherial  beauty  twined  in  with  it, 
the  more  exquisite  and  telling.  For  those  who  sing,  there  are  good  vocal 
societies  to  join;  for  those  who  draw,  a  good  school  of  design ;  and  a 
picture-gallery  where  they  may  copy  with  complete  quiet  and  comfort. 

May  we  add,  that  something  of  the  old  unconventionality  and  aroma 
still  linger  about  the  Edinburgh  society,  where  people  Uve  much  together, 
not  so  broken  up  into  cliques  as  in  larger  places.  Like  all  northern  cities, 
it  is  warm  and  pleasant  in  the  cold  weather  its  houses  were  meant  to 
resist:  and  beautiful  generally; — never  more  so  than  when  the  neigh- 
bouring hills  stand  clear  against  frosty  skies,  and  the  bridges  and  piled 
buildings  are  bright  against  the  blue  winter  mist,  and  the  snow  defines 
the  quaint  gables  of  the  old  town. 

The  Lectures  to. ladies  begin  about  the  middle  of  November,  and 
continue,  with  a  short  Christmas  recess,  till  the  end  of  March. 

JEdinbwfyh,  Jum,  1870. 


MISSION  WORK  AT  HOME. 

No.  XIY. 

8T.  LUKK*S  KIS8X0N,  DKFTFORD. 

To  many  amongst  as,  we  would  hope  that  one  of  the  first  inquiries  of  a 
new  year*  has  beent  What  special  work  has  our  Heavenly  Father  given 
to  UB  to  do>  in  which  we  can  work  for  His  glory,  or  strive  to  win  souls  to 
Him  ?  If  the  question  is  at  all  times  a  heart-searching  one,  especially 
does  it  become  so  when  the  first  few  weeks  of  a  new  year  are  scarcely 
passed  away,  and  the  fervent  hopes  and  earnest  resolutions  arising  from 

♦  January,  1870. 


196  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

our  new  year's  prayers,  have  not  had  time  to  fade  away  in  the  dim  and 
indistinct  distance.  To  deepen  the  impression  of  every  solemn  season, 
to  strengthen  the  upward  thoughts  which  are  felt  at  such  a  time,  should 
be  our  aim,  leading  us  to  a  greater  devotion  of  heart  and  life,  as  one  of 
the  fruits  which  we  hope  may  spring  up  afterwards,  when  the  occasion 
wiiich  first  called  them  forth  has  passed  away. 

To  those  whose  hearts  are  filled  wirh  this  earnest  longing  to  do  some- 
thing for  Christ — who  have  made  it  one  subject  of  their  prayers  for  this 
new  year,  that  for  His  sake  they  may  work  to  His  glory,  they  may 
labour  in  His  Church,  they  may  give  of  the  means  which  God  has  given 
them — we  would  appeal  row,  earnestly  asking  their  help  for  a  Mission 
which,  in  the  peculiar  circumstances  under  which  it  is  placed,  most 
especially  needs  all  the  assistance  which  the  kind  liberality  of  whrr^- 
hearted  Church  people  may  dispose  them  to  give. 

We  are  pleading  now  in  behalf  of  St.  Luke's  Mission,  Deptford,  an 
account  of  which  was  given  in  *  The  Monthly  Packet,'  for  November, 
1868. 

Since  we  last  wrote  of  St.  Luke's,  Deptford,  great  changes  have  taken 
place,  not  in  the  Mission  itself,  which  has  continued  to  advance  in  use- 
fulness, but  in  the  condition  of  the  people  amongst  whom  its  work  is 
carried  on.  The  once  busy  occupations  which  employed  the  inhabitants 
of  Deptford  and  its  adjacent  districts  have  come  to  an  end.  The  closing 
of  the  dock -yards  has  thrown  thousands  out  of  employment;  and  not 
only  are  the  people  who  once  worked  in  the  dock-yards  the  sufferers  by 
this  change ;  the  shop-keepers  who  depended  upon  the  custom  of  these 
artizans  find  their  trade  at  an  end  ;  and  the  hands  that  worked  for  them 
are  at  a  stand -still.  It  is  thus  that  the  great  wave  of  East  End  poverty 
has  extended  from  place  to  place,  on  the  southern  side  of  the  Thames, 
just  as  the  stagnation  of  the  ship-building  trade  amongst  the  populations 
of  Limehouse,  Poplar,  and  Mill  wall,  has  had  the  same  effects  on  the 
northern  banks  of  the  river.  Yet,  amidst  all  this  poverty  and  sorrow, 
it  is  cheering  to  find  that  the  people  only  cling  the  more  closely  to  the 
Mission  and  its  services.  Still  the  little  offerings  of  the  people,  which 
can  only  be  given  by  the  exercise  of  a  loving  self-denial,  which  we 
should  do  well  to  emulate,  are  freely  bestowed  at  the  Church  services. 
And  now,  with  a  cheerless,  workless  winter  before  them,  what  is  there 
to  animate  the  hopes  and  to  sustain  the  courage  of  the  dispirited 
population  ? 

Happily  for  them,  their  missionary  clergyman,  the  Rev.  James 
Malcolmson,*  is  one  to  whom  scenes  of  deepest  poverty  are  no  strange 
thing.  The  experience  gained  in  the  north  of  England,  during  the  days 
of  the  cotton  famine,  has  been  a  providential  experience.  We  may 
here  quote  his  own  words :  '  During  the  sad  distress,  consequent  upon 
the  war  in  the  States  of  America,  when  the  clothing  of  the  operatives 

^  Kent  Cottage,  Amersham  Road,  New  Cross.  S.  E. 


MISSION  WORK  AT  HOME.  197 

became  worn  and  shabby,  so  that  they  could  not,  as  they  were  wont  to 
say,  *' appear  decently  at  church,"  I  have  oflen  (in  the  open  air)  preached 
to  attentive  audiences  of  three  hundred  people ! 

'Very  moving  was  the  spectacle  on. such  occasions,  when,  perhaps, 
standing  at  one  time  on  a  mill  door  step,  or  at  another  on  some  rough 
mound  in  a  vacant  space,  as  yet  unbuilt  upon,  under  the  open  canopy  of 
heaven,  and  the  grand  old  hills  around,  the  people  were  all  about  me,  a 
group  of  little  children  in  the  midst,  forming  the  centre  of  the  mass : 
very  inspiriting  the  singing  of  the  inspired  Canticles,  the  Magnificat^ 
or  the  Nunc  DimUtis^  or  the  Old  Hundredth  Psalm,  or  the  beautiful 
hymns,  "  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me,"  or  '*  Come,  let  us  join  our  cheerful 
songs,**  &c. 

*  These  were  seasons  calling  forth  mental  and  bodily  energy — calling 
forth  earnestness,  fervour,  faithfulness,  and  love — seasons  never  to  be 
forgotten. 

'  Standing,  on  one  occasion,  on  a  chair  in  an  open  space,  where  ^ve 
streets  met,  our  service  was  protracted  till  the  street  lamps  were  lit,  and 
the  stars  shone  brilliantly  from  the  sky  over  head,  yet  not  one  of  the 
vast  sea  of  human  faces  moved  away.  "The  love  of  God  in  Christ 
Jesus"  was  the  theme,  and  the  audience  felt  its  miglity  spell,  its  wondrous 
attractive  power.'  (See  an  interesting  paper  on  Open  Air  Services  as 
a  Missionary  Agency,  by  the  Rev.  J.  Malcolmson,  in  '  Church  Progress,' 
No.  V.) 

Perhaps  it  was  one  of  the  reflex  blessings  which  the  Providence  of 
God  designed  to  bring  out  of  those  dark  days  of  distress,  that  London, 
which  with  all  other  places  contributed  so  liberally  to  the  relief  of 
Lancashire  in  its  time  of  greatest  need,  should  receive  back  from  the 
north  missionary  clergymen,  accustomed  to  deal  with  hundreds  amidst 
scenes  of  deepest  want,  and  to  whom  even  East  End  poverty  could  wear 
no  new  phast",  for  they  have  experienced  a  greater  depth  before ;  and 
who  know  how  to  speak  the  words  of  Christian  sympathy  which  bind  all 
hearts  together  in  the  love  of  our  common  Lord  and  Master.  At  least 
we  know  that  more  than  one  East  End  Mission  has  reaped  this  benefit. 
And  yet,  even  with  this  experience,  who  can  estimate  how  great  must 
be  the  trial  of  living  entirely  amongst  a  population  under  these  depress- 
ing circumstances  ?  To  see  homes  that  were  once  in  the  enjoyment  of 
many  comforts  gradually  deprived  of  every  cherished  possession,  as  one 
by  one  every  article  of  furniture  of  any  marketable  value  is  parted  with 
to  sustain  the  long  struggle  with  want  and  starvation,  which  unhappily  is 
still  at  its  commencement.  And  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  surrounded  by 
so  much  sorrow,  what  would  become  of  these  people  if  they  had  not  their 
own  temporary  church,  and  missionary  clergyman,  and  the  opportunity 
of  offering  up  in  united  prayer  that  petition  which  must  come  so  very 
near  to  the  hearts  of  many  at  this  time,  *  That  it  may  please  Thee  to 
comfort  and  help  the  weak-hearted'  ? 

Few  things  can  shew  more  plainly  how  much  good  these  Missions 


198  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

effect,  and  how  deep  the  root,  which  by  the  blessing  of  God  they  take  in 
the  hearts  of  the  people,  than  seasons  such  as  this.  Let  us  be  thankful 
if  the  trials  of  the  present  winter  are  thus  made  helpful  in  bringing  the 
poor  of  the  flock  more  within  reach  of  the  blessings  which  the  loving 
Providence  of  their  Heavenly  Father  has  in  these  Missions  brought  near 
to  them*  . 

When  we  speak  of  St.  Luke's  Mission,  Deptford,  our  thoughts 
involuntarily  turn  to  its  commencement.  Twelve  wood*cutter  boys, 
gathered  together  in  a  small  wood-shed  on  a  Sunday  morning,  to  listen 
to  the  teaching  of  the  missionary  clergyman,  who  had  found  them  in  the 
streets  in  the  previous  week  playing  at  *  pitch  and  toss.'  This  was  the 
fir^t  congregation — tliis  the  beginning  of  the  Mission  !  Now  it  has 
developed  into  an  intelligent  and  devout  congregation,  to  be  numbered 
by  hundreds  at  every  service ;  and  possessing  its  own  faithful  band  of 
Communicants ;  its  Association  of  Church  Helpers ;  its  Sunday  School, 
with  its  diligent  voluntary  teachers,  all  of  whom  are  Communicants ;  its 
Cottage  Bible  Classes,  in  which,  teaching  diligently  from  house  to  house, 
the  Missionary  is  able  to  reach  the  more  scattered  portion  of  the  flock 
committed  to  his  care. 

Amongst  other  changes  which  have  taken  place  at  Deptford,  Sayes 
Court  has  been  re-purchnsed  from  the  Grovernment  by  W.  J.  Evelyn, 
Esq.,  the  donor  of  the  Site  for  St.  Luke*s  Church,  a  descendant  of  the 
good  John  Evelyn,  who  formerly  resided  there. 

It  will  perhaps  be  remembered,  that  in  consequence  of  the  Deanery  of 
Greenwich,  in  which  the  Mission  District  of  St.  Luke's,  Deptford,  ia 
situated,  having  been  transferred  to  the  Diocese  of  Rochester,  a  resolution 
was  passed  by  the  Committee  of  the  Bishop  of  London's  Fund,  to  the 
effect  that  districts  thus  transferred  should  only  receive  a  portion  of  the 
Grant  originally  intended  towards  the  erection  of  the  Church,  (and  this  to 
be  taken  up  within  a  g^ven  time,)  and  that  the  annual  grants  upon  which 
the  Missionary  Clei^ymen  have  to  depend  should  be  reduced  to  one  half 
from  Midsummer,  1869,  to  Midsummer,  1870,  when  they  would  cease 
altogether,  and  their  connection  with  the  Bishop's  Fund  be  at  an  end.  At 
the  time  this  resolution  was  passed,  no  organization  had  been  formed  in 
the  Diocese  of  Rochester  to  meet  the  peculiar  necessities  of  Districts  thus 
transferred ;  and  yet,  notwithstanding  the  great  depression  in  trade  in  the  ' 
neighbourhood,  the  people  in  St.  Luke's  availed  themselves  of  a  short 
temporary  absence  on  the  part  of  their  Missionary  Clergyman  to  hold  a 
meeting  in  the  spring  of  1869,  and  agreed  voluntarily  to  tax  themselves 
to  the  amount  of  £100  a  year,  to  make  up  the  amount  of  salary  which 
would  have  thus  been  lost  So  this  portion  of  the  Grant  has  been  made 
up  in  the  willing  offerings  of  grateful  love,  proving  in  a  touching  manner 
how  highly  the  peofde  prise  the  servicee  of  the  Missionary  who  has  been 
placed  amongst  them,  and  how  much  they  value  the  little  temporary 
House  of  Prayer  in  which  they  ai*e  wont  to  meet. 

As  to  the  larger  sum  voted  for  the  erection  of  the  new  Church,  it  is 


MISSION  WOHR  AT  HOMS.  199 

very  gratif3ring  to  read,  that  on  a  very  urgent  application  being  made  bj 
Mr.  Malcolmson  last  summer  to  the  Committee  of  the  Bishop's  Fund, 
thej  rescinded  their  former  resolution,  and  nobly  voted  the  full  Grant  of 
£1200.  So  the  connection  with  the  Bishop's  Fund,  which  had  originated 
the  Mission,  has  not  been  entirely  severed ;  and  additional  encouragement 
was  given  to  the  Mission  by  one  of  the  benevolent  office-bearers  of  the 
Bishop  of  London's  Fund,  paying  a  visit  to  St.  Luke's  Temporary  Church 
one  Sunday  evening,  and  promising  a  donation  of  £25  towards  the 
permanent  Church,  which  he  saw  to  be  urgently  needed,  and  at  the  same 
time  expressing  the  great  pleasure  it  had  given  him  to  see  so  large  and 
earnest  a  congregation,  and  to  hear  so  much  that  was  satisfactoiy  of  the 
progress  of  the  Mission.  Very  encouraging,  too,  and  very  gratifying  it 
is,  to  see  how  gladly,  out  of  their  sqiaU  means,  the  people  themselves 
contribute  towards  the  Church  which  they  so  much  need,  and  which  they 
so  long  to  see  planted  in  their  midst.  One  sends  three  shillings  in  stamps, 
and  Tfishes  that  she  were  richer,  so  that  she  might  have  the  privilege  and 
pleasure  of  giving  more.  An  old  man  sends  two  shillings  and  sixpence, 
with  a  prayer  that,  in  the  new  Church,  many  precious  souls  may  be  won  to 
Christ  A  domestic  servant,  who  has  to  aid  a  widowed  mother,  undertook 
to  dispose  of  some  bricks  and  stones,  and  in  three  weeks  her  sales  resulted 
in  sixteen  shillings  for  the  Fund.  A  tradesman,  with  a  large  family, 
undertakes  to  give  the  noble  sum  of  £35,  paid  in  quarterly  instalments. 

These  are  the  brighter  aspects  of  the  Mission,  the  cheering  spots  which 
shed  their  own  light  around  amidst  much  that  is  dark  and  clouded ;  but 
well  we  know  how  much  more  is  needed  before  the  Church  can  be  erected  I 
It  is  the  help  outside  the  Mission  which  is  required;  the  loving  gifla 
which  testify  the  83rmpathy  of  Christian  fellowship ;  the  ready  liberality 
of  those  whom  Grod  has  blessed  with  the  means  as  well  as  the  will  to 
help,  and  who  will  thus  rgmce  that  they  may  help  to  carry  the  message 
of  comfort  and  salvation  where  it  is  so  much  needed. 

A  design  for  a  permanent  Church  has  been  prepared,  to  cost  about 
£4,000;*  of  this  sum  about  £1,000  is  required  for  the  chancel,  the 
remainder  being  for  the  nave  and  aisles.  Towards  this  amount,  (in- 
cluding the  grant  from  the  Bishop's  Fund,)  about  £1,800  has  already  been 
given  or  promised*  It  is  therefore  a  matter  of  absolute  necessity  that 
£1,200  should  be  raised  during  this  present  year,  1870,  in  order  that  the 
grant  may  be  claimed,  and  at  least  a  portion  of  the  Church  consecrated 
to  the  service  of  God. 

For  the  £1,000  required  to  build  the  chancel,  the  Mission  must  still 
hope;  and  perhaps  some  heart  may  be  inclined  to  make  this  offering  to 
the  glory  of  Grod,  and  to  complete  this  Church  for  St  Luke's  Mission, 
Deptford.  Or,  at  least,  the  erection  of  a  part  may  eventually  lead  to  the 
completion  of  the  whole. 

*  A  copy  of  this  design,  and  further  paniculan  respecting  the  Mission,  will  be 
gladly  furnished  by  the  Rev.  J,  Malcolmson,  to  any  who  are  interested  in  the 
subject. 


200  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

We  have  thas  briefly  outlined  the  circamstances  connected  with  this 
Mission,  because,  at  the  present  moment,  it  stands  urgently  in  need  of 
help ;  and  without  that  help  it  has  little  prospect  of  success  as  regards  its 
outward  and  material  work. 

It  is  for  this  help  that  we  are  now  pleading.  Fain  would  we  hope  that 
some  congregation,  blessed  with  the  provision  for  every  service  themselves, 
would  take  up  the  cause  of  St.  Luke's,  Deptford,  and  make  it  the  object 
of  their  offerings,  the  subject  of  their  prayers!  Fain  would  we  hope  that 
many  a  kind-hearted  and  liberal  spirit  will  rejoioe  of  the  abundance 
wherewith  Grod  has  blessed  them  to  send  an  offering  for  the  building  of 
this  House  of  God ! 

In  remembrance  of  the  days  of  East  End  distress  in  London ;  of 
poverty,  which  has  left  us  unharmed;  of  sickness,  by  which  we  have  been 
untouched ;  in  remembrance  of  the  Mercy  which  has  spared  us,  and  the 
Love  which  has  brought  us  in  life  and  strength  to  the  opening  of  a  new 
year ;  in  remembrance  of  the  unnumbered  blessings  of  the  past,  and  the 
unlimited  mercies  of  the  present,  let  us  give  an  offering  to  His  Cause 
Who  is  now  appealing  to  us  in  the  poor  of  His  Flock.  Oh  joy,  if  it  might 
be  given  to  us  to  help  to  plant  the  Church's  Standard  here — to  secure  to 
these  thousands  the  faithful  ministrations  of  one 

*  Whose  joy  is,  to  the  wandering  sheep, 
To  tell  of  the  Great  Shepherd's  love  V 

Humbly  would  we  put  this  appeal  before  those  who  have  so  often  proved 
how  much  they  love  to  help  to  carry  the  Church's  Work  into  the  homes 
of  the  poor. 

Are  we  asking  an  impossibility,  in  expressing  a  hope  that  the  return  of 
another  St.  Luke's  Day  may  witness  the  completion  of  at  least  such  a 
portion  of  this  St.  Luke's  Church  as  shall  enable  the  people  to  meet 
within  it  for  public  worship?  It  may  be  difficult,  nay,  humanly  speaking 
it  may  seem  impossible,  to  raise  all  that  is  required,  to  overcome  all 
the  difficulties  which  have  to  be  met,  to  accomplish  all  the  work 
which  such  an  undertaking  involves,  in  so  short  a  space  of  time ;  and 
yet  the  work  is  to  be  done  for  His  Name's  Sake  with  Whom  nothing 
is  impossible. 

Shall  our  faltering  faith  hesitate  when  a  plain  duty  is  before  ust  If 
any  self-denial  can  help  to  accomplish  such  a  work,  shall  we  hesitate 
to  exercise  this  self-denial  to  the  utmost?  Only  by  a  most  liberal 
nnd  immediate  response  can  we  hope  that  this  Church,  so  diligently 
worked  for  by  its  own  poor,  can  be  erected.  Shall  this  response  be 
wanting  ? 

Let  us  rejoice  if,  in  the  Providence  of  God,  it  may  be  given  to  some 
amongst  us,  as  our  great  privilege  in  this  year,  1870,  to  take  up  this 
Mission  as  our  special  work,  to  see  that  one  more  church  is  built  to  the 
glory  of  God ;  to  give  to  the  five  thousand  poor  in  St.  Luke's,  Deptford, 
the  blessing  of  a  completed  and  consecrated  church. 


ST.  ANBBXW'S  WATERSIDE  ItlSSIOiar.    .  201 

Ck)dld  wid  wish  a  greater  privilege?  Could  we  rejoice  in  a  happier 
work? 

[NoTB. — It  will  be  seen  that  the  above  paper  was  written  at  the  beginnins 
of  the  present  year ;  and  therefore  it  is  only  right  that  our  readers  shoula 
know  that  St.  Luke's  Mission,  Deptford,  has  received  some  further  encourage- 
ment since  these  pages  were  first  put  into  type. 

A  grant  of  £600  has  been  voted  by  the  Bishop  of  Rochester'e  Fund ;  other 
sums,  though  of  smaller  amount,  have  been  promised ;  so  that  there  is  every 
reason  to  feel  assured  that  the  work  of  building  St.  Luke's  Church  may  go  on 
uninterruptedly  to  the  completion  of  at  least  a  portion  of  the  Church,  if  only  a 
combined  and  earnest  efibrt  can  be  made  by  all  who  are  interested  in  the 
Mission  just  at  the  present  time. 

At  the  moment  when  we  are  correcting  this  proof,  we  rejoice  to  learn 
that  arrangements  have  been  made  for  laying  the  Foundation  Stone  of  St. 
Luke's  Church,  on  the  19th  of  Julv ;  and  our  readers  will  be  glad  to  learn 
that  W.  J.  Evelyn,  Esq.,  a  descendant  of  the  good  John  Evelyn,  would  lay 
the  stone  in  due  form,  saying,  'In  the  faith  of  Jbsus  Chbist  we  lay  this 
Foundation  Stone  of  a  Church  to  bear  the  name  of  St.  Lukb,  in  the  Name 
of  the  Fathbb,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holt  Ghost.' 

The  Lord  Bishop  of  Rochester  had  kindly  expressed  his  intention  of  being 
present,  and  giving  an  address  on  the  occasion. 

The  simple  Orckr  of  Service  is  now  before  us,  and  though  space  would  not 
permit  us  to  transcribe  it  here,  we  feel  sure  that  many  who  coula  not  be  present 
and  join  in  the  chanted  Psalms  and  Hvmns,  wiU  at  least  unite  their  hearts 
in  the  prayer,  '  Prosper  Thou  the  work  of  our  hands  upon  us,  O  prosper  Thoa 
our  handywork.' 

For  our  own  part,  we  cannot  but  indulge  the  hope  that  these  pages  may  be 
read  by  some  whose  happiness  it  is  to  possess  the  power  as  well  as  the  will  to 
help  forward  these  Church  Missions ;  and  who  once  more  nuiy  be  ready  to  ^ve 
that  kindlv  encouragement  of  which  this  Mission,  more  perhaps  than  any  oUier 
we  know,  has  stood  sorely  in  need.] 

IVAKOTNA* 


ST.  ANDREW'S  WATERSIDE  MISSION- 

LAYING  THE  FOUNDATION  STONE  OP  THE  NEW  CHAPEL. 

A  FBw  days  ago  the  first  step  towards  the  accomplishment  of  the 
great  work,  for  which  the  Committee  of  the  St.  Andrew's  Waterside 
BGssion  have  long  hoped,  was  taken,  in  the  laying  of  the  foundation 
stone  of  a  new  Chapel,  in  connection  with  the  present  Mission-rooms. 
The  necessity  for  this  has  for  some  time  existed.  The  present  building 
is  inadequate,  in  size  and  many  other  respects,  to  perform  the  double 
dnty  of  chapel,  and  mission-rooms,  for  classes,  reading,  &c.  Neyer- 
thelesB  the  Committee  wisely  decided  not  to  pnll  down  the  existing 
building,  but  to  build  an  additional  Chapel,  to  form  part  of  the  same 
block,  and  thus  leave  the  present  Mission-rooms  for  Uie  Tarious  useM 
purposes  and  ends  to  which  they  are  adapted.  The  only  consideration 
which  had,  up  to  a  few  weeks  ago,  deterred  the  Committee  from 
proceeding  wiUi  the  work,  was  the  lack  of  funds.    That  difficult  h&i 

VOL.   10.  14  PABT  56. 


202  .     .  THE  MONTHinr  PACKET.       ^ 

•since  in  part  been  removed  by  a  lady*— who  desired  that  hjst  nitme 
shall  not  be  published— coming  forward  and  most  nobly  offering 
£19000  for  the  erection  of  a  Memorial  Chapel.  The  Committee  then 
resolved  to  purchase  a  strip  of  land  seventeen  feet  wide,  to  the  west 
of  the  present  building,  and  to  obtain  from  the  Thames  Conservancy 
a  grant  of  twenty  feet  on  the  river  side.  To  quote  the  words  of  the 
Report,  they  ^  have  undertaken  the  purchase  of  the  site,  the  construction 
of  the  sea  wall,  (a  costly  business,)  the  expense  of  putting  the  Mission 
House  to  rights,  and  the  building  of  the  foundation  up  to  the  level  of 
the  street  This  will  cost  £1,500  at  least,  of  which  they  have  got 
£500.  They  purpose  to  take  contracts  for  a  bit  at  a  time^  and  will 
go  on  as  they  gpt  money — not  incurring  debt  further  than  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  the  progress  of  the  work.  From  the  level  of  the  street 
the  cost  of  the  Chapel  will  be  borne  by  the  benefactress.'  G.  Street 
Esq.,  the  eminent  architect,  has  furnished  designs  for  a  chapel  capable 
of  accommodating  one  hundred  and  fifty  persons;  and  Mr.  Blake,  of 
<jrravesend,  is  the  contractor  for  the  building. 

These  preliminaries  being  arranged,  the  Committee  fixed  upon 
Wednesday  last,  St  Peter's  Day,  for  the  laying  of  the  first  stone 
of  the  Chapel.  And  as  the  stone  would  have  to  be  laid  on  the 
chalk  rock,  a  few  feet  below  the  Mission  House,  it  was  necessary 
to  select  an  hour  when  it  would  be  low  water,  and  8.30  a.m.  was 
accordingly  the  time  named.  The  small  available  space,  and  other 
circumstances,  also  rendered  it  undesirable  that  there  should  be  any 
grand  parade  and  ceremony,  and  the  service  was  consequently  made  as 
simple  as  possible. 

At  the  hour  named  the  little  congregation  assembled  in  the  Chapel, 
and  the  Holy  Communion  was  celebrated,  the  short  service  being,  by 
reason  of  attendant  circumstances,  of  a  most  impressive  and  deeply 
interesting  character.  The  Rev.  C.  E.  R.  Robinson  was  the  Celebrant, 
assisted  by  the  Rev.  W.  Buxton,  (Missionary  Curate,)  and  the  Rev.  T. 
Bates;  and  the  following  Clergymen  also  took  part  in  the  service: 
Rev.  John  Scarth,  Rev.  A.  Willis,  (Brompton,)  and  Rev.  C.  Hind. 
All  the  congregation,  in  number  between  seventy  and  eighty,  with  one 
or  two  exceptions,  partook  of  the  Sacrament — the  noble  benefactress 
being,  it  was  stated,  one  of  the  communicants.  Immediately  upon  the 
close  of  this  portion  of  the  service,  the  Clergy  and  sJl  present  went 
out  upon  the  wharf,  where  a  temporary  platform  with  apparatus  had 
been  erected  for  the  purpose  of  lowering  the  stone  into  its  resting* 
place.  Everything  being  in  readiness.  Rear- Admiral  Inglefield,  C.B., 
the  representative  of  the  benefactress,  descended  from  the  wharf  on  to 
the  chalk  rock,  the  stone  was  lowered,  and  the  Admiral,  striking  the 
four  comers  with  the  mallet,  said,  ^In  the  Name  of  the  Father,  of 
the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  I  declare  this  stone  to  be  duly  and 
properly  laid ;  the  first  stone  of  the  St.  Andrew's  Waterade  Mission.' 
The  Rev.  C.  E.  R.  Robinson  then  ofiered  the  remaining  prayers  of  the 


POLYGLOTT  PABSING.  20i 

Communion  Service,  and  the  earnest  quiet  ceremony  was  concluded. 
It  may  be  added  that  on  the  decks  of  the  peter  boats,  and  of  one  or 
two  steamers  lying  around  the  spot,  the  crews  and  a  number  of  the 
waterside  population  had  collected,  and  all  watched  the  ceremony  with 
the  most  respectful  and  reverent  interest  We  were  subsequently 
informed  that  the  Offertory  amounted  to  £10  19s.  O^d. 


POLYGLOTT  PARSING. 

CHAPTEB  Vm. 

C0N8TRi;;CTI0N. 

Philemon,  verses  18, 19. 

Si  aatem  aliqaid  nocnit  tibi  aut  debet,  hoc  mibi  imputa.    Ego  Faalias  scripsi  me& 

manu ;  ego  reddaro. 
Che  86  ti  ha  fiitto  alcun  torto,  o  ti  dee  cosa  akuna,  scriyilo  a  mia  ragione.    lo  Paolo 

ho  scritto  qaesto  di  man  propria,  lo  lo  paghero. 
T  81  te  ha  caasado  algnn  detrimento,  o  te  debe  algo,  apimtalo  a  mi  cnenta.   Yo  Pablo 

lo  he  Bcrito  de  mi  puno ;  yo  lo  pagar^. 
Que  s'il  t'a  fait  qnelqae  tort,  ou  s'il  te  doit  qaelqne  chose,  mets-le  sar  mon  compte. 

C*est  moi,  Paal,  qui  t*^ri8  de  ma  propre  main,  je  te  le  rendrai. 
If  he  hath  wronged  thee,  or  oweth  thee  ought,  put  that  on  mine  account.    X  Paul 

hare  written  it  with  mine  own  hand,  I  will  repay  it 
So  er  aber  dir  etwas  Schaden  gethan  hat,  oder  schuldig  ist  das  rechne  mir  zu.    Ich 

Paulus  habe  es  geschrieben  mit  meiner  hand,  ich  will  es  bezahlen. 

Edith,  This  is  longer  and  harder  than  we  have  had  before ! 

George.  I  picked  it  out  because  there  was  an  outcry  for  pronouns. 

Mark.  You  have  not  got  a  third  person  after  all. 

Frances.  And  I  do  not  think  we  any  of  us  follow  which  word  is  which, 
as  we  did  in  the  simpler  sentences  we  had  before. 

PoU^.  I  think  we  had  better  construe,  and  go  into  the  general- 
construction  before  beginning  on  the  particular  words.  It  will  bring 
out  the  powers  of  the  different  languages.  You  will  remember  that 
it  is  the  sentence  in  which  St.  Paul,  after  pleiading  for  the  pardon  and 
restoration  of  the  runaway  slave,  Onesimus,  undertakes  to  make  gck>d 
any  damage  or  hurt  that  Philemon,  his  master,  may  have  suffered 
through  him.    Now  George,  expound  to  us  your  two  first  Greek  words. 

George.  Ei  de.    They  are  represented  by  Mark's  «  autem — ^if  but. 

Edith.  We  should  say  but  if. 

*  Ei  de  ti  edikese  se  e  opheilei  touto  emoi  ellogei :  ego  Paulos  egrapsa  te  erne  cheiri, 
ego  apotiso. 


304  Tioc  MOiirTHiiy  fack£T. 

.  George.  Ei  must  always  stand  first,  and  de  ought  to  be  siocond  in 
a  sentence.  It  is  not  always  exactly  the  same  as  our  but;  it  rather 
marks  that  the  coming  sentence  is  in  opposition,  or  may  be  an  objection 
to  the  first  This  one  might  be  translated  if  indeed^  as  though  any  harm 
that  Onesimus  had  done  might  be  an  objection  to  his  being  forgiven. 

Mark.  Autem  has  much  the  same  force. 

PoUi/.  The  modem  languages  do  not  seem  any  of  them  to  have  a 
perfect  equivalent  for  the  two  words. 

Florence,  Italian  says  che  se^  and  French  que  sty  neither  exactly 
representing  this  buL 

Frances,  And  que  does  not  often  begin  a  sentence,  unless  it  means  how^ 
and  gOYerns  a  subjunctive. 

Pollt/,  This  que,  I  fancy,  like  the  cAe,  stands,  as  the  Latin  quod  might 
do,  for  because^  or  for. — '  For  if  he  have  done  thee  any  hurt,'  &c. 

Elvira.  Spanish  has  simply  Y  si- — and  if. 

Edith,  English  skips  oyer  the  de  altogether,  and  only  says  if, 

Gertrude,  German  represents  if  by  that  indeterminate  word  sOy  which 
seems  ready  to  mean  anything,  and  according  to  the  rule  of  arrangement 
puts  a5«r— but,  in  after  the  personal  pronoun. 

Pollt/.  You  must  take  the  next  three  words  now,  George,  to  allow  for 
the  differences  of  arrangement  of  words. 

George.  Ti  edUcese  se.  Edikese  is  the  third  person  singular  of  the 
prseterite  perfect  tense  of  the  verb  adikaOy  (a^icaw,)— to  injure,  to  wrong, 
to  do  an  injustice  to ;  ti  \b  the  neuter  accusative  of  ds — ^something;  scy 
the  accusative  of  su — thou.  The  words  ^he  hath  wronged  thee  in 
anything,'  or  ^he  hath  injured  something  for  thee,'  express  it;  but  there 
is  no  verb  that  governs  two  accusatives  as  adikao  does. 

Mark.  No,  nor  in  Latin.  AUquid  nocuit  tihi.  Nocmty  third  person 
singular  perfect  of  noceo — ^to  hurt ;  aUquidy  neuter  accusative  of  cdiquis — 
anything,  or  something ;  tibiy  dative  of  tu — thou  :  '  he  has  injured 
something  for  thee,'  ^  damaged  anything  of  thine.' 

Florence.  The  Italian  does  not  follow  that.  Ah  I  here  is  the  pneterite 
in  a  compound  tense:  ti  ha  fatto  alcun  torto.  Ha  fatto-^has  done, 
auxiliary  avere ;  fattOy  participle  of  /are— to  do ;  ti,  dative  case  of  tu ; 
cdcuuy  short  for  alcuno — any ;  forto— wrong :  '  he  has  done  any  wrong  to 
thee.' 

Mark.  Five  words  for  three. 

Elvira,  I  have  four :  ha  causado  algun  detrimento-^^  has  caused  any 
detriment.    I  need  not  analyze  it  any  more.' 

Frances.  Six  words  now,  only  I  do  run  them  together.  French  must 
have  personal  pronouns  before  its  verbs,  so  I  get '  il  t^ a  fait  quelque  tort.' 

Edith.  I  am  nice  and  short,  though  I  have  got  a  pronoun  and  a 
compound  tense — ^he  have  wronged  thee.'  I  get  the  accusativ^  too, 
like  the  Greek. 

George.  Yes ;  but  just  as  you  left  out  the  ei,  so  now  you  have  left  out 
the  ti 


PQLTQLOTT  FABSINO.  305 

Edith.  He  have  torcnged  (h^  m  anything  would  render  it,  I  suppooe ; 
but  the  meaniDg  is  perfectly  represented  without  the  two  last,  and  they 
are  a  great  deal  more  than  Uttle  tL 

Gertrude^  Er  dir  etwas  Schdden  gethan  Aot.— *  He  to  thee  any  damage 
done  hath.  There  you  hf^ve  it  UteraUy.'  Etwaa  is  properly  '  something,' 
but  it  gets  used  like  an  adjective,  and  means  any. 

Folfy.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  represents  the  Latin  aUquidy  while  Schdden 
gethan  hat  stands  for  nocuit.    Now  George,  proceed. 

George,  E — or;  opheHeif  third  person  present  of  opheHo-^io  owe;  tiy 
<i]9-^anything.     *  Or  owes  anything,' 

Mark,  Aut  debet,  debet,  debeo— to  owe.  Or  owefif.  The  aUquid  before 
nocuit  serves  for  both  verbs :  '  if  he  has  done  any  wrong,  or  owes  anything 
to  thee.' 

Florence,  I  own  that  the  Italian  is  clumsy  here :  0  tidee  coea  aUmmz. 
It  puts  cosa  akuna  in  italics,  as  an  addition  of  its  owQ. 

Elvira.  Spanish  is  shorter :  0  te  debe  algo,  Algo  can  stand  without  a 
noun. 

France».  But  French  will  always  repeat  the  H  at  each  clause,  fiK>  here 
are  seven  words :  ^out^Ute  doit  qudque  chose.' 

Edith.  My  dear  terse  English  is  not  obliged  to  repeat  either  the  (for 
the  he.  Only,  as  before,  it  must  put  the  objective  pronoun  after  the  verb 
instead  of  before  it :  'or  oweth  thee  ought' 

Mark.  Stay!  To  owe  governs  the  dative.  It  is  not  an  accusative 
pronoun,  only  the  to  is  left  out.    You  could  not  say  oweth  ought  thee. 

Edith.  '  Or  if  he  oweth  to  thee  ought'  The  English  is  short  here, 
then,  by  missing  out  words. 

FoUy.  Yes ;  it  has  more  licence  of  elision  than  the  others. 

Gertrude.  Here  is  quite  a  new  turn*  '  Oder  schiildig  ut,'— or  is  in  debt 
That  is  not  quite  the  word,  and  guilty  is  too  strong.  For  the  pronoun,  it 
looks  back  to  the  first  dir,  and  the  anything  is  passed  over. 

Folly.  Yes,  it  is  curious.  All  the  others  use  the  active  verb;  the 
German  takes  the  adjective  form,  '  is  in  debt  to  thee,' '  is  guilty  towards 
thee.' 

George.  Touto  emoi  eUogeL  Touto,  neuter  of  demonstrative  pronoun 
outoe;  emoi,  dative  of  ego;  ellogei,  imperative  second  person  singular  of 
eUogeo — to  impute  or  reckon.     '  Reckon  that  to  me.' 

Mark.  Hoc  mihi  imputa,  the  very  same — '  impute  that  to  me.' 

Florence.  Different  again  1  Scrivilo  a  mia  ragione — '  write  it  iah  in  one 
word)  to  my  credit'  Ragione  is  the  word  for  reason  or  right  It  is  much 
less  simple,  and  I  do  not  think  expresses  the  meaning  so  well.  It  gives 
the  notion  of  a  debtor  and  creditor  account 

Folly.  That  is  the  accident  of  using  the  word  ecrivere — ^to  write.  But 
I  think  this  Italian  translation  is  very  modem,  and  that  in  Tasso's  time, 
the  Latin  would  have  been  less  paraphrased. 

Elvira.  Apuntalo  a  mi  cuenta.  It  is  nearly  the  same,  only  apuntar 
expresses  jot,  or  put,  or  set  it  down. 


20&  THE  MONTHLY  PACKSI^. 

Fhmces.  Meta-U  sur  mon  comjp<6— pat  it  on  my  account  The  only 
difference  is  that  it  is  a  decided  preposition,  instead  of  only  a  datiye 
sign. 

Edith.  Put  that  on  my  account.  Here  the  English  has  got  the  real 
demonstrative  pronoun,  which  all  of  you  have  missed. 

Gertrude.  So  have  L  Das  rechne  mir  zu.  Zu^rechnen  is  separated,  and 
the  preposition  sent  to  the  end  of  the  sentence  in  true  German  fashion. 
But  I  think  the  simple  ^reckon  that  to  me,'  has  the  advantage  over  all 
the  other  modems. 

Folly.  So  do  I ;  and  I  suspect  both  the  Spaniard  and  Italian,  though  of 
course  they  consulted  the  original,  must  have  been  influenced  by  our 
version  in  their  construction. 

George.  Ego  Paulos  egrapaa  U  erne  cheiri.  He  uses  the  ego-^ly  to  give 
it  full  force,  as  well  as  putting  in  his  own  name.  Egrapsa  is  the  first 
person  singular  of  the  first  aorist  of  grapho — ^to  write ;  <e,  the  dative 
feminine  of  Ad,  the  article ;  eme^  of  the  possessive  eimoa — ^my ;  cheiri^  cheiri-' 
hand.     '  I  Paul  have  written  it  with  this  my  hand.' 

Mark.  The  Latin  leaves  out  the  this.  Ego  Paulas  scrtpsi  med  manuj 
and  only  says,  '  I  Paul  wrote  it  with  my  hand ;'  scr^ysij  perfect  of  scriho. 

George.  In  fact,  the  use  of  pronouns  is  so  much  less  ccmimon  in  Latin, 
that  the  ego  and  the  med  convey  as  much  as  the  U.  Observe,  too,  that 
this  case,  which  is  really  instrumental,  is  represented  by  me  with  the 
dative,  by  you  with  the  ablative. 

PoUy.  There  Mark  has  the  advantage ;  but  having  neither  an  aorist 
nor  a  compound  tense,  his  scripsi  is  much  less  precise  than  any  of  the 
other  languages. 

Florence.  Even  the  Italian,  for  here  I  have  lo  Paolo  ho  scritto  questo  di 
man  propria.  Propria  marks  my  own,  what  is  proper  to  me;  and  it  leaves 
out  the  possessive  pronoun.     I  think  it  is  an  idiom. 

Elvira.  Spanish  does  just  the  contrary,  it  takes  the  personal  pronoun 
and  omits  the  propria : — To  Pablo  lo  he  scrito  de  mi  puno.  Both,  I  see, 
use  the  genitive  preposition. 

Frances.  So  does  French ;  but  French  is  very  particular.  Instead  of 
only  saying  /,  it  tells  us  it  is  *  I  who,' — C'est  moiy  Paulj  qui  fecris  de  ma 
propre  main. 

Florence.  Putting  in  the  pronoun  te  as  none  of  the  others  do,  instead  of 
the  that  or  it  of  the  original. 

Edith.  Which  the  English  has.  I  Paid  have  wiitten  it  with  mine  own 
hand.    I  like  that  little  word  own. 

Gertrude*  I  rather  wonder  the  German  did  not  use  its  eigeuj  instead  of 
only  saying,  ^Ich  Paulus  habe  es  geschrieben  mit  meiner  hand. 

PoUy.  As  to  the  last  words,  there  is  not  much  to  remark.  Ego  apotiso, 
ego  reddam,  are  both  simple  futures. 

George,  But  I  observe  that  none  of  the  modems  can  do  without  putting 
in  the  accusative  pronoun :  to  lo  paghero,  yo  lo  pagare ;  and  the  French 
again  repeats  the  te^—je  te  le  rendrai. 


KOnCBS  TO  COBSESFOimiENTS.  207 

.    IVanees*  That  is  the  great  deamess  and  precision  of  the  French 
-grammar* 

Mark.  I  call  it  making  many  words  about  nothing. 

Gertrude.  And  here  come  English  and  German  forced  to  make  a 
compound  tense  of  the  future:  ich  will  es  hezdhlen.  English,  as  usual, 
standing  alone  in  putting  objective  pronouns  after  the  verb. 

PoUy,  Observe  that  the  power  of  compound  tenses  is  useful  in  pointing 
a  shade  of  meaning.  /  will  repay  it  denotes  a  certain  readiness  that  is 
missed  in  the  mere  inflection. 

George.  One  thing  is  clear,  that  translation  must  be  a  wonderfully 
difficult  thing.  The  point  seems  to  be  to  balance  the  powers  of  the 
two  languages,  and  keep  the  one  you  are  using  from  either  saying  too 
much  or  too  little  for  the  originaL 

Polly.  So  that  what  is  needed  is  a  perfect  appreciation  of  the  forces  of 
each. 

George.  As  well  as  a  kind  of  quickness  and  readiness  to  prevent  the 
lengthening  out  and  weakening  which  strikes  me  in  both  the  French  and 
Italian  here. 

PoUy.  Perhaps  it  is  the  more  observable  in  a  Biblical  translation, 
because  thore  it  is  important  that  there  should  be  no  guess-work  or 
paraphrase,  but  that  word  for  word,  expression  for  expression,  should  be 
rendered.  With  ordinary  books,  where  there  is  not  weight  in  every 
word,  it  is  better  to  translate  sentences  by  equivalent  sentences,  following 
the  genius  of  the  language.  A  translation  must  be  close  rather  to  meaning 
than  to  actual  word,  and  must  bend  to  the  requirements  of  grammar,  and 
even  of  sound. 

George.  Something  depends,  too,  on  what  you  want  it  for ;  whether  a 
legal  document  or  bit  of  evidence,  where  exactness  is  the  need,  or  whether 
you  want  to  give  a  lively  interest  in  facts  and  descriptions. 

PoUy.  Exactly  so;  and  in  these  it  is  almost  always  needful  to 
accommodate  the  construction  to  the  ear.  It  is  a  good  rule  to  make 
sure  of  the  meaning  of  a  phrase,  and  then  render  it  in  the  form  most 
Buant  to  the  ear  and  native  tongue.  Otherwise  a  translation  cannot  fail 
to  be  stiff  and  hard  of  reading. 

{To  be  coiUinuecL) 


Notices  to  Corbespondents. 

No  MS.  can  ho  roiuirmd  unkoo  the  Avthar'o  name  and  addreee  he  written  on  it,  and 
elampi  be  eent  wkh  it. 

CbntribuUone  must  often  be  delayed  for  want  oftipace,  Ind  ikexr  writere  may  he  aemtred 
that  when  room  can  befonund  they  ahaU  appear. 

JReceived,  wiih  thanke,  by  The  SUten  of  the  Poor,  a  Parcel  of  Flannel-print  and 
Booke;  and  XI  U^from  £.  R. 


208  THE  UONtfflit  :^ACK^^ 

Doe$  ta^  reader  rf  tlie  Monthly  P^due  kmm  tf  imf  fisiM  6l  Xondbii  nAen  m 
perwn  cmdd  be  recdoed  fir  a  fim  weeke  after  oh  cyMrttfJoii  m  on  ko^Mf  it  u 
neeeteary  that  he  thmdd  contkwe  ae  an  out-paliiaU,  and  it  nmU  be  w&me  Hme  b^fife  he 
earn  be  able  to  take  amy  sUmOion,  MeanwhUe^  he  has  no  meoM  of  mppart  JEU  k  a 
trtthf  good  man^  of  a  class  quiie  above  the  poor,  though  from  loss  of  hsabh  he  is  im 
tircumstances  of  the  greatest  need.  He  is  proiktsed  an  admission  to  the  All  Saints 
Convalescent  Hospital  at  EasAcwme  as  soon  as  he  is  ready  to  leave  homdmu  Besides 
i^  bare  necessariei  of  ltf%  much  nourishment  is  essential  m  hits  oaes  to  enubh  kim  to  go 
through  the  painful  proesss  of  cursi  At^  fiercer  vtfarmation  wiU  gledly  be  given  by 
S.  D.,  23,  Meridian  Place,  Clifton,  Bristol 

Thankfully  accepted. — Spes. 

Two  more  poems  for  very  little  children  at  their  private  prayers  are  here  given* 
Another  was  sent  us  by  Tedesca,  trandated  from  the  Germany  but  we  did  not  aMC& 
Uke  U^  and  so  have  omitted  it 

*  God  my  Father,  In  Thy  right, 
Kmp  me  Mft  both  day  and  night. 
That  I  erery  di^  may  be, 
Dear  Chttd  Jeena,  mora  like  tliee; 
Holy  Ohost,  teach  me  to  love 
The  good  God  Who  lelgns  abo>««k 


*  SftTionr,  teach  me  how  to  pray, 

I  hunbly  kneel  to  Thee; 
And  every  night  and  every  day 
My  FHond  and  Bavioor  be. 

Whilat  here  I  live,  O  live  with  me  \ 

And  when  Fm  caOed  to  die. 
Take  up  my  soul  to  dwell  with  Thee,  ' 

And  sfaig  niy  praioe  on  high.* 

The  above  are  used  by  my  little  boy  of  four  years  old.    Might  Aey  eeppUf  JL  P/g 
wantf—VL  N. 
Wnftid  would  be  very  glad  if  the  Author  of  MosingB  orer  the  Chtifltuui  Year  ooM 


*  Angela  no  more 
I^tw  Bfaud  aoer, 
On  hia  iielfiaMal  «w— «»**■  bound.* 

(8U  John  BoftkCs  Iks/0 

— This  msM  merely  dHude  to  the  Angel  who  bade  EUjah  arise  and  eat  the  cake  bakm  on 
thecoals* 

Isabella  and  B.  TL'^Appfy  to  the  EtStor  qf  The  Victoria  Magazine. 

L.  P. — Your  question  is  ampiy  answered  m  our  series  of  Conseils  de  Leetare.  We 
me^  mention^  however,  that  Le  Magazin  de  TEdacatlon  et  de  HecvAition,  published  by 
Hetxel,  affords  a  conttiitta/  svooeMtba  of  interesting  reading, 

Dedmed  vAA  thanke^ — Grace,  or  My  Vint-bom ;  and  C.  H. 

T.  K.  wishes  to  thankVLB^^  B.  and  ^  and  A^f  for  dieir  kind  answers  to  her  inquiriee 


John  and  Chailea  Mosley,  Printen,  Dertv. 


L 


THE 

MONTHLY    PACKET 

OP 

EVENING    READINGS 

:f or  fAtmttvn  of  t|)r  ^nffiistfi  €t^nvtft. 

SEPTEMBER^  1870. 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OF  DANTE. 

AfTEB  the  oompletion  of  Ulyasee'  story,  Dante  and  Virgil,  without  moring 
firom  thdr  places,  enter  into  conversation  with  another  of  the  occupants  of 
the  eighth  gulf,  by  name  Guide  de  Montefeltro,  who  narrates  his  own 
history  in  considerable  detail  in  the  latter  part  of  the  Canto.  The 
character  ascribed  by  Dante  to  the  new-comer,  though  not  perhaps  one 
of  the  most  striking  we  have  met  with,  is  yet  worthy  of  notice  as  being 
of  an  entirely  different  order  from  the  rest.  He  is  represented  as  a  man 
penitent  in  his  later  years,  and  in  consequence  seriously  counting  on  his 
salvation,  and  yet  so  weak  as  to  yield  to  the  temptations  of  Boniface 
yUL,  simply  because  he  was  Pope,  and  had  offered  him  absolution  for 
the  crime  he  was  persuading  him  to  commit.  Even  in  hell  Guido 
maintains  a  tone  of  half  surprise,  and  speaks  almost  under  a  sense  of 
injury,  as  if  unfairly  done  out  of  his  just  expectations  of  heaven ;  though 
instead  of  blaspheming  God's  justice  he  confines  his  maledictions  to  the 
priest  who  had  involved  him  in  eternal  ruin.  It  must  be  stated  that 
there  are  other  opinions  of  Guide's  conduct;  and  later  writers  have 
asserted  that  Dante  was  prejudiced  against  him,  and  that  he  died  in  the 
same  religious  house  which  he  had  entered  in  1297,  truly  and  humbly 
penitent.  It  may  be  that  Dante's  hostility  to  Boniface  VIU.  led  him  to 
form  an  unnecessarily  harsh  opinion  of  Guide's  acts;  and  we  may 
certainly  believe  that  he  would  not  let  pass  the  opportunity  of  displaying 
to  the  world  in  the  person  of  his  enemy  such  a  combination  of  false 
doctrine,  hypocrisy,  and  worldly  ambition,  as  we  here  read  of. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  Canto,  Dante  refers  to  the  bronze  bull 
manufactured  for  Phalaris,  despot  of  Agrigentum  in  Sicily — an  instrument 
of  torture  such,  that  when  heated  with  fire,  the  cries  of  the  victim 
imprisoned  within  it  resembled  the  roaring  of  a  real  bull;  the  artist, 
Ferillus,  being  the  first  to  perish  by  it  It  is  noticeable  that  already  in 
Dante's  time  the  word  Latin  had  come  to  be  applied  to  the  whole 
of  Italy,  at  least  south  of  the  Po,  and  no  longer  confined  to  the  limits  of 
ancient  Latium ;  so  that  we  have  it  used  in  line  88  of  Guido  in  direct 

VOL.   10.  15  PABT  57. 


2 10  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

contrast  to  the  Greeks,  Diomede  and  Ulysses,  with  whom  in  the  last 
Canto  Virgil  had  prevented  Dante  from  conversing. 

As  to  the  account  of  contemporary  politics  given  in  lines  40-54,  it  may 
suffice  to  say  that  ihe  family  of  Polenta  (one  memher  of  which  was  the 
ill-fated  Francesca  da  Bimini,  mentioned  in  the  fifth  Canto)  had  heen 
since  1265  lords  of  Bavenna  and  the  neighbouring  Cervia,  their  arms 
being  an  eagle  half  white  on  a  field  of  blue,  half  red  on  a  fidld  of  gold. 
Forli,  whose  inhabitants  in  1282,  under  the  leadership  of  this  very  Guido, 
repulsed  with  great  slaughter  the  French  army  that  besieged  it,  was  in 
possession  of  the  family  of  the  Ordelaffi,  whose  coat-of-arms  bore  a  green 
lion  on  a  field  of  green  and  gold.  Then  Malatesta  da  Yerruchio,  and  his 
son  of  the  same  name,  (this  latter  the  husband  of  Francesca  da  Rimini,) 
had  murdered  Montagna  de'  Parcisati,  the  leader  of  the  Ghibelline  party 
at  Kimini,  and  were  cruelly  oppressing  the  people  of  that  city,  which  was 
subject  to  them.  The  cities  of  Faenza  and  Imola,  situated  on  the  rivers 
of  line  50,  were  in  possession  of  Mainardo  Pagani,  called  the  Demon  for 
his  wickedness,  a  partisan  who  changed  sides  as  suited  his  own  interests. 
Last  is  mentioned  Cesena;  a  city  on  the  fiank  of  the  Appennines. 
-  It  has  been  mentioned  that  some  writers  dispute  Dante's  view  of  the 
part  taken  by  Guido  in  the  politics  of  the  last  few  years.  But  it  is 
matter  of  history  that  Boniface  and  the  officials  of  the  Roman  Court — the 
new  Pharisees  of  line  85 — ^being  at  enmity  with  the  family  of  Colonna, 
and  wishing  to  seize  their  hereditary  dominion  of  Palestrina,  feigned 
a  reconciliation  with  them,  and  succeeded  in  inducing  them  to  deliver  the 
dty  into  his  charge ;  whereupon  he  resumed  open  hostilities,  and  forced 
them  to  fly  for  refuge  to  Sicily  and  France,  in  1298.  In  lines  89,  90, 
Dante  means  to  say  that  Boniface's  enemies  were  not  even  such  renegade 
Christians  as  were  to  be  found  in  the  Saracen  army  that  besieged  and 
took  Acre  in  1291,  or  those  who  for  the  sake  of  profit  supplied  the 
infidels  with  arms  and  other  necessaries  for  the  war,  but  fellow  Christians 
with  himself  and  in  \^v&  own  land.  The  reference  of  lines  94,  95,  is  to  an 
event  which  may  now  be  put  down  as  simply  fictitious,  but  which  Dante 
believed  to  have  been  the  occasion  of  the  notorious  ^  Donation  of  Con- 
stantine,'  already  alluded  to  in  the  thirteenth  Canto.  Boniface's  pre- 
decessor, referred  to  in  line  105,  was  Celestine  Y.,  who  abdicated  the 
Papal  throne  in  1294. 


THE  INFERNO.— CANTO  XXYH. 

Upright  and  still  already,  and  encroaching 
On  speech  no  more,  the  flame  from  us  departed 
With  the  sweet  Poet's  license ;  when  approaching 

Behind  it  came  another,  and  we  darted 

Our  glance  towards  its  crest,  for  the  confusion 
And  strangeness  of  the  noise  that  from  it  started. 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OV  DAimS.  211 

As  the  Sicilian  boll,  whose  dread  iUusion 

He  first  exampled  who  himself  designed 

And  grayed  it — of  his  art  a  jost  conclusion--* 
Boared  with  the  damour  of  the  wretch  enshrined^  10 

So  that  though  all  of  copper  it  appeared 

Sentient  and  pierced  with  pain — even  thus,  confined 
In  the  mid  fire  as  soon  as  bom,  and  barred 

From  orifice  or  way  of  exit,  driven 

To  use  fire's  language  were  the  words  ill-starred* 
But  after  they  their  upward  course  had  striven 

Through  the  fiame's  point,  imparting  that  Tilnration 

Which  in  their  passage  out  the  tongue  had  given^ 
We  heard,  '  O  thou  to  whom  mj  application 

I  make,  who  spokest  in  Lombard  accent,  saying,  20 

''  No  more  I  press  thee ;  thou  majst  move  thy  station,** 
Though  I  have  come  perhaps  with  some  delaying, 

Let  it  not  irk  thee  with  me,  of  thy  kindness, 

To  stay  and  speak.    Lo  me  it  irks  not  staying. 
And  yet  I  bum.    1£  to  this  world  of  blindness 

Thou  late  art  flEdlen  from  that  land  most  pleasant 

Of  Latium,  whence  I  fount  my  guilt's  condignness, 
Say  if  Romagna's  folk  have  peace  at  present 

Or  war :  for  I  come  from  the  hills  extending 

Betwixt  Urbino  and  where  Tiber  crescent  80 

Unlocks  his  source.'    Li  fixed  attention  bending 

Downwards  I  stood,  when  touched  my  side  the  Master, 

'  Speak  thou,  he  is  a  Latian,'  recommending. 
I,  with  the  answer  at  my  lips,  the  faster 

B^un  to  speak  at  once  my  best  endeavour, 

*  O  soul,  fast  hidden  here  in  deep  disaster, 
Thy  country  hath  not  now,  nor  hath  had  ever, 

Peace  in  its  tyrants'  hearts :  but  war  avowed 

Was  none,  when  I  my  presence,  thence  did  sever. 
Bavenna's  state  is  as  hath  been  allowed  40 

For  years ;  Polenta's  eagle  there  is  reigning, 

And  yet  hath  Cervia  'neath  its  pinions  bowed. 
The  land  such  proof  of  valour  long  maintaining, 

That  piled  the  French  in  conflict  sanguinary, 

'Neath  the  green  talons  finds  itself  remaining. 
Father  and  son,  Verruchio's  mastifis  wary. 

Who  with  such  cruelty  Montagna  treated. 

Make  of  their  teeth  the  gimlets  customary. 
The  lion  cub  in  his  lair  of  argent  seated 

Lamone  and  Santemo's  cities  guideth,  50 

And  changeih  sides  ere  winter  be  completed 


212  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

From  autumn.    She,  by  whom  the  Sayio  glideth, 

As  she  'twixt  plam  and  mountain  hath  her  statioDy 

So  'twixt  free  laws  and  servitude  abideth. 
Now  give,  I  pray  thee,  of  thyself  narration ; 

Be  not  more  hard  than  others ;  so  thy  forehead 

May  in  the  world  rear  high  its  reputation.' 
When,  as  it  had  been  wont,  the  flame  had  roared 

Somewhile,  the  cusped  point  to  motion  waking 

Hither  and  thither,  thus  its  voice  outpoured :  60 

'  If  I  believed  that  I  was  answer  making 

To  one  who  should  the  world  revisit  ever, 

This  flame  of  mine  should  rest  from  farther  shaking. 
But  since  that  from  this  vault  infernal  never, 

If  I  hear  true,  hath  one  alive  returned. 

Released  from  fear  of  infamy's  endeavour 
I  speak.    At  first  a  man-of-arms,  I  turned 

To  wear  the  girdle,  hoping  so  to  mend  me ; 

And  sure  my  faith  its  due  reward  had  earned. 
Did  not  the  high  Priest — evil  take  him — send  me  70 

Back  to  the  sins  that  I  of  old  committed, 

Wherefore  and  how,  I  pray  yo^  to  attend  me. 
Ere  I  the  form  my  mother  gave  me  quitted 

Of  flesh  and  bones,  my  actions  me  betrayed 

More  of  the  fox's  kind  than  lion-witted. 
Of  subtilty  and  hidden  paths  I  swayed 

Complete  control ;  and  proved  therein  so  able. 

That  to  the  world's  end  was  my  fame  displayed. 
When  that  I  saw  mine  age  into  that  table 

Of  years  had  mounted  wherein  each  is  warned  80 

To  shorten  sail  and  gather  in  the  cable, 
The  things  that  once  had  pleased  me  then  I  scorned, 

And  turned  me  to  repentance  and  confession. 

And  had  rejoiced,  (O  misery  to  be  mourned !) 
But  that  the  chieftain  of  the  new  profession 

Of  Pharisees,  with  foes  near  Lateran  warring, 

(Not  Saracens,  nor  Jews ;  for  his  aggression 
On  Christians  only  bent  its  force  unsparing ; 

Nor  one  had  been  round  Acre's  walls  collected, 

Nor  in  the  Sultan's  land  for  traffic  faring ;)  90 

Neither  in  me  the  cord  that  once  corrected 

Its  wearers'  pride,  nor  his  own  high  position, 

Nor  holy  Order  in  himself  respected. 
As  Constantine  of  Silvester  petition 

Made  in  Soracte  for  the  leper's  healing. 

So  he  demanded  of  me  as  physician, 


THE  DIVINA  COMliEDlA  OF  DANTE.  213 

To  cure  his  feyer  of  ambitious  dealing ; 

Aflked  my  advice ;  while  silent  I  remained, 

Because  with  drunkenness  his  words  seemed  reeling. 
Then  he,  '^  Be  not  with  fear  thy  courage  chained,  100 

I  to  this  time  absolve  thee,  ^  advised 

How  Palestrina's  ruin  may  be  gained ; 
Heaven  I  can  shut,  'tis  not  from  thee  disguised, 

And  ope  again :  therefore  the  keys  are  double, 

Not  dearly  by  my  predecessor  prized.'' 
Then  so  did  he  his  urgency  redouble. 

That  silence  seemed  the  worse :  and  in  ill  hour, 

'^^  Father,  if  thou  wilt  clear  me  of  the  trouble 
Of  this  the  guilt  that  now  for  me  must  lower ; 

Abundant  promise,  scantily  fulfilled,  110 

Will  make  thee  triumph  in  thy  seat  of  power." 
Came  then  Saint  Francis,  when  my  breath  was  stiUed, 

For  me ;  but  a  black  cherub  to  him  crying, 

Said,  '^  Take  him  not  away ;  be  not  so  willed 
To  wrong  me.    Downwards  now  must  he  be  hieing 

To  join  my  slaves,  for  his  advice  unstable. 

Since  when  behind  his  hair  have  I  been  flying. 
He  that  repents  not  is  not  pardonable. 

Nor  to  repent  and  will  (for  contradiction 

In  terms  forbids)  at  once  is  any  able."  120 

Ah,  wretched  I  how  I  shook  me  in  affliction. 

When  seizing  me,  "  Thou  little  knewst,"  he  cried, 

*^  I  was  so  skilled  in  logic !"    For  conviction 
He  bore  me  down  to  Minos,  who  applied 

Tail  unto  back,  eight  coils  together  heaping ; 

And  bit  himself  in  fury,  and  out-cried, 
^^  A  guilty  soul  the  fire  must  have  in  keeping :" 

So  here  thou  seest  me,  of  my  hope  defeated, 

And  doomed  to  walk  in  this  sad  garment  weeping.' 
^And  when  his  story  he  had  thus  completed,  130 

Away  from  us  the  flame  departed,  swaying 

And  beating  its  sharp  horn  with  pain  deep-seated. 
Then  we,  my  guide  and  I,  no  more  delaying, 

Passed  o'er  the  rock,  until  the  arch  we  reached 

That  spans  the  foss  where  they  the  fine  are  paying 
Erewhile  of  discord  to  their  woe  impeached. 

(To  b€  conHmmtL) 


214  THE  MONTHLY  PACEST. 


MUSINGS  OVER  THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR 
AND  LYRA  INNOCENTIUM, 

ST.  MATTHEW. 

St.  MattheVs  Dat  is  especially  rich  in  the  beauty  of  the  poems 
inspired  by  the  calling  of  tbe  Publican  at  the  receipt  of  castom.  To 
liye  in  the  worid,  but  not  of  it,  is  the  note  specially  attributed  to  the 
festivali  scarcely  more  beaatifuUy  eren  here  thvi  in  Anstice's  verses— 

*  O  Lord,  in  this  world^B  troubled  way, 

Thy  children's  course  secure, 
And  lead  them  onwards  day  bj  day, 
Kindly,  like  Thee,  and  pure. 

Be  theirs  to  do  Thy  work  of  love, 

All  erring  souls  to  win, 
Amid  a  sinM  world  to  move. 

Yet  give  no  snule  to  nn.' 

Never  was  there  a  sweeter  picture  of  the  dreamy  bliss  of  pnre  hearts 

in  seclusion  than  in  the  first  verse,  invoking  the  *  hermits  blest,  and  holy 

maids,'— 

*  To  whom  some  riewless  teacher  brings 
The  secret  lore  of  rural  thiugs, 
The  moral  of  each  fleeting  cloud  and  gale. 
The  whispers  fix>m  above,  that  haunt  Qie  twilight  vale.* 

Then  comes  the  contrast  with  the  city,  and  that  wonderfully  beautiful 
assurance  that— 

'  There  are  in  this  loud  stunning  tide 

Of  human  care  and  crime, 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 
Of  the  everlastiue  chime ; 
Who  carry  music  in  their  heart 
Through  dusky  lane  and  wrangling  mart. 
Plying  their  daily  task  with  busier  feet. 
Because  their  secret  souls  a  hol^  strain  repeat.* 

■ 

I  am  not  sure  that  this  is  not  the  most  perfect  specimen  of  Mr. 
Keble's  versification  ;  but  it  is  scarce  reverent  to  interrupt  the  thought 
virith  this  kind  of  technical  observation. 

The  thought  is  the  point,  and  carries  us  on  to  the  encouragement 
for  such  as  these,  in  knowing  that  when  our  Lord  was  scorned  by  the 
persons  who  were  specially  viewed  as  religious,  and  was  heard  by  the 
*meek  Publican,'  who  at  once  gave  up  bis  store  of  gold,  and  in  time 
poured  the  true  riches  of  his  Gospel  forth  for  the  Church  for  evermore. 
The  like  encouragement  is  found  in  the  thought  of  St.  Matthew's 
entertainment,  and  of  the  ^worldly  hearts,  and  hearts  impurci'  who 


MUSINGS  OVER  THE  CHBISTIAN  TEAB.  215 

thronged  roond  the  Lord.    These  scenes  do  indeed  give  hope,  even  in 
gazing  at  *  Mammon's  gloomiest  cells,* 

*  As  on  some  city's  cheerless  night 

The  tide  of  sunrise  swells, 
Till  tower  and  dome,  and  bridge-way  proud. 
Are  mantled  with  a  golden  cloud, 
And  to  wise  hearts  this  certain  hope  is  given, 
*<  No  mist  that  man  may  raise  can  hide  the  eye  of  Heaven/*  * 

While  there  follows  his  own  peculiarly  individoal  application—- 

*  Sbame  on  us  who  about  us  Babel  bear, 
And  live  in  Paradise  as  if  God  was  not  there.' 

I  have  always  believed  the  germ  of  ^Looking  Westward'  to  be  in  the 
memoir  of  Crabbe  the  poet,  whose  son  tells  us  that  his  first  remembrance 
of  his  father  was  that  he  used  to  hear  him  and  the  other  children  say 
their  evening  prayers  in  his  study,  and  to  reward  them  when  they  were 
attentive  by  a  parting  look  at  the  sunset  through  a  prism.  The  book 
where  I  read  this  belonged  to  Hursley  Vicarage  ;  and  on  my  observing 
on  the  resemblance,  Mrs.  Keble  replied  in  a  manner  that  led  me  to  think 
that  'Looking  Westward'  was  suggested  by  Crabbe's  pretty  custom, 
unfolding  it,  as  it  were,  into  the  lesson  that  our  eyes  should  be  trained 
to  admiration  of  heavenly,  not  earthly,  brightness.    For 

*  So  hastes  the  Lord  our  hearts  to  fill 
With  calm  Baptismal  Grace, 
Preventing  all  false  gleams  of  Ul 
With  l£s  own  glorious  Face,' 


ST.  MICHAEL  AND  ALL  ANGELS. 

The  Festival  of  the  Angelic  Host  is  celebrated  by  a  grand  and  glorious 
commemoration  of  the  'services  of  Angels.'  Invoking  these  blessed 
spirits,  the  hymn  touches  on  all  the  occasions  of  their  ministry  to  the 
Incarnate  Son,  and  looks  forward  to  the  time — announced  by  the  two 
Angels — when  He  shall  come  again  with  all  His  host.  No  words  of 
ours  can  make  this  noble  hymn  clearer;  and  we  pass  on  to  the  Lyra, 
the  title  of  which,  'Carved  Angels,'  as  well  as  the  latter  half  of  the 
poem,  shews  that  it  was  suggested  by  the  Angel  figures  with  which 
Grothic  architecture  delights  to  decorate  the  interior  of  churches. 

The  commencement,  however,  is  on  the  truth  that  the  very  slightest 
circumstance,  if  it  be  God's  Will,  often  changes  the  course  of  a  sinner, 
touches  his  heart,  and  thus  saves  his  soul.  Most  especially  has  the 
innocent  presence  of  a  child  been  known  to  arrest  or  rebuke  a  crime, 
filling  the  guilty  with  an  awe  that  may  have  come  from  the  purity  of 
the  baptized  child,  watched  over  by  his  Guardian,  '  one  of  the  everlasting 
Thrones,'  (ji,e,  of  the  order  of  Angels  called  Thrones,)  and  'alway 
beholding  the  Face  of  the  Father  which  is  in  Heaven.' 


216  THK  MONTHLY  PACJKET. 

As  in  a  drop  of  dew  the  sun  himself  is  reflected,  so  these 
Angels  may  behold  in  their  infant  charges^  created  anew  in  the  Divine 
Image,  the  fiunt  likeness  of  the  Bethlehem  Babe. 

'  And  80  this  whole  fallen  world  of  oars. 
To  U6  all  care  and  sin  and  spite. 
Is  even  as  Eden's  stainless  bowers 
To  the  pure  spirits  out  of  sight, 
To  Angels  m>m  above, 
And  souls  of  infants,  scaled  by  new-creating  love.' 

Just  as  the  clear  blae  of  Heaven  is  seen  stainless  in  the  sky  above 
and  the  ocean,  or  pure  deep  water  belowi  while  all  between  is  earth 
and  earthy,  so  God  is  nearest  'to  strongest  seraphs  there,  to  weakest 
infants  here/  The  spirits  of  both  are  white-robed;  and  both  alike, 
angels  and  infants  in  the  cradle,  are  unharmed  by  the  sight  of  sin,  and 
evil  shrinks  away  alike  from  both.  And  carrying  on  the  comparison : 
as  Angeb  wiut  on  saints,  'so  on  the  old,  the  duteous-hearted  boy.' 
Angels,  too,  keep  up  the  eternal  round  of  praise  in  Heaven ;  and  in  like 
manner,  the  little  ones  below  are  found  in  His  Temple.  For,  indeed, 
it  is  a  constant  experience,  that  little  children  from  among  the  poor, 
willingly,  and  without  invitation,  wander  in,  and  take  their  dreamy 
scarcely  conscious  part  in  the  Services  of  the  Church.  And  with 
such  analogies,  it  was  a  true  instinct  that  led  to  the  modelling  the 
representations  of  angels  upon  infants,  and  likewise  placed  them  where 
our  prayers  and  praise  may  need  the  aid  of  Angels  to  be  wafted  on  high. 
Thus,  to  remind  us  of  the  ministering  spirits  who  keep  watch  around 
the  Mercy-seat  in  Heaven,  carved  angels  bend  around  the  Altars  here 
below ;  so  that  the  sight  of  them  may  recall  and  rebuke  the  unruly  eye. 
Or  they  hold  forth  the  scrolls  impressed  with  sacred  lore— sometimes  in 
a  language  older  than  our  own,  but  which  may  be  interpreted  to  us; 
and  it  is  the  mother  language  which  most  perfectly  expresses  the 
thought.  This  seems  to  me  to  be  the  meaning.  I  know  Mr.  Keble  did 
love  a  Latin  or  Greek  inscription.  He  caused  those  in  the  Otterboume* 
Church  windows  to  be  in  Latin — *  Quam  dilecta  tahernaeula.*  ^Expandi 
manua  totd  die^ — giving  as  a  reason  that  it  was  the  language  more 
nearly  of  the  Universal  Church,  and  no  doubt  feeling  the  more  perfect 
expression  and  allusiveness.  When  some  objection  was  made  that  they 
would  not  be  understood,  he  made  answer  that  it  was  good  for  people 
to  be  led  to  look  into  a  thing.  And  Latin,  though  not  the  original 
language  of  Scripture,  is  a  contemporary  language,  and  one  of  the  very 
first  spoken  by  our  Mother,  the  Church.  Again,  these  carved  angels 
often  bear  shields  with  the  Instruments  of  the  Passion,  the  Blazonry  of 
the  Captain  of  our  Salvation ;  and  then  may  we  remember  that  they  are 
His  standard-bearers,  and  that  one  day  we  shall  have  to  look  on  Him 
Who  was  pierced!  So  the  Angel  forms  in  church  may  remind  us  to 
purify  ourselves  in  that  Holy  Presence— nay.  Angel  eyes  are  ever  round, 
shrinking  at  foul  and  idle,  whisperings*— and  by  them  we  may  believe 


HYMK-P01EH6  ON  NOTABLE  TEXTS.         217 

hearts  of  innocence  are  made  to  shrink  away,  unseeing  tiie  sin  that  was 
about  to  touch  them,  and  of  which  they  had  never  even  dreamt  Such  an 
instinct  is  about  the  pure-minded.  When  we  mark  it|  let  us  be  rebuked 
for  our  sin,  and  seek  to  purify  ourselyes. 

(7b  be  continued.) 


IIYMN-POEMS  ON  NOTABLE  TEXTS. 

BY  THE  BEY.  S.  J.  STONE,  B.A. 

▲UTHOB   OT   'LTIU  FIDXLinx.' 

No.  IX.-.THE  PBISONEBS  OF  HOPK 

'  Tun  7<m  to  the  Stronghold,  ye  pzisonen  of  Hope.*— ZecftanoA,  ix.  12. 

{Tunej  Eventide.) 

Ys  fidthful  few  of  Israel's  captive  days, 
Who  homeward  ever  fixed  your  faithful  gaze, 
Though  far  from  home,  your  life  was  hidden  there, 
Prisoners  of  Hope,  but  victors  of  despair. 

Ye  of  old  time  who  waited  for  the  Lord, 
And  turned  you  to  the  Stronghold  of  His  Word, 
Prisoners  of  Hope,  ye  could  not  be  forlorn. 
In  depth  of  night  so  certain  of  the  morn. 

Ye  of  the  good  report  in  every  age, 
Who  in  that  refage  met  the  tempest's  rage, 
Prisoners  of  Hope,  ye  knew  the  strife  would  cease. 
And  in  its  wildest  hour  foretasted  peace. 

O  turn  ye  thither,  ye  who  lie  so  low, 
With  sin  beset  or  desolate  in  woe ; 
Up,  from  the  dust  where  ye  so  long  have  Iain, 
The  Bock  of  Ages  was  not  deft  in  vain  I 

Prisoners  of  Hope,  there  shall  ye  rest  awhile, 
Watching  in  peace  the  starry  promise  smile, 
Willing  to  keep  your  vigil  till  at  last 
Hope's  gentle  tyranny  be  overpast 

O  Word  of  Christ,  that  cannot  pass  away, 
The  Church's  Stronghold  in  her  evil  day, 
Turn  we  to  thee,  whatever  foe  prevail. 
On  the  wild  hill,  or  in  the  solemn  vale. 


218  THE  MONTHIiT  PACKET. 

X  To  thee  we  turn,  until  onr  souls  shall  hear 

The  King  we  serve,  the  Lord  we  love,  draw  near; 

And  we  shall  change,  when  His  command  is  given, 

Hope's  happy  prison-house  for  happier  Heaven. 

Amen. 


AFTER  A  FESTIVAL  AT  OXFORD. 

BY  THE  REV.  CANON  BRIGHT,  D.D. 

Ok  that  day  of  Faith  profound  and  tender, 
When  we  almost  saw  the  Fount  of  grace. 

When  our  Whitsun  feast's  entrancing  splendour 
Shone  like  beams  from  one  all-radiant  Face ; 

When  in  those  young  hands  the  Cross  was  lifled, 
Wlien  with  hymns  went  forth  our  choral  train, 

Wherefore  then,  O  heart,  before  thee  drifted 
Shadowy  bodings  fraught  with  anxious  pain  ? 

O  sweet  time,  when  joy  was  one  with  duty  I 
Other  days  will  come,  unlike  to  thee ; 

Then  thy  c-alm  bright  form  of  holiest  beauty 
We  shall  sorely  long  for — shall  not  see. 

Days  of  trouble,  bringing  strange  temptations ; 

Days  to  lay  the  heart  and  spirit  bare ; 
'Mid  the  Church's  deepening  tribulations 

Chilling  love,  and  bidding  hope  despair ; 

Days  of  trial,  parting  some  from  others ; 

Then  the  thought  came,  piercing  like  a  sword, 
What  if  one  of  these,  our  friends  and  brothers. 

If  but  one  should  break  with  Thee,  our  Lord ! 

O  true  God,  Almighty,  Everliving  I 
O  true  Brother,  kindest,  best  of  all ! 

Thou  Whose  Heart  finds  triumph  in  forgiving. 
Thou  that  answerest  e'en  before  we  call  I 

Thee  we  need,  to  hold  Thy  hands  above  us ; 

Thee,  to  guard  us  through  our  journey's  length ; 
All  is  well,  if  Thou,  Who  so  canst  love  us. 

Wilt  but  make  us  go  from  strength  to  strength. 

Now,  when  months  of  absence  must  divide  us, 
Emblem  of  the  years  of  earthly  change, 

O  the  joy,  if  whatsoe'er  betide  us. 
Nothing  shall  from  Thee  our  hearts  estrange ! 


OAMEOS  FBOM  ENGLISH  HISTOBY.  2  L9 

So,  whene'er  we  bend  before  the  Altar, 

Where  for  each  and  all  Thy  Presence  pleads, 

Fill,  O  Christ,  with  faith  too  strong  to  falter, 

Each  that  for  his  brethren  intercedes. 

W.  B. 


CAMEOS  FROM  ENGLISH  HISTORY. 

CAMEO  cn. 

CLABENCB  AND  GLOOESTEB. 
1471-1483. 

Thc  two  brothers  of  Edward  lY.,  George  Dake  of  Clarence,  and 
Richard  Duke  of  Glocester,  had  from  their  infancy  been  in  the  strongest 
contrast  to  one  another.  There  was  a  space  of  three  years  between  their 
ages,  George  having  been  born  in  Ireland  on  the  21st  of  October,  1449, 
and  Richard  at  Fotheringay  on  the  2nd  of  October,  1452 ;  tliey  were 
brought  up  together,  and  shared  the  same  instructions  and  the  same 
vicissitudes  of  fortune,  and  they  had  the  same  prospects,  both  having 
been  in  early  childhood  destined  to  wed  the  two  young  heiresses  of 
Warwick,  and  to  divide  the  vast  estates  of  the  Beauchamp  and  the 
Montagu  which  had  centred  on  the  Nevil. 

•  They  were,  however,  very  different.  George  had  the  stately  beauty  of 
his  elder  brother  the  King,  and  withal  something  of  his  character,  but 
with  less  of  manhood,  resolution,  or  ability ;  and  thus  where  Edward 
was  strong,  resolute,  and  ferocious,  George  wavered,  and  became  '  false, 
fleeting,  perjured  Clarence,'  despicable  as  well  as  hateful ;  and  the  inbred 
ambition  of  the  House  of  York  was  always  leading  him  into  misadventures, 
whence  he  only  escaped  by  the  betrayal  of  his  associates.  He  was 
essentially  a  silly  man,  and  was  moreover  a  drunkard,  while  neither  his 
elder  nor  younger  brother  erred  from  lack  of  ability. 

Richard  was  cast  in  the  slight  delicate  mould  of  his  father,  and  this 
of  itself  would  have  made  him  appear  to  disadvantage  beside  the  giants 
his  brothers,  without  the  deformity  that  had  marked  him  from  his  birth, 
namely,  unequal  shoulders,  and  arms  lean  and  withered,  but  not 
deficient  in  the  dexterity  that  compensated  for  weight  and  strength.  A 
face  with  the  dark  eyes  and  regular  Plantagenet  outline  of  his  father's, 
was  marked  not  only  by  the  sallow  pallid  colouring  caused  by  early  ill 
health,  but  by  an  overhanging  brow,  full  of  power,  and  shewing  that 
York's  little  ill-favoured  crook-backed  youngest  son,  the  desight  to 
court  pageants,  had  a  wonderful  reserve  of  designs  for  evil  or  for  good. 
And  those  who  listened  to  his  sweet  voice  and  winning  speech,  and 
watched  his  play  of  countenance^  were  apt  to  rate  even  his  personal 


320  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

graces  Tery  high;  witness  the  old  Conntess  of' Desmond,  who  Eyed,  a 
hundred  years  later,  to  arer  that  the  Doke  of  Glooester  was  the  handsomest 
of  men.  Scholars  found  him  scholarly  too,  in  spite  of  an  education  amid 
dvil  wars ;  knights  found  him  proficient  in  martial  exercises,  in  spite  of 
his  puny  stature ;  and  statesmen  saw  that,  with  all  the  King's  maxrellous 
readiness  and  cleyemess,  he  had  none  of  the  indolence  that  obscured 
Edward's  gifts. 

No  sooner  had  the  Woodyille  influence  begun  to  prevail  at  court,  than 
the  good  understanding  that  had  prevailed  between  the  good-natured 
King  and  his  two  younger  brothers  was  disturbed.  At  firsts  the  two 
marriages  were  objected  to,  as  likely  to  render  the  princes  dangerous; 
and  thus  George  was  provoked  into  that  stolen  weddings  and  the  subse- 
quent rebellion  which  was  the  ruin  of  Warwick. 

Richard,  younger,  less  in  love,  and  shrewder,  held  by  the  fortunes  of 
his  elder  brother,  fled  with  him  to  Burgundy,  and  heard  of  his  destined 
wife  being  bestowed  on  the  Lancastrian  Prince  of  Wales. 

Whether  Richard's  dagger  was  one  of  those  that  pierced  the  brave  youth's 
breast  is  not  absolutely  certain ;  as  little  is  it  dear  that  to  his  unflinching 
nature  was  committed  the  murder  of  the  feeble  saintly  old  prisoner  in 
the  Tower.    The  first  murder  is  not  improbable-^the  second  is. 

Anne  Nevil  had  always  been  intended  by  Richard  to  be  his  own,  but 
she  fled  from  him  with  dismay;  and  Clarence,  who  had  no  mind  to 
*part  the  livelihood,'  as  he  called  it,  assisted  her  in  concealing  herself,  in 
the  disguise  of  a  kitchen-maid;  but  she  was  discovered  by  Richard's 
diligent  search,  and  helpless  and  desolate  as  she  was,  was  compelled  to 
become  his  wife.  Clarence  strove  to  keep  the  whole  of  the  possessions, 
but  Parliament  interfered,  and  settled  half  upon  Richard,  with  the 
provision  that  he  should  retain  them,  even  though  she  should  find  means 
to  divorce  him,  by  which  it  would  appear  that  the  unhappy  lady  was 
endeavouring  to  find  some  means  of  freeing  herself  from  the  tie ;  but  she 
probably  resigned  herself  to  endure  it  when  a  son  was  bom  to  her,  in 
the  year  147S,  when  she  was  as  yet  only  seventeen,  and  Richard  only 
nineteen. 

Pontefiract  and  Middleham  Castles  were  their  chief  abodes  at  this  time, 
while  Richard  stood  aloof  from  the  fiivourite-ridden  court,  and  only 
joined  his  brothers  on  the  expedition  to  France,  when  men  were  pleased 
by  his  disgust  at  the  treaty  of  Pecquigny,  although,  for  all  his  displeasure, 
he  did  not  refuse  his  share  of  the  French  King's  douceurs. 

The  whole  of  the  sums  spent  in  equipping  Edward's  army  were  so 
much  loss ;  and  in  spite  of  the  French  pension,  the  King  was  in  such  a 
state  of  destitution,  tiiat  he  obtained  an  Act  of  Parliament  which  gave 
back  to  the  crown  all  the  lands  that  had  been  granted  away  from  it. 
The  lordship  of  Tutbury,  which  Clarence  had  been  holding,  was  one  of 
these;  and  in  spite  of  the  huge  wealth  he  already  possessed,  he  was 
bitterly  incensed.  He  had  never  forgiven  Richard  for  claiming  Anne's 
share  of  Warwick's  inheritance,  and  Edward  was  now  the  subject  of  his 


I 

CAMBOS  FBOM  BNQLISH  HISTOBT.  221 

indignation.    He  withdrew  himself  sullenly  from  court,  refused  to  eat 
or  speak  with  the  King,  and  took  up  his  abode  near  Tewkesbury. 

There,  in  the  autumn  of  1476,  his  wife  Isabel  Nevil,  gave  birth  to  her 
third  child,  Richard,  and  instead  of  recovering  fell  into  a  languishing 
state,  and  died  two  months  later.  Her  husband  took  it  into  his  head 
that  she  had  been  poisoned,  and  about  three  months  after  her  death,  he 
caused  a  lady  named  Ankaret  Twynhyo^  who  had  been  in  attendance 
upon  her,  to  be  apprehended  at  her  own  house  by  a  band  of  his  retainers, 
hurried  to  Warwick  CasUe,  where  she  was  accused  of  having  given  the 
Duchess  *  a  venomous  drink  of  ale  mixed  with  poison,  of  which  she  died 
ten  weeks  later ;'  a  form  of  trial  was  gone  through,  and  in  three  hours 
time  the  poor  innocent  lady  was  hanged,  while  murmurs  went  about 
among  the  Nevil  retainers  that  the  deed  had  been  instigated  by  ^  Dame 
Bessie  Gray,'  as  it  was  the  fashion  of  the  malcontents  to  call  the  Queen, 
daughter  to  the  witch  Duchess  Jaquetta.  Poor  feeble  foolish  Isabel! 
as  if  it  would  have  been  worth  anyone's  while  to  poison  her — except 
perhaps  her  husband's ;  and  he,  with  all  his  many  crimes,  seems  to  have 
really  loved  her. 

But  when  the  ensuing  'Vigil  of  the  lings'  beheld  the  fearful  over- 
throw of  Charles  the  Bold,  and  his  daughter  Marie  remained  the  heiress 
of  his  vast  accumulation  of  states,  Clarence,  who  was  still  only  eight- 
and-twenty,  bethought  him  of  offering  himself  as  her  suitor,  wrote 
earnestly  to  his  sister  Margaret,  her  step-moiher,  to  use  her  interest  in 
his  behalf,  and  made  the  same  entreaty  to  the  King, 

Edward,  however,  had  no  desire  to  see  anyone  so  fickle  and  perfidious 
as  George  of  Clarence  raised  to  an  almost  royal  eminence ;  and  it  is  even 
said  that  the  Woodville  vanity  was  great  enough  to  make  the  Queen 
attempt  to  secure  the  hand  of  this  mighty  princess  for  her  own  brother, 
Lord  Rivers.  Duchess  Margaret,  however,  though  fondly  attached  to 
her  brothers,  had  wisdom  enough  to  give  disinterested  counsel  to  her 
daughter;  and  Marie,  hardly  beset  alike  by  her  unruly  Flemish  and 
Dutch  subjects,  and  by  Louis  of  France,  who  claimed  her  French 
territories  as  a  male  fief,  sent  off  a  ring  in  haste  to  the  suitor  designated 
by  her  father,  the  high-spirited  Archduke  Maximilian  of  Austria,  who 
came  like  a  knight-errant  to  her  rescue  in  her  utmost  need,  and  rendered 
her  short  life  a  golden  age  of  prosperity  and  happiness  as  well  to  herself 
as  to  her  Flemings. 

Clarence  laid  all  the  blame  of  his  disappointment  on  his  brother,  and 
there  was  exceeding  bitterness  on  either  hand,  augmented,  it  would  seem, 
by  Edward's  failing  health.  His  sojourn  in  the  French  marshes  had  left 
him  an  ague,  whi<^  he  never  shook  off;  and  his  perpetual  excesses  were 
only  varied  by  attacks  of  illness  which  rendered  even  court  pageants 
oppressive  to  him,  and  made  him  more  willing  to  loiter  in  the  bower  he 
had  given  to  the  fair  Jane  Shore,  a  London  goldsmith's  runaway  wife, 
than  to  share  in  the  gay  semi-chivalrous  pageants  by  which  Elizabeth 
and  her  brothers  emulated  the  splendours  of  the  Burgundy  of  old. 


222  THE  MOKTHLT  PACffl!T. 

One  of  ihe  moat  notable  of  these  festivities  took  pluce  when  the  five- 
year-old  Richard  Duke  of  York  was  wedded  to  the  three-year-old  Anne 
M6wbray»  heiress  of  Norfolk,  when  all  the  splendour  of  the  court  was 
diisplayed  in  honour  of  the  two  little  creatures,  who  were  both  in  their 
graves  before  six  years  more  had  passed  over  their  heads. 

It  is  matter  of  doubt  what  was  the  real  cause  of  the  strange  and  fatal 
quarrels  that  prevailed  in  court.  Some  lay  all  to  the  machinations  of 
the  Duke  of  Glocester,  whom  Shakespeare  has  portrayed  all  along  as 
the  fiendish  and  subtle  piece  of  deformity  appointed  by  Providence  to 
act  as  the  Nemesis  of  his  blood-thirsty  house,  poisoning  the  mind  of 
Edward  against  George,  and  inflaming  George  against  Edward  and  the 
Queen's  relations. 

But  if  this  be  true,  his  part  must'have  been  played  with  most  masterly 
secresy,  for  strong  as  the  tradition  is,  authentic  history  bears  no  trace 
of  his  intermeddling,  and  he  apparently  remained  quietly  at  home  at 
Middleham  Castle,  and  let  things  take  their  course.  As  difficult  is  it  to 
understand  how  &r  Antony  Woodville,  Lord  Bivers,  was  guilty.  For 
all  that  appears  of  his  course,  he  was  an  honourable,  graceful,  chivalrous 
gentleman,  highly  accomplished,  somewhat  over-elated  indeed  by  his 
sister's  elevation,  and  disposed  to  forget  that  his  maternal  descent  did  not 
rUnk  him  as  high  as  if  it  had  come  through  his  father.  No  really  evil 
deed  is  laid  to  his  door,  and  he  does  not  appear  even  to  have  been  one  of 
the  companions  of  the  King's  grosser  pleasures,  but  rather  to  have  been 
the  chief  ornament  of  his  sister's  butterfly  court.  Yet  he  and  his  nephew, 
John  Grey,  Marquess  of  Dorset,  were  the  objects  of  the  bitterest  hatred, 
not  merely  to  the  people,  who  were  sure  to  detest  vain  men  of  a  new 
family,  and  to  the  insensate  jealousy  of  George  of  Clarence;  but  to 
Lord  Hastings,  who  was  esteemed  the  wisest  and  truest  of  Edward's 
counsellors.  And  if  Rivers  were  the  secret  mover  in  the  strange  events 
that  became  fatal  to  Clarence,  he  would  deserve  to  share  universal 
hatred  with  Glocester. 

It  is  more  likely  that  there  was  no  formed  design  on  either  side ;  but 
that  dislike  and  suspicion  caused  provocations  and  revenges,  which  in 
characters  of  such  slumbering  ferocity  as  distinguished  the  House  of 
York,  led  to  far  more  frightful  residts  than  any  malice  could  have 
devised. 

Clarence  had  accused  the  Queen  of  sorcery;  the  charge  was  made 
against  one  of  his  own  servants,  one  Stacey,  who  was  accused  of  having 
melted  certain  images  of  lead,  intending  by  them  to  destroy  the  health 
of  the  Lord  Beauchamp.  The  poor  man  was  examined  on  the  rack,  and 
being  demanded  who  were  his  accomplices,  either  named,  or  assented  to 
those  who  suggested,  Sir  Thomas  Burdett,  a  favourite  attendant  of  the 
Duke*  Now  it  happened  that  the  Eang,  when  hunting  in  a  park 
.belonging  to  this  gentleman,  had  killed  a  tame  white  buck,  a  great 
favourite ;  and  in  his  unguarded  passion,  Burdett  had  exclaimed  that  he 
wished  the  poor  stag's  horns  were  in  the  belly  of  the  man  who  ^lew  it. 


CAMSOS  FROM  EKGUSH  HISTOBY.  223 

This  foolish  malediction  "wbs  taken  as  proof  presumptive  and  Stacey 
and  Burdett  were  tried  together  at  Westminster  for  sorcery  and  high- 
treason,  and  for  -circolating  seditious  t)allads— convicted,  drawn  on  a 
hurdle  to  Tyburn,  and  there  put  to  death ;  Burdett  loudly  and  fully 
proclaiming  his  innocence. 

•.  Clarence,  hotly  angered,  came  fiercely  into  the  counci^*chamber  at 
Westminster,  and  spoke  violently  of  the  horrible  injustice  that  had  been 
perpetrated,  vehemently  accused  the  Queen  and  her  kindred,  and  called 
in  Dr.  Godard,  a  priest,  to  testify  to  the  dying  declarations  of  Burdett 
and  Stacey. 

The  King  was  absent  at  Windsor  when  this  outbreak  took  place ;  but 
on  hearing  of  his  brother's  wild  and  furious  language,  he  seems  to  have 
muttered  his  favourite  threat,  *  He  shall  repent  it  in  every  vein  of  his 
heart;'  and  hurried  to  London,  where  Clarence  was  immediately 
arraigned,  on  a  strange  medley  of  charges — i.  e.  of  setting  his  attendants 
to  collect  the  people,  and  feast  them  on  venison,  that  they  might  be 
persuaded  that  Burdett  had  been  wrongfully  sentenced,  of  declaring  his 
brother  not  to  be  his  father's  true  son,  and  of  trying  to  smuggle  a  strange 
child  into  his  castle  to  pass  for  his  own. 

It  was  an  old  and  monstrous  bit  of  scandal  that  Duchess  Cicely  had 
had  a  lover  among  her  husband's  archers;  indeed,  it  was  one  of  the 
favourite  witticisms  of  Louis  XL  and  Charles  the  Bold  to  call  Edward 
IV.  Blackburn,  afler  this  man ;  and  Clarence,  when  in  a  rage,  had 
no  doubt  repeated  the  term  as  mere  abuse.  Strange  to  say,  Edward 
appeared  as  a  witness  before  the  council,  and  Clarence  wrangled  with 
him,  and  offered  to  clear  himself  by  single  combat;  but  this  feature 
in  the  CEdipean-like  tragedy  of  Flantagenet  was  not  permitted ;  the 
sentence  of  high-treason  was  pronounced  against  George ;  and  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham — the  Stafford  who  had  married  Katharine  Woodville 
-—was  appointed  to  see  him  executed. 

This  was  on  the  7th  of  February,  1478 ;  but  a  few  days  after,  there 
w^s  a  demand  from  the  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons  why  it  had 
not  been  carried  out. 

The  Commons  had  not  long  to  wait.  On  the  17th  Clarence  was  dead 
in  the  Bowyer  tower,  in  the  Tower  of  London.  He  had  been  at  the 
chapel  the  day  before,  and  offered  his  mass-penny,  but  in  the  morning  he 
was  found  dead,  with  his  head  hanging  over  a  butt  of  Malmsey  wine,  his 
favourite  beverage.  At  least,  such  was  the  most  reasonable  account; 
others  declared  he  had  been  secretly  dealt  with;  and  report  averred  that, 
being  allowed  the  favour  of  choosing  his  mode  of  death,  he  had  requested 
to  be  drowned  in  the  liquor  that  he  loved. 

He  left  two  young  orphans,  Edward  Earl  of  Warwick,  bom  on  the 
stormy  passage  to  Calais,  and  Margaret.  His  third  and  youngest  child 
escaped  the  inevitable  doom  of  the  White  Rose  by  dying  in  in&ncy« 
Great  part  of  his  lands  were  given  to  Rivers,  who  Uius  drew  on  himself 
much  of  the  odium  of  the  destruction  of  the  Prince.    The  need  of  vying 


224  THE  MOKTHIiT  PACKET. 

with  prinooB  and  old  nobility  had  certainly  made  BiTors  rapadous, 
though  he  was  never  niggardly. 

It  would  seem  likely  that  Edward  had  only  intended  to  bring  his 
brother  to  submissiony  and  would  never  have  permitted  him  to  be 
executed;  but  that  Clarence's  own  intemperate  habits  did  the  worlu 
The  indictment  against  poor  Ankaret  Twynhyo  was  reversed,  and  her 
family  restored  in  blood;  and  poor  Clarence's  wretched  career  seemed 
forgotten,  save  that  one  day,  when  one  brother  presented  a  petition  for 
the  pardon  of  another,  the  King  shed  tears,  and  exclaimed,  ^Alas,  my 
poor  brother,  none  pleaded  to  me  for  him  V 

Was  this  a  reproof  to  Richard  of  Olocester  f    Men  thought  so. 

(To  be  contimied.) 


THE  PILLAES  OF  THE  HOUSE; 

OB, 

UNDER  WODE,  UNDER  RODE. 
CHAFTEB  IX. 
THE  THIRTEEN. 

<  They  closed  around  the  fire, 
And  all  in  turn  essayed  to  paint 
The  riyal  merits  of  their  saint ; 
A  theme  that  ne'er  can  tire 
A  holy  maid,  for  he  it  known 
That  their  saint's  honour  is  their  own.' 

Scott. 

Tbb  thirteen  Underwoods  did  not  meet  again  in  the  same  house  for 
many  a  long  day ;  and  when  they  did,  it  was  on  a<  grey  misty  morning 
in  the  Christmas  week  of  the  year  following ;  and  the  blinds  were  down, 
and  the  notes  of  the  knell  clashing  out  overhead,  as  the  door  was 
opened  to  Edgar,  Alda,  and  Clement,  as  they  arrived  together,  having 
been  summoned  late  on  the  previous  night  by  a  telegram  with  tidings 
that  their  mother  had  been  struck  by  paralysb.  They  knew  what 
to  expect  when  Felix,  vdth  one  of  the  litUe  ones  on  his  arm,  came 
quietly  down  the  stairs  and  admitted  them.  All  they  had  to  ask,  was 
^  when,'  and  '  how ;'  and  to  hear,  that  the  long  living  death  had  ended 
in  peaceful  insensibility  at  last.  Then  they  followed  him  up-stairs  to 
the  room  where  the  others  sat,  hushed,  over  their  pen  or  their  books, 
where  Wilmet,  her  eyes  gushing  with  quiet  tears,  held  Alda  in  her 
embrace,  and  Oeraldine,  after  her  first  eager  kiss,  gazed  wistfoUy  at 
Edgar  as  though  there  must  be  comfort  in  the  very  sight  of  him,  if 


THE  PILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  225 

she  could  only  feel  it;  while  the  very  little  ones  opened  their  puzzled 
eyes  on  the  new-comers  as  strangers* 

And  80  they  were :  Clement  had  indeed  been  at  home  in  September, 
but  Alda  not  for  a  year  and  three  quarters,  nor  Edgar  since  he  first 
left  it  three  years  before.  The  absence  of  the  two  latter  was  not  by 
their  own  choice ;  a  doctor  who  had  ordered  Mrs.  Thomas  Underwood 
to  spend  the  summer  months  year  afler  year  at  Spa  was  partly  the 
cause;  and  moreover,  during  the  autumn  and  winter  of  1856  Bexley 
had  been  a  perfect  field  of  epidemics.  Measles  and  whooping-cough 
had  run  riot  in  the  schools,  and  lingered  in  the  streets  and  alleys 
of  the  potteries,  fastening  on  many  who  thought  themselves  secured 
by  former  attacks ;  and  there  had  been  a  good  many  deaths,  in  especial 
Clement's  chief  friend,  Harry  Lamb.  Nobody,  excepting  the  invalid 
mother,  throughout  the  Underwood  household,  had  escaped  one  or 
other  disorder;  and  both  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  four  little  ones,  and 
likewise  of  Mr.  Audley,  who  was  infinitely  disgusted  at  himself,  and  at 
the  guarded  childhood  for  which  he  thus  paid  the  penalty  pretty 
severely.  When  matters  were  at  the  worst,  and  Felix  was  laid  up, 
and  Wilmet  found  herself  succumbing,  she  had  written  in  desperation 
to  Sister  Constance,  whose  presence  in  the  house  had  made  the  next 
three  weeks  a  time  of  very  pleasant  recollections.  Finally  she  had 
carried  off  Geraldine,  Angela,  and  Bernard,  to  the  convalescent  rooms 
at  St.  Faith's,  where  their  happiness  had  been  such  that  the  favourite 
sport  of  the  little  ones  had  ever  since  been  the  acting  of  Sisters  of 
Mercy  nursing  sick  dolls.  The  quarantine  had  been  indefinitely 
prolonged  for  the  proteges  of  Kensington  Palace  Gardens ;  for  the 
three  at  school,  though  kept  away  till  all  infection  was  thought  to  be 
over,  had  perversely  caught  the  maladies  as  soon  as  they  came  home  for 
the  summer  holidays;  and  indeed,  the  whole  town  and  neighbouring 
villages  were  so  full  of  contagion,  that  Mrs.  Thomas  Underwood  had 
not  far  to  seek  for  a  plea  for  avoiding  Centry. 

All  this  time,  from  day  to  day,  the  poor  mother  had  been  growing 
more  feeble,  and  it  had  been  fully  purposed  that  on  Edgar's  return  at 
Christmas,  on  the  completion  of  his  studies  at  Louvaine,  he  and  Alda 
should  make  some  stay  at  home ;  but  the  brother  and  sister  were  both 
so  useful,  and  ornamental  that  their  adopted  home  could  not  spare 
them  until  after  a  series  of  Christmas  entertainments;  and  Clement 
had  been  in  like  manner  detained  until  the  festival  services  at  St. 
Matthew's  no  longer  required  him.  Indeed,  when  he  had  been  at  home 
in  the  autumn,  he  had  been  scarcely  recognized. 

For  the  last  week,  however,  Mrs.  Underwood  had  been  much  clearer 
in  mind,  had  enjoyed  the  presence  of  her  holiday  children,  and  had 
for  a  short  time  even  given  hopes  that  her  constitution  might  yet  rally, 
and  her  dormant  faculties  revive.  She  had  even  talked  to  Mr.  Audley 
and  Geraldine  at  different  times  as  though  she  had  some  such 
presentiment  herself)  and  had  made  some  exertions' which  proved  much 

VOL.    10.  16  PART  57. 


226  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

increased  activity  of  brain.  Alas  I  though  their  coming  had  thus  been 
rendered  very  happy,  the  brightening  had  been  but  the  83miptom  and 
.precursor  of  a  sudden  attack  of  paralysis,  whence  there  was  no  symptom 
of  recovery,  and  which  in  a  few  hours  ended  in  death. 

For  the  present,  the  hopes  that  had  been  entertained  gave  poignancy 
to  the  sudden  disappointment  and  grief,  and  the  home  children  could  not 
acquiesce  in  the  dispensation  with  the  same  quiet  reasonableness  as 
those  who  had  been  so  long  separated  from  them  as  not  to  miss  the 
gentle  countenance,  or  the  'sweet  toils,  sweet  cares,  for  ever  gone.' 
Indeed,  Wilmet  was  physically  much  exhausted  by  her  long  hours  of 
anxiety,  and  went  about  pale-cheeked  and  tear-stained,  quietly  attending 
to  all  that  was  needful,  but  with  the  tears  continually  dropping ;  while 
Geraldine  was  fit  for  nothing  but  to  lie  still,  unable  to  think,  but 
feeling  soothed  as  long  as  she  could  lay  her  hand  upon  Edgar  and 
feel  that  he  was  near. 

So  the  whole  thirteen  were  together  again ;  and  in  the  hush  of  the 

orphaned  house  there  was  a  certain    wonder  and  curiosity  in  their 

mutual  examination  and  comparison  with  one  another  and  with  the  beings 

with  whom  they  had  parted  three  years  ago,  at  the  period  of  their 

first  separation.    All  were  at  a  time  of  life  when  such  an  interval 

could  not  fail  to  make  a  vast  alteration  in  externals.    Even  Geraldine 

had  gained  in  strength,  and  though  still  white,  and  with  features  too 

large  for  her  face,   startlingly  searching  grey  eyes,   and  brows  that 

looked  strangely  thick,  dark,  and  straight,  in  contrast  with  the  pencilled 

arches  belonging  to  all  the  rest,  she  was  less  weird  and  elfin-like  than 

when  she  had  been  three  inches  shorter,  and  dressed  more  childishly. 

As  Edgar  said,  she  was  less  Riquet  with  a  tuft  than  the  good  fairy 

godmother,  and  her  twin  sisters  might  have  been  her  princess-wards, 

so   far   did  they  tower  above   her — straight  as   fir  trees,  oval   faced, 

regular  featured,  fair  skinned,  blue  eyed,  and  bright  haired.     During 

those  long  dreary  hours,  Edgar  often  beguiled  the  time  with  sketches 

of  them,  and  the  outlines — whether  of  chiselled  profiles,  shapely  heads, 

or  Cupid's-bow  lips — were  still  almost  exactly  similar  ;    yet  it   had 

become  impossible  to  mistake  one  twin  for  the  other,  even  when  Alda 

had  dressed  the  tresses  on  Wilmet's  passive  head  in  perfect  conformity 

with  her  own.     Looking  at  their  figures,  Alda's  air  of  fashion  made 

her  appear  the  eldest,  and  Wilmet  might  have   been  a  girl   in  the 

school-room  ;  but  comparing   their  faces,  Wilmet's  placid  recollected 

countenance,  and  the  soberness  that  sat  so  well  on  her  white  smooth 

forehead  and  steady  blue  eyes,  might  have  befitted  many  more  years 

than  eighteen.    There  were  not  nearly  so  many  lights  and   shades  in 

her  looks  as  in  those  of  Alda  and  Geraldine.    The  one  had  both  more 

smiles  and  more  frowns,  the  other  more  gleams  of  joy  and  of  pain  ;  each 

was  more  animated  and  sensitive,  but  neither  gave  the  -same  sense  of 

confidence  and  repose. 

As  usually  happens  when  the  parents  are  of  the  same  family,  the 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  227 

inventory  of  the  features  of  one  of  the  progeny  served  for  almost  all 
the  rest.  The  differences  were  only  in  degree,  and  the  prime  specimens 
were  without  doubt  the  two  elder  twins  and  Edgar,  with  like  promise 
of  little  Bernard  and  Stella. 

Edgar  had  grown  very  tall,  and  had  inherited  his  father's  advantages 
of  grace  and  elegance  of  figure,  to  which  wtis  added  a  certain 
distinguished  ease  of  carriage,  and  ready  graciousness,  too  simple  to 
be  called  either  conceit  or  presumption,  but  which  looked  as  if  he 
were  used  to  be  admired  and  »to  confer  favours.  Athletics  had  been 
the  fashion  with  him  and  his  English  companions,  and  his  complexipn 
was  embrowned  by  sun  and  wind,  his  form  upright  and  vigorous ;  and 
by  force  of  contrast  it  was  now  perceived  that  Felix  seemed  to  have 
almost  ceased  growing  for  the  last  three  years,  and  that  his  in-door 
occupations  had  given  his  broad  square  shoulders  a  kind  of  slouch, 
and  kept  his  colouring  as  pink  and  white  as  that  of  his  sisters.  Like 
Wilmet,  he  had  something  staid  and  responsible  about  him,  that,  even 
more  than  his  fringe  of  light  brown  whiskers,  gave  the  appearance 
of  full-grown  manhood ;  so  that  the  first  impression  of  all  the  new 
comers  was  how  completely  he  had  lefl  the  boy  behind  him,  making  it 
an  efibrt  of  memory  to  believe  him  only  nineteen  and  a  half.  But 
they  all  knew  him  for  their  head,  and  leant  themselves  against  him. 
And  in  the  meantime,  Edgar's  appearance  was  a  perfect  feast  of 
enjoyment,  not  only  to  little  loving  Geraldine,  but  to  sage  Felix. 
They  recreated  themselves  with  gazing  at  him,  and  when  left  alone 
together  would  discuss  his  charms  in  low  confidential  murmurs,  quite 
aware  that  Wilmet  would  think  them  very  silly;  but  Edgar  was  the 
great  romance  of  both. 

Edgar  observed  that  Clement  had  done  all  the  growth  for  both 
himself  and  Felix,  and  was  doing  his  best  to  be  a  light  of  the  Church 
by  resembling  nothing  but  an  altar-taper.  When  they  all  repaired  to 
the  back  of  the  cupboard  door  in  Mr.  Audley's  room  to  be  measured, 
his  head  was  found  far  above  Edgar's  mark  at  fourteen,  and  therewith 
he  was  lank  and  thin,  not  yet  accustomed  to  the  length  of  his  own 
legs  and  arms,  and  seeming  as  if  he  was  not  meant  to  be  seen 
undraped  by  his  surplice.  His  features  and  face  were  of  the  family 
type,  but  a  little  smaller,  iind  with  much  less  of  the  bright  rosy  tinting ; 
indeed,  when  not  excited  he  was  decidedly  pale,  and  his  eyes  and  hair 
were  a  little  lighter  than  those  of  the  rest.  It  was  a  refined,  delicate, 
thoughtful  face,  pretty  rather  than  handsome,  and  its  only  fault  was 
a  certain  melancholy  superciliousness  or  benignant  pity  for  everyone 
who  did  not  belong  to  the  flock  of  St.  Matthew's. 

Regular  features  are  always  what  most  easily  lose  individuality,  and 
become  those  of  the  owner's  class;  and  if  Clement  was  all  chorister, 
Fulbert  and  Lancelot  were  all  school-boy.  The  two  little  fellows  were 
a  long  way  apart  in  height,  though  there  were  only  two  years  between 
them ;   for  Lance  was  on  a  much  smaller  scale,  but  equally  full  of 


228  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

ruddy  health  and  superabundant  vigour;  and  while  Fulbert  was  the 
more  rough  and  independent,  his  countenance  had  not  the  fun  and 
sweetness  that  rendered  Lance's  so  winning.  Their  looks  were  repeated 
in  Robina,  who  was  much  too  square  and  sturdj  for  any  attempt  at 
beauty,  and  was  comically  like  a  boy  and  like  her  brothers,  but  with 
much  frank  honesty  and  determination  in  her  big  grey  darkly-l&shed 
eyes.  Angela  was  one  of  the  most  altered  of  all ;  for  her  plump  cherub 
cheeks  had  melted  away  under  the  glow  of  measles,  and  the  whooping 
process  had  lengthened  and  narrowed  her  small  person  into  a  demure 
little  thread-paper  of  six  years  old,  omnivorous  of  books,  a  pet  and 
pickle  at  school,  and  a  romp  at  home — the 'sworn  ally,  offensive  and 
defensive,  of  stout,  rough  pated,  unruly  Bernard.  Stella  was  the  loveliest 
little  bit  of  painted  porcelain  imaginable,  quite  capable  of  being  his 
companion,  and  a  perfect  little  fairy  for  beauty,  gracefulness,  and 
quickness  of  all  kinds.  Alda  was  delighted  with  her  pretty  caressing 
ways  and  admiration  of  the  wonderful  new  sister.  She  was  of  quieter, 
more  docile  mood  than  these  two,  though  aspiring  to  their  companion- 
ship ;  for  it  was  startling  to  see  how  far  she  had  left  Theodore  behind. 
He  was  still  in  arms,  and  speechless,  a  little  pale  inanimate  creature, 
taking  very  little  notice,  and  making  no  sound  except  a  sort  of  low 
musical  cooing  of  pleasure,  and  a  sad  whining  moan  of  unhappiness, 
which  always  recurred  when  he  was  not  in  the  arms  of  Sibby,  Wilmet, 
or  Felix.  It  was  only  when  Felix  held  out  his  arms  to  take  him 
that  the  sound  of  pleasure  was  heard ;  and  once  on  that  firm  knee,  with 
his  shining  head  against  that  kind  heart,  he  was  satisfied,  and  Felix  had 
accustomed  himself  to  all  sorts  of  occupations  with  his  little  brother 
in  his  left  arm.  Even  at  night,  there  was  no  rest  for  Theodore  unless 
Felix  took  him  into  his  room.  So  often  did  the  little  fretting  moan 
summon  him,  that  soon  the  crib  took  up  its  regular  abode  beside  his 
bed. 

But  Felix,  though  of  course  spared  from  the  shop,  could  not  be 
dispensed  with  from  the  printing-house,  where  he  was  sub-editor;  and 
in  his  absence  Theodore  was  always  less  contented;  and  his  tearless 
moan  went  to  his  sister's  heart,  for  the  poor  little  fellow  had  been 
wont  to  lie  day  and  night  in  his  mother's  bosom,  and  she  had  been 
as  uneasy  without  him  as  he  now  was  without  her.  All  her  other 
babes  had  grown  past  her  helpless  instinctive  tenderness,  and  Theodore's 
continued  passiveness  had  been  hitherto  an  advantage,  which  had  always 
been  called  his  '  goodness  and  affection.' 

Alda  was  the  first  to  comment  on  the  wonderful  interval  between 
the  twins,  when  Wilmet  accounted  for  it  by  Theodore's  having  been 
quite  kept  back  for  his  mother's  sake,  and  likewise  by  his  having 
been  more  reduced  by  measles  and  whooping-cough  than  Stella  had 
been ;  but  to  fresh  observers  it  was  impossible  to  think  that  all  was 
thus  explained,  and  Edgar  and  Alda  discussed  it  in  a  low  voice  when 
they  found  themselves  alone. 


THE  PIUiARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  229 

'The  fact  is  plain,'  said  Edgar;  'but  I  suppose  nothing  can  be  done, 
and  I  see  no  use  in  forcing  it  on  poor  Wilmet.' 

'  I  don't  understand  such  blindness.' 

'Not  real  blindness— certainly  not  on  Felix's  part.  He  knows  that 
load  is  on  his  back  for  life.  Heigh  ho!  a  stout  old  Atlas  we  have 
in  Blunderbore ;  I  wonder  how  long  I  shall  be  in  plucking  the  golden 
apples,  and  taking  a  share.' 

'  I  thought  it  was  Atlas  that  gathered  the  apples.' 

'Don't  spoil  a  good  simile  with  superfluous  exactness,  Alda!  It  is 
base  enough  to  compare  the  gardens  of  the  Hesperides  to  a  merchant's 
office  I  I  wonder  how  many  years  it  will  take  to  get  out  of  the  drudgery, 
and  have  some  power  of  enjoying  Hfe  and  relieving  Felix.  One  could 
tear  one's  hair  to  see  him  tied  down  by  this  large  family  till  all  his  best 
days  are  gone.' 

'  Some  of  the  othei*s  may  get  off  his  hands,  and  help.' 

'  Not  they !  Clem  is  too  highly  spiritualized  to  care  for  anything  so 
material  as  his  own  flesh  and  blood;  and  it  is  not  their  fault  if  little 
Lance  does  not  follow  in  his  wake.  Then  if  Ful  has  any  brains  he 
is  not  come  to  the  use  of  them ;  he  is  only  less  obnoxious  than  Tina 
in  that  he  is  a  boy  and  not  a  church  candle,  but  boys  are  certainly  a 
mistake.' 

If  ever  the  mature  age  of  seventeen  could  be  excused  for  so  regarding 
boyhood  it  was  under  such  circumstances.  All  were  too  old  for  any 
outbreaks,  such  as  brought  Angela  and  Bernard  to  disgrace,  and  disturbed 
the  hush  of  those  four  sad  days ;  but  the  actual  loss  had  been  so  long 
previous,  that  the  pressure  of  present  grief  was  not  so  crushing  as  to 
prevent  want  of  employment  and  confinement  in  that  small  silent  house 
from  being  other  than  most  irksome  and  tedious. 

Clement  would  have  done  very  well  alone ;  he  went  to  church,  read, 
told  Angela  stories,  and  discoursed  to  Cherry  on  the  ways  of  St. 
Matthew's ;  but  unfortunately  there  was  something  about  him  that  always 
incited  the  other  boys  to  sparring,  nor  was  he  always  guiltless  of  being 
the  aggressor,  for  there  was  no  keeping  him  in  mind  that  comparisons 
are  odious. 

Church  music  might  seem  a  suitable  subject,  but  the  London  chorister 
could  not  abstain  from  criticizing  St.  Oswald's,  and  contemning  the  old- 
fashioned  practices  of  the  Cathedral,  which  of  course  Lance  considered 
himself  bound  to  defend,  till  the  very  names  of  Gregorians  and  Anglicans 
became  terrible  to  Cherry  as  the  watchwords  of  a  wrangling  match. 
Fulbert,  meantime,  made  no  secret  of  his  contempt  for  both  brothers  as 
mere  choristers  instead  of  school-boys,  and  exalted  himself  whenever  he 
detected  their  ignorance  of  any  choice  morceau  of  slang;  while  their 
superior  knowledge  on  any  other  point  was  viewed  as  shewing  the 
new-fangled  girlish  nonsense  of  their  education. 

This  Lance  did  not  mind ;  but  he  was  very  sensitive  as  to  the  dignity 
of  his  Cathedral,  and  the  perfections  of  his  chosen  friend,  one  Bill 


230  THE  MONTHLY  PACICET. 

Harewood ;  and  Fulbert  was  not  slow  to  use  the  latter  engine  for  ^  getting 
a  rise'  out  of  him,  while  Clement  as  often,  though  with  less  design, 
offended  hj  disparagement  of  his  choir ;  nor  could  Edgar  refuse  himself 
the  diversion  of  tormenting  Clement  by  ironical  questions  and  remarks 
on  his  standard  of  perfection,  which  mode  of  torture  enchanted  Fulbert 
whenever  he  understood  it.  Thus  these  four  brothers  contrived  to  inflict 
a  good  amount  of  teazing  on  one  another,  all  the  more  wearing  and 
worrying  because  deprived  of  its  only  tolerable  seasoning,  mirth. 

Clement  had  indeed  a  refuge  in  Mr.  Audley*s  room,  where  he  could 
find  books,  and  willing  ears  for  Mr.  Fulmort's  doings ;  but  he  availed 
himself  of  it  less  than  might  have  been  expected.  Whether  from 
inclination  to  his  brothers'  society,  desire  to  do  them  good,  or  innate 
pugnacity,  he  was  generally  in  the  thick  of  the  conflict;  and  before 
long  he  confided  to  Felix  that  he  was  seriously  uneasy  about  Edgar's 
opinions. 

^  He  is  only  chafling  you,'  said  Felix. 

'Chaff,  now/^  said  Clement. 

^  Well,  Clem,  you  know  you  are  enough  to  provoke  a  saint,  you  bore 
so  intolerably  about  St  Matthew's.' 

The  much  disgusted  Clement  retired  into  himself,  but  Felix  was  not 
satisfied  at  heart. 

One  was  lacking  on  the  cold  misty  New  Year's  morning,  when  even 
Geraldine  could  not  be  withheld  from  the  Communion  Feast  of  the  living 
and  departed.  Each  felt  the  disappointment  when  they  found  themselves 
only  six  instead  of  seven ;  but  it  was  Clement,  who  as  the  boys  were 
waiting  for  breakfast  afterwards  began, 

'  Have  not  you  been  confirmed,  Edgar  ? ' 

'How  should  1?' 

'  I  am  sure  there  are  plenty  of  foreign  Confirmations.  I  sec  them  in 
the  British  Catholic' 

'  Foreign  parts  isn't  all  one,'  said  Edgar ;  and  the  younger  boys  sniggled. 

'  If  one  took  any  trouble,'  persisted  Clement. 

'  Tes,  but  one^*  dwelling  with  emphasis  on  the  awkward  impersonal, 
^one  may  have  scruples  about  committing  an  act  of  schism  by  en- 
couraging an  intruding  Bishop  performing  episcopal  functions  in  another 
man's  diocese.  Has  not  your  spiritual  father  taught  you  that  much, 
Tina?' 

^  I — ^I  must  find  out  about  that,'  said  Clement  thoughtfully ;  but  at  any 
rate,  the  Lent  Confirmations  are  coming  on  in  London,  and  if  I  were  to 
speak  to  the  Vicar,  I  have  no  doubt  he  would  gladly  prepare  you.' 

*  Nor  I,'  answered  Edgar. 

'  Then  shall  I  ? '  eagerly  asked  Clement. 
'  Not  at  present,  thank  you.' 

Clement  stood  blank  and  open  mouthed,  and  Fulbert  laughed,  secure 
that  the  joke,  whatever  it  might  be,  was  against  him. 

*  Of  course,'  burst  out  Lance,  '  Edgar  does  not  want  you  to  speak  for 


THE  PILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  231 

him,  Clem ;  he  has  got  a  tongue  of  his  owd,  and  a  clergyman  too,  I 
suppose.' 

Clement  proceeded  to  a  disquisition  topographical  and  censorial,  upon 
the  parish  and  district  to  which  Edgar  might  be  relegated,  and  finally 
exclaimed,  'Yes,  he  is  not  much  amiss.  He  has  some  notions.  He 
dines  with  us  sometimes.  You  can  go  to  him,  Edgar,  and  Fll  get  the 
Vicar  to  speak  to  him.' 

'Thank  you,  I  bad  rather  be  excused.' 

'  You  cannot  miss  another  Confirmation.' 

'  I  can't  say  I  am  fond  of  pledges,  especially  when  no  one  can  tell 
how  much  or  how  little  they  mean.' 

Whether  this  were  in  earnest,  or  a  mere  thrust  in  return  for  Clement's 
pertinacity,  was  undecided,  for  Wilmet  came  in,  looking  so  sad  and 
depressed  that  the  brothers  felt  rebuked  for  the  tone  in  which  they  had 
been  speaking. 

.  Mr.  Thomas  Underwood  soon  arrived,  having  come  to  Centry  the 
night  before ;  and  after  a  few  words  had  passed  between  him  and  Edgar, 
the  latter  announced  his  intention  of  returning  with  him  to  London  that 
evening. 

'  Very  well,'  said  Felix,  much  disappointed  at  this  repetition  of  Edgar's 
willingness  to  hurry  from  the  house  of  mourning,  '  but  we  have  had  very 
little  of  you ;  Clement  must  go  on  the  day  after  Twelfth  Day,  and  we 
shall  have  more  room.     It  will  be  a  great  blow  to  Cherry.' 

'  Poor  little  Cherry !  I'll  come  when  I  can  see  her  in  greater  peace, 
but  I  must  buckle  to  with  the  beginning  of  the  year,  Fee.' 

There  was  no  further  disputing  the  point,  but  Edgar  was  always  a 
great  loss.  To  everyone  except  Clement  he  was  so  gentle  and  considerate 
that  it  was  impossible  not  to  think  that  the  strange  things  reported  of 
him  were  not  first  evoked  and  then  exaggerated  by  the  zeal  of  the 
model  chorister;  and  indeed  he  led  Geraldine  to  that  inference  when 
he  went  to  her  in  the  sitting-room,  where,  as  before,  she  had  to  remain 
at  home. 

'  My  Cherry,  I  find  I  must  go  back  with  old  Tom.  Don't  be  vexed, 
my  Whiteheart,  I  am  not  going  back  to  Belgium,  you  know ;  I  can  often 
run  down,  but  my  work  ought  to  begin  with  the  year.' 

^  You  cannot  even  stay  over  the  Epiphany!' 

'  Well,  I  would  have  made  an  effort,  but  I  am  really  wanted ;  and 
then  if  I  am  long  with  that  light  of  the  church,  Tina,  he  will  get  me 
into  everybody's  black  books.  Never  mind,  old  girl,  I'll  be  for  ever 
running  down.     Is  anycme  going  to  stay  with  you  ?' 

'  Bernard  is  coming  presently ;  I  must  try  to  make  him  recollect  some- 
thing about  it.' 

*  You  don't  mean  that  child  Angel  is  going.' 
'  She  wishes  it,  and  it  seems  right.' 

*  Right  to  leave  a  black  spot  in  her  memory !  If  children  could  but 
believe  i>eople  were  sublimated  away !' 


232  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'  Children  can  believe  in  the  Resurrection  of  the  body  as  well  as  we,' 
said  Cherry  reverently. 

*  Better  too,  by  a  long  chalk/  he  muttered ;  then  perceiving  her  dis- 
mayed expression,  he  added,  *  No,  no — ^I'm  not  talking  to  Tina,  only  he 
has  put  me  in  the  humour  in  which  there  is  nothing  he  could  not  make 
me  dispute — even  my  Cherry  being  the  sweetest  morsel  in  the  world. 
There,  good-bye  for  the  present,  only  don't  afflict  that  poor  little  Bernard 
and  yourself  into  too  great  wretchedness,  ^ut  of  a  sense  of  duty.' 

'  No,  I  do  not  really  grieve,'  said  Cherry.  *  Tears  come  for  thankful- 
ness. The  real  sorrow  came  long  ago ;  we  grew  up  in  it ;  and  it  is  over 
now.' 

*  Bight,  little  one.  The  mortal  coil  was  very  heavy  and  painful  these 
last  years,  and  no  one  can  help  being  relieved  that  the  end  is  come.  It 
is  the  conventionalities  that  are  needlessly  distressing.  What  earthly 
purpose  can  it  serve,  save  the  amusement  of  the  maids  and  children  of 
Bexley,  that  nine  of  us  should  present  ourselves  a  pitiful  spectacle  all 
the  way  up  to  the  cemetery  in  veils  and  hat-bands  ?' 

'  Don't  talk  so,  Edgar ;  you  do  not  know  how  it  jars,  though  I  know 
you  mean  no  disrespect.' 

*  Well,  it  must  be  a  blessed  thing  to  end  by  drowning  or  blowing  up, 
to  save  one's  friends  trouble.' 

*  Edgar,  indeed  I  cannot  bear  this !  Recollect  what  a  treasure  that 
dear  shattered  earthen  vessel  has  held.  What  a  wonderful  life  of  patient 
silent  resignation  it  was  I' 

'  Indeed  it  was,'  said  Edgar,  suddenly  soflened.  *  No  lips  could  tell 
what  the  resolution  must  have  been  that  carried  her  through  those  years, 
never  murmuring.  What  must  she  not  have  spared  my  father !  Such 
devotion  is  the  true  woman's  heritage.' 

Cherry  was  soothed  as  she  saw  the  dew  on  his  eye-lashes,  but  just  then 
Felix  came  in  to  fetch  him,  and  stooping  down  kissed  her,  and  said  in 
his  low  and  tender  but  strong  voice,  ^  We  leave  her  with  Mm,  dear  child. 
][tecollect 

'  The  heart  may  ache,  but  may  not  burst ; 
Heav(en  will  not  leave  thee,  nor  forsake.' 

Much  as  Geraldine  had  longed  for  Edgar,  bis  words  brought  vague 
yearning  and  distress,  while  Felix's  very  tone  gave  support.  How  could 
Edgar  say  patient  silent  self-devotion  was  not  to  be  found  except  in 
woman  ? 

So  the  worn-out  body  that  once  had  been  bright  smiling  Mary  Under- 
wood was  borne  to  the  church  she  had  not  entered  since  she  had  knelt 
there  with  her  husband ;  and  then  she  was  laid  beside  him  in  the  hill-side 
cemetery,  the  graves  marked  by  the  simple  Cross,  for  which  there  had 
been  long  anxious  saving,  the  last  contribution  having  been  a  quarter  of 
the  Bishop's  gift  to  Lancelot.  The  inscription  was  on  the  edges  of  the 
pteps,  from  which  the  Cross  rose — 


THE  PILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  233 

UNDER   WODE,   UNDER  RODE. 
EDWARD  FULBERT  UNDERWOOD, 

Nike  Ybabs  Curate  of  this  Pabish, 
Epiphany,  1855, 

Aged  40. 

<Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff  comfort  me/ 

There  was  room  enough  for  the  name  of  Mary  Wilmet,  his  wife,  to  he 
added  at  the  base  of  the  Rood,  that  Cross  which  thej  had  borne,  the 
one  so  valiantly,  the  other  so  meekly,  during  their  '  forty  years  in  the 
wilderness.' 

Many  persons  were  present  out  of  respect  not  only  to  the  former 
Curate,  but  to  his  hard-working  son  and  daughter,  and  not  only  the 
daughter's  holly  wreath,  but  one  of  camellias,  sent  by  Sister  Constance, 
lay  upon  the  pall.  When  the  mourners  had  turned  away,  Mr.  Audley 
saw  a  slender  lad  standing  by,  waiting  till  the  grave  was  smoothed  to 
lay  on  it  a  wreath  of  delicate  white  roses  and  ferns.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  clear  olive  face ;  and  indeed  Mr.  Audley  had  kept  up  a 
regular  correspondence  with  Ferdinand  Travis,  and  knew  that  the 
vows  made  two  years  ago  had  been  so  far  persevered  in,  and  without 
molestation  from  father  or  uncle.  He  had  written  an  account  of  Mrs. 
Underwood's  death,  but  had  received  no  answer. 

^  This  is  kind,  Ferdinand,'  he  said ;  '  it  will  gratify  them.' 

*  May  I  see  any  of  them?'  the  youth  asked. 
'  Felix  and  Lance  will  be  most  glad.' 

*  I  only  received  your  letter  yesterday  evening.  Dr.  White  forwarded 
it  to  me  in  London,  and  I  persuaded  my  father  to  let  me  come  down.' 

*  You  are  with  your  father  ?' 

*  Yes ;  he  came  home  about  a  fortnight  ago.  I  was  going  to  write  to 
you.  O  Mr.  Audley,  if  you  are  not  in  haste,  can  you  tell  me  whether  I 
can  see  my  dear  Diego's  grave  ? ' 

*  The  Roman  Catholic  burial  ground  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  town. 
I  think  yon  will  have  to  go  to  Mr.  Macnamara  for  admittance.  Come 
home  with  me  first,  Fernan.' 

'Homel'  he  said  warmly.  'Yes,  it  has  always  seemed  so  to  me! 
I  have  dreamt  so  often  of  her  gentle  loving  face  and  tender  weak  voice. 
She  was  very  kind  to  me ;'  and  he  raised  his  hat  reverently,  as  he  placed 
the  flowers  upon  the  now  completed  grave.  *  I  saw  that  all  were  here 
except  the  little  ones  and  Geraldine,'  he  added.     '  How  is  shot' 

'  As  well  as  usual.  Wilmet  is  a  good  deal  worn  and  downcast,  but  all 
are  calm  and  cheerful.  The  loss  cannot  be  like  what  that  of  their  father 
was.' 

*  Will  they  go  on  as  they  are  doing  now?' 


234  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'I  trust  so.  I  am  going  down  to  the  family  consultation.  The 
London  cousin  is  there.' 

^Thcn  perhaps  I  had  better  not  come  in,'  said  Ferdinand,  looking 
rather  blank.     'Shall  I  go  down  to  Mr.  Macnamara  first!' 

'Had  you  rather  go  alone,  or  shall  I  send  Lance  to  shew  you  the 
way!' 

'Dear  little  Lance,  pray  let  me  have  liim  !' 

'  It  is  a  longish  walk.     Is  your  lameness  quite  gone  ?' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  can  walk  a  couple  of  miles  very  well,  and  when  I  give  out 
it  is  not  my  leg  but  my  back.  They  say  it  is  the  old  jar  to  the  spine, 
and  that  it  will  wear  off  when  I  have  done  growing,  if  I  get  plenty  of 
air  and  riding.  This  will  not  be  too  much  for  me,  but  I  must  be  in  time 
for  the  3.30  train,  I  promised  my  father.' 

*^I8  he  here  alone?' 

'  Yes,  my  uncle  is  in  Brazil.  My  father  is  here  for  a  month,  and  is 
very  kind ;  he  seems  very  fairly  satisfied  with  me  ;  and  he  wants  me  to 
get  prepared  for  a  commission  in  the  Life  Guards.' 

'The  Life  Guards!' 

'  You  see  he  is  bent  on  my  being  an  English  gentleman,  but  he  has 
some  dislike  to  the  University,  fancies  it  too  old-world  or  something; 
and  honestly,  I  cannot  wish  it  myself.  I  can't  take  much  to  books,  and 
Dr.  White  says  I  have  begun  too  late,  and  shall  never  make  much  of  ( 

them.' 

'  If  you  went  into  the  Guards,  my  brother  might  be  a  friend  to  you.' 

'  My  back  is  not  fit  for  the  infantry,'  said  Ferdinand,  '  but  I  can  ride 
anything,  I  always  could.     I  care  for  nothing  so  much  as  horse.' 

'  Then  why  not  some  other  cavalry  regiment  ?' 

'Well,  my  father  knows  a  man  with  a  son  in  the  Life  Guards,  who 
has  persuaded  him  that  it  is  the  thing,  and  I  don't  greatly  care.' 

'Is  he  prepared  for  the  expensiveness?* 

'I  fancy  it  is  the  recommendation,'  said  Ferdinand,  smiling,  with  a 
little  shame ;  but  if  you  really  see  reason  for  some  other  choice,  perhaps 
you  would  represent  it  to  him.  I  think  he  would  attend  to  you  in 
person.' 

*  Have  you  positively  no  choice,  Feman  ? ' 

'I  never  like  the  bother  of  consideration,'  said  Ferdinand;  'and  in 
London  I  might  have  more  chance  of  seeing  you  and  other  friends 
sometimes.  I  do  know  that  it  is  not  all  my  father  supposes,  but  he 
thinks  that  is  all  my  ignorance,  and  I  have  not  much  right  to  be 
particular.' 

•Only  take  care  that  horses  do  not  become  your  temptation,'  said  Mr. 
Audley. 

'  I  know,'  gravely  replied  Ferdinand.  '  The  fact  is,'  he  added,  as  they 
turned  down  the  street,  '  that  I  do  not  want  to  go  counter  to  my  father  if 
I  can  help  it.  I  have  not  been  able  to  avoid  vexing  him,  and  this  is  of 
no  great  consequence.     I  can  exchange  if  it  should  not  suit  me.' 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  •  235 

*I  believe  you  are  right,'  said  the  Curate;  *but  I  will  inquire,  and 
write  to  you  before  the  application  is  made.  Wait,  and  I  will  send  out 
Lance.     But  ought  you  not  to  call  at  the  Rectory?' 

'  I  will  do  so  as  I  return,'  said  Ferdinand ;  and  as  Mr.  Audley  entered 
the  house,  he  thought  that  the  making  the  Cacique  into  an  English 
gentleman  seemed  to  have  been  attained  as  far  as  accent,  mind,  and 
manner  went,  and  the  air  and  gesture  had  always  been  natural  in 
him.  His  tone  rather  than  his  words  were  conclusive  to  the  Curate, 
that  his  heart  had  never  swerved  from  the  purpose  with  which  he  had 
stood  at  the  Font ;  but  the  languor  and  indolence  of  the  voice  indicated 
that  the  tropical  indifference  was  far  from  conquered,  and  it  was 
an  anxious  question  whether  the  life  destined  for  him  might  not  be 
exceptionally  perilous  to  his  peculiar  temperament  of  nonchalance  and 
excitability. 

Consideration  was  not  possible  just  then,  for  when  Mr.  Audley  opened 
the  door,  he  found  that  he  had  been  impatiently  waited  for,  and  barely 
time  was  allowed  to  him  to  call  Lance,  and  send  him  to  Ferdinand 
Travis,  before  he  was  summoned  to  immediate  conference  with  Thomas 
Underwood,  who,  on  coming  in,  had  assumed  the  management  of  affairs, 
and  on  calling  for  the  will,  was  rather  displeased  by  Felix's  protest 
against  doing  anything  without  Mr.  Audley,  whom  he  knew  to  have 
been  named  guardian  by  his  father.  The  cousin  seemed  unable  to 
credit  the  statement;  and  Wilmet  had  just  found  the  long  envelope  with 
the  black  seal,  exactly  as  it  had  lain  in  the  desk,  which  had  never 
been  disturbed  since  the  business  on  their  father's  death  had  been 
finished. 

There-was  the  old  will  made  long  before,  leaving  whatever  there  was 
to  leave  unconditionally  to  the  wife,  with  the  sole  guardianship  of  the 
children;  and  there  was  the  codicil,  dated  the  16th  of  October,  1854, 
appointing  Charles  Somerville  Audley,  clerk,  to  the  guardianship  in  case 
of  the  death  of  the  mother,  while  they  should  all,  or  any  of  them,  be 
under  twenty-one,  and  directing  that  in  that  contingency,  the  property 
should  be  placed  in  his  hands  as  trustee,  the  interest  to  be  employed  for 
their  maintenance,  and  the  capital  to  be  divided  equally  among  them, 
each  receiving  his  or  her  share  on  coming  of  age.  All  this  was  in 
Edward  Underwood's  own  handwriting,  and  his  signature  was  attested 
by  the  Kector  and  the  doctor. 

Thomas  Underwood  was  more  'put  out'  than  the  management  of  such 
an  insignificant  sum  seemed  to  warrant.  He  was  no  doubt  disappointed 
of  his  cousin's  confidence,  as  well  as  of  some  liberal  (if  domineering) 
intentions ;  and  he  was  only  half  appeased  when  Edgar  pointed  to  the 
date,  and  shewed  that  the  arrangement  had  been  made  before  the  renewal 
of  intercourse.  '  It  was  hardly  fair  to  thrust  a  charge  upon  a  stranger 
when  there  was  a  relation  to  act.  Poor  Edward,  he  ought  to  have 
trusted,'  he  said.  There  was  genuine  kindness  of  heart  in  the  desire  to 
confer  benefits,  though  perhaps  in  rather  a  domineering  spirit,  as  well  as 


236  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

disappointment  and  hurt  feeling  that  his  cousin  had  acquiesced  in  his 
neglect  without  an  appeal.  However,  after  asking  whether  Mr.  Audley 
meant  to  act,  and  hearing  of  his  decided  intention  of  doing  so,  he 
proceeded  to  state  his  own  plans  for  them.  The  present  state  of  things 
could  not  continue,  and  he  proposed  that  Wilmet  and  Geraldine  should 
go  as  half  boarders  to  some  good  school,  to  be  prepared  for  governesses. 
Felix— could  he  write  short-hand  ?  ^  Oh  yes ;  but — *  Then  he  knew  of 
a  capital  opening  for  him ;  a  few  years,  and  he  would  be  on  the  way  to 
prosperity :  the  little  ones  might  be  boarded  with  their  old  nurse  till  fit 
for  some  clergy  orphan  schools ;  if  the  means  would  not  provide  for  all, 
there  need  be  no  difficulty  made  on  that  score. 

Mr.  Audley  saw  Felix's  start  of  dismay  and  glance  at  him,  but  knowing 
as  he  did  that  the  lad  was  always  more  himself  when  not  interfered  with, 
and  allowed  to  act  for  himself,  he  only  said,  *  It  is  very  kind  in  you.  Sir, 
but  I  think  Felix  should  be  consulted.' 

*It  is  impossible !'  began  Felix  hastily. 

'  Impossible !  It  is  quite  impossible,  I  would  have  you  to  understand, 
that  a  lot  of  children  like  you  should  keep  house  together,  and  on  such 
an  income  as  that.     Quite  preposterous.' 

'As  for  that,'  said  Felix,  still  unsubmissively,  Mt  is  only  what  we 
have  been  doing  on  the  same  means,  except  for  the  name  of  the  thing, 
for  the  last  three  years.' 

^  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  have  kept  things  going  on  such 
means  without  a  debt  ?' 

'  Of  course  we  have  !  We  never  let  a  bill  run,'  said  Felix,  slightly 
indignant. 

'  Now  mind,  I'm  not  insulting  you,  Felix,  but  I  know  what  the  women 
are  and  what  they  tell  us.  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  No  debts — Honour 
bright?' 

'  None  at  all !'  said  Felix,  with  an  endeavour  at  calmness,  but  glowing 
hotly.  '  I  help  my  sister  make  up  her  books  every  Saturday  night.  We 
always  pay  ready  money.' 

'  Humph,'  said  Mr.  Underwood,  still  only  half  convinced.  '  Living 
must  be  cheap  at  Bexley.' 

^  You  had  better  explain  a  little,  Felix,'  said  Mr.  Audley. 

Felix  did  bring  himself  to  say,  'I  am  sub-editor  now,  and  get  £100  a 
year,  besides  being  paid  for  any  article  I  write.  Wilmet  has  £25  a  year, 
and  her  dinner  and  Angela's  at  school,  so  there  are  only  ^ve  of  us 
constantly  dining  at  home,  and  with  Mr.  Audley's  two  guineas  a  week 
we  can  do  very  welL' 

*  What,  you  lodge  here  ?' 

*  Did  not  you  know  that  ?'  said  Felix,  surprised. 

Mr.  Underwood  gave  a  whistle,  and  the  Curate  felt  his  cheeks 
growing  redder  and  redder,  as  he  perceived  that  seven-and-twenty  was 
not  considered  as  so  very  much  older  than  eighteen.  Edgar  understood 
and  smiled,  but  Felix  only  thought  he  was  suspected  of  making  a  good 


THE  PILLARS  OP  THE  HOUSE.  237 

thing  of  Lis  lodger,  and  was  beginning  something  awkward  about,  ^  It  is 
all  kindness/  when  Mr.  Audley  broke  in. 

'  Of  coarse  nothing  is  settled  jet,  but — ^but  I  believe  I  shall  change 
mj  quarters.  A  smaller  house  would  be  better  for  them ;  but  I  think 
the  children  should  keep  together.  Indeed,  my  dear  friend  said  he 
chiefly  appointed  me  that  Felix  might  be  kept  at  their  head.' 

Thereupon  Mr.  Underwood  began  to  expostulate  against  the  sacrifice 
of  position  and  talent  that  Felix  was  making  for  the  sake  of  bearing 
the  burthen  of  a  family  that  would  have  pressed  heavily  on  a  man  double 
his  age.  It  was  what  Felix  already  knew,  much  better  than  when  at 
sixteen  he  had  made  his  first  venture.  He  had  experienced  the  effects 
of  change  of  station,  as  well  as  of  exertion,  drudgery,  and  of  the  home 
hardship  that  no  one  except  Mr.  Audley  had  tried  to  sweeten.  He  saw 
how  Edgar  had  acquired  the  nameless  air  and  style  that  he  was  losing, 
how  even  Clement  viewed  him  as  left  behind ;  and  on  the  other  hand 
he  knew  that  with  his  own  trained  and  tested  ability  and  application,  and 
his  kinsman's  patronage,  there  was  every  reasonable  chance  of  his 
regaining  a  gentleman's  position,  away  from  that  half  jealous,  half 
conceited  foreman,  who  made  every  day  a  trial  to  him,  and  looked  at 
him  with  an  evil  eye  as  a  supplanter  in  the  post  of  confidence.  But 
therewith  he  thought  of  his  father's  words,  that  to  him  he  leflt  this  heavy 
burthen ;  and  he  thought  what  it  would  be  to  have  no  central  home,  no 
place  of  holiday-meeting,  no  rallying-point  for  the  boys  and  girls,  and  to 
cast  off  the  little  ones  to  hired  service.  This  alternative  never  seriously 
occurred  to  him,  for  were  not  they  all  bound  to  him  by  the  cords  of 
love,  and  most  closely  the  weakest  and  most  helpless.  Yet  his  first  reply 
did  not  convey  the  weight  of  his  determination.  It  was  only  '  Geraldine 
is  too  delicate.' 

'  Well,  well,  good  advice  and  treatment  might  make  a  change.  Or  if 
she  be  fit  for  nothing  else,  would  not  that  Sisterhood  at  Dearport  take 
her  on  reasonable  terms  ?^  Not  that  I  can  away  with  such  nonsense,  but 
your  father  had  his  fancies.' 

'My  father  wished  us  not  to  break  up  the  home.' 

'  That  was  all  very  well  when  your  poor  mother  was  alive.  You  have 
been  a  good  son  to  her,  but  it  is  impossible  that  you  and  your  sister, 
mere  children  as  you  are,  should  set  up  housekeeping  by  yourselves. 
Mr.  Audley  must  see  it  cannot  be  suffered ;  it  is  the  bounden  duty  of 
your  friends  to  interfere.' 

Mr.  Audley  did  not  speak.  He  knew  that  Felix  could  reckon  on  his 
support ;  and  moreover,  that  he  would  shew  himself  to  greater  advantage 
when  not  interfered  with.  So  after  pausing  to  see  whether  his  guardian 
would  speak,  Felix  said,  *  Of  course  we  are  in  Mr.  Audley 's  power,  but 
he  knows  that  we  have  made  some  trial,  and  except  in  name,  we  have 
really  stood  alone  for  these  three  years.  Wilmet  can  quite  manage 
the  house,  and  it  would  be  misery  for  ever  to  us  all  to  have  no  home. 
In   short — '  and   Felix's  face   burnt,   his  voice   choked,  and   his  eyes 


238  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

brimmed  over  with  hot  indignant  tears,  as  he  concluded,  Mt  shall  never 
be  done  witli  my  good  will.' 

'And  under  the  circumstances,'  said  Mr.  Audlej,  'I  thiok  Felix  is 
right.' 

'  Very  well,'  said  Thomas  Underwood,  much  displeased.  '  I  have  no 
power  here,  and  if  you  and  that  lad  think  he  can  take  charge  of  a  house 
and  a  dozen  children,  you  must  have  it  your  own  way.  Only,  when  they 
have  all  gone  to  rack  and  ruin,  and  he  is  sick  of  being  a  little  tradesman 
in  a  country  town,  he  will  remember  what  I  said.' 

Felix  forced  back  his  resentful  feelings,  and  contrived  to  say, '  Yes,  Sir, 
I  know  it  is  a  great  disadvantage,  and  that  you  only  wish  for  our  good  ; 
but  I  do  not  think  anything  would  be  so  bad  for  the  children  as  to  be  all 
cast  about  the  world,  with  no  place  to  go  to,  and  becoming  strangers 
to  one  another ;  and  since  there  is  this  way  of  keeping  them  together,  it 
seems  right.' 

The  steadiness  of  his  manner  struck  Mr.  Underwood,  and  the  reply 
was  not  unkind. 

'  You  are  a  good  boy  at  bottom,  Felix,  and  mean  well,  and  I  am  only 
sorry  not  to  be  able  to  hinder  you  from  throwing  yourself  away  for  life 
by  trying  to  do  what  is  morally  impossible,  in  a  foolish  spirit  of  in- 
dependence. Do  not  interrupt.  I  warn  you  that  I  am  not  to  be  appealed 
to  for  getting  you  out  of  the  difficulties  you  are  plunging  into ;  but  of 
course  your  brother  and  sister  will  be  mine  as  before ;  and  as  I  promised 
myself  to  do  the  same  by  your  mother  as  by  your  father — ^my  near 
cousins  both — here  is  to  cover  necessary  expenses.' 

It  was  a  cheque  for  £150,  the  same  as  be  had  given  on  the  former 
occasion ;  and  though  Felix  had  rather  not  have  taken  it,  he  had  little 
choice,  and  he  brought  himself  to  return  cold  but  respectful  thanks ;  and 
Mr.  Underwood  did  not  manifest  any  more  displeasure,  but  shewed 
himself  very  kind  at  the  meal  that  was  spread  in  Mr.  Audley's  sitting- 
room,  and  even  invited  Wilmet  to  accompanjir Alda,  when  she  joined 
the  family  in  a  week's  time  at  Brighton,  so  as  to  have  sea  air  for  the 
remainder  of  her  holidays. 

Nothing  could  be  more  reluctant  than  was  Wilmet  at  first,  but  there 
was  a  chorus  of  persuasions  and  promises ;  and  the  thought  of  being  a 
little  longer  in  Alda's  presence  made  her  waver  and  almost  consent. 

Ferdinand  Travis  came  in,  but  had  only  time  for  a  greeting  and  a 
hasty  meal,  before  Mr.  Underwood's  carriage  came  round  ;  and  nothing 
loth,  he  gave  a  lift  to  the  Mexican  millionaire  to  the  station  with  him 
and  Edgar.  So  for  the  last  time  had  all  the  thirteen  been  at  home 
together. 

(To  be  contiauecL) 


239 


BYGONES. 

BY  A.  MILUKOFF. 
(translated  fbom  the  hubs  bt  h.  c.  somakofv.) 

CHAPTER  II. 

MY  CHILDHOOD. 

In  the  years  of  childhood  one  soon  forgets  one's  troubles.  Bitter  as  it 
was  to  me  to  leave  my  uncle's  comfortable  house,  where  I  had  passed  my 
little  life  hitherto  so  happily  and  so  free  from  care — glaring  as  the 
difference  was  between  the  shady  alleys  of  Uncle's  garden,  and  the  empty 
yard,  without  one  bit  of  green,  that  was  attached  to  our  small  new 
quarters — and  notwithstanding  the  absence  of  young  companions,  I  soon 
became  accustomed  to  my  new  situation.  I  was  even  interested  in  the 
change  of  acquaintance  and  neighbourhood,  for  we  had  removed  to  an 
unknown,  to  me,  part  of  the  city,  not  far  from  the  Church  of  S.  Saviour. 
Our  new  dwelling  was  between  two  bell-foundries,  in  the  little  mezonine 
of  a  small  wooden  house,  in  the  lower  part  of  which  lived  the  owners 
themselves,  a  retired  captain  and  his  wife,  who  had  been  recommended  to 
my  father  as  highly  respectable  and  worthy  people. 

Our  landlord,  Luke  Lukitch,  was  one  of  those  originals  that  one  meets 
with  in  Moscow  only.  He  served  formerly  in  the  army,  and  was  con- 
sidered a  fine  officer,  had  seen  active  service,  foaght  duels,  and  even  been 
reduced  to  the  ranks  for  some  frolic  in  the  campaign  of  1805.  But  at 
the  time  I  speak  of  not  the  slightest  remains  of  his  military  life  could  be 
traced,  save  the  ribbon  of  an  Order,  which  he  always  wore  on  the  left 
breast  of  his  dressing-gown.  He  was  a  short  stout  old  man,  with  a  rosy 
good-natured  face,  and  a  grey  bristle-like  moustache.  For  whole  days 
he  used  to  sit  in  a  white  Marseilles  dressing-gown  and  a  red  smoking-cap, 
at  the  window  of  his  little  di*awing-room,  which  overlooked  the  yard, 
and  from  thence  he  would  watch  attentively  the  roof  of  the  coach-house. 
The  immediate  object  of  his  observations  was  built  just  beneath  the 
air-hole,  and  was  in  the  form  of  a  little  balcony,  where  a  dozen  or  two 
of  variously-coloured  fancy  pigeons  promenaded  or  brooded.  On  this 
subject  was  concentrated  all  the  mental  activity  that  Luke  Lukitch 
possessed. 

Ten  times  a  day,  girded  with  a  red  foulard  sash,  he  used  to  pay  a 
visit  to  his  pigeon-house,  open  the  iron-net  covered  door  of  the  air-hole, 
and  scramble  out  upon  the  little  balcony  and  begin  to  frighten  his  pigeons 
into  taking  a  flight,  by  means  of  a  long  pole.  The  purple,  white,  and 
black  tumblers  rose  to  the  wing,  while  he,  with  one  hand  shading  his 
eyes,  waved  the  pole  about,  enjoying  the  sight  of  his  favourites  as  they 
rose,  higher  and  higher,  almost  out  of  sight,  and  then  twistmg  head  over 


240  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

heels,  tumbled  perpendicularly  like  a  falling  stone,  straight  on  the  roof  of 
their  little  house.  Sometimes  the  Captain  would  rush  headlong  out  of 
the  house,  without  even  girding  himself;  this  signified  that  he  had  espied 
a  straj  bird.  Hastily  he  would  drive  off  his  old  retainers,  and  if  it 
happened  that  the  wanderer  united  itself  to  their  company,  and  ultimately 
allowed  itself  to  be  covered  with  a  net,  or  to  be  driven  into  the  pigeon- 
hojise,  that  day  was  considered  a  real  festival  by  the  Fancier. 

Luke  Lukitch's  exclusive  and  consequently  favourite  theme  of  con- 
versation, not  only  with  those,  who  understood  and  relished  the  subject, 
but  with  those  who  did  not — was  tumblers.  A  day  or  two  after  we 
arrived  he  took  my  father  into  the  yard,  and  there  talked  to  him  about 
the  fancy  for  an  immense  time.  He  firequently  took  me  with  him  to  the 
pigeon-house,  shewed  off  his  tumblers  to  me,  describing  their  wonderful 
qualities ;  and  even,  sometimes,  led  me  out  on  to  the  little  balcony,  to 
the  infinite  terror  of  my  mother,  who  dreaded  lest  I  should  fall  to  the 
ground. 

This  we&kness  of  the  Captain's  cost  him  very  dear.  He  was  so 
accustomed  to  look  upwards  that  he  never  observed  where  he  was  going, 
and  not  unfrequently  fell  down  in  the  streets  and  hurt  himself  extremely. 
Once  upon  a  time  he  fell  into  a  deep  gutter,  and  was  brought  home  in  a 
sad  state  of  injury  and  dirt.  We  were  told  too,  that,  in  consequence  of 
his  'fancy,'  he  even  lost  a  very  good  appointment,  which  he  obtained 
after  retiring  from  the  army.  The  Governor-General  of  Moscow  intended 
to  make  an  inspection  of  the  affairs  which  had  been  entrusted  to  Luke 
Lukitch,  who  was  the  principal  person  concerned  in  them.  He  was 
informed  of  the  Governor's  intention  in  good  time,  and  he  left  home 
much  earlier  than  the  appointed  hour;  but  on  his  road  he  espied  a  pigeon 
somewhere  in  the  clouds,  returned  home  to  send  out  his  decoys,  and  after 
spending  some  time  on  his  balcony,  arrived  at  his  place  of  business  in  the 
Kreml  just  as  the  General,  seriously  affronted  at  having  been  detained 
for  nearly  two  hours  in  vain,  was  driving  away  I  The  Captain  was 
compelled  to  retire  again  from  the  service;  and  after  this  event  he  devoted 
himself  entirely  to  the  fancy. 

His  wife,  Maria  Ivanovna,  was  a  still  very  active  old  lady.  One  might 
conjecture,  from  her  regular  though  wrinkled  features,  her  tall  well- 
formed  figure,  and  elegant  lady-like  gait,  that  in  her  day  she  must  have 
been  a  beauty  in  no  small  degree ;  and  in  the  slighter  details  of  her 
manners  and  costume  might  be  traced  a  degree  of  coquetry,  that  time 
could  not  entirely  efface.  But  as  Luke  Lukitch  had  become  transformed 
from  the  gallant  officer  to  the  peaceful  sitter-at-home  and  pigeon-fancier, 
so  Maria  Ivanovna  had  turned  all  her  attention  to  the  minute  details 
of  household  life,  (though  she  could  make  even  them  agreeable — nay 
poetical ;)  and  had  cast  off  all  dealings  with  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
which  to  judge  by  her  own  words,  she  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  in  lier 
youth.  Her  housekeeping,  though  on  a  small  scale^  was  very  complete, 
and  even  slightly  luxurious.    The  ice-house,  pantry,  and  cupboards, 


BYGONBS.  241 

cont^ned  stores  for  all  branches  of  domestic  economj.  A  pretty  little 
-well-fed  cow  lowed  in  the  cow-house ;  and  in  the  yard  marched  a  troop 
of  speckled  Guinea-fowls,  bantams,  and  tufty-caps ;  besides  a  red-nosed 
turkey-cock,  which  with  unfurled  wing  and  tail,  answered  every  other 
sound  with  its  monotonous  gobbling. 

In  Maria  Ivanovna's  bed-room,  in  which  were  hung  several  pictures 
of  saints  with  brightly  polished  silver  Settings,  there  was  one  piece  of 
furniture  which  particularly  struck  the  eye  by  its  peculiarity.  It  was 
half  a  chest-of-drawers  and  half  a  bufifct.  The  lower  part  of  it  consisted 
of  a  mahogany  commode,  with  brass  handles  to  its  deep  drawers,  re- 
presenting lions'  heads  with  enormous  rings  in  their  mouths ;  above  these 
rose  a  cupboard  with  glass  doors  and  numerous  shelves,  the  lower  one  of 
which  was  divided  into  little  niches  by  means  of  perpendicular  divisions. 
All  these  niches  and  shelves  were  filled  with  vials  and  pots,  little  bags, 
bundles,  and  parcels,  with  the  names  of  their  contents  written  on  labels, 
which  were  pasted  on  them.  The  upper  drawer  was  filled  with  various 
scraps  of  every  description  of  material ;  in  the  middle  cue  lay  bundles  of 
writing-books,  and  manuscripts  relating  to  housekeeping,  receipts,  hints, 
and  wrinkles;  and  in  the  lower  one,  enclosed  in  a  case,  was  a  gaudy 
patch- work  quilt,  which  occasionally  appeared  on  the  lady*s  bed. 

Maria  Ivanovna's  mental  activity  was  concentrated  on  this  chest-of- 
di'awers ;  it  was  her  library,  her  museum,  her  store-room,  and  domestic 
medicine  chest ;  in  it  were  collected  all  the  fruits  of  her  long  practice  in 
various  branches  of  domestic  economy.  The  Capitansha  *  by  no  means 
kept  her  archives  secret ;  they  were  always  free  to  those  who  required 
them,  and  not  only  to  intimate  friends,  but  even  to  such  with  whom  she 
was  not  acquainted  at  all.  She  gave  her  MSS.  to  be  read  and  copied, 
and  was  always  delighted  to  share  her  knowledge  with  others,  though 
certainly  this  obligingness  had  a  slight  degree  of  self-love  in  it.  She 
loved  to  relate  that  her  receipts  were  made  use  of  in  the  kitchens  of 
Prince  Usoupoff,  and  of  the  Governor-General ;  and  once  she  sent  to  the 
Metropolitan  to  enquire  the  particulars  concerning  the  making  of  certain 
mushroom  cutlets. 

From  the  first  day  of  our  arrival  Maria  Ivanovna  took  to  petting  me. 
I  used  to  go  to  her  room  almost  every  day,  at  first  by  her  invitation  and 
subsequently  without  any.  She  used  to  shew  me  pictures,  and  treat  me 
to  jam  and  dried  fruits.  I  in  my  turn  became  very  fond  of  the 
Capitansha,  and  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  her  sweetmeats,  as  for  her 
constant  kindness  to  me.  In  her  intercourse  with  me  there  was  none  of 
that  condescension  with  which  grown-up  people  generally  treat  children; 
she  had  a  knack  of  making  me  her  equal,  not  by  lowering  herself  to  my 
comprehension,  but  by  raising,  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  herself,  mine  to 
her  own.  I  cannot  describe  how  she  contrived  to  do  this,  I  can  only  say 
that  when  I  talked  to  her,  I  seemed  to  grow  up  mentally,  I  felt  and 
understood  everything  better ;  and  this  attached  me  more  and  more  to 

•  Captain's  wife. 
VOL.  10.  17  PART  57. 


242  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

her.  In  a  word,  Luke  Lukitch's  pigeon-bouse  and  Maria  Ivanorna's 
pettinga  soon  made  me  forget  the  Maiden  field,  and  reconciled  me  to 
our  little  lodgings  by  S.  Saviour's  bell-fonndries. 

These  foundries  reminded  us  incessantly  of  their  near  neighbourhood 
by  their  dingings  and  dongings.  In  our  street  there  were  several  large 
yards,  at  the  back  of  which  might  be  seen  extensive  brick  buildings  with 
high  chimneys,  and  in  front  of  them,  beneath  sheds  supported  by  strong 
beams,  hung  large  bells,  bright  with  new  brass.  As  soon  as  a  new  one 
was  hung  up,  they  instantly  began  to  try  its  sound,  and  whoever  wished 
to  do  the  same  might  bang  as  much  as  he  liked.  As  these  foundries  had 
constant  employment,  not  only  by  orders  for  Moscow,  but  also  for  the 
provinces  and  for  fairs,  and  as  amateur  ringers  were  never  wanting,  we 
could  hear  from  morn  till  night,  and  frequently  during  the  very  night, 
clangings  of  the  most  vigorous  description,  which,  by  way  of  showing  off 
the  fine  tone  of  the  bell,  or  the  strength  of  the  hand  which  rang  it, 
frequently  reached  the  utmost  pitch  of  noise. 

Thanks  to  these  works,  our  end  of  Moscow  was  the  fount  of  endless 
eccentric  anecdotes  and  inventions.  From  countless  ages  bell-founders 
have  been  under  the  delusion  that  in  order  to  secure  the  favourable 
casting  of  a  large  bell,  it  is  necessary  to  circulate  some  tale  (Anglic6 
humbug)  invented  and  composed  for  the  e^xpress  purpose ;  and  the  more 
rapidly  it  spreads,  the  sweeter  and  stronger  will  the  sound  of  the  bell  that 
is  being  cast,  prove.  From  this  custom  the  popular  Russian  saying,  that 
'  a  bell  is  being  cast,'  is  used  when  any  particularly  absurd  report  is 
heard.  I  do  not  know  who  it  was  that  composed  these  fantastic  tales  at 
the  works,  or  in  what  manner  they  were  circulated  in  the  city,  but  they 
testified  to  the  lively  and  poetical  imaginations  of  their  authors ;  and 
judging  from  the  extraordinary  rapidity  with  which  they  ran  the  round 
of  the  Moscow  public,  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  the  bells  on  behalf  of 
which  all  this  trouble  was  taken,  must  have  been  distinguished  by 
peculiar  sweetness  and  sonorousness. 

i  On  one  occasion,  for  instance,  the  following  story  was  got  up.  It  was 
related  that  at  a  certain  church  a  wedding  was  going  on,  and  during  the 
ceremony,  just  as  the  priest  was  leading  the  couple  round  the  reading- 
desk,  the  marriage  crowns  *  were  suddenly  torn  firom  their  heads,  flew 
out  at  the  window,  and  ultimately  were  discovered  on  the  roof  of  the 
church  just  beneath  the  crosses  that  surmount  it  This  report  flew  like 
lightning ;  crowds  of  curious  persons  flocked  to  behold  the  wonder,  and 
even  carriages  were  to  be  seen  at  the  church-gates.  Beneath  the  crosses 
there  were,  sure  enough,  certain  gilt  crowns  resembling  those  used  in  the 
marriage  ceremony.  Soon  afterwards  a  sequel  to  the  first  history  was 
published — that  the  bride  and  bridegroom  in  question  were,  unknown  to 
each  other,  brother  and  sister;  that  they  had  been  brought  up  in  diflerent 
parts  of  Russia,  and  had  never  before  seen  or  known  each  other  until 
they  accidentally  met,  mistook  the  yearnings  of  kindred  feeling  for  love, 

*  See  Monthly  Packet,  Old  Series,  Vol.  XXIII.,  page  49. 


BYGONES.  243 

and  the  unlawful  marriage  was  on  the  point  of  being  concluded  when 
this  miracle  occurred  and  effectually  put  a  stop  to  it.  This  history  was 
repented  with  variations  of  various  degrees  of  comparison,  and  was  the 
subject  of  universal  comment  and  wonderment.  Acquaintances  met  each 
other  with  the  question,  *  Have  you  heard  of  the  wedding  of  the  brother^ 
and  sister  ? '  '  Have  you  been  to  look  at  the  crowns  f '  Many  days,  and 
even  vreeks  passed,  before  the  public  was  convinced  that  all  was  a 
complete  hoax ;  the  church  had  been  built  originally  Tvith  these  same 
crowns  on  its  cupola,  and  they  were  of  such  an  immense  size,  that  a  live 
pair  of  the  finest- grown  of  brides  and  bridegrooms  might  have  been 
concealed  in  either  of  them. 

Another  time  the  founders  got  up  another  history,  and  still  more 
interesting,  at  least  to  the  inhabitants  of  Moscow.  It  was  in  the  winter, 
during  an  awful  frost,  and  the  tale  went  that  the  Governor-General,  on 
the  eve  of  a  great  Festival  *  (of  S.  Nicholas  Day  I  believe,)  gave  a  grand 
ballf  to  which  half  the  city  was  invited.  The  mansion  shone  with 
illuminations — dancing  continued  nearly  all  night — when  suddenly, 
drowning  the  sound  of  the  music,  the  bell  in  the  tower  of  S.  John  began 
to  toll  for  Matins  !  At  this  solemn  sound  all  the  lustres  and  candelabra 
in  the  ball-room  became  extinguished  in  one  instant ;  the  strings  .of  the 
instruments  broke,  the  glass  in  the  double  frames  of  the  windows  fell 
crashing  to  the  pavement  in  the  street  below,  and  in  the  midst  of  utter 
darkness,  the  frost,  like  a  wave  of  an  icy  sea,  rushed  in  upon  the  bare 
necks  and  arms  of  the  ladies.  The  music  and  voices  were  hushed,  and 
nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  awful  booming  of  the  bell !  But  a  scream 
of  horror  arose!  the  terrified  guests  had  rushed  to  the  doors,  but  they 
closed  on  them  with  a  tremendous  bang,  and  no  human  strength  could 
force  them  open,  until  the  ringing  for  Matins  in  the  Kremlin  Churches 
had  ceased.  To  this  poetical  narrative  was  added  that  several  bodies  of 
the  victims  of  frost  and  trampling  were  discovered,  and  among  them 
that  of  the  Governor-General  himself.  And  notwithstanding  that  the 
Governor  had  not  given  one  ball  during  the  whole  of  that  winter,  for  the 
very  sufiicient  reason  that  he  was  all  the  time  in  St.  Petersburgh,  which 
fact  was  duly  published  in  the  papers,  the  absurd  tale  was  repeated  with 
new  additions  and  improvement,  until  it  took  a  character  of  the  wildest 
and  most  monstrous  description  ! 

The  police  more  than  once  turned  its  serious  attention  towards  the 
subduing  of  these  playful  fancies,  and  sometimes  contrived  to  get  at  the 
foundation  of  them,  the  inventive  authors  receiving  severe  cautions  to 
refrain  from  further  indulgence  in  romancing.  The  founders  themselves 
were  compelled  to  sign  a  paper  to  the  effect  that  they,  on  their  parts, 
would  not  encourage  or  countenance  such  silly  hoaxes,  and  in  particular 
those  that  were  calculated  to  disturb  the  quiet  of  the  public  mind.     The 

•  It  18  considered  very  wicked  by  the  strictly  religious,  and  not  altogether  right  or 
proper  hy  the  worldly  even,  to  give  balls  or  attend  public  amusements  on  the  eve  of 
a  holy -day.    On  the  evening  of  the  holy-dny  itself  it  is  admitted. 


244  THE  MONTHLT  PACKET. 

paper  was  signed,  it  is  true;  bat  the  custom  still  continued^  and  every 
new  bell  produced  a  new  humbug,  more  or  less  poetical  or  ridiculous. 

Two  episodes  in  the  life  we  led  in  S.  Saviour's,  have  imprinted 
themselves  indelibly  on  my  memory.  These  were  certain  expeditions 
.with  my  mother,  soon  afler  we  left  the  Maiden  Field.  They  afforded  me 
so  much  pleasure,  acquainted  me  with  such  entirely  new  impressions, 
that  I  was  ready  to  walk  for  a  whole  month  if  I  could  only  behold  the 
little  woods  and  green  meadows,  and  gather  at  my  leisure  the  wild 
flowers  that  delighted  me  so  much. 

Our  first  excursion  to  the  suburbs  was  to  make  a  visit  to  the  well- 
known  prophet  Ivan  Yakovlivitch,  who  was  then  just  beginning  to  make 
a  noise  in  the  world.  My  mother,  although  she  sometimes  laughed 
heartily  at  the  anecdotes  of  his  rudeness,  evidently  felt  seriously  on  the 
subject  of  his  foretellings.  From  what  I  had  heard  of  this  strange  being 
whilst  still  living  in  my  uncle's  house,  I  had  formed  an  idea  of  his  being 
a  mixture  of  sanctity  and  charlatanism.  My  mother  had  long  intended 
to  seek  an  interview  with  him,  and  at  length  she  arranged  to  go  with 
Maria  Ivanovna,  who  also  wished  to  have  a  sight  of  the  fanatic.  They 
took  me  with  them,  notwithstanding  the  objections  of  my  father,  who  did 
not  at  all  respect  the  half-witted  prophet,  and  counted  it  a  great  sin  to 
believe  in  him.  The  evening  before,  a  little  offering  was  prepared  for 
Ivan  Ydkovlivitch,  consisting  of  a  large  loaf,  cut  nearly  in  half,  and 
containing  a  layer  of  rich  caviare ;  also  a  little  tin  box  of  snuff.  In  the 
morning  we  drove  as  far  as  the  gates  of  the  city,  and  proceeded  farther 
on  foot. 

I  was  in  ecstasies  when  I  found  myself  in  the  green  fields  ;  coax  me  as 
they  might  to  walk  by  the  pathway,  I  constantly  ran  from  one  side  to 
another  whenever  I  saw  a  wild  flower;  and  tired  as  I  was,  I  felt  sorry 
when  we  arrived  at  the  house  to  which  we  bent  our  steps.  Even  my 
curiosity  to  behold  the  wonderful  Ivan  Yakovlivitch  was  less  than  my 
disappointment  that  we  were  not  going  any  further.  As  we  were  going 
up  the  stair-case,  I  observed  that  my  mother's  face  had  lost  its  habitual 
expression  of  cheerfulness,  and  had  assumed  that  peculiar  solemnity 
which  it  wore  only  when  she  was  at  church.  Maria  Ivanovna  took  the 
opportunity  to  teaze  her  about  her  reverence  for  the  fanatic  We  passed 
through  a  long  corridor,  and  by  the  direction  of  a  servant  entered  a 
rather  large  room,  where  one  comer  was  completely  covered  with 
pictures  of  saints,  before  which  burning  lamps  were  suspended,  and 
numerous  tapers  burnt  in  a  large  church-candlestick. 

In  another  comer  of  the  room  stood  a  low  bedstead,  covered  with  a 
once  gaudy  cotton  quilt,  of  which  the  original  colours  and  patterns  had 
almost  vanished  beneath  the  dirt  with  which  it  was  begrimed.  At  the 
head  was  a  high  pillow  with  an  equally  disgusting  pillow-case.  On  this 
nasty  couch  sat  the  celebrated  prophet.  He  was  a  middle-aged  man, 
with  a  large  head,  which  was  covered  with  the  remains  of  reddish-grey 
locks — with  a  wide  flat  face,  leaden-dull  eyes,  and  sticking  out  ears. 


BTGONES.  245 

Leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and  supporting  his  flabby  cheeks  with 
his  palms,  he  gazed  stupidly,  and  at  the  same  time  sarcastically,  at  a 
stout  woman — a  merchant's  wife,  to  judge  by  her  appearance — who 
with  reverently  bent  head  awaited  the  words  of  the  oracle.  But  he 
maintained  an  obstinate  silence,  winking  and  blinking  all  the  time.  All 
this  ended,  on  the  visitor  respectfully  addressing  herself  to  him,  by  his 
raising  himself  to  his  feet  and  spitting  her  in  the  face,  immediately 
after  which  she  meekly  left  the  apartment,  wiping  her  face  with  her 
handkerchief. 

This  rude  outbreak  confused  and  frightened  my  mother,  and  she 
evidently  hesitated  whether  to  approach  the  bed-stead  or  not.  But  the 
*  blissful  one '  *  himself  got  her  out  of  her  dilemma.  Tucking  his  feet 
under  him,  he  bent  hb  dull  gaze  at  her,  and  called  out  roughly,  '  Who 
are  you  V  * 

^  We  have  come  to  see  you,  Batioushka  f  Ivan  Yakovlivitch  I '  replied 
my  mother,  putting  her  offering  on  a  table  that  stood  by  the  bed. 

'  Time  you  did  !  time  you  did !  time  you  did ! '  bellowed  the  Blissful. 

My  mother  approached  nearer  the  bed,  and  whispered  to  the  prophet 
the  particulars  of  a  family  affair.  He  made  no  answer,  but  began  to 
rock  himself  to  and  fro.  This  circumstance  was  not  allowed  to  pass 
unobserved,  as  a  m^'sterious  and  significant  symptom  or  sign.  Long, 
long  did  he  rock  himself  thus;  but  at  length  he  opened  his  eyes,  bent 
down  towards  the  table,  and  wrote  something  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  which 
he  crumpled  up  and  gave  to  my  mother.  This  scrawl,  as  I  afterwards 
learned,  foretold,  in  ambiguous  terms,  a  certain  revolution  in  our  family. 
At  any  rate  it  was  thus  interpreted,  though  my  father  and  Maria 
Ivanovna  could  make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  it. 

But  our  visit  to  Ivan  Yakovlivitch  did  not  terminate  with  the  receipt 
of  this  hieroglyphic.  My  mother,  notwithstanding  my  terror  and  disgust, 
led  me  up  to  the  Blissful  and  asked  what  would  become  of  '  the  youth 
Alexander ' — meaning  me. 

He  blew  on  my  face  cross-wise,  and  proceeded  to  pluck  a  little  feather 
which  had  begun  to  protrude  from  his  pillow,  raised  it  above  his  head 
and  blew  with  all  his  might,  from  which  the  feather  rose  still  higher, 
and,  after  fluttering  a  little  in  the  air,  fell  to  the  ground  at  my  feet. 
After  this  the  Sphinx  of  Moscow  lay  down  on  his  bed  with  his  face  to 
the  wall. 

He  did  not  seem  to  observe  the  presence  of  Maria  Ivanovna  at  all,  and 
all  the  time  she  kept  herself  aloof  and  did  not  proffer  one  question  to  the 
oracle.  'Conjurer!'  she  used  to  say — *Pinetti'J  every  time  he  was 
mentioned  after  that  visit. 

The  result  of  this  mystical  prophecy  was  the  undertaking  of  another 
pedestrian  journey,  but  of  far  greater  length.     From  a  desire  to  secure  a 

*  One  of  the  epithets  applied  to  this  fanatic  mortal,  who  lived  and  acted  exactly  as 
here  described.    He  died  in  a  mad-honse  at  Moscow,  in  1862  or  3.— (7Van«.) 

t  Father.  %  A  celebrated  conjaror. 


246  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

fortunate  termination  to  the  predictions  of  the  Blissful  one,  my  mother 
took  it  into  her  head  to  go  with  me  to  the  Troitzky  Sergius  Monastery.* 
Although  my  father  objected  that  for  a  child  of  seven  years  old  so  long  a 
pedestrian  journey  would  be  extremely  trying,  my  mother,  to  my  great 
joy,  did  not  give  up  her  intention.  Soon,  too,  an  opportunity  presented 
itself — Bitka  arrived !  Bitka  was  a  woman  of  the  burgher  class,  from  the 
city  of  TambofiT,  who  from  early  spring  till  late  autumn  wandered  like  a 
pilgrim  to  the  most  distant  parts  of  Russia — to  KiefiT,  to  Yalaam,f  and 
to  the  Solovetsky  Monastery.J  Nearly  every  year  she  passed  through 
Moscow,  and  always  stopped  at  our  house ;  and  after  staying  with  us  for 
a  week  or  so,  during  which  time  she  went  to  every  cathedral  in  the  city, 
she  would  set  forth  again  on  her  pilgrimage.  We  were  all  fond  of  her, 
on  account  of  her  obliging  disposition,  merry  humour,  and  inexhaustible 
narratives.  * 

'  What  a  long  time  Bitka  is,  coming !'  says  my  mother  at  the  beginning 
of  every  spring. 

^Doubtless  she  has  turned  her  snow-shoes  in  another  direction,' 
remarks  my  father. 

*  Bitka!  Bitka!'  scream  I  joyfully,  when  I  see  the  dark  gown  of  my 
friend,  her  long  staif,  and  the  bundle  strapped  like  a  soldier's  knapsack  to 
her  shoulders.  Each  day,  from  the  moment  she  returned  from  Matins  at 
a  church  containing  the  relics  of  one  of  the  Moscow  Saints,  passed  in 
endless  tales  and  fun.  After  a  description  of  the  caves  at  Kieff  where 
the  saints  repose  with  their  eyes  open,  followed  the  nursery  tale  of  Maria 
Tzarevna,  or  of  the  feats  of  the  Seven  Simeons.  The  doleful  song  of 
Poor  Lazarus  would  be  succeeded  by  a  dancing  or  anacreontic  ditty:  the 
fun  of  the  merry  pilgrim  was  inexhaustible;  now  wrapping  herself  in  a 
sheet  and  shewing  us  how  the  Jews  wander  in  purgatory;  now  in  a  fur 
pelisse  turned  inside  out  she  performed  the  rdle  of  a  dancing  bear ;  now, 
having  blackened  her  face  with  soot,  she  would  hold  a  lighted  lucifer  in 
her  mouth,  as  illustrative  of  a  history  of  a  certain  demon  of  Ethiopia. 

Bitka  came  to  visit  us  soon  afler  our  expedition  to  Ivan  Yakovlivitch. 
She  brought  my  mother  a  blessed  loaf  from  the  Saroffsky  Wilderness,§ 
and  me  and  my  brother  a  toy  each.  As  usual,  she  immediately  became 
acquainted  with  the  inhabitants  of  the  house;  praised  the  Captain's 
tumblers,  and  even  clambered  up  into  the  little  balcony  with  him ;  to 
Maria  Ivanovna  she  communicated  a  method  of  curing  fowls  of  the  pip^ 

*  Founded  by  the  good  and  great  St.  Sergius,  of  Radonej,  in  1337.  It  in  situated 
at  the  distance  of  sixty-four  versts  from  Moscow,  and  contains  ten  churches,  besides 
chapels,  the  Ecclesiastical  Academy,  a  hospital,  likewise  dwellings  for  the  monks,  &c. 
It  contains,  besides  the  bodies  of  several  Saints,  an  immensity  of  riches  in  gold,  silver, 
and  precious  stones. 

t  A  convent  on  a  little  island  in  Lake  Ladoga. 

X  Ditto,  also  on  an  island,  in  the  White  Sea.    Places  of  great  resort  for  the 

religious. 

§  A  convent  in  the  Government  of  I^ijni-Novgorod. 


BTGONESL  247 

and  ducked  the  hens  for  her,  that  wanted  to  sit  I  can  see  her  now — 
having  caught  all  the  delinquents,  who  by  their  incessant  clacking 
manifested  their  wish  to  raise  a  family,  she  held  each  in  its  turn  under 
the  pump,  and  made  the  cook  work  actively  at  the  handle,  and  when  the 
victim  had  been  thoroughly  soused  she  gave  it  a  good  whipping  with  a 
bunch  of  fresh  nettles.  The  wretch  screeched  at  the  top  of  its  voice,  and 
as  soon  as  it  was  set  at  liberty,  rushed  madly  through  the  yard,  with 
drooping  wings  and  dripping  tail. 

'  What  are  you  about  there,  matoushka  1  *  asked  Luke  Lukitch  from 
the  window. 

'  Ducking  the  hens.  Sir !' 

*  What's  that  for  ? ' 

'  To  prevent  them  clacking.' 

^  Are  you  not  ashamed  of  trying  to  deaden  their  maternal  feelings  ?  ' 

'  They  Imve  no  business  to  have  any  maternal  feelings  whatever,  Sir  ! 
their  business  is  to  lay  eggs  for  their  owners.  When  the  proper  time 
comes  they  will  be  set,  and  in  the  meantime  let  them  do  their  duty. 
They  are  not  the  only  females  who  require  a  nettle- whipping  to  remind 
them  of  that ! ' 

And  Bitka  laughed  with  all  her  heart. 

The  arrival  of  this  pilgrim  decided  my  mother  to  take  me  with  her  to 
Troitzky,  and  indeed  we  could  not  have  found  a  better  companion. 
Although  she  was  accustomed  to  walk  very  fast,  she  consented,  out  of 
respect  to  my  mother,  to  give  up  a  few  days  to  her;  and  we  soon  made 
our  necessary  preparations  for  our  pilgrimage.  At  first  it  would  seem 
impossible  for  a  child  of  seven  years  old  to  accomplish  a  journey  of 
upwards  of  sixty  versts  on  foot,  but  it  did  not  fatigue  me  in  the  least. 
Our  journey  extended  a  whole  week;  we  frequently  rested,  stopped 
several  times  a  day  to  drink  tea  or  eat  something,  and  early  in  the 
evening  remained  at  a  road-side  lodging  to  pass  the  night.  Sometimes 
Bitka  carried  me  on  her  shoulders  for  a  verst  or  two,  and  where  the  road 
was  more  than  usually  fatiguing  my  mother  hired  a  cart.  I  was  out  of 
my  wits  with  delight ;  all  was  so  new  to  me ;  those  mysterious  forests 
and  woods,  the  vast  extent  of  field  and  pasture  covered  with  flowers,  and 
varying  with  every  waft  of  the  wind  in  colour  or  shade.  I  longed  to 
pass  the  whole  summer  thus.  And  the  warm  lovely  weather  seemed  to 
have  made  an  agreement  with  my  mother  expressly  on  my  behalf, 

Afler  our  stoppages  at  Foushkino  and  Hratofschina,  our  last  night's 
lodging  was  at  the  Khotkoff  Monastery,  where,  when  we  went  the  next 
morning  to  church  there,  we  were  suddenly  surrounded  by  a  troop  of 
little  girls  dressed  in  monastic  costume — a  black  garment  *  and  a  hat  of 
peculiar  shape,  from  beneath  which  hung  a  long  plait  of  hair  tied  with  a 
black  ribbon  at  the  end. 

*  Aunty ! '  f  would  you  like  to  hear  a  Canon  ?     Let  me  read  a  little 

*  Greatly  resembling  the  cat  of  tho  ' robe pincesse *  of  1868.  (^Traiu.) 
t  A  term  applied  by  children  to  female  strangers.    Men  they  call  Uncle. 


248  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Canon  to  you  !  Give  me  a  groscb,  and  I  will  repeat  yoa  a  Canon ! '  they 
cried  in  chorus. 

'  Well  I  say  one  ! '  said  Bitka  to  one  of  the  girls. 

She  instantly  opened  a  little  book  and  began  to  read  something, 
without  stopping  for  breath  or  stops,  in  a  high-toned  piercing  voice. 
My  mother  gave  her  a  few  kopeckas,  on  which  the  little  girl  bowed  so 
low  that  the  top  of  her  high-crowned  hat  very  nearly  touched  the 
ground,  and  the  dangling  tail  of  hair,  np-side  down,  or  down-side  up, 
followed  in  its  train. 

*  Let  me  read  a  little  Canon  now ! ' 

^ Allow  me  to  read  you  one,  please!'  cried  all  the  others,  standing 
before  us  in  the  path. 

^  That  will  do  for  to-day,  my  pretties  !  we  cannot  hear  you  all,'  said 
Bitka,  putting  them  aside.  ^  You  scream  exactly  like  young  ravens ! 
You  have  escaped  from  your  nests  too  soon.'  And  without  furtlier 
ceremony  she  made  her  way  through  the  little  crowd. 

(To  he  continued.)^ 


NUNN'S  COURT. 

CHAPTER  in. 

*  Went  ye  not  forth  in  prayer? 
Then  ye  went  not  forth  in  Tain ; 
The  Sower,  the  Son  of  Man,  was  there, 
And  His  was  that  precions  grain.' 

The  hungry  soul  was  satisfied  I  ^  The  font's  pure  beam  blended  with  the 
cold  pale  shroud,  and  prevailed  o'er  the  hues  of  death ;'  and  gently,  gently^ 
the  corruptible  body  was  laid  down  to  rest,  and  the  grass  grew  green  on 
that  simple  grave ;  and  time  was  going  on-— on  to  the  end ! 

'We  must  hurry,  Papa,  or  we  shall  be  late.  Have  you  been 
detained  V 

'  Not  exactly  detained,  Aggie,  for  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late,  and 
stayed  talking  to  Barber  about  this  new  rate.  I  intended  to  call  on  Mrs. 
Treville,  too,  but  led  myself  no  time.' 

*  I  suppose  John  has  arrived  V 

'  Oh  yes !  he  was  expected  by  the  &ve  o'clock  train.  I  wonder  what 
he  will  do  with  himself  in  this  vacation.' 

'  Take  a  regular  holiday,  I  should  think.  Papa,  for  he  has  had  none 
since  he  went  to  Oxford.  But  there  are  the  chimes,  and  we  must  walk 
faster.' 

Agnes  was  too  much  accustomed  to  her  unpunctual  father's  rapid  move* 


NUNN*S  COTTRT.  249 

ments  to  be  disconcerted  at  the  enormous  strides  with  which  he  accom- 
plished the  rest  of  the  distance  to  Nunn's  Court.  Dr.  Murray  went  on 
to  a  temporary  building  beyond,  which  had  been  converted  into  a  mission 
chapel ;  but  as  the  beU  was  still  ringing,  Agnes  waited  for  a  very  infirm 
old  man,  who,  but  for  the  support  of  her  arm,  could  not  have  reached 
the  chapeL  He  seemed  unusually  feeble  this  evening;  and  moreover 
entertained  the  perverse  idea  that  there  was  no  need  to  hurry,  and  made 
sundry  pretexts  for  delay.  Even  on  arriving  at  the  entrance,  although 
the  bell  had  stopped,  he  contrived  to  have  some  business  with  the  door, 
which  he  declared  admitted  too  much  draught,  and  persistently  continued 
to  open  and  shut  it  in  order  to  discover  the  cause.  Poor  Agnes  was  in 
despair,  until  a  slight  touch  upon  her  arm  suddenly  re-assured  her,  and 
she  passed  on  to  her  usual  seat,  fully  satisfied  .that  John  TreviUe  could 
more  easily  reduce  the  refractory  old  man  to  order  than  she  could.  '  All 
the  burden  ought  really  to  fall  upon  me,'  had  been  his  conviction  three 
years  before ;  and  he  had  not  once  voluntarily  shrank  from  bearing  it, 
although  others,  in  fulfilling  the  apostolic  injunction,  had  eased  him  very 
considerably. 

There  was  one  however  present,  who,  in  noting  the  small  number  of 
worshippers,  chiefiy  of  children,  assembled  under  this  humble  roof,  felt 
disappointed  at  the  success  of  these  three  years  efforts,  and  who  eagerly 
sought  for  an  expression  of  a  reciprocal  feeling  in  John  Treville's  face ; 
but  he  could  discover  none.  There  was  that  peculiar  brightness  in 
John's  eyes  which  occasionally  betrayed  a  hidden  fund  of  deep  feeling 
and  tenderness ;  and  his  clear  rich  voice  helped  on  the  little  choir,  who 
led  by  James  Giles's  flute,  did  their  best ;  and  if  their  voices  were  shrill 
and  unmusical,  both  time  and  tune  were  correct. 

Dr.  Murray  found  Edwin  Mortimer  waiting  for  him  after  the  service 
outside  the  chapel,  and  was  most  cordial  in  his  greeting  to  his  former 
pnpiL  ^  This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,'  he  said.  ^  Are  you  going  to 
spend  the  vacation  amongst  us  V 

^1  am  going  to  read  with  John,'  was  the  reply. 

*  Ah  I  Treville  works  hard,  although  he  is  generally  so  unsuccessfuL' 
'He  is  most  indefatigable  always^  and  I  really  think  will  stand  his 

examination  creditably.' 

'I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Mr.  Mortimer,'  said  Agnes,  who 
joined  them  at  tiiat  minute. 

'  Tes,  his  grandmother  will  be  delighted,'  remarked  the  Doctor ;  '  and 
he  really  does  deserve  success. — ^But  what  a  lad  it  is  for  play !'  he  added, 
as  he  saw  John  in  advance  of  them  in  the  midst  of  a  troop  of  noisy 
children. 

*  He  went  off  with  those  choir  children,  as  soon  as  we  issued  from  the 
chapel,'  said  Mortimer. 

'Papa  thinks  that  John's  games  have  done  more  good  in  Nunn's 
Court  than  anything  else,'  Agnes  remarked,  as  her  father  went  back  to 
speak  to  Gfles,  who  was  then  locking  the  door  of  the  chapel. 


250  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'And  is  he  satisfied  with  the  result  of  these  three  years?'  asked 
Mortimer  gravely. 

'  I  don't  think  John  ever  looks  at  the  result  of  work  of  this  kind/ 
she  answered  timidly;  'if  he  did,  in  this  case  he  would  probahly  be 
disappointed.' 

'  Thank  you,  Miss  Murray :  you  have  fathomed  for  me  a  part  of  John's 
character  which  I  had  not  understood  before.  He  takes  the  nearest  duty, 
does  it,  and  leaves  the  rest' 

'  You  understand  him  now,  at  least,'  said  Agnes.  '  It  was  a  great 
responsibility  thrown  on  very  young  shoulders,  and  Papa  thinks  he  has 
accepted  it  truly.  But  you  must  come  into  the  court,'  she  added 
playfully,  '  and  see  a  little  of  what  the  work  is  like ;  that  will  be  better 
than  standing  here  reflecting  upon  the  smallness  of  the  congregation  this 
evening.' 

'  It  is  not  exactly  that ;  but  except  your  crotchety  old  friend,  there  was 
not  one  grown-up  person  amongst  them.' 

Agnes  laughed.  '  Poor  old  Ben !  notwithstanding  his  crotchets,  he  is 
a  great  favourite  of  mine  ;  and  indeed  I  do  not  know  what  we  should  do 
without  old  Ben.  He  was  sitting  at  the  door  of  his  cottage  one  day, 
watching  John  at  play  with  the  little  ones  in  the  court,  and  Papa 
remarked  to  me,  in  his  hearing,  that  John  considered  his  part  in  this 
work  only  the  crumbs.  Ben  asked  for  an  explanation  of  that  expression, 
and  on  Papa  ^ving  it  to  him,  he  said — "  Nay,  nay ;  but  that  be  more 
than  crumbs  that  the  young  master  be  giving;  he  be  giving  time  to 
make  the  young  things  happy,  and  he  be  laming  them  the  right  way  to 
play.  Them  be  more  than  crumbs."  Papa  was  very  pleased  with  his 
remark.  And  a  few  days  after,  when  I  was  helping  Mrs.  Treville  in  the 
school,  he  came  to  the  door  of  the  room,  and  asked  to  speak  to  me.  On 
my  going  to  him,  he  said  he  had  been  thinking  that  perhaps  the  crumbs 
ought  to  come  from  him ;  and  since  that  time  he  has  been  so  useful  to  us 
in  taking  charge  of  the  very  little  ones  and  keeping  them  quiet ;  and 
through  him  I  believe  they  will  learn  to  reverence  old  age,  for  after 
school  is  over  they  in  their  turn  lead  him  about,  and  love  to  stroke  and 
kiss  his  shrivelled  hands.' 

As  they  advanced  into  the  court,  Mortimer  exclaimed,  '  Here,  at  least, 
I  see  an  improvement  in  the  absence  of  the  gutter !' 

'  John's  old  enemy,'  said  Agues  laughingly.  '  Papa  used  to  tell  him 
that  he  seemed  to  have  no  hope  of  Christianizing  the  people  while  that 
remained,  and  mimics  the  sigh  of  relief  which  escaped  from  him  when 
the  new  drain  was  completed  and  the  iron  grating  put  down.  He  was 
several  months  in  getting  the  money  together  necessary  for  the  work,  and 
it  seemed  a  long  delay ;  but  its  completion  was  memorable,  for  on  the 
same  day  nine  of  the  children  received  Baptism  at  the  parish  church,  and 
the  Vicar  offered  an  annual  subscription  to  the  school.' 

'What  said  the  children  at  the  loss  of  their  beloved  gutter?' 

'It  had  so  often  brought  them  into  disgrace,  that  I  think  they  had 


kunn's  court.  251 

ceased  to  love  it  before  that  time,  and  were  ready  enough  to  join  in 
John's  shout  -which  he  raised  on  seeing  the  grating  complete.  The  stone 
lying  above  it  was  laid  by  two  of  the  newly  baptized.' 

Mortimer  stooped  down  to  read  the  inscription.  *  Glory  to  God  on 
high ;  Peace ;  Good  will  to  men/  and  the  date. 

He  was  silent,  reading  in  that  inscription  his  fnend's  mind  and 
purpose.  The  foundation-stone  of  restoration  to  better  things,  laid  in 
its  resting-place  by  those  babes  in  Christ,  just  richly  clothed  in  their 
^  chrisom  vests.'  Mortimer  spent  more  time  in  contemplation  over  that 
stone  than  ever  John  Treville  had  done.  The  buzzing  flics  seemed  like 
angels'  voices  to  him,  and  the  perfume  from  the  flowers  in  the  cottage 
windows  like  sweet  incense.  The  court  seemed  transformed  into 
Paradise,  its  air  glistening  with  baptismal  dew. 

On  he  mused,  regardless  of  the  mirth  in  the  adjacent  field,  where  John 
Treville's  voice  might  be  heard  noisiest  of  all ;  and  quite  indifferent  to 
the  presence  of  the  gentle  girl  who  stood  watching  him,  with  the  rays  of 
the  setting  sun  dancing  on  her  golden  hair.  Agnes  at  last  disturbed  his 
reverie  by  saying,  'Will  you  come  and  let  me  introduce  you  to  my 
''  crotchety  friend,"  as  you  are  pleased  to  term  him ;  he  has  just  come 
out  of  his  cottage  to  watch  the  setting  sun  as  usual.' 

The  old  man's  hands  were  folded,  and  he  was  leaning  on  his  stick ;  his 
head  was  bare,  and  the  summer  breeze  played  lightly  and  lovingly  with 
his  silver  hair.  He  did  not  notice  Agnes's  approach  until  she  laid  one 
of  her  hands  on  his  and  reminded  him  that  he  had  no  hat  on.  He 
gently  took  her  hand,  and  answered,  'No  hat,  deary,  till  the  sun  has 
gone  down.  I  sha'n't  take  cold,  Miss  Agnes.  There  was  no  draught 
from  that  chapel  door  to-night,  as  there  is  most  nights.  Anyways  I 
didn't  feel  it.' 

Agnes  laughed. 

'  You  may  laugh.  Miss  Agnes ;  and  I  dare  say  you  think  it's  all  along 
of  Master  Treville's  being  there  that  made  me  forget  it;  and  perhaps 
you're  right.  I  think  it  was  a  hearing  his  a  singing  '  Sun  of  my  soul ' 
that  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  must  stand  here  with  my  hat  off  now.  And 
says  he,  after  the  service  was  over,  "  Ben,"  says  he,  "  I  will  just  take 
you  home,  and  then  I  must  have  one  game  with  the  young  uns."  Miss 
Agnes,  deary,  when  you  are  old,  like  me,  and  can't  be  active  any  more, 
then  you  too'll  larn  to  like  them  best  who  are  cheery  and  playful ;  now, 
I  dare  say,  them  that  are  gravest  are  your  taste,  but  they  aren't  mine  ;' 
and  he  glanced  with  a  look  of  dissatisfaction  at  Mortimer.  A  deep  blush 
covered  Agnes's  face;  and  the  old  man  added,  'I  don't  want  to  hurt 
your  feelings,  Miss  Agnes,  deary ;  I  know  he  is  very  good,  because  he  is 
Master  Treville's  friend.' 

'  Then  accept  me  as  yours  on  that  recommendation,'  said  Mortimer,  as 
be  held  out  his  hand  to  the  old  man. 

'What  is  the  matter  with  my  little  Aggie?'  said  her  father,  who  had 
come  into  the  court  unobserved,  followed  by  John  Treville. 


252  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Agnes  laughingly  answered,  with  a  slightly  confused  manner,  'Old 
Ben  is-  accusing  me  of  liking  Mr.  Mortimer  better  than  John.' 

'Which  is  tantamount  to  breaking  the  Sixth  Commandment  in  his 
opinion,  no  doubt,'  the  Doctor  returned. 

One  of  the  peculiarly  bright  glances  shot  from  John's  eyes,  and  rested 
partly  on  the  old  man,  and  partly  on  Agnes.  '  Old  Ben  is  glad  to  have 
me  at  home  again,  then  ?'  he  asked. 

'  Master  John,  is  it  not  written  of  them  that  bring  the  glad  tidings  of 
peace,  that  their  very  feet  is  beautiful  ?  and  that  is  like  what  you  are  to 
me.' 

'  Ben,'  said  John, '  those  words  may  not  be  applied  to  me.  Dr.  Murray 
was  the  real  messenger.' 

'  I  see.  Sir,  I  see,'  the  old  man  returned,  after  a  pause,  '  and  may  God 
bless  him  for  it  But,  Sir,  I  hope  the  reverend  gentleman  won't  mind 
my  saying  as  how  I  think  you  struck  the  first  nail.' 

'Ben  is  right,  John,'  said  Dr.  Murray;  'repentance  comes  before 
faith.' 

'Talking  of  striking  nails,  Ben,  reminds  me  that  you  were  once  a 
famous  carpenter ;  and  I  must  get  you  to-morrow  to  see  what  can  be 
done  with  that  draughty  chapel  door.' 

'Ay,  Sir,  most  times  there  is  a  draught;  though  there  wam't  none 
to-night,  as  I  was  a  telling  of  Miss  Agnes  just  now.' 

John  went  into  the  cottage,  and  bringing  out  Ben's  hat,  put  it  on  his 
head,  saying,  '  You  are  standing  in  a  draught  now,  Ben.' 

'  The  sun  is  gone  down  now.  Sir,  and  I  must  go  in.' 

'Good-night,  old  Ben,'  said  John,  shaking  him  warmly  by  the 
hand. 

'Good-night  to  you  all,  and  God  bless  you,'  returned  the  old  man, 
taking  off  his  hat  once  more.  '  Miss  Agnes,  deary,  don't  let  an  old  man's 
words  give  you  offence.' 

'  I  know  you  would  not  willingly  offend  me,'  Agnes  answered ;  '  and  I 
love  you  too  much,  you  dear  old  Ben,  to  be  easily  offended  with  anything 
you  say  to  me.' 

'  I  ought  to  know  that.  Miss  Agnes,  by  this  time,'  he  said,  with  a  loving 
smile ;  and  then  went  into  his  cottage. 

Dr.  Murray  walked  away,  leaning  on  John's  arm,  followed  by  his 
daughter  and  Mortimer. 

The  conversation  between  the  pairs  was  uninterrupted  until  they 
arrived  at  Dr.  Murray's  house,  when  John,  having  resisted  all  the 
Doctor's  invitations  to  enter,  went  on  alone. 

'  He  might  have  spent  an  hour  or  two  with  us,  surely,'  grumbled  the 
Doctor. 

'Poor  Mrs.  Treville !'  Agnes  rejoined. 

'  His  grandmother  1  Ay,  I  had  forgotten ;  of  course  he  would  not 
spend  the  first  evening  away  from  her ;  but  the  lad  never  offers  an  excuse 
for  anything  he  does  V 


nunn's  court.  353 

'  The  lad/  however,  brought  a  look  of  unclouded  brightnesB  into  his 
grandmother's  eyes,  when  he  entered  the  room  where  she  was  sitting ;  and 
she  looked  up  from  her  knitting,  saying,  '  Just  in  time  for  tea,  Johnny.' 

^  And  like  old  times,  Granny, — quite  by  ourselves,  for  I  left  Mortimer 
with  Dr.  Murray ;  and  now  I  am  quite  ready  for  the  winding  process,  if 
you  have  any  to  do,  only  I  think  I  should  like  a  cup  of  tea  first.' 

'  All  the  wool  I  need  for  present  use  is  wound,  Johnny ;  if  it  were  not, 
I  would  most  assuredly  make  you  -  hold  every  skein  for  me,  before  you 
had  any  tea,  to  punish  you  for  the  sarcasm  contained  in  your  last  words.' 

*  No,  you  wouldn't.  Granny.  You  would  have  been  as  lenient  again 
as  you  were  in  the  old  days.  Oh !  don't  I  remember  quaking  once,  when 
I  accidentally  spoke  of  your  '^  everlasting  knitting"?' 

^  Ah,  Johnny,  that  was  very  naughty  of  you.  But  here  come  some  of 
your  favourite  tea-cakes.' 

*  Hurrah !'  he  exclaimed ;  *  how  joUy  1' 

And  it  was,  as  he  had  observed,  quite  like  the  old  times.  The  familiar 
scene  brought  back,  too,  that  silent  mood  into  which  he  proverbially  sank 
during  his  boyhood  when  alone  with  his  grandmother.  In  her  presence 
his  active  spirit  found  rest,  and  he  was  quiet.  Mrs.  Treville  broke  the 
silence  by  asking  him  which  room  he  would  like  to  have  for  his  study. 

'  This  room,  Granny,  unless  we  shall  be  in  your  way.' 

*  Very  well :  then  I  must  make  the  library  my  sitting-room  while  you 
are  at  home.' 

'  Your  sitting-room  will  be  my  study,  wherever  it  may  be,  unless  you 
dislike  the  arrangement.' 

'  Oh,  Johnny !  I  shall  fidget  Mr.  Mortimer,  and  you  too.' 
'  If  you  and  the  maids  sit  in  the  room  Ned  Mortimer  would  be  perfectly 
unconscious  of  it  when  he  is  at  his  books.     And  as  to  me — ^why,  Granny, 
I  should  not  think  I  was  at  home  if  I  were  out  of  the  sound  of — ' 

*  Those  "  everlasting  pins,"  you  mean,'  said  Mrs.  Treville.  *  You  shall 
have  your  own  way,  John.'  As  she  spoke,  a  tear  trembled  in  her  eye- 
joy  brought  it  there;  her  grandson's  love  was  very  precious  to  her. 
'  Ring  the  bell,'  she  added,  '  I  want  the  table  cleared  now.' 

John  obeyed,  and  then  said,  '  Granny,  shall  you  mind  a  great  heap  of 
a  mess?' 

'  Not  at  all ;  but  what  are  you  going  to  do  V 

'  ^  To  make  a  huge  kite  for  the  little  ones  to  send  up  on  my  birth-day. 
You  know  they  are  too  young  to  care  for  the  cricket-matoh ;  and  I  really 
think,  if  old  Ben  will  only  shew  him  how  to  manage  it,  Mortimer  wiU  be 
able  to  send  it  up  for  them.' 

^  Well,  we  can  mess  together  then ;  for  I  want  to  cover  some  books  for 
the  schooL' 

*  Where  are  ihey?  let  me  get  ihem  for  you.' 

Once  again  the  silent  mood  came  over  John ;  and  his  grandmother  had 
almost  completed  her  task  before  he  roused  himself  from  it,  and  said^ 
'  You  will  tire  yourself,  Granny.    What  a  lot  of  books  you  have  done  I' 


254  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

^  I  think  I  am  rather  tired,'  she  said. 

^I  wonder  if  I  could  cover  a  book?  I  dare  say  I  should  be  awkward 
enough  at  it ;  but  I  could  tiy.' 

'  No,  Johnn J,  thank  you ;  I  will  put  them  away  now,  and  finish  some 
other  time«  Agnes  wanted  to  do  them ;  but  I  would  not  let  her,  for  she 
has  so  much  to  do,  and  lately  has  not  been  very  strong.' 

'Who?    Agnes f  said  John,  looking  up  quickly. 

'  Yes.  You  know  Dr.  Murray  has  never  been  quite  the  same  since  Mrs. 
Murray's  death,  his  memory  has  gradually  been  failing  him,  and  he  is  less 
helpful  in  other  ways,  so  that  so  many  things  fall  upon  Agnes ;  and  I 
know,  though  she  never  complains,  she  does  more  than  she  ought  to  do, 
and  looks  pale  and  tired.' 

John  sat  still,  resting  his  head  on  his  hand.  Presently  he  said,  'I 
think  Hall  had  better  take  the  singing  class  now,  if  he  has  any  time 
unoccupied.' 

*  That  would  be  an  additional  expense ;  and  even  now  your  pocket- 
money  has  more  calls  upon  it  than  I  could  wish.  Besides,  I  don't  think 
it  would  be  any  rest  to  Agnes  to  take  the  class  out  of  her  hands ;  and  she 
does  manage  it  very  well.' 

John  sighed. 

'Grace  Allyn  and  Sophie  Nelson  have  helped  us  constantly  in  the 
school  lately ;  and  John,  you  must  let  me  have  my  own  way,  and  ask  the 
young  things  to  spend  your  birth-day  with  us.' 

'  I  am  agreeable  to  anything,  Granny ;  only  tell  them  that  if  they  will 
permit  me  to  spend  the  day  with  the  Nunn^  Court  folk,  I  shall  be  most 
happy  to  do  a  little  dancing  with  them  in  the  evening.' 

*  Oh,  Johnny !  You  will  be  so  stiff  after  the  cricket-match,  you  will 
not  be  able  to  move.' 

'  Nothing  of  the  kind.  Granny  I  You'll  see  how  I  can  dance.  How 
many  cAn  you  muster?' 

'  About  twenty,  I  think,  with  you  and  Mr.  Mortimer,  who  I  suppose 
does  not  dance.' 

'  Does  not  know  bis  right  foot  from  his  left ;  but  he  will  enjoy  it 
notwithstanding.' 

*  And  now.  Grandmother,'  he  s^d,  afler  another  long  pause,  '  shall  we 
read  our  old  favourite  chapter  ?' 

The  assent  was  readily  given ;  and  having  put  the  unfinished  kite  into 
a  place  of  safety,  and  cleared  away  his  '  no  end  of  a  mess,'  John  read 
aloud,  in  the  same  monotonous  voice  as  of  old,  the  account  of  Nehemiah's 
return  to  Jerasalcm.  When  it  was  finished,  Mrs.  Treville  rose  from  her 
seat,  and  going  up  to  him,  placed  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
said,  '  Johnny,  the  God  of  Heaven  hath  strengthened  your  hands  too,  for 
this  good  work.' 

The  young  man  did  not  speak,  but  rose  up  and  kissed  her  on  both 

cheeks. 

(^To  be  continued.') 


255 


SKETCHES  FEOM  INDIAN  LIFE. 

BY  C.  S.  I. 

No.  ni. 

It  is  a  fact  worthy  of  my  remark,  that  in  my  first  two  stations  as 
a  young  assistant  magistrate  in  the  service  of  the  East  India  Company, 
I  had  the  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted  with  three  of  the  most 
remarkable  men  that  British  India  has  (in  thi^  century)  produced. 
Two  of  them — John  Lawrence  and  Robert  Napier,  (now  of  Magdala,) 
survive.  The  third,  Henry  Havelock,  has  passed  away  from  us,  leaving 
a  bright  example  as  a  Christian  soldier. 

It  is,  or  was,  the  custom  in  India  for  a  young  official,  on  reaching 
a  new  station,  to  call  upon  the  older  residents,  instead  of  waiting 
for  them  to  notice  him.  This  is  part  of  the  easy  social  system  of 
India  naturally  growing  up  where  all,  or  nearly  all,  the  members  of 
society  are  alike  servants  of  the  Government,  and  however  differing 
in  rank  or  importance,  are  social!}*  of  the  same  standing..  Well,  I 
had  paid  my  respects  to  the  Magistrate  and  Collector,  the  Judge,  and 

other  authorities  at   S pore,  and   supposed   that  my  visiting  duties 

were  over,  when  someone  suggested  that  I  had  not  called  upon  the 
'canal  officers.'  A  short  drive  through  the  delightful  environs  of  the 
station  brought  me  to  the  canal.  In  a  cottage  on  the  bank  I  found 
two  jolly  lieutenants,  one  of  artillery,  the  other  of  engineers,  in  their 
shirt-sleeves,  hard  at  work  with  plans  and  papers.  The  eldest  of 
these  two  young  men  was  Proby  Cautley ;  the  younger,  Robert  Napier. 
Living  at  some  little  distance  from  the  station,  constantly  called  out  along 
the  course  of  the  canal,  working  morning,  noon,  and  night,  at  what 
most  men  would  have  considered  mere  drudgery,  these  young  fellows 
did  not  seem  to  hold  a  very  desirable  position.  Yet  though  they  knew 
it  not,  both  of  them  were  on  the  high  road  to  honour  and  distinction. 
Easy  unaffected  gentle  spirits  such  as  these  were  glad  to  welcome  a  fresh 
young  Englishman,  who  knew  nothing  about  the  country,  and  wished  to 
learn  all  he  could.  We  became  friends.  On  every  subject  but  one  they 
were  my  masters.  In  one  respect  I  beat  them.  I  had  ever  been  a 
disciple  of  Izaak  Walton,  and  found  them  lamentably  ignorant  of  the 
principles  of  the  gentle  art.  One  of  my  first  questions  was  about  the 
fish  in  their  canal ;  but  they  had  been  so  entirely  immersed  in  irrigation 
work  and  engineering,  that  they  seemed  quite  surprised  at  my  insisting 
that  in  such  a  fine  body  of  water  there  must  be  good  fish.  Inquiry  was 
made ;  and  a  certain  pool,  under  an  embankment  some  miles  up  the  canal, 
was  supposed  to  be  full  of  fish.  I  unpacked  my  rod  and  line,  and  soon 
after  my  visit  made  an  experiment  on  Indian  fish.  My  success  tempted 
the  canal  officers  to  try  their  hands.     The  artillerj'man  became^a  great 


256  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

fisher ;  but  the  engineer,  so  far  as  I  remember,  never  caught  anything. 
Although  one  of  the  pluckiest  fellows  I  ever  came  across,  he  never 
could  bear  giving  pain  to  any  living  creature,  and  I  believe  would  have 
suffered  more  than  the  fish  if  he  had  chanced  to  hook  one.  The  career 
of  Napier  is  before  the  world ;  and  as  Lord  Napier  of  Magdala,  his 
name  dear  to  us  all.  The  other  ^ canal  officer'  of  1832  is  now  Sir 
Proby  Cautley,  K.C.B.,  and  has  long  enjoyed  a  high  reputation — first,  for 
his  scientific  researches  in  this  very  district  in  which  I  first  knew  him, 
and  more  recently  as  the  projector  and  designer  of  the  great  Ganges 
Canal,  a  work  which,  as  the  finest  irrigation  canal  in  the  universe,  has 
saved  thousands,  and  probably  will  save  millions,  firom  fiunine  and 
desolation.  As  I  have  already  said,  when  I  first  knew  these  now 
distinguished  men,  they  were  leading  a  life  of  what  might  be  considered 
obscure  toil  and  drudgery.  But  they  had  already  laid  the  foundation  of 
their  future  career.  Both  were  hard  workers,  honest,  zealous,  devoted 
servants  of  the  best  masters  in  the  world.  So  when  their  time  came, 
they  were  ready  to  do  great  things,  and  did  them  without  fuss  or  fiourish, 
just  working  on  in  the  old  accustomed  earnest  way. 

I  will  not  now  enlarge  upon  the  opportunities  for  distinction  which  an 
Indian  career  thus  offered,  but  will  rather  remark  on  the  privilege  and 
happiness  of  associating  with  men  who  are  real  workers,  in  a  sphere 
where  work  leads  to  such  great  and  lasting  fesults. 

Before  I  dismiss  my  earliest  recollections  of  fishing  in  India,  I  must 
note  down  my  experience  in  a  nullah  or  river  near  the  station,  the  very- 
same  which  I  described  in  my  last  paper.  This  water  ran  between  high 
banks  of  sand,  sluggishly  in  the  dry  season,  like  a  torrent  in  the  rains. 
One  fine  afternoon  in  the  burning  month  of  May,  when  the  river  was  a 
succession  of  ponds,  with  little  water  flowing  along  the  bed,  I  took  my 
post  on  the  side  of  a  deep  pool.  Before  long  down  went  my  float  I 
gave  a  smart  pull,  and  broke  the  tackle  in  some  big  fish.  Again  the 
same.  The  native  servant  said  Kuchooa  hoga — that  is.  It  must  be  a 
kucliooa.  Well,  thought  I,  a  kuchooa  is  a  heavy  and  strong  fellow, 
whatever  sort  of  fish  he  may  be,  but  he  shall  not  break  me  again. 
So,  tying  on  stronger  tackle  with  wire  on  the  hook,  I  put  in  once  more. 
Down  went  the  fioat  again.  My  fish  was  well  hooked,  very  heavy,  but 
very  dull.  He  steadily  seemed  to  march  across  the  bottom  of  the  pool, 
and  nothing  could  I  do  to  stop  him.  At  last>  to  my  horror  and  disgust, 
the  head  and  cruel  eye  of  a  great  tortoise,  as  big  as  a  turtle,  appeared. 

Thus  ended  my  fishing.  There  may  have  been,  and  no  doubt  were, 
plenty  of  fishes  with  scales,  fins,  and  tails,  like  English  fish ;  but  these 
horrid  kuchooa^  were  masters  of  the  position,  and  I  was  forced  to  give 
in  to  them.  It  so  happened  that  the  friend  with  whom  I  lived  and  I 
were  expecting  the  judge  of  the  district  to  dine  with  us  the  next 
evening.  I  proposed  that  we  should  give  him  as  a  treat  a  dish  of 
turtle  soup ;  and  orders  were  given  in  the  kitchen  accordingly.  We  did 
not  know  that  the  river-turtle  was  only  eaten  by  the  lowest  caste  or 


8KSTCHES  FROM  INDIAN  LIFE.  257 

outcast  who  feeds  on  carrion.  Our  turtle-eating  intentions  got  wind; 
and  the  worthy  judge,  for  whom  the  treat  was  preparing,  wrote  very 
civilly  to  decline  the  honour  of  dining  with  us,  unless  we  reconsidered 
our  bill  of  fare.  Why  our  servants  should  not  have  remonstrated  and 
saved  us  from  this  annoyance,  I  can't  say. 

On  leaving   S        pore,  my  next  station  was  the  then  flourishing 
cantonment  of  Kumal.    It  was  my  duty  at  once  to  pay  my  respects  to 
the  acting  magistrate  and  collector  of  the  district.     He  lived  at  the 
head-quarters  of  the  district,  at  a  place  called  Paniput,  about  seventy 
miles  north-west  from  Delhi,  on  the  great  road  leading  to  Lahore.     My 
new  master  I  had  never  seen,  but  had  been  told  he  was  a  wild  Irishman, 
and  a  very   good   fellow.     Behold,   then,  John  Lawrence  of  1835! 
A  long    tawny   active   young   fellow,    slaving    away   in    a   sun-burnt 
wilderness,   without  an   Englishman    to   speak   to,   or  any   companion 
whatever  except  the  three  dogs  who  shared  his  bed,  his  magisterial 
bench,  and  his  heart.     To  say  that   he  was  devoted  to  his  work  is 
nothing.     He  lived,  ate,  drank,  and  almost  slept,  in  his  cutcherry.  (court- 
house.)   At  every  hour,  day  or  night,  Pathans,  Rangurs,  Jats,  Goojurs, 
were  on  his  track.     This  man,  the  Pathan,  a  fine  stalwart  Mahomedan, 
wanted  places  for  himself  and  his  brother  in  the  irregular  cavalry,  who 
formed  the  young  magistrate's  escort.     He  galloped  round  and  round  on 
a  Roman-nosed  horse,  flounshed  his  spear,  and  challenged  the  public  to 
compete  with  him.     He  could  cut  in  half  an  orange  without  shaking  the 
tree  on  which  it  grew,  or  pick  up  a  tent-peg  with  the  point  of  his  lance. 
His  father  had  served  with  Lord  Lake ;  and  hearing  the  name  and  fame 
of  Jan  L&rens  Sahib,  he  had  come  to  offer  his  services.     The  Rangur 
came  next,  half-bred  Raj-poot,%alf  Mahomedan,  and  an  entire  scoundrel ; 
he  wanted  to  make  terms  for  his  uncle,  who  had  been  proclaimed  for 
highway  robbery,  and  was  of  course  as  innocent  as  a  babe.    The  Jat,  a 
hard-working  wiry  cultivator,  came  to  beg  for  a  reduction  in  the  land-tax 
or  revenue  assessment  on  his  plot  of  land.     The  Goojur  had  lost  his 
best  buffalo,  and  had  tracked  the  i^nimal  into  a  village  just  outside 
the   Paniput  district.    All  wanted  attention.     Each  man  pleaded  his 
own  case  at  the  top  of  his  voice.    In  the  distance  loomed  a  cloud  of 
policemen,  petitioners,  visitors  of  native  rank,  the  outline  being  filled  up 
by  a  crowd  of  court  officials,  each  with  a  bundle  of  papers  under  his 
arm.    As  the  day  advanced,  the  cutcherry  became  densely  packed,  and 
the  crowd  outside  was  like  a  fair.    Tlie  hum  of  voices  might  be  heard 
half  a  mile.     Amidst  this  dusky  multitude  the  young  Irishman  reigned 
supreme.     For  the  landed  proprietors  and  cultivators  he  had  a  smile  or  a 
joke.    For  the  Rangur  and  other  malefactors  a  stern  word ;  and  an  answer 
for  all.     He.  was  popular  not  because  he  was  gentle,  but  because  he  was 
just;  and  so  long  as  he  was  respected  he  did  not  much  care  to  be  loved. 
The  secret  of  the  success,  which  even  at  this  early  phase  in  his  career 
dawned  upon  him,  was  that  he  was  not  above  his  work.     Whilst  his 
cotemporariee  were  playing  billiards,  or  hunting  at  up-country  stationSi 

VOL.   10.  18  PAST  57. 


258  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

or  flirting  and  running  into  debt  in  Calcatta,  he  was  absorbed  and 
Immersed  in  public  business,  and  the  care  almost  single-handed  of  a 
million  of  human  beings.  It  was  through  years  of  this  rough  work  that 
John  Lawrence  fought  his  way  up;  and  it  is  of  material  thus  tried, 
hardened,  and  sharpened,  that  great  men  are  made. 

Just  about  this  time  a'case  occurred  in  the  town  of  Paniput,  which,  as 
reported  to  me  by  the  natives  of  the  district,  made  an  impression  upon 
my  mind.  Some  unfortunate  rascal  in  a  jealous  fit  stabbed  his  wife,  and 
throwing  the  body  down  a  well,  pretended  that  she  had  committed  suicide.* 
The  police — as  native  police  will  do — were  inclined  to  tamper  with  the 
matter,  when  John  Lawrence,  putting  form  aside,  rushed  upon  the  case, 
followed  out  each  turn,  and  with  the  speed  of  thought  had  the  murderer 
by  his  heels«  So  it  was  throughout.  Work  must  be  done,  thoroughly, 
earnestly,  fairly,  and  at  once. 

In  his  dealings  with  me,  my  new  master  was  considerate.  Instead  of 
keeping  me  in  slavery  or  drudgery  at  his  own  station,  he  sent  me,  as  1  have 
said,  to  Kurnal,  and  gave  me  charge  of  a  third  part  of  the  district.  If  I 
kept  it  in  order,  he  would  not  interfere ;  if  I  made  a  mess  of  it,  he  would 
recall  me  to  Paniput.  With  such  a  master  it  was  a  pleasure  to  work ; 
and  as  long  as  we  were  together,  I  never  had  a  cross  word.  Of  course 
I  learned  more  in  this  way  in  a  month  than  I  should  have  learned  in 
twelve  months  of  leading-strings.  What  I  much  admired  in  Lawrence 
was,  that  he  worked  in  this  strenuous  zealous  fashion,  at  a  time  when  he 
considered  that  he  had  been  unjustly  treated  by  either  the  Government 
or  the  revenue  board.  His  was  a  regular  case  of  ^grumble  and  go.' 
He  thought  himself  neglected  and  ill-used,  but  he  worked  all  the  harder, 
and  never  for  an  instant  neglected  the  Government  work,  because  the 
Government  had  neglected  him.  I  afterwards  learned  that  this  per9e<- 
vering  working  force,  whether  matters  looked  bright  or  dark,  was  one 
of  the  marks  of  a  man  of  real  power,  who  feels  that  it  is  his  business 
to  work  on,  and  leave  success  in  other  hands.  Little  as  I  saw  of  my 
superior  at  this  time,  we  became  friends ;  and,  as  we  shall  see,  he  was 
glad  to  pve  mo  a  'lift'  when  opportunity  offered  years  affcer. 

I  retui*ned  from  my  interview  with  John  Lawrence  a  new  man. 
Hitherto,  although  I  had  worked  with  a  kind  and  worthy  master,  I 
had  felt  myself  in  statu  pupiUari.  I  had  no  separate  and  distinct 
responsibility,  no  territory,  no  people,  of  my  own.  Now  all  was  changed. 
I  had  three  thanahs  or  police  districts  of  my  own.  I  had  my  own  escort, 
my  own  cutcherry,  my  own  omlah  (ofDcials,)  and  above  all,  my  own 
*  people/  Beyond  this,  I  felt  I  had  a  master  who  would  appreciate  good 
work,  and  not  spare  me  if  I  failed.  And  so  I  went  to  work  with  a  will| 
and  found  in  my  work  consolation  and  support  at  a  time  of  great  sadness 
and  sorrow. 

It  was  at  Kurnal  I  first  met  Havelock.     He  was  a  thoughtful  man 

*  I  give  what  I  can  remember ;  I  am  sure  about  John  Lawrence's  share  in  tbt 
matter,  bat  may  have  forgotten  the  detailf. 


PASSIONS  SPIEL  AT  OBSR  AMMEBGAU.  259 

amongst  the  tlioaghtIe88»  a  pious  man  amongst  the  profane.  I  can 
remember  him  now  coming  into  my  solitary  tent  with  a  load  of  old 
Furitaa  divines  and  controversial  treatises  under  his  arm — a  lover  alike 
of  dogmatic  theology  and  military  tactics.  He  had  the  rare  talent  of 
influencing  and  encouraging  the  common  soldier  to  lead  a  religious  life, 
whilst  he  never  departed  for  a  moment  from  the  strictest  line  of  military 
(H^er  and  discipline.  It  required  a  rare  temperament  for  a  man  to  live 
as  he  then  lived,  in  an  atmosphere  both  religious  and  intellectnal,  at  a 
higher  elcTation  than  the  rest  of  the  world.  Yet  so  he  did  live ;  and 
though  other  men  wondered  and  perhaps  sneered  at  his  way  of  life,  they 
could  not  help  respecting  him.  For  some  quarter  of  a  century  tliis 
good  man  led  the  life  of  a  devout  centurion.  His  superior  literary 
talents  and  productions  barely  rescued  him  from  obscurity.  His  great 
professional  knowledge  was  hardly  recognized.  But  the  day  of  trial 
came  at  last,  and  Havelock  then  shewed  of  what  material  a  hero  is 
composed. 

I  cannot  pass  on  to  other  matters  without  a  word  as  to  the  fate  of  this 
station  of  Kumal.  When  I  first  knew  it  as  a  gay  cantonment,  Kumal 
was  the  very  model  of  a  thriving  military  station,  under  John  Company's 
regime.  We  had  cavalry,  artillery,  engineers,  foot-soldiers,  with  a  church, 
sundry  chapels,  schools,  shops,  bazaars,  and  all  the  tribe  of  camp- 
following  native  population.  The  officers  had  built  pleasant  bungalows, 
(houses  of  one  story,)  and  planted  oleanders,  roses,  peaches,  almond,  and 
orange  trees  in  profusion.  For  some  years  no  station  was  more  healthy 
or  more  popular.  But  an  evil  day  came.  Fever  and  malaria  raged  over 
the  cantonment,  and  Kumal  was  eventually  given  up.  Years  later,  when 
I  passed  by  the  place,  jungle  grew  over  the  ruins  of  our  former  houses. 
Ball-rooms,  school-houses,  and  barracks,  had  alike  crumbled  into  dust, 
and  the  abodes  of  strong  men  and  fair  women  were  literally  a  hiding- 
place  for  bats,  owls,  and  scorpions. 

(7o  he  continued.) 


PASSIONS  SPIEL  AT  OBER  AMMERGAU. 

*  Maitt  men,  many  minds.'  If  each  of  the  six  thousand  mortals  who 
met  in  Ober  Ammergau,  and  spent  the  long  summer  day  in  watching  the 
world's  greatest  tragedy,  would  tell  what  he  saw  and  how  he  saw  it, 
we  might  have  some  curious  psychological  studies.  Here,  by  way  of 
specimen,  is  the  experience  of  an  English  student,  drawn  by  love  for 
German  national  art  from  Rome  to  Munich,  to  be  present  at  this  strange 
religious  drama. 

At  last  the  long  day's  journey  from  Munich  to  Ammergau  was  over ; 
afler  passing  through  the  seven  circles  of  purgatory  in  a  German 


260  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Btellfoagen — rafter  enduring  hunger,  thirst,  sun,  rain,  Btorm,  cramp,  and 
fatigue  unspeakable— we  saw  before  us  the  paradise  of  our  desires^ 
which,  like  Dante's,  is  at  the  top  of  a  long,  steep,  weary  hill.  Ere 
we  reached  our  goal,  the  thunder-storm  was  past,  and  the  sun  was 
setting  over  the  solemn  mountains — some  with  snow  on  their  distant 
peaks,  others  of  lower  rank  wearing  a  crown  of  dark  pines  or  firs  on 
their  hoary  brows. 

Soon  we  came  to  the  village,  lying  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains, 
and  found  on  every  house  the  image  of  the  pale  dying  Christ  on  the 
Cross,  which  stands,  too,  in  many  of  the  inner  chambers.  Many  of 
the  people  of  Ammergau  live  by  wood-carving,  and  produce  crucifixes 
of  all  sizes.  There  was  the  hum  and  bustle  of  a  city  in  the  little 
village  street,  as  the  long  rows  of  stellwagen  drew  up,  and  the  travellers 
poured  into  the  inns  and  houses.  A  few  hours  later  the  moon  rose, 
and  shone  all  night  calmly  on  the  great  mountains  and  the  thousands 
of  waiting  strangers. 

On  Sunday  morning  at  dawn  the  military  salute,  essential  to  all 
Catholic  festivals,  was  fired.  Presently  the  church  bells  rang  out  their 
summons  to  early  Mass,  which  is  always  celebrated  at  four  or  five,  and 
goes  on  till  eight  o'clock,  the  time  when  the  play  begins. 

The  large  wooden  shed  where  the  Passions  Spiel  takes  place,  is 
crowded  for  hours  beforehand  with  anxious  spectators  seeking  their 
numbered  places.  The  first-class  seats  are  simple  benches,  with  a  rail 
at  the  top — these  have  rude  cushions  on  them ;  they  are  in  the  middle 
of  the  shed.  Behind,  on  a  sloping  amphitheatre,  are  rows  of  stiH 
ruder  wooden  forms;  indeed,  many  of  the  places  are  simply  standing 
points,  and  the  best  seats  are  perhaps  about  equal  to  the  top  gallery 
of  a  secular  theatre.  Most  of  the  place  is  covered  by  a  wooden  roof, 
but  this  breaks  ofi^  before  reaching  the  lowest  part  of  the  house,  which 
is  occupied  chiefly  by  peasants  from  Ammergau  or  elsewhere.  The 
men  wear  blue  coats  of  primitive  length  and  breadth ;  the  women, 
striped  gowns,  tight  black  bodices  garnished  with  gold  chains  and 
coins,  and  black  kerchiefs  bound  round  their  heads.  The  stage  has 
no  other  covering  than  the  blue  ether,  or  the  sweeping  storm-cloud, 
as  fate  may  have  it.  It  is  large,  and  very  effective  in  its  simplicity: 
the  side  scenes  are  open  courts,  with  scenes  from  the  Holy  Land  in 
gray  tints  on  the  walls.  Double  folding  doors  with  balconies  above 
are  on  eitlier  side  the  curtain,  which  is  painted  in  gray,  with  a  view 
of  Bethlehem ;  Jerusalem  is  on  the  back  of  the  stage ;  the  space 
between  the  curtains  is  covered;  here  most  of  the  play  takes  place, 
but  the  chorus,  processions,  and  mobs,  which  require  more  room,  come 
on  to  the  open  space  in  front  The  fa9ade  over  the  drop  curtain  has 
on  it  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity ;  above  is  the  pelican  feeding  her  young 
with  her  own  blood.  All  points  to  the  sacred  history  here  enacted  every 
ten  years  since  the  great  pestilence  of  1633,  when  the  natives  of  Ober 
Ammergau  vowed  never  to  fail  thus  to  shew  forth  the  Lord's  Death. 


PASSIONS  SPIEL  AT  OBER  AMMERQAU.  261 

They  have  rehearsab  for.  three  years  before  the  great  tenth  year^ 
when  they  play  every  Sunday  and  usually  on  the  Monday  also,  to 
aecommodate  the  crowds  of  spectators.  Very  few  of  the  chief  characters 
seem  to  have  died  since  1860.  In  the  list  before  me,  only  three  new 
names  occur — Christ,  S.  John,  and  the  Madonna.  It  is  wonderful  how 
much  the  actors  usually  resemble  the  characters  they  personate :  looking 
at  their  photographs,  or  seeing  them  on  the  stage,  you  have  Peter  or 
John  just  as  the  artists  paint  them.  Judas  is  a  sly  money-loving 
man,  not  handsome,  as  some  traditions  paake  him.  The  women  were 
less  satisfactory  likenesses  than  the  men.  Franziska  Flunger,  the  new 
Madonna,  (who  from  her  name  may  be  a  daughter  of  Flunger,  the 
principal  character  of  I860,)  is  pretty,  but  has  little  depth  of  ezpression» 
and  looks  younger  than  her  Son.  Joseph  Mair,  who  personates  Him, 
is  certainly  marvellously  like  the  usual  type  of  Messiah  according  to  the 
artists. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  cannon  fired:  a  sudden  silence  fell  on  the 
multitude  as  the  conductor  waved  his  wand,  and  the  solemn  music  of 
the  overture  began.  A  musical  spectator  must  tell  what  was  its 
character ;  I  can  only  say  it  was  simple  and  thrilling,  but  did  not 
'seem  to  me  deep  enough  for  its  purpose.  Its  effect  on  the  people, 
however,  was  to  keep  them  all  in  expectant  awe,  awaiting  what  should 
follow.  Now  the  chorus  came  slowly  on  to  the  stage,  the  leader 
in  white  robes  and  scarlet  mantle,  with  a  gold  crown,  the  nineteen 
women  *  on  either  side  in  gay  draperies,  with  blue  or  pink  cloaks,  and 
fantastic  crowns.  They  stand  in  a  line  in  front  of  the  stage ;  the  man 
begins  in  a  sort  of  recitative,  then  the  women  take  up  the  words,  and 
raising,  waving,  or  crossing  their  arms,  they  all  unite  in  a  solemn 
rhythmical  exhortation,  setting  forth  God's  anger  and  the  coming 
Messiah.  Ere  this  is  ended,  the  chorus  falls  back  right  and  left  in 
two  sloping  lines,  the  curtain  rises,  and  we  see  Adam  and  Eve  driven 
out  of  Paradise;  behind  is  the  fair  Garden  of  Eden,  outside  the 
mournful  guilty  pair.  The  chorus  goes  on  to  explain  this  type,  and 
the  sacrifice  of  Isaac,  which  is  also  set  forth.  When  the  curtain  falls, 
the  chorus  moves  again  into  line,  still  singing;  again  they  part,  and 
disclose  a  new  picture — the  Cross  of  Calvary,  with  men,  women,  and 
children  kneeling  around  it:  from  the  background  rises  a  prayer, 
sung  behind  the  scenes  by  children's  voices.  These  typical  represent- 
ations were  the  most  wondei*ful  pictures  possible ;  at  first  sight  the 
illusion  was  so  perfect  that  one  could  not  think  anything  so  still  could 
be  alive.  It  was  only  by  looking  intently  through  a  very  strong  glass 
that  the  faintest  droop  of  an  eyelash,  or  momentary  quiver  of  an 
outstretched  hand,  betrayed  that  these  were  living  human  beings. 
Both  for  artistic  effect,  and  for  the  length  of  time  during  which  they 

*  The  Rev.  Malcolm  Macoll,  in  his  '  Amroergau  Passion  Play,'  (Rivingtons,) 
which  we  greatly  recommend  to  our  readers,  says  that  the  chonu  is  equally 
compoeed  of  male  and  female  voices,  but  the  dresses  were  all  alike. 


262  THB  MONTHLT  PACKET. 

were  sustained,  these  tableaux  were  bejond  all  praise.  The  children 
were  perfect  angels  of  grace,  and  must  be  real  little  earth  angels  of 
peace  to  their  mothers,  if  they  can  ever  stand  as  quietly  at  home  as 
they  do  in  the  theatre.  The  animals  were  the  only  weak  point;  and 
as  they  could  not  well  be  real,  (unless  the  very  beasts  of  Ammergau 
could  be  taught  to  take  part  in  the  play,)  the  effect  of  a  stuffed 
sheep,  or  a  wooden  horse,  sometimes  gave  a  little  stiffness  to  the 
natural  flowing  curves  of  the  picture. 

Now  began  the  real  history,  of  Christ's  Passion.  He  first  appeared, 
riding  on  an  ass,  as  he  entered  Jerusalem.  Wonderful  it  was  to  see  the 
calm  sad  gentle  gravity  of  his  face,  the  long  flowing  hair,  and  all  that 
artists  give  when  they  try  to  paint  the  Christ  The  procession  came 
through  the  side  courts;  children  waving  palm-branches,  men  and 
women  following  and  singing  Hosanna,  a  goodly  throng  of  three 
hundred — the  same  mob,  who  in  a  few  hours  will  cry,  ^Crucify  Him!' 
Near  Christ  walked  his  disciples,  most  of  them  resembling  the  con- 
ventional idea.  When  the  song  of  praise  was  over,  He  entered  the 
Temple;  Scribes  and  Pharisees  had  been  previously  visible,  muttering 
angrily  at  the  triumphal  procession — ^now  within  the  Temple  (behind  the 
curtain,  which  was  raised)  were  assembled  the  dove-sellers  and  money-' 
changers.  The  rebuke  and  scourging  followed — all  exactly  in  the 
words  of  the  Bible,  which  throughout  formed  the  staple  of  what  was 
spoken.  These  mob-scenes  were  splendid,  the  costumes  wonderfully 
good,  and  the  acting  excellent  When  single  speakers  came  on  the 
stage,  and  soliloquies  took  place,  the  effect  was  not  so  perfect ;  for, 
though  comparatively  free  from  the  peculiar  Bavarian  accent  of  this  part 
of  Germany,  the  tone  and  voice  were  always  far  below  the  acting.  Thus 
when  the  chief  figure  spoke^  though  his  voice  was  earnest  and  dignified, 
it  completely  broke  the  spell,  which,  on  his  first  appearance,  had  bound 
me.  His  action  was  wonderful;  his  dress  the  purple  robe,  with  the 
scarlet  mantle  *  without  seam.' 

The  most  striking  amongst  the  Type  tableaux  during  the  morning  was 
the  Fall  of  Manna — anything  lovelier  than  the  groups  of  children  in  the 
foreground  can  scarcely  be  imagined ;  there  knelt  or  stood  the  waiting 
Israelites,  whilst  the  manna  fell  in  a  thick  white  cloud  like  tiny  fiower 
petals.  The  costumes  were  most  picturesque  in  all  the  scenes.  Those 
worn  by  the  High  Priest  and  elders  at  the  several  councils  as  to  the  fate 
of  Christ,  were  exactly  true  to  the  descriptions  and  conventional  pictures 
of  the  period,  and  the  colouring  was  most  rich  and  gorgeous.  The 
supper  in  Simon's  house  had  a  slightly  comic  effect,  from  the  business- 
like manner  in  which  the  hand-maiden  went  round  and  served  the 
apostles  with  beer  or  wine,  each  man  in  his  own  grey  stone  mug.  Then 
Mary  Magdalen  had  a  painfully  red  face,  and  her  hair  with  which  she 
wiped  the  feet,  after  duly  anointing  them,  was  by  no  means  long  or 
flowing.  The  Gethsemane  scene  was  wonderfully  carried  out,  but  was 
too  painful  to  be  enjoyed  by  a  cultivated  mind.    Indeed,  long  before 


PASSIONS  SPUL  AT  OBEB  AMMXBGAU.  263 

deven  o'clock,  when  the  pause  of  an  hour  takes  place,  we  were  both 
hungry  and  weary,  having  risen  early,  eaten  nothing,  and  sat  long  on 
anything  but  luxurious  seats.  But  the  people  were  by  no  means  tired, 
and  hissed  loudly  when  anyone  shewed  signs  of  standing  up,  insisting  on 
their  sitting  down  again  the  moment  the  inevitable  choir  made  its 
appearance.  As  we  were  not  sure  at  what  point  the  play  stopped,  and 
had  been  warned  that  sometimes  the  actors  were  so  much  interested  that 
they  went  straight  through  the  whole  piece,  our  sensations  were  some- 
what divided  between  the  stage  and  the  calls  of  hunger.  Indeed,  an 
audible  whisper  thrilled  through  the  crowd,  when  the  '  Speise  saal  * 
(banquet-hall)  was  mentioned,  during  one  of  the  councils.  When  Judas 
clutched  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver,  after  listening  with  greedy  joy  to 
their  clink  on  the  table,  there  was  again  a  slight  titter.  Otherwise  one 
hardly  heard  a  sound  from  that  vast  multitude,  except  now  and  then  a 
murmur  of  admiration,  or  whispered  remarks  from  some  irrepressible 
ladies  in  the  back-ground. 

The  scene  of  the  seizure  was  marvellously  natural;  the  sudden 
surprise,  the  kiss  of  Judas,  Peter's  zealous  and  useless  resistance,  the 
soldiers'  momentary  awe  at  the  sight  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  were  all 
accurately  represented.  The  chief  actor  seemed  from  this  moment  to 
be  ennobled  and  inspired  by  a  higher  spirit  than  before — henceforth  he 
spoke  not,  save  when,  in  answer  to  the  high-priest,  he  uttered  the  words 
recorded  in  the  Gospels. 

At  twelve  o'clock  the  play  began  again ;  when  we  entered  the  theatre, 
the  chorus  was  already  on  the  stage.  Henceforth  the  tragedy  grew 
even  darker  and  darker — ^painful  to  see,  and  too  solemn  to  describe. 
Everytliing  went  on  tending  inevitably  to  the  last  fatal  scene. 

The  mock  trial  before  the  high-priest,  the  lawless  soldiers  joyously 
crowding  round  the  burning  brazier,  which  a  good-natured  damsel 
brought  in ;  Peter's  timid  way  of  sneaking  into  the  circle,  and  his  three 
cowardly  denials,  were  all  given  with  most  minute  accuracy.  The  cock 
erowed  behind  the  scenes  in  a  most  self-conscious  voice,  which  provoked 
some  tittering  amongst  the  audience.  The  mocking  and  scourging  scene, 
and  the  crown  of  thorns,  were  inexpressibly  cruel,  and  the  bitter  irony 
of  the  soldiers  was  insupportable.  Throughout  the  whole,  one  felt  how 
completely  it  was  the  movement  of  an  ignorant  mob,  led  on  by  a  cruel 
fanaticism.  Pilate  appeared  in  a  balcony  and  addressed  the  people,  who 
dragged  the  pale  patient  Christ  under  the  window,  with  scoffing  glee. 
Pilate  and  Herod  were  made  friends,  and  sat  side  by  side,  on  gorgeous 
red  and  gilt  thrones.  The  wild  yell  with  which  the  mob  clamoured  for 
the  innocent  blood,  and  chose,  from  the  two  captives  set  before  them,  to 
be  released,  not  the  divine  patient  Messiah,  standing  there  with  his  crown 
of  thorns  and  blood-red  robe,  but  the  savage  robber  by  his  side;  the 
devilish  roar,  '  Crucify  him,  crucify  him !'  with  which  they  tore  away 
the  Christ,  were  scenes  not  to  be  dwelt  upon.  Judas  appeared  before 
the  high-priest,  and  there  was  the  whole  story  of  his  repentance,  ending 


i64  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

with  a  soliloquy,  in  which,  af^er  ramhling  about  the  stage  in  his  yellow 
jfobes,  he  makes  a  spring  at  the  fatal  tree,  and  the  curtain  falls. 
'  It  was  a  relief  to  turn  from  the  stage  to  the  world  outside ;  the 
green  hills  clothed  with  pines,  the  village  below  with  its  white  church, 
and  the  waving  poplars.  The  people  in  the  lower  seats,  too,  made 
a  diversion;  every  now  and  then  one  would  steal  out  by  a  side  door, 
and  come  back  triumphant  with  great  stone  mugs  of  cool  beer,  which 
made  the  souls  of  the  unhappy  three  golden  men  wither  with  ^green- 
eyed  envy.'  The  sun  shone  brightly,  but  still  it  was  not  oppressively 
hot,  considering  the  crowd.  It  was  sickening  to  hear  the  nails 
hammered  in  behind  the  scenes,  and  then  to  see  the  three  crosses, 
and  on  the  middle  one  the  agonized  form.  The  words  written  in 
the  Gospels  as  then  spoken  were  all  repeated ;  there  too  was  the  final 
baiting  of  the  patient  dying  Messiah ;  then  the  weary  head  dropped,  and 
the  Jesus  of  1870  looked  as  dead  as  ever  his  great  Original  could  have 
done.  The  spear-piercing  was  not  spared,  nor  the  flowing  blood ;  any 
theatre  might  take  lessons  from  the  fearful  accuracy  with  which  these 
mountain  peasants  imitate  nature  in  her  cruellest  perversion,  the  mad 
cruelty  of  man  given  over  to  his  worst  self.  The  disappointment  of  the 
chief  priests  when  Joseph  of  Arimathea  came  with  leave  to  remove  the 
body  of  the  victim,  the  tone  in  which  they  said — ^And  spoil  eUl  our 
pleasure,'  were  never  to  be  forgotten.  The  thieves  had  been  previously 
taken  away.  Now  came  the  'spotless  winding  sheet,'  in  which  the 
lifeless  body  was  gently  lowered  from  the  cross,  and  laid  by  loving 
hands  in  the  tomb  in  the  garden.  The  women  marred  the  solemnity 
of  the  scene  by  their  harsh  strained  voices  and  exaggerated  gestures. 
The  chorus  appeared,  all  cloaked  in  black,  and  lamented  over  the 
Messiah's  death. 

It  might  be  fancy  which  made  the  sky  look  darker  during  the 
Crucifixion — ^but  certain  it  is,  that,  just  before  the  Resurrection,  a  sudden 
beam  of  sunshine  shone  upon  the  sealed  tomb,  and  whilst  the  chorus 
was  singing  a  hopeful  strain,  a  white  butterfly  hovered  lightly  over  the 
scene.  The  Resurrection  was  the  worst  managed  part  of  this  strange 
drama';  there  was  a  roll  of  thunder,  the  curtain  flew  up,  and  the  figure 
literally  shot  into  sight  in  a  rigid  upright  attitude;  then  two  gilded 
folding  doors  closed  upon  him,  with  a  sudden  crash.  This  so  affected 
some  good  German  ladies,  that  they  exclaimed  in  rapturous  ecstasy, 
*  Ach,  das  war  scbon,  wie  wunderschon.  (Ah !  that  was  beautiful ;  how 
wondrously  fair  I) 

The  appearance  of  Christ  to  Mary  Magdalen  was  not  impressive; 
indeed,  he  was  far  more  imposing  in  his  sufferings  than  his  triumph, 
probably  because  he  was  silent  in  the  former.  He  now  wore  a  new 
green  dress  and  purple  mantle,  the  Magdalen  was  attired  in  yellow,  as 
was  also  S.  Peter,  on  his  visit  to  the  tomb,  and  throughout  the  whole 
play.  A  triumphal  chorus  with  abundant  Hallelujahs  ended  the  play. 
Altogether  it  had  lasted  eight  hours,  and  our  patience  had  long  been  at 


PASSIONS  8PISL  AT  OBBB  AMUBBGAU. 


26S 


an  end,  as  also  that  of  three  dignitaries,  who  sat  near  us  on  wicker  chairs 
of  honour — an  Austrian  Archduke,  with  long  underlip,  the  Grosz-furst 
Yladimir,  and  the  Grosz-heraog  of  Sachsen- Weimar.  It  was  nearly  five 
o'clock  before  the  crowd  streamed  out  into  the  narrow  street,  uncertain 
as  yet  how  they  ftlt  about  the  scenes  they  had  witnessed. 

Certainly  it  was  a  sight  never  to  be  forgotten.  May  you  share  it 
in  some  measure  from  this  rapid  sketch  by  one  of  the  eye- witnesses, 
avoiding  the  fatigue  and  horror  of  the  actual  scene,  and  yet  gaining 
a  faint  idea  of  the  Passions  Spiel  of  Ober  Ammergau. 

Munich,  Jufy,  1 870.  '  Boma.' 


Note. — ^An  account  of  the  many  tableaoZi  which  alternated  with  the  history  of  the 
Passion,  as  acted  at  Ober  Ammergau,  would  make  my  paper  far  too  long,  so  I  here 
add  a  list  of  them  in  their  order.  Before  each  came  the  chorus,  explaining  them,  as 
described  in  the  first  type-picture ;  then  followed  a  scene  fh>m  the  Life  or  Passion  of 
Christ. 


TTPES.  (tabkauxj 

9.  JoMph  east  Into  the  wqTL 

8.  I>epartarB  ofToblM. 

C  Abasnenis  repnlMa  V«8htl,  and  ndaas  Efther 

to  his  throne. 
0.  Fkll  of  manna  and  qaaOs. 

a  Joseph  sold  ftor  thirty  pieoea  of  silver. 

7.  Adam  works  In  the  sweat  of  hla  brow. 
Joab  kiaaea  and  betraya  Arnaa^ 
Samaon  bound  by  the  FhlUatinea. 


SCEVKS orniB piflSXOH.  (acted rejpretmtoHonJ 

%  CoancU  of  pirieata,  A&  against  Chrlat 

8.  Chrlat  takea  leave  of  Hia  mother,  Ac.  at  Bethany. 

4.  Christ  weepa  over  Jemaalem. 
Jadaa  meditatea  Hla  betrayaL 

0.  Christ  waahea  the  diadplea'  Hoet,  and  inatitates 
the  Last  Supper. 

5.  Another  CoundL  Jndaaaella  hia  Hasterlbr  thirty 

pieceaof  ailver. 
7.  Chiist'a  agony  in  the  Garden. 
Klaa  of  Jadaa. 
Chrlat  bound  and  taken  aqytive. 


[Interval  of  an  hour,  from  eleven  to  twelre,  representing  the  night  between  Maundy 
Thursday  and  Good  Friday.] 


&  Hiehalah  the  Prophet  amitten  on  the  cheek  for 

apeaking  the  truth. 
9.  Naboth  condemned  by  falae  witneaaasL 

10.  Cain  alone  in  the  wUdemeaa. 

11.  Daniel  thrown  to  the  liona. 

U.  David'a  ambaaaadora  diagraced. 
18b  Joaeph'a  brethren  ahew  the  blood-stained 
coat  to  old  Jacob. 

laaac  bound  on  the  altar. 
14.  Triumph  of  Joaeph. 

Sin-offering  and  acq)e-goat 
Iff.  Isaac  carries  the  wood  for  his  own  oiShiing; 

The  brasen  serpent. 

Moaea  pointa  to  the  serpen! 

le. 

17.  Jonas  oast  aahora  by  the  wfaala. 
laraemea  pass  the  Bed  Sea. 


8.  Jesus  smitten  on  the  dieek  before  Annas. 

9.  Christ  condemned  before  Kaiigf^has. 

10.  Judaa  alone  in  hia  repentance  and  despidi; 
IL  Chriat  lent  to  Herod. 
IS.  Chriat  mocked  by  Herod'a  followera. 
18.  Cbriat'a  death  reaolved  on. 

Chriat  bound  to  the  colnmo. 
14.  Eeeehoma 

Barabbas  set  flree.— Chriat  the  slo-ofllering. 
Iff.  Chriat  bears  His  own  Cross. 

Christ  is  raiaed  on  the  Croea. 

Whoso  looks  on  Him  ahall  live. 
IB,  Crudflxion. 
17.  Chrlat  rises  from  the  gravei 

Christ  goes  *  through  the  deep  Bed  Sea  of  blood.' 


Close — ^Triumphal  Chorus. 


266  THK  MONTHLY  PACEJET. 


PRACTICAL  HINTS  ON  ILLUMINATION. 

So  many  attempts  have  been  made  within  the  last  fe^  years  to  revive 
the  Art  of  IllomiDation,  that  a  few  observations  regarding  its  laws  and 
limits  seem  not  unnecessary.  In  the  middle  ages,  Illumination  occupied 
a  place  in  relation  to  Literature  and  Art,  which,  it  is  needless  to  say, 
it  can  never  fill  again.  But  the  large  demand  for  books  and  other 
materials  necessary  for  this  kind  of  painting,  proves  that  there  is  a  great 
number  of  persons  who  occupy  their  time,  to  some  extent,  in  endeavouring 
to  learn  this  branch  of  decorative  art.  Indeed,  it  would  be  well  if  young 
ladies  with  much  leisure  time  at  their  disposal,  and  eyes  and  hands 
educated  to  some  degree  in  form  and  colour,  would  really  make  them- 
selves capable  of  producing  something  like  true  Art  of  this  kind.  It 
would,  at  all  events,  be  more  profitable  and  entertaining  than  the  various 
kinds  of  fancy  needle-work  which  occupy  so  large  an  amount  of  girls* 
time  in  our  generation.  And,  if  pursued  thoughtfully,  and  with  the 
same  amount  of  attention  and  patience  which  is  acknowledged  to  be 
necessary  for  gaining  proficiency  in  any  other  branch  of  Art,  it  would  go 
far  towards  educating  and  developing  the  mind  and  intellect. 

The  primary  law  of  Illumination  is  that  it  shall  exhibit  a  kind  of 
mosaic-work  of  brilliant  colours,  forming  a  border  or  frame  to  the  text 
of  the  book,  and  by  the  harmonious  arrangement  of  its  parts  making 
letters,  which  are  in  themselves  unsightly  things,  pleasing  to  the  eye. 
To  attain  this  result,  all  shade  on  the  objects  represented,  or  shadow  cast 
from  them,  is  inadmissible.  This  would  seem  evident ;  for  colour  and 
shade  cannot  exist  in  any  great  degree  in  the  same  place.  In  proportion 
as  shadow  advances,  colour  must  recede.  You  can  only  express  one 
side  of  nature  at  a  time :  if  you  want  effects  of  light  and  shade,  you  must 
produce  them  by  subduing  your  colour ;  but  if,  as  in  glass-painting 
and  Illumination,  your  object  is  to  exhibit  masses  of  colour,  rich  and 
varied  in  hue,  you  must  be  content  to  represent  shadows  conventionally 
by  shading  natural  objects  with  gradations  of  pure  colour. 

The  second,  and  perhaps  the  least  understood  principle  of  Illumination, 
is  the  law  of  conventionalism.  All  decorative  art  ought  to  contain  as 
much  of  nature  as  is  consistent  with  its  material,  plan,  and  ofiice.  In 
the  middle  ages,  illuminators  were,  it  is  supposed,  frequently  glass-painters 
also,  and  the  same  manner  of  colouring  was  used  in  both  branches  of 
art.  All  attempts  to  paint  pictures  on  glass  have  proved  utter  ^Eulures, 
and  only  in  the  days  of  the  degradation  of  Art  has  the  experiment  ever 
been  made.  The  office  of  glass-painting  is  to  harmonize  in  thought  and 
in  colour  with  all  that  surrounds  it  of  picture  or  ornament,  and  to 
mellow  with  its  soft  bright  tints,  as  in  the  churches  of  past  ages,  every 
unchastened  glare  of  the  outside  world.  It  is,  perhaps,  not  quite  so 
easy  to  understand  why  illuminated  art  should  be  so  restricted.    It  is  an 


PKACTICAL  HINTS  ON.  ILLUMINATION.  267 

nnolterable  rule  of  good  art,  that  the  decorative  shall  be  less  prominent 
than  the  thing  which  it  decorates,  so  as  not  to  usurp  the  attention  from  the 
main  object  The  only  artistic  way  of  doing  this,  is  to  express  natural 
forms  in  few  and  simple  lines  and  flat  unshaded  colour ;  for  the  smaller 
the  degree  of  nature  in  any  work  of  art,  the  less  honourable  is  the  work. 
And  it  is  obvious  that  the  reading  contained  in  a  book  is  the  principal  object 
of  attention,  and  that  to  contain  the  written  matter  the  book  was  made. 

Illuminated  ornament  should  then  first  beautify  the  writing  by 
surrounding  it  with  a  firame-work  of  brilliant  colours  and  graceful  forms ; 
never  going  beyond  its  limits  or  passing  the  prescribed  bounds  into 
which  every  curve  and  leaf  should  fall  obediently,  as  though  conscious 
of  the  restraint  which  encloses  it. 

And  secondly,  it  should  explain  or  illustrate  the  text,  or  represent 
some  thoughts  suggested  by  it  to  the  mind  of  the  painter.  There  is  no 
limit  to  the  expression  of  any  thought,  imagination,  or  fancy,  or  to  any 
phase  of  feeling  from  the  pathetic  to  the. grotesque;  but  unconnected 
and  meaningless  ornament  is  always  debased  ornament. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  nature  of  true  conventionalism  is  often  mis- 
understood in  Illumination.  It  is  not,  for  instance,  the  composition  of 
border-patterns,  by  striking  leaves  on  a  stalk  at  intervab,  which  look 
no  more  as  if  they  grew  on  the  branch  than  do  the  ornaments  on  a 
Christmas  tree.  To  conventionalize  a  flower  is  to  draw  it  from  nature, 
noting  and  expressing  all  the  chief  characteristics  of  its  growth  and 
kind,  so  that  its  individuality  may  be  unmistakeable,  while  refusing  to 
paint  any  of  its  features  which  may  mar  the  effect  yon  want  to  produce. 
Take,  for  instance,  a  rose.  It  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  flowers  to 
paint,  and  when  reduced  to  a  size  convenient  for  Illumination,  must 
necessarily  be  shorn  of  some  of  its  features.  If  drawn  on  a  very  small 
scale,  a  flat  tint  of  rose-colour  might  be  laid  all  over  the  flower;  and  when 
dry,  the  petals,  with  their  characteristic  sweep  in  circles  towards  the 
centre,  drawn  in  with  a  fine  brush  in  gold  or  black.  If  drawn  on  a 
larger  scale,  the  shadow  expressing  the  shape  and  curves  of  the  blossom 
deepening  towards  the  middle,  may  be  indicated  by  an  additional  wash 
of  deep  rose-colour  towards  the  bottoms  of  the  petals.  Persons  who 
illuminate  in  the  present  day,  seem  to  think  that  a  conventionalized 
flower  means  a  flower  stiffened  into  an  unnatural  attitude,  shorn  of  half 
its  individuality,  and  its  species  barely  to  be  conjectured  by  its  colour 
and  general  form.  Whereas,  the  essence  of  conventionalism  is  to 
represent  as  distinctly  as  possible  the  conditions  of  life  and  growth  in 
whatever  living  thing  is  drawn— marking  them  even  the  more  emphati- 
cally, because,  of  necessity,  so  much  else  is  left  out  Thus  it  is  consistent 
with  most  conventional  arrangement  of  leading  lines  in  a  border  of 
flowers,  to  mark  the  way  in  which  nature  has  put  them  on  their  stems, 
and  the  manner  in  which  the  leaves  and  buds  open  themselves  in  each 
individual  plant  No  one  would  be  so  absurd  as  to  suppose  that  con- 
ventional painting  was  equal  to  realistic  painting ;  but  the  superiority  of 


263  THS  MoirrHLt  packet. 

the  latter  simply  consists  in  the  greater  scope  for  expression  of  the  fiicta 
of  nature ;  and  to  give  conventional  painting  its  full  value,  it  ought  to 
represent  as  much  of  nature  as  is  possible  under  given  conditions. 

Thirdly,  book  ornamentation  should  always  be  suggestive  of  penman« 
ship,  to  which  it  legitimately  belongs.  The  lines  and  curves  in  all  the 
best  old  illuminated  work,  carry  out  in  clearly  penned  outlines  the 
marginal  line  or  initial  letter,  and  are  continuations  of  them.  As  a  rule, 
all  border  patterns  should  be  distinctly  outlined  in  some  one  colour — black 
or  gold  were  generally  used  in  the  middle  ages — ^so  that  the  eye  may  rest 
on  the  connecting  link  between  every  part  of  the  border  with  all  the  rest 
of  it.  In  the  twelfth  century  the  initial  letter  of  a  page  was  frequently  the 
chief  part  of  the  ornament  Always  very  large  and  brilliantly  coloured, 
it  formed  at  once  a  centre  for  ornament,  and  a  starting-point  for  the 
border,  which  frequently  consisted  simply  in  the  continuation  of  the  head 
and  tail  of  the  letter  along  the  margin,  with  foliated  terminations. 

Lastly,  ornament  must  spring  from,  or  be  in  some  way  dependent  on, 
the  lines  of  construction.  There  is  no  artistic  meaning — no  desig^n — ^in 
disconitebted  sprigs  or  garlands  of  flowers  scattered  on  a  border.  Once 
let  natural  objects  be  separated  from  their  place  in  the  general  design, 
and  realistic  painting  follows  inevitably ;  for  a  flower  painted  in  flat  and 
arbitrary  colours  appears  absurd,  unless  forming  part  of  a  composition. 

These  laws  are  common  to  all  subordinate  ornament;  and  there  is 
room  enough  within  their  limits  for  intelligent  drawing  of  all  kinds,  or 
for  the  expression  of  any  degree  of  thought  or  fancy.  As  regards  the 
practical  application  of  the  Art  of  Illumination  in  the  present  day, 
perhaps  the  most  remarkable  thing  is  how  singularly  purposeless  is  most 
of  the  work  done.  One  cannot  say  how  much  painting  of  more  or  less 
worth  might  be  produced  from  the  amount  of  hand  and  eye  work  which 
is  wasted  upon  the  scrolls,  cards,  and  various  knickknackeries,  which 
are  painted,  looked  at,  and  then  thrown  aside ;  but  it  might  be  consider- 
able. It  has  been  the  fashion  for  the  last  few  years  for  people  to  put 
texts,  mottos,  and  such  like  things,  wherever  there  is  a  reasonable  excuse 
for  them.  And  writing  may  well  be  so  employed,  provided  it  is  clearly 
understood  that  such  things  are  for  use  and  not  for  ornament ;  and  that 
letters  being  in  themselves  ugly  things,  cannot  be  made  into  ornaments 
simply  by  painting  them  in  various  colours,  or  ornamenting  them  till 
they  become  unintelligible.  Some  of  these  texts,  which  we  have  seen, 
are  as  delicately  and  elaborately  ornamented  as  though  they  were 
intended  for  close  inspection,  instead  of  being,  as  was  the  case,  in  a 
position  in  which  they  must  needs  be  seen  at  a  distance  of  several 
yards.  Others  are  formed  of  letters  belonging  to  the  worst  period  of 
Illumination,  the  designer  of  which  seems  to  have  made  it  his  chief 
object  to  make  them  as  perplextngly  like  each  other  as  possible.  Fre- 
quently each  word  is  of  a  different  colour,  the  result  of  which  is 
hopelessly  confusing,  and  very  similar  in  its  effect  upon  the  eye  to  that 
of  the  *  magic  mats,'  once  in  vogue,  in  which  the  colours  were  so  com- 


PRACTICAL  HINTS  ON  ILLUMINATION.  269 

bined  as  to  appear  always  dancing  before  one.  But  the  most  pecaliar 
form  which  this  fancy  for  painted  texts  takes,  is  that  of  scrolls,  which 
are  cut  out  of  paper  in  every  conceivable  shape  which  a  real  roll  might 
be  supposed  to  assume  if  hung  helplessly  on  a  wall :  the  reverse  sides 
being  filled  in  in  various  ways.  One  cannot  help  stopping  to  wonder 
by  what  process  the  right  of  such  curious  and  uncomfortable-looking 
deceptions,  which  deceive  no  one,  become  pleasing  and  beautiful  to 
people's  eyes.  Probably  the  only  explanation  lies  in  the  fact  that  these 
devices  give  more  scope  for  bright  colouring,  the  instinct  for  which  is  so 
strong  in  most  people.  Now  we  submit  that  the  first  object  of  a  text 
or  mottO)  whether  for  instruction,  as  in  churches  and  schools,  or  for  any 
other  purpose,  is  legibility;  and  when  a  thing  has  to  be  seen  from  a 
greater  or  less  distance,  distinctness  must  generally  be  obtained  by 
absence  of  detail  and  broad  masses  of  colour :  and  even  when  near  the 
eye,  it  is  surely  waste  of  labour  to  put  elaborate  drawing  on  anything 
which  is  intended  simply  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  passer-by,  and  to  be 
quickly  legible  as  a  reminder  of  some  particular  fact  or  truth. 

The  most  useful  and  practical  work  which  we  know  on  the  subject  of 
Illumination,  is  called  '  Practical  Instructions  in  the  Art  of  Illumination,' 
and  is  now  bound  up  with  one  of  the  pamphlets  on  Water  Colour 
Painting,  sold  by  Messrs.  Winsor  and  Newton ;  and  it  contains  almost 
all  the  special  information  which  can  be  given  on  the  subject.  We 
would  say,  in  qualification,  that  too  much  stress  is  laid  on  the  necessity 
of  copying  and  tracing  letters  and  alphabets.  It  cannot  be  repeated  too 
emphatically,  that  before  taking  up  any  special  branch  of  Art,  a  person 
ought  to  be  able,  in  some  d^ree,  to  draw ;  and  the  perpetual  copying  of 
letters  would  be  a  very  roundabout  way  of  learning,  and  a  wearisome 
one  too.  For  it  is  scarcely  necessary,  in  these  days  of  printing,  to  learn 
to  draw  letters  for  their  own  sake ;  and  after  having  learned  something 
of  drawing,  it  is  as  easy  to  draw  a  letter  well  as  anything  else.  A  fine 
mediseval  letter  is  a  very  good  exercise  in  drawing,  but  not  more  so  than 
many  other  exercises.  Any  set  of  outlined  designs,  with  fine  curves, 
which  may  happen  to  be  within  reach,  are  good  training  for  eye  and 
hand — such  as  engravings  of  ancient  Greek  or  Egyptian  vases.  Th<9 
series  of  free-hand  studies  used  in  the  Schools  of  Design  are  admirable 
for  practice,  although  the  curves  are  not  so  good  as  in  such  models  they 
ought  to  be.  After  the  outline  is  sketched  in,  either  a  hard  pencil  or 
pen  and  ink  may  be  used  for  drawing  it  in  clearly ;  but  pen  and  ink  is 
better  practice  as  a  study  for  Illumination.  It  takes  long  time,  and  many 
such  exercises,  to  gain  the  power  of  accurate  and  steady  drawing  which 
is  so  absolutely  necessary  for  Illumination  ;  but  without  such  training,  all 
attempt  at  painting  is  mere  waste  of  time.  Without  firm  outlines,  and 
good  curves,  bright  colouring  is  only  painful,  and  but  emphasizes  the 
defects  of  form. 

The  new  '  Handbook  of  Pictorial  Art.'  of  the  Oxford  University  Press 
Series,  will  be  found  most  useful  by  beginners,  and  the  exercises  are  not 


270  THE  MONTHLY  PACKST. 

80  tedious  as  those  in  the  'Elements  of  Drawing.'  Some  little  knowledge 
of  figare-drawing  is  also  necessary  in  Illumination ;  and  without  it  the 
painter  must  always  feel  hampered,  since  he  is  entirely  confined  to 
flower  and  tree  life  for  the  means  of  expressing  ideas.  It  is  a  common 
thing  to  hear  people  who  can  copy  some  things  fairly  well,  say,  *  It's  of 
no  use  for  me  to  attempt  to  draw  a  figure.  I  know  I  couldn't  dio  it.' 
Very  likely  they  never  tried.  But  at  any  rate  we  will  venture  to  lay 
it  down  as  a  general  rul^,  that  a  person  who  can  draw  one  thing  can 
draw  another ;  and  that  the  power  of  drawing  figures  is  simply  a  matter 
of  time,  though  the  figure  heing  the  most  difficult  branch  of  Art, 
naturally  demands  more  time  and  trouble.  It  is  a  very  good  way  of 
studying  the  elements  of  figure  and  animal  drawing,  for  beginners  to 
procure  outlines  of  a  few  small  but  good  engravings,  such  as  Richter^s 
Illustrations  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  or  Albert  Durer's  etchings,  or,  for 
such  as  prefer  the  humourous  grotesque,  Grimm's  Fairy  Tales.  The 
figures  may  first  be  traced  with  a  pencil  on  tracing-paper,  and  afterwards 
in  free-hand  on  drawing  or  writing  paper,  after  which  they  may  be 
outlined  with  pen  and  ink.  Beginners  will  find  the  process  of  tracing, 
if  practised  for  the  first  few  studies,  will  enable  them  to  draw  the  object 
afterwards  with  greater  ease,  as  weD  as  give  steadiness  to  the  hand.  Of 
course,  there  is  no  way  of  thoroughly  learning  to  draw  the  figure,  but 
drawing  from  the  figure ;  and  those  who  have  opportunity  of  doing  this 
will  do  well  to  avail  themselves  of  it,  for  it  will  give  them  power  of 
drawing,  which  nothing  else  can  do.  But  any  training  is  better  than 
none,  and  much  may  be  learned  from  patient  copying  of  good  prints. 

The  subject  of  colouring  is  too  long  a  one  to  enter  on  here ;  and  we 
cannot  do  better  than  refer  our  readers  to  the  little  pamphlet  before 
mentioned  for  most  practical  information.  One  or  two  general  rules, 
however,  may  not  be  out  of  place. 

L  Never  use  transparent  colour  in  illuminating.  All  tints  must  be 
laid  on  pei*fectly  flat — that  is,  without  gradation ;  and  it  is  only  by  the  use 
of '  body-colour,'  or  opaque  colour,  that  this  is  possible.  All  colours  may 
be  made  opaque  by  the  mixture  of  a  little  Chinese  white  with  them. 
The  mixture  should  not  be  too  thick,  as  great  care  and  some  practice  is 
required  in  laying  on  a  flat  tint  of  colour,  so  that  it  shall  look  even  all 
over,  and  not  dry  at  the  edges  before  it  is  finished. 

11.  All  shade  tints  should  be  transparent  and  pure  colours :  no  greys 
or  neutral  tints  are  admissible.  For  instance,  scarlet  may  be  shaded 
with  crimson  lake.  One  stroke  of  the  brush  ought  to  be  enough 
generally  to  give  the  amount  of  shade  required,  without  re-touching  or 
softening  the  edges. 

The  safest  teaching,  however,  is  to  be  found  in  the  MSS.  of  the 

twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries.    A  careful  study  of  one  of  these  will 

be  of  far  more  use  than  reading  a  whole  book  of  descripdons  of 

processes. 

A.  C.  OwBir. 


271 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  HOSPICE  OF  THE  GRAND 

ST.  BERNARD. 

A  LETTER,  beariog  the  post-mark  ^St.  Bernard,'  and  containing  an 
inTitation  to  visit  the  Hospice,  reached  us  at  Zilrich  on  the  20th  of 
August.  It  is  difficult  to  tell  what  delight  this  missive  gave  us.  All 
my  life  I  had  longed  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  famous  old  mountain 
monastery,  and  see  the  place  where  the  saintly  young  Bernard  de 
Menthon  founded  an  establishment  that  has  survived  through  sunshine 
and  storm,  through  peace  and  war,  for  nearly  a  thousand  years.  But 
the  name  of  St.  Bernard  as  a  {>08t-mark  made  me  doubt  whether  even 
the  Hospice  could  be  still  in  its  state  of  original  simplicity ;  and  when 
I  opened  my  letter,  and  saw  a  curious  device  of  a  cross  rising  up  from  a 
bank  of  rocks  and  clouds,  I  felt  almost  indignant  with  the  reverend 
Fathers  of  the  St  Bernard  for  thus  following  the  fashion  of  the  day. 
However,  the  charming   invitation   in   the   letter   soon    engrossed   us 

completely.    The  writer,  Mrs.  P ^  was  a  cousin  of  my  father's.     She 

had  been  living  in  Switzerland  for  some  years,  and  always  spent  the 
hottest  months  of  the  summer  on  the  high  Alps.  Being  a  member  of  the 
Roman  communion,  she  greatly  enjoyed  having  summer  quarters  with 
the  Augustine  Fathers  at  the  Hospice  of  the  St.  Bernard,  and  had 
already  been  staying  there  for  some  weeks.  She  invited  us  to  join  her 
there,  and  conveyed  a  message  from  M.  le  Prieur  of  friendly  welcome, 
with  full  directions  as  to  our  journey.  Of  course  such  a  charming 
opportunity  was  not  to  be  lost,  so  we  wrote  to  say,  that  all  being 
prosperous,  we  might  be  expected  to  arrive  at  the  Hospice,  as  Mrs. 
P proposed,  in  time  to  keep  the  Fdte  of  the  8th  of  September  there. 

We  had  already  made  the  acquaintance  of  some  of  the  St.  Bernard 
Fathers,  at  their  Hospice  on  the  Simplon.  Two  years  before  we  had 
crossed  by  that  pass  from  Italy.  A  cousin  who  was  then  our  travelling 
companion,  managed  to  slip  down  a  rock  whilst  she  was  in  search  of 
some  wild  flowers.  Both  her  hands  were  full  of  treasures,  which  she 
would  not  relinquish  even  to  save  herself  from  an  awkward  fall,  and  the 
result  was  a  bad  cut  We  were  not  far  from  the  Hospice  at  the  time, 
and  our  driver  advised  us  to  go  in  and  let  *  la  pauvre  petite '  rest  awhile. 
A  most  kind  and  sympathizing  Father  received  us,  and  would  willingly 
have  bound  up  the  hurt — ^indeed,  he  assured  us  that  he  was  considered 
quite  a  good  doctor.  Whibt  my  cousin  lay  on  the  sofa,  he  talked 
pleasantly  about  the  flowers  we  had  brought  in,  and  begged  us  to  refresh 
ourselves  before  we  went  on  to  Brieg.  Meanwhile,  M.  le  Prieur  had 
entertained  my  father  most  hospitably  in  the  refectory,  and  we  parted 
from  our  Augustine  friends  with  much  gratitude,  and  still  more  regret. 

Now  we  were  very  anxious  to  become  acquainted  with  the  other 
members  of  the  noble  band. 


272  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

We  worked  our  way  down  to  Interlaken,  and  meant  to  cross  the 
Gemmi  to  Martigny,  but  the  rain  came  on  with  such  hopeless  mist  that 
we  were  quite  disheartened.  It  really  seemed  absurd  to  start  for  the 
mountains  in  such  a  downpour. 

We  went  by  railway  from  Thun  to  Yevay,  and  made  up  our  minds 
that  our  visit  to  the  St.  Bernard  must  be  delayed. 

Howevery  Tuesday  morning,  the  7th  of  September,  was  most  promising, 
the  mist  floated  away  in  long  wreaths  up  the  sides  of  the  Dent  du  Midi, 
and  the  weather-wise  porter  at.  the  'Trois  Courounes '  assured  me  that 
we  might  look  for  three  fine  days  at  least. 

With  full  faith  in  the  porter's  wisdom,  I  went  off  in  search  of  my  father, 
and  begged  that  we  might  make  a  start  for  Martigny — there  was  no 
time  to  be  lost :  in  an  hour  we  had  packed  our  bags,  and  were  fairly 
en  route ;  but  whether  we  should  reach  the  Hospice  in  time  for  the  Fite 
seemed  doubtful. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  long  delay  at  St.  Maurice,  and  then  at  least 
an  hour  was  lost  at  the  station  at  Martigny,  where  everyone  wanted  to 
leave  piles  of  baggage  in  a  lefl-luggage  office  which  didn't  exist 

At  last  we  got  to  the  Hdtel.de  la  Tour;  and  I,  as  courier  for  the 
party,  seized  upon  the  good-natured  landlady,  and  entreated  her  to  let 
us  have  dinner  instantly,  and  a  char  for  the  St.  Bernard  in  half  an  hour. 
Both  were  readily  promised,  but  lingered  in  coming.  It  was  quite  six 
o'clock  before  our  two  char-k-bancs  came  round  to  the  door.  Then  the 
bags  were  stowed  away  with  my  father  in  one,  my  aunt  and  I  clambered 
up  into  the  other,  and  away  we  rattled  over  the  dusty  pavement.  Twice 
before  I*  had  passed  along  that  road  to  Martigny-le-Bourg,  and  each 
time  had  looked  with  longing  eyes  up  the  rocky  valley  to  the  left,  where 
the  path  diverges  to  the  St.  Bernard.  How  glad  I  was  now  to  leave 
the  steep  climb  up  the  Forclaz  to  the  right,  and  follow  the  smooth 
terraced  road  that  overhangs  the  noisy  Dranse.  It  was  a  beautifully 
clear  September  evening,  the  grey  rocks  were  already  crimsoned  by  the 
sunset  light. 

Our  driver  was  one  Nicolas  Bordelais,  a  most  intelligent  and  courteous 
companion.  His  bright  clever  face  and  soldierly  bearing  won  our  hearts 
before  he  had  ventured  to  enter  into  the  lively  conversation  which  we 
afterwards  carried  on.  He  had  only  returned  from  the  St.  Bernard  that 
afternoon,  and  said  that  he  had  just  had  time  to  swallow  six  spoonfuls  of 
soup,  and  arrange  his  toilette,  before  he  started  with  us. 
'  But  how  about  your  mule  V  1  asked,  in  alarm. 
*  Bah !  Mademoiselle,  do  you  suppose  it  possible  that  an  animal  could 
traverse  this  road  twice  in  one  day  f  Ah !  you  have  a  good  little  mule, 
fresh  from  stable,  and  we  shall  reach  Liddes  almost  before  dark.  It  is 
true.  Mademoiselle,  you  wish  to  go  as  far  as  possible  this  evening 
itself  r 

'  Certainly,'  I  answered,  '  for  we  hope  to  arrive  at  the  Hospice  in  time 
for  the  High  Mass  to-morrow.' 


f 


VISIT  TO  THE  HOSPICS  OF  ST.  BERNARD.  273 

'  Yes,  yes ;  Mademoiselle  will  keep  the  FSte  of  the  Sainte  Ylerge  at 
the  St  Bernard  ?  It  shall  be  sa.  We  shall  assuredly  arrive  in  time  to 
breakfast  to-morrow. 

With  this  assurance,  we  went  merrily  on  our  way.  Monte  Catogne 
in  front  of  us  glowed  rosy  red;  and  the  valley  up  which  we  were 
progressing  seemed  filled  with  soft  grey  mist.  Little  plots  of  vineyard 
rose  in  narrow  terraces  wherever  the  rocks  left  room  for  them;  and  under 
the  walnut  trees,  on  the  right,  the  grass  was  full  of  the  pale  lilac  fiowerS 
of  the  autumnal  crocus.  Such  a  pretty  village  was  passed  on  our  left, 
built  on  a  hillock,  the  sides  of  which  were  streaked  with  tiny  rills,  that 
tumbled  in  white  foam  over  the  mossy  rocks,  till  they  dashed  headlong 
into  the  Dranse. 

Far  away,  up  the  bleak  mountain  sides,  we  saw  a  faint  sparkle  and  a 
wreath  of  blue  smoke. 

*  Those  are  the  watch-fires  of  the  shepherds,'  said  Nicolas.  '  Believe 
me.  Mademoiselle,  the  nights  are  cold  up  there  1' 

Soon  we  crossed  the  Dranse  by  an  unfinished  bridge,  the  loose  planks 
rattled  under  the  wheels,  and  the  parapet  will  be  the  work  of  the  future. 

The  road  was  a  mere  shelf  between  the  steep  mountain  side  and  the 
roaring  river.  We  could  trace  the  old  route  on  the  other  side ;  it  had 
been  broken  up  by  an  avalanche  of  rocks  and  mud. 

On. a  tiny  plain,  formed  by  an  elbow  of  the  river,  stood  a  grim-looking 
grey  stone  building,  which,  Nicolas  told  us,  had  been  a  Trappist  convent 
before  the  course  of  the  road  was  brought  to  the  left  side  of  the  river. 

*  Judge  then,  Mademoiselle,  how  lonely  it  must  have  been ;  the  rock 
behind,  and  the  torrent  in  front,  and  no  word  spoken  by  the  Religious  I 
Since  the  building  was  forsaken  by  them,  a  French  gentleman  came  and 
tried  to  work  a  silver-mine  up  there  on  the  face  of  the  mountain.  The 
convent  became  a  smelting-house.  But  the  silver  was  hard  to  find, 
and  the  work  laborious  and  painful,  and  now  the  workmen  have  all 
departed.* 

As  we  wound  up  the  zigeags  that  bring  us  to  the  upper  valley  of 
Orsi^res,  the  sunset  light  faded  quite  away,  and  the  opening  to  the  Yal 
Ferrez  looked  dark  and  gloomy. 

At  Orsi^res  there  is  a  huge  barn  where  provisions  are  laid  up  in  store 
for  the  Hospice.  Some  of  the  mules  belonging  to  the  Community  are 
employed  all  through  the  summer  in  carrying  the  supplies  up  the 
mountain :  for  the  liberal  hospitality  of  the  good  Fathers  is  boundless, 
and  the  consequent  consumption  of  food  enormous.  Af^er  we  had  passed 
Orsi^res,  the  road  could  no  longer  be  distinguished,  only  the  white 
foam  of  the  river  far  below  us,  and  the  twinkling  lights  in  the  chdiets 
glimmered  out  of  the  darkness. 

Overhead  the  stars  came  out  in  brilliant  clusters. 

'  It  will  be  fine  weather  certainly  for  to-morrow,  Mademoiselle ;  sea 
then  the  stars,  ^'elles  ne  sont  pas  trop  serr^es."'  Such  was  Nioolas's 
encouraging  remark. 

TOL.   10.  19  PART  57ir 


274  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

What  a  charm  there  was  in  that  drive ! — ^The  mountains  closing  in  all 
round  us:  the  hoarse  rashing  sound  of  the  torrent  in  the  deep  gorge 
below,  the  clear  pale  September  starlight  overhead.  It  reminded  me 
of  just  such  another  drive  from  Baveno  to  Domo  d'  Ossola,  when  the 
solemn  shadow  of  the  great  rocky  roots  of  the  mountains  made  one  feel 
quite  overawed  by  their  dim  majesty. 

Suddenly,  with  a  tremendous  crack  of  his  whip,  Nicolas  ezclaimed, 
<  Here  we  are  then,  arrived  at  Liddes,  and  it  touches  precisely  upon  ten 
o'clock  r 

The  street  seemed  so  narrow  that  I  drew  in  my  cloak,  lest  it  should 
catch  the  shutters ;  and  as  blinds  are  unknown  at  Liddes  we  detected 
some  of  the  more  dissipated  natives  retiring  to  rest.  At  the  Hotel  de 
rUnion  everyone  Juxd  retired;  but  by  dint  of  knocking  and  calling  the 
landlady  was  roused,  and  came  forth,  candle  in  hand,  and  night-cap  on 
head,  to  receive  us. 

We  followed  the  flaring  candle  up  a  broken  stone  stair-case,  and  along 
a  rough  flagged  passage,  sleepily  wondering  where  we  should  find  our- 
selves at  last. 

*  Here  is  an  apartment  for  these  ladies,'  said  the  blinking  candle- 
bearer,  throwing  open  the  door  of  the  drollest  little  cabin  I  ever  saw- 
clean  and  white,  but  so  quaintly  primitive  I  '  How  do  you  find  this 
room,  my  ladies  r 

'  Oh !  it  will  do  perfectly  f<Mr  Madame  and  for  me ;  but  where  then 
will  Monsieur  be  lodged  ?' 

'  Quite  at  your  side,  Mademoiselle.' 

And  then  we  inspected  another  cabin,  much  smaller  than  ours,  with 
a  floor  that  had  been  upheaved  by  some  internal  convulsion,  and  a  box 
of  a  bed  that  would  perhaps  contain  a  boy  of  twelve.  How  my  father 
stowed  away  his  six  feet  of  height  I  never  dared  to  ask. 

Presently,  Nicolas  appeared  with  our  bags;  but  we  found  that  un- 
packing them  would  be  absolutely  impossible,  for  the  narrow  window- 
ledge  was  tlie  only  place  where  we  could  stow  away  anything. 

My  only  care  was  to  get  a  basin  of  water  for  the  lovely  bonquet  of 
geraniums  and  oleanders  that  we  had  brought  from  the  inn-garden  at 
Martigny.  Water  was  very  scarce  at  Liddes,  and  appeared  in  a  very 
small  milk-jug. 

With  the  help  of  a  chair,  we  climbed  up  into  the  highly  stufled  boxes, 
which  were  to  serve  as  beds ;  and  then  what  a  crackling  of  fresh  straw 
there  was  as  we  settled  down.  It  was  delightful  to  feel  that  four  hours 
more  would  actually  bring  us  to  the  Hospice  I 

The  church  bells,  tinkling  for  the  early  Mass  of  the  F6te,  awoke  us 
betimes  on  the  8th  :  and  a  glorious  blue  sky  greeted  my  eager  eyes ;  but 
the  air  was  crisp  with  frost,  in  spite  of  the  cloudless  sunshine. 

*  Quite  at  my  side,'  I  heard  a  tremendous  crack  and  thump,  by  which 
I  guessed  that  my  father  was  taking  the  preliminary  turn,  to  turning 
out. 


VISIT  TO  THE  HOSPICE  OF  ST.  BERKABD.  275 

By  seven  o'clock  our  bags  were  locked,  the  precious  flowers  packed 
ftway  in  a  biscuit  tin  that  had  stuck  to  us  through  all  our  wanderings, 
and  we  were  ready  for  breakfast. 

Nicolas  came  in,  with  a  bright  morning  greeting.  *  Said  I  not  so, 
Mademoiselle t  it  is  a  weather  that  is  truly  magnificent!  At  what  hour 
shall  we  depart!' 

*  Immediately,  I  beseech  you.^ 

*  It  is  good.  Mademoiselle  ;  you  will  arrive  for  the  "  Grande  Messe."' 
Breakikst  at  the  Hotel  de  TUnion  was  not  much  to  boast  of;  but  it 

was  soon  despatched,  and  we  climbed  up  into  the  char-k-banc  before  the 
curious  gase  of  a  crowd  of  villagers  who  were  all  in  festal  trim. 

The  road  from  Liddes  to  St  Pierre  is  wonderfully  good ;  it  keeps  to 
the  left  side  of  the  river,  with  sloping  hay-iields  above,  and  very  steep 
potato-grounds  below.  The  forest  of  St.  Pierre  clothes  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  ravine ;  and  above  the  pine  trees,  on  the  smooth  green  Alps, 
we  could  see  the  chalets  of  the  herdsmen ;  the  faint  tinkle  of  cattle-bells 
seemed  to  float  down  from  the  heights.  Over  the  steep  green  ridges, 
snowy  peaks  glittered  against  the  bhie  sky.  The  freshness  of  that 
September  morning  was  intensely  enjoyable ! 

St.  Pierre  is  a  dirty  miserable  village.  Nicolas  told  us  that  the  Cur^ 
was  very  ill,  at  the  point  of  death,  so  one  of  the  Fathers  had  come 
down  from  the  Hospice  to  take  charge  of  the  Church.  We  found, 
afterwards,  that  it  was  the  Sous-Clavandier  who  had  been  told  off  for 
this  duty« 

Beyond  St.  Pierre  the  char-road  is  carried  to  a  lonely  inn,  called  the 
Cantine  de  Proz.  There  we  unpacked  ourselves  and  our  baggage ;  the 
latter  was  arranged  on  the  back  of  one  of  the  mules,  and  I  mounted  into 
a  wonderful  saddle  with  which  the  other  was  caparisoned. 

My  father  and  aunt  went  on  in  front,  and  were  soon  mere  specks  on 
the  winding  path. 

Nothing  but  rocks,  and  little  patches  of  rough  grass,  which  no  doubt 
ahew  a  gorgeous  wealth  of  wild  flowers  in  July,  but  I  could  only  find  a 
few  bleached  gentians  that  had  survived  the  scorching  August  sun. 

The  mountains  rise  up  like  a  wall  in  front,  the  lofty  white  peak  of 
the  Mont  Yelan  seems  to  shut  out  the  blue  sky,  and  the  desolate  inn 
looks  like  a  grey  boulder  on  the  little  plain  below.  The  path  is  really 
a  stair-case,  so  steep  are  the  blocks  of  rock  over  which  my  mule 
acrambled  deftly;  but  even  this  rugged  ascent  did  not  interrupt  the 
pleasant  flow  of  conversation  from  Nicolas.     He  knew  our  cousin,  Mrs, 

P ,  quite  well,  and  told  me  that  she  had  lately  been  making  a  little 

excursion  into  Italy.     She  went  with  M.  le  Prevot  and  M.  le  Prieur  to 
visit  the  vineyards  that  belong  to  the  Community  nt  Aosta. 

^Was  Mademoiselle  acquainted  with  M.  le  Prieur?  Ah!  he  is  a 
brave  man-^he  is  of  such  an  intelligence — he  is  so  good — he  is  truly  a 
saint  We  all  regard  him  as  our  friend,  and  we  venerate  him  as  our 
good  Father.     See,  Mademoiselle,  he  is  precisely  of  my  age ;  and  he  has 


276  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

pasBed  all  his  beautiful  youth  up  in  that  mournful  desert.  Ah,  assuredly 
the  good  God  will  reward  him  in  another  life !' 

At  last  we  rounded  a  steep  promontory  of  rock,  and  a  sunny  little 
green  valley  came  into  view.  The  Dranse,  now  a  shallow  brawling 
stream,  divides  the  grassy  plain,  and  on  the  right  I  saw  a  large  block  of 
farm  buildings.  Nicolas  told  me  it  was  the  Chalet  of  the  Hospice, 
where  the  Fathers  oflen  come  to  recruit  themselves.  About  forty  cows 
are  pastured  in  the  valley ;  only  two  are  kept  up  at  the  Hospice,  so  the 
large  supplies  of  milk  and  butter  have  to  be  carried  up  daily. 

At  the  head  of  the  valley,  the  path  again  mounts  a  rough  ascent ;  a 
low-doored  massive  stone  hut  reminds  one  of  the  fearful  snow-drifts  that 
accumulate  on  that  part  of  the  road  during  the  winter. 

Tall  weather-beaten  posts,  standing  on  projecting  rocks,  are  the  only 
available  way-marks  after  the  snow  has  fallen,  for  the  path  along  which 
we  passed  is  utterly  impracticable  from  November  till  May.  Some  of 
the  servants  of  the  Hospice,  guided  by  one  of  the  dogs,  come  down  to 
the  refuge  hut  every  morning  to  bring  travellers  up  the  mountain.  The 
snow  is  sometimes  forty  feet  deep  in  the  gorge  we  were  now  entering. 
The  last  mile  of  the  ascent  is  the  steepest  bit  of  the  whole  road ;  but 
how  exciting  it  was,  looking  out  for  the  first  sight  of  the  Hospice ! 

Several  groups  of  peasants  passed  us  on  their  way  to  keep  the  F6te  at 
the  St.  Bernard.  The  women  all  wore  the  square  low-crowned  beaver 
hat  of  the  Canton  Yalais;  but  their  brown  stuff  dresses  might  have 
belonged  to  any  country.  One  chatty  old  woman  told  me  that  she  was 
going  to  see  her  son,  who  was  waiting  to  be  made  a  priest,  and  she  hoped 
also  to  see  a  '  profession '  the  next  day.  She  asked  if  that  tall  gentle- 
man who  was  walking  at  my  side  was  my  father — it  must  be  so,  for  I 
resembled  him  so  much ;  and  ah.  Mademoiselle,  how  good  he  is  to  you ! 
his  words  are  so  tender — *  C'est  comme  le  bon  Dieu  meme !' 

Dear  old  woman !  truly  she  had  a  child's  just  estimation  of  our 
Father's  loving  care. 

Suddenly  we  looked  up,  and  saw  the  white  walls  of  the  Hospice  filling 
up  the  top  of  the  pass. 

'And  now,  be  assured.  Mademoiselle,  the  good  Fathers  are  already 
awaiting  you,'  said  Nicolas,  *  for  I  have  sent  to  advertise  your  arrival  to 
Madame  P .' 

Joyfully  I  ran  up  the  flight  of  rough  stone  steps,  and  passed  through 
the  hospitable  door  that  stands  open  night  and  day,  winter  and  summer, 
inviting  all  weary  travellers  to  go  in  and  receive  shelter  and  rest. 

A  loud  bell  rang  somewhere,  and  then  a  young  monk,  in  soutane 
and  white  cordon,  came  forward  with  outstretched  hands  to  bid  us 
welcome. 

*  Ah,  it  is  the  friends  of  Madame  P ,  then  welcome  indeed  I     How 

that  poor  lady  watched  for  you  last  night  I  She  disquieted  herself  much, 
when  you  did  not  arrive !' 

Such  was  M.  le  Clavandier's  greeting.     Then,  from  the  upper  regions, 


VISIT  TO  THE*  HOSPICE  OP  ST.  BERNABD.  277 

came  another  Augustine  Father,  whom  I  instantly  recognized  as  M.  I6 
Prieur,  for  his  photograph  has  been  well  known  to  me  for  years. 

Between  these  two  courteous  hosts  we  were  ushered  into  the  salle-a* 
manger,  where  a  blazing  wood  fire  looked  most  friendly. 

'  But  now,  what  will  these  ladies  take  to  refresh  themselves  V  asked 
M.  le  Clavandier ;  for  the  eleven  o'clock  dinner  was  over,  and  supper 
would  not  be  served  until  six. 

We  begged  for  some  tea ;  and  then  were  conducted  up  to  our  room, 
which  had  been  kept  for  us  the  night  before.  It  was  such  a  palace 
compared  to  the  'cabin'  at  Liddes,  and  the  white  beds,  with  their 
swelling  diivets,  looked  delicious.  My  father  was  to  be  lodged  in  the 
Monastery  itself,  and  M.  le  Prieur  threw  open  the  great  iron  'grille' 
that  divides  the  corridor,  and  led  us  to  the  further  end. 

'  The  grille  will  remain  unlocked.  Mademoiselle,  so  that  you  can  take 
oare  of  your  father,  even  though  he  is  in  the  Monastery!'  said  M«  le 
Prieur,  smiling. 

The  corridor  is  paved  with  rough  flags,  and  the  walls  are  whitewashed, 
but  the  rooms  are  all  panelled  and  floored  with  red  pine,  and  the  furni- 
ture is  far  better  than  in  most  mountain  inns. 

My  father  was  terribly  tired  after  his  long  stiff  climb;  and  M.  le  Prieur 
went  off  to  fetch  some  powders  to  make  an  effervescing  beverage,  which 

he  thought  might  refresh  him.     Meanwhile,  our  cousin,  Mrs.  P , 

came  in  from  a  walk,  and  what  a  pleasant  home-greeting  we  had  then, 
actually  inside  the  iron  grille.  She  had  never  been  admitted  to  the 
monastic  side  of  it  before,  as  of  course  ladies  do  not  generally  invade  the 
quarters  of  the  Fathers.  Indeed,  though  she  presented  a  lovely  copy  of 
a  Madonna  (which  she  had  painted  herself)  to  the  Hospice,  she  has  never 
seen  it  since  it  was  hung  up  in  the  refectory. 

Just  as  we  had  finished  our  '  afternoon  tea,'  the  bells  began  to  chime 
for  Vespers,  and  M.  le  Clavandier  hurried  off  to  put  chairs  for  us  in 
front  of  the  choir-screen.  We  entered  the  church  from  the  organ* 
tribune,  and  found  a  large  congregation  of  peasants  already  assembled. 
Then,  one  by  one,  the  Fathers  took  their  places  in  the  choir-stalls ;  they 
are  all  regular  canons,  and  wear  the  canon's  lace  rochette  over  their 
Augustine  habit,  with  a  crimson  tippet  that  just  covers  their  shoulders. 
M.  le  Pr^vot,  who  is  really  the  Bishop  of  the  St.  Bernard,  and  head  of 
the  whole  order,  sat  in  a  stall  facing  the  high  altar,  on  the  Decanis  side. 
The  ordinary  dress  of  the  Augustine  canons  is  a  soutane  with  a  black 
silk  girdle,  (M.  le  Prevot  wears  a  crimson  one,)  and  a  white  cordon 
down  the  back  and  round  the  neck,  which  divides  into  two  bands  over 
the  chest.  Their  white  collars  and  smooth  beardless  faces  look  quite 
like  our  own  English  priests. 

Of  course,  the  8th  of  September  being  the  Nativity  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  Mary,  all  the  hangings  and  vestments  in  the  church  were  white. 

Compline  followed  Vespers,  but  there  was  no  Benediction  Service.  I 
was  provided  with  an  English  and  Latin  Prayer-book,  so  could  easily 


278  THE  MONTHLY  FACKBT. 

follow  the  Psalms,  chanted  to  the  familiar  Gregorian  Tones;  but  it 
always  does  seem  so  verj  strange  to  sit  during  the  Psalms;  all  the 
Fathers  raised  their  birettas  at  each  Gloria,  and  my  cousin  bent  her 
head  and  crossed  herself,  but  even  then  we  did  not  stand  up  I 

Dinner,  or  rather  supper,  was  served  at  six,  and  by  that  time  about 
forty  guests  had  arrived.  The  long  table,  shaped  like  an  L,  was  quite 
full.  All  the  time  we  were  at  dinner,  the  door-bell  kept  ringing,  and 
M.  le  Clavandier  brought  in  fresh  guests  after  each  peal.  I  am  sure  he 
had  no  chance  of  getting  any  dinner  himself. 

As  soon  as  the  table  was  cleared,  a  large  circle  was  made  round  the 
fire,  and  we  had  the  cosiest  corner,  where  M.  le  Prieur  brought  us  tea 
with  his  own  hands,  and  then  sat  down  to  have  a  chat.  He  and  our 
cousin  are  great  friends ;  and  though  he  cannot  speak  English,  and  my 
father  cannot  speak  French,  they  can  each  understand  the  other's 
language,  and  we  helped  them  out  with  very  free  translations.  They 
tried  a  bit  of  Latin  now  and  then,  but  owing  to  the  barbarous  English 
pronunciation,  though  both  were  polished  scholars,  they  soon  came  to  a 
stand-still. 

About  nine  o'clock  the  visitors  began  to  retire ;  M.  le  Prifeur  came 
himself  to  light  our  candle,  and  see  that  we  were  provided  with  great 
copper  '  chauffenses.'  I  must  say  that  it  seemed  scarcely  respectful  to 
shake  hands  with  our  very  reverend  host.  I  felt  as  if  I  ought  rather- 
more  to  have  knelt  for  his  blessing. 

Then  we  turned  the  big  key  in  the  primitive  lock,  and  tucked  ourselves 
up  under  our  capital  ^  di^vets.' 

Some  very  noisy  Americans  next  door  dispelled  my  illusions  as  to 
monastic  silence ;  but  the  voices  of  the  Fathers  in  the  corridor,  and  the 
harsh  grating  of  the  grille,  as  it  was  closed  for  the  night,  made  me  feel 
quite  sure  that  we  were  not  in  an  ordinary  hotel. 

At  six  o'clock  the  next  morning,  the  Angelus  beU  booming  through  the 
frosty  air  awoke  us  to  the  happy  certainty  that  we  really  were  under  the 
roof  of  St.  Bernard's  Hospice,  and  then  a  peal  of  three  sweet-toned  bells 
clanged  cheerfully  along  the  vaulted  corridor.  The  window-panes  were 
covered  with  rime,  and  when  that  was  rubbed  off,  a  thick  white  mist 
seemed  to  be  wrapped  round  the  Hospice,  like  very  chilly  cotton  wool ! 
High  Mass  was  at  eight,  so  there  was  not  much  time  to  lose,  and  I  was 
very  glad  to  get  down  to  the  salle-k-manger,  where  M.  le  Clavandier's 
smiling  face,  and  a  good  fire,  were  joyful  sights.  Upon  inquiring  for  M. 
le  Prieur,  I  was  told  that  he  had  been  in  Church  since  five  o'clock, 
hearing  Confessions. 

Poor  M.  le  Clavandier  had  already  said  his  Mass,  for  he  is  obliged  to 
occupy  himself  all  the  morning  with  the  visitors,  who  want  their  breakfast 
at  any  hour,  from  six  till  eleven.  He  has  to  say  his  Office  by  bits  and 
scraps,  whenever  he  has  a  few  minutes  to  himself. 

We  took  our  places  in  church  early,  and  I  had  time  to  notice  that  all 
fhe  white  hangings  were  changed  for  crimson  ones,  as  the  Roman  Church 


VISIT  TO  THE  HOSPICE  OP  ST.  BERNABD.  279 

commemorates  three  Marfyrs  on  the  9th  of  September.  Some  of  the 
Fathers  were  already  in  their  stalls.  One  of  them  struck  me  exceedingly ; 
his  thin  pale  face  wore  such  a  look  of  seraphic  holiness,  just  the 
expression  that  one  always  fancies  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  must  have  had. 

My  cousin  told  me  that  this  saintly-looking  Father  was  the  Professor 
of  Theology,  and  had  the  charge  of  instructing  the  novices.  He  is  one 
of  a  most  devoted  family ;  his  sister  has  taken  vows  in  a  convent  near 
Nice, 

Three  young  men,  who  were  kneeling  in  front  of  the  Canons*  stalls, 
were  to  make  their  profession  at  High  Mass :  one  of  them  wore  a  curious 

blue  and  gold  uniform  that  puzzled  me,  till  Mrs.  P told  me  that  it  is 

the  dress  of  the  Theological  College !  "ML  le  Prevot  was  the  Celebrant, 
and  wore  his  mitre,  and  a  splendid  chasuble  that  glittered  with  gold 
embroidery. 

The  Kyrie  and  Gloria  in  excelsis  were  from  a  Mass  of  Mercadante's, 
very  beautiful,  though  unfamiliar  music.  The  profession  of  the  novices 
was  an  exceedingly  solemn  and  touching  sight: — the  postulants  knelt 
before  the  High  Altar,  and  having  severally  answered  the  Bishop's 
questions,  were  clothed,  as  they  knelt,  in  the  Augustine  habit,  a  prayer 
being  said  as  each  different  article  was  put  on ;  then  they  received  the 
Kiss  of  Peace,  and  were  communicated.  The  young  Novice-Master, 
Father  Bruchie,  of  whom  I  spoke  before,  remained  kneeling  the  whole 
time,  with  clasped  hands,  and  such  an  expression  of  devout  profound 
'  recueillement '  on  his  face  and  in  his  whole  manner,  that  I  felt  sure  he 
had  been  pleading  very  earnestly  for  his  pupils.  The  service  lasted  more 
than  two  hours,  and  I  believe  the  church  was  very  cold,  but  the  whole 
scene  was  so  intensely  interesting  that  I  quite  forgot  we  were  more 
than  eight  thousand  feet  above  the  sea!     As  we  came  out  of  church, 

Mrs.  P introduced  me  to  Father  Bruchie,  an  honour  that  quite 

abashed  me ;  he  was  hurrying  away  to  receive  his  young  novices  after 
their  profession. 

Then  M.  le  Prieur  came  up  to  us,  and  although  his  voice  was  scarcely 
audible  from  exhaustion,  he  stopped  to  make  kindly  inquiries  for  my 
father.     *  Ah !  do  go  and  breakfast,  for  you  must  be  almost  dead  with 

hunger,  my  Father !'  said  Mrs.  P ;  '  since  five  o'clock  you  have  been 

in  that  freezing  church !     Your  voice  is  extinct.' 

My  cousin  told  me  afterwards  that  from  his  rank,  M.  le  Prieur  is 
released  from  hearing  Confessions,  but  that  the  peasants  are  all  so  fond 
of  him  that  he  continues  to  be  their  director,  even  now  that  his  rule  no 
longer  obliges  him  to  attend  the  Confessional.  He  is  still  quite  young,  only 
thirty-seven,  and  has  lived  seventeen  years  at  the  Hospice.  Twenty  years 
is  the  longest  period  that  a  man  can  remain  at  the  St.  Bernard ;  already 
the  Prieur  suffers  severely  from  rheumatism  in  his  head,  and  often 
completely  loses  his  voice.  During  the  winter  crowds  of  labourers  and 
artizans  cross  the  Pass,  on  their  way  home  from  Italy  into  Switzerland ; 
very  often  their  limbs  are  horribly  frost-bitten  from  exposure  to  the  cold ; 


280  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET* 

then  they  are  tenderly  nursed  by  the  Fathers,  and  sent  on  their  way 
rejoicing.  Last  winter  M.  le  Prieur  sat  up  night  after  night  with  a 
young  man  who  was  dangerously  iU,  for  he  hoped  that  at  any  hour  there 
might  be  a  return  to  consciousness,  and  then  he  would  be  at  hand  to 
receive  the  dying  man's  confession.  Contrary  to  all  expectation,  the 
invalid  recovered,  chiefly  through  the  unremitting  care  that  M.  le  Prieur 
lavished  on  him,  and  he  set  out  for  his  home  with  a  glad  heart,  not  only 
sound  in  body,  but  blessing  the  illness  that  had  brought  him  under  the 
good  Father's  care  and  instruction. 

Mrs.  P told  me  that  it  is  not  usual  for  M.  le  Prieur  to  dine  with 

the  guests  in  the  salle-k-manger,  but  that  he  had  promised  her  to  do  so 
when  her  friends  came  to  the  Hospice.  It  so  happened,  during  our  visit, 
that  the  Sous-Clavandier  was  absent  (taking  charge  of  the  Church  of 
St  Pierre)  so  that  M.  le  Prieur's  assistance  was  really  necessary  to  help  M. 
le  Clavandier  in  his  manifold  duties.  All  the  work  of  the  Commissariat 
Department  falls  to  his  share ;  he  has  sometimes  to  provide  dinner  for 
three  hundred  peasants,  besides  the  tourist  guests  in  the  saUe-k-manger 
who  want  small  refections  all  day  long. 

The  bread  is  always  baked  in  Italy,  and  carried  up  on  mules  every 
other  day ;  the  cost  of  fire- wood  is  so  great  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  heat  an  oven  at  the  Hospice.  Most  of  the  wood  they  use  is  brought 
from  a  forest  beyond  Orsi^res.  During  the  winter  two  cows  are  kept  in 
the  cellar  to  supply  the  Fathers  with  milk ;  when  the  poor  animals  are 
hoisted  up  to  the  light  of  day  in  the  spring,  they  tumble  on  their  noses 
like  blind  creatures,  and  cannot  use  their  legs  for  several  days.  The 
same  cow  can  never  undergo  two  winters  in  the  cellar. 

Of  course  we  went  to  see  the  famous  dogs,  but  I  was  rather  disappointed 
with  their  appearance ;  a  pure  St.  Bernard  has  quite  short  stiff  hair,  and 
most  of  them  are  an  ugly  yellow  and  white  colour;  but  their  faces 
are  very  intelligent  and  noble,  and  though  they  are  never  sent  out  (as 
the  story-books  tell  us)  with  blankets  and  bottles  strapped  round  their 
necks  to  hunt  for  lost  travellers,  they  really  have  a  marvellous  instinct 
in  finding  their  way  over  the  snow ;  often  they  lead  the  Fathers  and 
servants  safely  down  to  the  refuge,  working  their  way  steadily  along, 
with  only  the  very  tips  of  their  tails  appearing  above  the  snow. 

At  eleven  o'clock  dinner  was  announced ;  all  the  guests  of  the  night 
before  had  departed,  and  we  were  only  eight  at  the  great  table-^an 
American  gentleman  who  had  just  bought  one  of  the  dogs,  a  bright 
delicate  Italian  lady,  the  two  Fathers,  and  our  four  English  selves,  made 
up  a  very  sociable  party.  The  dinner  was  excellent,  especially  one  dish 
of  rice  stewed  in  cream,  and  favoured  with  cinnamon. 

After  dinner  my  cousin  offered  to  take  us  into  Italy !  So  she  started 
off  with  my  father  and  aunt  along  the  smooth  terrace  that  overhangs 
the  little  lake  at  the  top  of  the  Pass.  I  had  a  letter  to  write,  and 
preferred  the  fire-side  comer.  Presently,  to  my  great  delight,  M.  le 
Prieur  looked  in. 


VISIT  TO  THE  HOSPICE  OF  ST.  BERNARD.  281 

^    *'  How,  then,  Mademoiselle,  you  are  all  alone !  that  is  rather  triste — or 
are  you  indeed  occupied  ?' 

^  Not  occupied,  my  Father ;  but  it  is  so  pleasant  here  by  the  fire !' 

In  a  few  moments  it  was  still  pleasanter,  for  M.  le  Prieur  settled 
himself  in  the  opposite  comer,  and  we  began  to  talk.  Ah !  that  was 
truly  delightful  I  for  he  was  not  only  kind  and  courteous,  but  he  knew 
how  to  bring  himself  down  to  my  level,  and  asked  questions  that  made 
me  feel  quite  at  home,  about  England  and  our  own  Church  Ritual. 

*•  Truly,  Mademoiselle,'  he  said  at  last,  ^  I  find  you  are  at  least  half  a 
Catholic!' 

^  Pardon  me,  my  Father,  but  indeed  I  am  altogether  a  Catholic !'  was 
of  course  my  eager  rejoinder;  but  that  was  an  admission  that  M.  le 
Prieur  could  not  quite  accept. 

How  ashamed  I  am  when  I  remember  the  torrent  of  ungrammatical 
French  that  I  inflicted  upon  him  that  afternoon !  It  must  have  been  an 
absolute  penance  to  him,  though  he  bore  it  all  with  perfect  suavity. 

When  my  father  and  aunt  came  in  from  their  tour  in  Italy,  we  all 
went  up  to  the  library,  where  M.  le  Prieur  shewed  us  some  collections 
of  rare  Roman  coins  that  had  been  found  near  the  Hospice,  on  the  site 
of  the  old  Roman  Temple  dedicated  to  Jupiter,  which  once  crowned  the 
top  of  the  Pass. 

He  told  us  tiiat  the  damp  caused  by  the  great  spring  thaws  is  very 
destructive  to  books — ^indeed,  no  valuable  ones  are  kept  there  on  that 
account.  I  saw  one  beautiful  Missal  with  fourteenth  century  illumina- 
tions, and  a  stoutly-bound  set  of  the  'Moines  d'  Occident,'  presented  by 
M.  de  Montalembert  himself. 

A  long  shelf  full  of  the  writings  of  St.  Bernard  de  Clairvaux,  made 
me  ask  where  were  the  works  of  St.  Bernard  de  Menthon.  M.  le  Prieur 
told  me  that  our  St.  Bernard,  as  he  is  called  at  the  Hospice,  was  one  of 
the  active  Saints,  and  the  friendly  walls  that  sheltered  us  were  the  work 
he  had  left  behind  him.  For  some  good  reason  there  was  to  be  a 
dispensation  from  Vespers  that  afternoon,  which  was  a  disappointment 
to  me.  Perhaps  the  Fathers  were  quite  exhausted  after  the  long 
ceremony  of  the  morning ;  however,  we  had  M.  le  Prieur's  company  all 
to  ourselves,  so  had  no  cause  to  complain !  In  my  cousin's  room  there 
was  a  great  earthenware  stove,  and  close  by  it  a  delightful  old-fashioned 
sofa,  where  we  sat  in  the  gathering  twilight,  and  she  told  me  much  about 
the  work  of  the  Fathers,  and  their  beautiful  self-devotion.  My  father 
was  very  tired  with  his  walk,  and  the  damp  air  seemed  to  have  chilled 
him  so  thoroughly  that  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  bed.  M.  le  Prieur  was 
greatly  disappointed  when  he  found  that  he  could  not  come  down  to 
supper,  and  went  ofi*  to  find  out  what  he  would  take.  I  was  s'tanding 
talking  to  him,  trying  to  strike  some  refractory  matches,  when  M.  le 
Prieur  appeared  at  the  door,  a  candle  in  one  hand  and  a  large  jug  of 
boiled  cream  in  the  other,  which  he  had  fetched  from  the  kitchen 
himself. 


282  THfl  MONTHLY  PACIOST* 

'  'Mademoiselle,  it  must  not  be  that  Monsieor  your  iather  becomes 
ill  at  the  St.  Bernard,'  he  said.     *  Let  me  then  presmbe  for  him/ 

Alas  I  the  kind  Frieur  could  not  cure  the  dreadful  oppression  on  the 
chest,  which  was  the  consequence  of  the  heavy  mist  that  hung  over  the 
Pass! 

The  fact  was,  we  had  paid  our  visit  to  the  Hospice  too  late  in  the 
season ;  a  month  earlier,  the  nights  would  have  been  clear,  and  the  days 
bright  and  warm.     We  shall  know  better  another  time  I 

As  the  supper-bell  rang  I  joined  my  aunt  and  cousin  on  their  way  to 
the  salle-k-manger,  where  we  were  placed  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
Several  Italian  ecclesiastics  sat  near  us,  who  were  evidently  friends  of 
M.  le  Prieur. 

Travellers  kept  dropping  in  every  five  minutes,  and  when  we  had 
finished  our  repast,  the  table  was  re-arranged  for  the  entertainment  of  a 
party  of  students  who  appeared  after  seven  o'clock.     Three  of  the  younger 
Fathers  came  in  to  see  their  friends,  and  finally  M.  le  Pr^vot  made  his 
entrance.     He  stood  talking  for  some  time  with  my  cousin,  and  then  she 
introduced  me  to  him.     He  is  a  pleasant-looking  old  gentleman,  but  has 
not  the  dignity  of  M.  le  Prieur.     He  has  been  a  famous  mountaineer  in 
his  youth,  and  plays  a  conspicuous  part  in  Mr.  King's  book,  'Italian 
Valleys  of  the  Alps.'    He  then  held  the  office  of  Prieur — his  name  *  in 
the  world '  is  M.  de  I'Eglise,  a  curiously  appropriate  one  for  the  Prdvot  of 
the  St.  Bernard !     The  Mother-house  at  Martigny  is  his  usual  residence ; 
it  is  a  very  large  establishment,  and  there  all  the  old  or  invalided  Fathers 
are  taken  care  of  when  they  can  no  longer  endure  the  severe  climate  at 
the  Hospice.     Each  of  the  St.  Bernard  Fathers  takes  a  month's  holiday 
in  the  year ;  without  that  they  could  not  possibly  get  through  the  winter. 
How  they  must  enjoy  their  excursions  down  to  Aosta  and  Martigny! 
The    sight    of  green  vineyards    and  chestnut   trees  must  be  such  a 
refreshment  after  eleven  months  spent  among  the  bare  rocks  and  snow 
slopes ! 

M.  le  Prieur  made  a  charming  expedition  for  his  autumn  holiday :  he 

accompanied  my  cousin,  Mrs.  P y  on  a  visit  to  the  Count  and  Countess 

de  Menthon,  the  collateral  descendants  of  St.  Bernard.  Their  ch&teau 
stands  on  a  hill  overlooking  the  Lake  of  Annecy ;  it  cannot  be  very  far 
from  the  birth-place  of  S.  Fran9ois  de  Sales. 

St.  Bernard's  room  (from  which  he  escaped  by  wrenching  out  one  of 
the  iron  window-bars)  is  now  fitted  up  as  a  chapel,  and  in  it  M.  le  Prieur 
celebrated  Mass  each  morning  during  his  stay.  M.  le  Pr^vot  did  not 
remain  long  in  the  salle-k-manger,  but  bade  us  good-night,  with  a 
courteous  hope  that  he  might  see  us  again  in  the  morning. 

Among  the  guests  there  were  some  lively  American  girls,  who  found 
their  way  to  the  piano,  and  struck  up  '  John  Brown's  body  is  dead,'  and 
then  tried  to  remember  'Excelsior,'  but  the  only  verse  that  came  out 
fvhole  was  the  one  that  speaks  of  the  '  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard.'  M. 
le  Clavandicr  went  round  to  all  the  ladies,  entreating  them  to  '  make  a 


VISIT  TO  THE  HOSPICE  OF  ST.  BERNARD.  283 

little  music/    So  we  had  several  songs,  the  American  girls  joining  in 

with  a  chorus  whenever  they  could.    Then  Mrs.  P beckoned  to  one 

of  the  Fathers ;  he  smiled  back  an  answer,  and  sat  down  to  the  harmonium. 
Great  was  mj  delight  when  lie  played  Mercadante's  lovely  Kyrie  that  I 
had  heard  in  church  in  the  morning.  At  last  I  too  plucked  up  my 
courage,  and  finding  Mozart's  Twelfth  Mass  in  the  music-stand,  I  got 
through  the  ^ Kyrie '  and  'Qui  toUis'  without  an  actual  break-down. 

The  Fathers  are  such  perfect  hosts,  that  they  inspire  their  guests  with 
a  humble  desire  to  do  something  for  the  benefit  of  the  public. 

A  gentleman  sitting  near  me  remarked, '  I  came  here  to-night  expecting 
to  see  a  lot  of  dirty  monks  with  long  faces  and  doleful  voices ;  instead  of 
which  these  Augustine  Fathers  seem  to  be  as  jolly  a  set  of  gentlemanly 
fellows  as  ever  lived.  There  certainly  must  be  some  truth  in  the  saying, 
*'  He  lives  happily  who  lives  well,"  for  I  don't  believe  any  men  in  the 
world  deny  themselves  more  to  do  good  to  their  fellow -creatures  than 
these  monks  of  St.  Bernard.' 

M.  le  Prieur  and  I  had  made  several  visits  to  our  invalid,  to  try  if  any 
remedy  could  be  found  for  his  asthma.  During  one  of  our  consultations, 
I  ventured  to  ask, '  But,  my  Father,  will  you  not  think  of  doing  something 
for  yourself?  Your  throat  becomes  worse  and  worse.  Do  try  some 
honey  stirred  into  water  for  your  hoarseness.' 

*  Gladly  will  I  take  it,  Mademoiselle,'  he  replied ;  '  but  I  fear  my  cold 
will  continue  until  I  can  descend  into  the  softer  air  of  the  valley :'  and 
then  he  lit  our  candles  for  us,  and  bade  us  sleep  well. 

So  obediently  did  we  fulfil  his  behest,  that  I  was  not  up  in  time  for 
High  Mass  at  six  o'clock  the  next  morning.  I  could  hear  the  distant 
pealing  of  the  organ  whilst  I  was  dressing,  and  was  just  ready  when 

Mrs.  P *-  came  to  fetch  me  at  half-past  seven. 

We  went  into  church  as  M.  le  Prevot  came  out ;  the  last  notes  of  the 
organ  were  dying  away  in  soft  sighs.  At  the  side  Altar  of  St  Augustine 
M.  le  Prieur  was  saying  his  Mass,  and  we  knelt  down  close  by.  It  is 
much  easier  to  follow  the  prayers  at  a  Low  Mass,  and  the  Prieur's 
enunciation  was  perfectly  clear  in  spite  of  his  cold.  Most  of  the  guests 
were  departing  when  we  reached  the  salle-k-manger ;  M.  le  Clavandier, 
as  usual,  was  busy  waiting  upon  everyone.  Presently  he  came  up  to 
bid  us  good-bye,  for  he  was  going  to  spend  the  day  at  the  Ch&let  with 
two  or  three  of  the  Fathers.  They  had  defied  their  soutanes,  and 
appeared  in  flapping  coats,  knee-breeches,  and  thick  buckled  shoes. 
Broad-brimmed  beaver  hats  and  alpen -stocks  completed  their  costume. 
They  invited  us  to  come  and  lunch  at  the  ChUlet  on  our  way  down  to 
Liddes,  and  then  ran  off  down  the  steep  path  like  a  merry  party  of 
tindergraduates. 

It  was  quite  dreadful  to  think  that  in  another  hour  we  too  must  set 
off  on  the  same  path ;  but  my  father  was  so  unwell,  that  it  would  not 
have  been  right  to  stay  another  night  at  the  Hospice. 

My  cousin  had  quite  expected  that  we  could  have  remained  for  a  week 


284  THB  MONTHLY  PACEBT. 

or  two  with  her,  hut  agreed  that  it  was  wiser  for  my  father  to  get  down 
into  milder  regions. 

M.  le  Prieur  said  that  we  must  be  sure  to  come  again  early  in  August, 
and  then  he  would  shew  us  many  delightful  excursions  that  might  be 
made  from  the  Hospice.  Tber^re  some  points  of  view,  quite  practicable 
for  ladies,  where  there  is  not  much  snow- walking,  and  from  whence  a 
glorious  panorama  may  be  seen  of  the  chain  of  Mont  Blanc. 

It  sounded  very  pleasant  to  hear  of  future  visits  to  the  St.  Bernard, 
but  I  was  terribly  anxious  as  to  how  my  father  would  manage  the  walk 
down  to  the  Cantine  de  Proz. 

M.  le  Prieur  proposed  a  chaise-k-porteurs  for  him,  but  that  was  an 
indignity  he  would  not  hear  of. 

I^icolas,  our  guide,  arrived  in  the  midst  of  our  discussions,  and  said 
cheerily,  'Fear  not.  Mademoiselle,  M.  your  father  will  accomplish  the 
journey  without  suffering.     See,  he  shall  hold  by  my  arm  T 

We  all  grew  sad  and  silent  as  the  hour  for  departure  drew  near ;  at 
last  I  slipped  away  into  the  church ;  after  ten  minutes  spent  there, 
things  seemed  to  have  grown  quite  cheerful,  and  my  father  looked  much 
better* 

'  All  18  in  readiness,'  was  an  unwelcome  announcement  fi-om  Nicolas, 
but  M.  le  Prieur's  leave-taking  was  hopeful.  *  We  will  not  say  good-bye, 
Mademoiselle,  it  is  only  au  revoir,*  Then  he  and  my  father  exchanged 
a  few  sentences  in  Latin,  and  he  led  us  out  to  the  top  of  the  steps. 

It  seemed  strange  to  leave  our  cousin  in  that  desolate  mountain 
monastery,  while  we  turned  our  faces  towards  England ;  but  we  knew 
that  she  was  really  much  happier  with  her  good  Augustine  friends  than 
she  could  be  at  home  among  relations  who  were  not  of  her  own 
Communion.  We  left  her  with  bright  hopes  of  a  meeting  next  summer, 
if  health  and  strength  were  granted  to  us  for  another  pilgrimage  to  the 
St.  Bernard. 

A  few  hundred  yards  down  the  path  the  rocks  shut  out  the  Hospice 
from  my  backward  glances,  so  then  I  consoled  myself  with  listening  to 
Nicolas,  who  launched  forth  into  the  most  enthusiastic  praises  of  M.  le 
Prieur  and  all  the  Community. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  we  left  the  Hospice,  and  soon  after  five  we 
rattled  into  the  Pl&ce  de  la  Tour  at  Martigny.     My  father  wished  to 

go  and  call  upon  M.  le  Yicaire,  for  Mrs.  P told  us  that  he  had 

gone  to  meet  us  at  the  station  on  the  preceding  Monday,  (the  day  we 
meant  to  have  arrived  at  Martigny)  intending  to  help  us  in  making 
arrangements  for  going  up  the  Pass.  He  was  formerly  at  the  St. 
Bernard,  but  his  health  gave  way,  and  he  was  obliged  to  come  down  into 
the  valley. 

Nicolas  was  our  guide,  and  led  us  past  the  church  to  a  little  white 
house  with  green  shutters,  standing  in  a  paved  court  M.  le  Vicaire  was 
absent,  making  visits  in  the  village,  but  M.  le  Becteur  was  at  home,  so 
to  him  Nicolas  introduced  us. 


VISIT  TO  THB  HOSPICE  OF  ST.  BEBNABD.  285 

'  Ah !  jou  descend  from  that  dear  St.  Bernard  f  then  we-  need  no 
introduction/  said  M.  le  Recteur  cordially.  *  For  the  ten  happiest  years 
of  my  life,  I  filled  the  office  of  Pere  Clavandier  to  that  heloTed  Hospice. 
It  was  worse  than  death  to  leave  it,  hut  rheumatism  grasped  me  so 
cruelly  that  I  was  forced  to  come  into  this  warmer  air.  Here  one  chokes 
with  heat  and  dust.  Not  a  day  passes  that  I  do  not  regret  that  happy 
Community  life  I  but  finally,  it  pleases  the  good  God  that  I  should  do 
my  work  here,  therefore  it  is  well.  Now^  Mademoiselle,  I  beseech  you, 
speak  to  me  of  my  friends.' 

Poor  M.  le  Recteur  had  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  listened  to  the  news 
we  had  to  tell ;  and  even  I,  a  mere  visitor,  could  quite  understand  his 
loving  attachment  to  his  former  home,  desolate  and  dreary  as  its 
surroundings  are. 

In  the  midst  of  our  animated  questions  and  answers,  Nicolas  looked 
in  to  warn  us  that  it  was  time  to  proceed  to  the  station  if  we  meant  to 
catch  the  train  for  Lausanne  at  six  o'clock.  So  with  many  hand-clasps 
we  parted  from  our  newly-made  friend. 

^  Since  you  have  been  at  our  St.  Bernard,  Mademoiselle,  you  will 
always  look  with  friendship  upon  the  white  cordon  of  St.  Augustine. 
Is  it  not  so  ?'  said  the  Recteur,  '  avec  efusion.* 

*  Assuredly,  M.  le  Recteur,'  I  answered.  '  Never  shall  I  forget  that 
holy  House,  and  I  promise  myself  to  pray  unceasingly  that  the  good 
Fathers  may  be  blessed  in  their  pious  work.' 

The  last  leave-taking  with  our  excellent  Nicolas  was  quite  afiectionate. 
He  shook  hands  with  us  each  three  times  ovec,  and  at  last  bending  his 
bare  head  reverently,  he  said,  '  That  the  good  God  may  guide  you  all ! 
and  that  He  may  conduct  you  here  once  again  in  good  health  and  by 
fine  weather.' 

A  wish  that  we  heartily  re-echoed.  Once  on  the  *  Ligne  dTtalie,'  we 
settled  ourselves  into  the  respective  corners  of  the  carriage ;  and  then 
shutting  my  eyes  to  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  I  mentally  glanced  back  up 
the  glorious  mountain  pass,  and  lived  over  again  the  events  of  the  last 
three  days.  My  father,  who  was  quite  well  again,  employed  himself 
with  the  composition  of  a  Latin  letter  to  M.  le  Prieur,  to  thank  him  for 
all  his  kind  care  and  attention.  The  letter  was  written  and  posted  the 
following  day  at  Geneva,  where  I  got  a  capital  group  of  the  St.  Bernard 
Fathers  in  a  large  photograph. 

By  way  of  B&le,  Mayence,  and  Cologne,  we  found  ourselves  at  Antwerp 
for  the  Feast  of  St.  Matthew.  It  was  the  last  day  of  the  Octave  of  the 
Holy  Cross,  which  is  kept  there  as  a  great  Festival,  and  we  thought 
ourselves  most  fortunate  in  arriving  just  then.  The  pious  burghers  of 
Antwerp  believe  that  their  Cathedral  is  honoured  by  the  presence  of  a 
relic  o£  that  very  '  wood  whereby  Salvation  cometh  to  the  ship- wrecked 
race;'  and  at  the  Benediction  service  there  was  a  long  procession  in 
honour  of  this  precious  relic.  Anything  more  solemn  and  beautiful 
cannot  be  conceived  than  the  *  Salut '  that  day,  the  crowd  of  worshippers 


286  TBGB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

all  kneeling  in  hushed  devotion  down  that  long  stately  nave.  As  we 
came  back  to  the  Hdtel  St.  Antoine,  we  called  at  the  post-office  for  our 
letters.  A  large  envelope  with  the  St.  Bernard  post-mark  on  it  made 
me  insist  on  an  immediate  halt  under  a  gas-lamp  in  the  Place,  to  see 
what  the  thick  packet  contained. 

First  came  a  Latin  letter  from  M.  le  Prieur  to  ray  father,  (and  as  he 
addressed  him  as  Reverendissim^  Domine  I  think  he  must  acknowledge 

the  validity  of  Anglican  Orders,)  then  a  long  letter  from  Mrs.  P-^ ^ 

enclosing  what  we  had  longed  to  carry  home  with  us,  an  excellent 
photograph  of  M.  le  Prieur. 

If  anyone  addicted  to  hero-worship  cannot  understand  my  delight  at 
coming  into  such  a  possession,  then  I  am  indeed  very  sorry  for  them — 
et  voild  tout ! 

October^  1869.  E.  A.  L. 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL. 

XV. 

NORTH  TraOL— WORGL  TO  VIENNA.    H 


BOUTHERK  &OUTE  FROM  8.  J0HA17K — OBEBNDORF — ROHRERBUHEL,  BERG- 
MANNLEIK  LEGENDS,  THE  THREE  DREAMERS — SCHLOSS  MINiCHAU — 
KITZBUHL,  DERIVATION  OF  THE  NAME  ;  THE  SCHATTBERG  ;  CHURCHES  ; 
THE  FE1STENBERGERS  ;  CASTLES — MARIAH0LF  AUF  DEM  KNIEPASS — 
THE  '  BLACK  SEA  ' — AURACH,  8.  RUPERT^S  CHURCH,  STATUES  IK  MOULDED 
STONE — JOCHBERG — THE  THURN  PASS — A  HERMITAGE — THE  ROADS 
THROUGH  THE  PINZGAU — THE  GROSSE  RETTENSTEIN — THE  PILGRIM's 
MOUSE — BURG  PALKENSTEIN — MYTH  OP  THE  GOLD-GIVING  MAIDEN. 

NORTHERN  ROUTE  FROM  8.  JOHANN — ^KIRCHDORF,  THE  TWO  RUPERT 
WINTERSTELLERS — PARALLEL  PATH  BY  GA8TEIG — THE  VENEDIGER 
M ANNLEIN  AGAIN  — THE  TEUFEL8 WURZG ARTEN  —  SCH WEND — KOSSEN, 
RAPELL  BREWERY — EXCURSION  BY  WALCH8EE  TO  EBBS — ERL,  PASSIONS- 
SPIEL — ^THE  WINDHAUSEN  PASS — THE  MAUTHAUS — KLOBENSTEIN,  HER- 
MFFAGE,  HERMIT  KILLED  BY  AN  AVALANCHE — MARIA  LORETO  KAPELLE, 
EARLIER  CHAPEL,  GOLDENE  SAMSTAGE,  TOLLER  AND  OBEN^S  VOW,  THE 
STONE  CLOVEN  FOR  THE  WEARY  WOMAN,  THE  ANGEL-BORNE  CHAPEL. 

Two  more  excursions  tempt  us  from  S.  Johann ;  the  first  direct  south, 
leading  through  Pass  Thurn  into  the  Pinzgau;  and  the  other  direct 
north,  leading  through  Pass  Klobenstein  into  Bavaria. 

Starting  southwards,  the  first  village  is  Oberndorf,  situated  on  a  fiat 
between  the  mountains  and  the  lefl  bank  of  the  Gross- Ache.  Not  far 
from  this  is  the  now  neglected  mining  shaft  of  Rohrerbuhel,  a  favourite 


TRADITIONS  OP  TIROL.  287 

excursion,  and  a  most  prolific  source  of  Bergmannlein  legends.  Great 
quantities  of  silver  and  copper  were  at  one  time  derired  hence.  It  was 
first  worked  in  1589 ;  in  which  year  three  peasants  coming  home 
together  from  a  village  feast,  and  a  little  the  worse  for  their  merry- 
making, lay  down  to  sleep  under  a  cherry  tree,  when  all  three  dreamt 
they  saw  all  the  ground  under  them  glowing  with  shining  metal.  Struck 
by  the  similarity  of  the  dream,  they  were  induced  to  make  diligent 
search,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  were  rewarded  by  coming  upon 
the  ore.  Though  the  vein  ran  so  near  the  surface,  it  was  subsequently 
pursued  to  a  depth  of  five  hundred  fathoms,  and  long  boasted  of  being 
the  deepest  mining-shaft  in  Europe.  Many  marine  fossils  are  found 
here. 

Some  ^ve  miles  further  along  the  road,  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Klein- 
Ache,  is  Schloss  Minichau,  beautifully  embosomed  in  trees,  a  building 
of  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries ;  the  chapel  well  kept  up. 
Further  on  is  Kitzbiihl,  mentioned  above,  the  chief  place  of  the  district, 
at  the  foot  of  a  hiU  or  knoU,  (Buhel,)  once  the  resort  of  wild  goats, 
{Kitze,)  whence  its  name;  over  this  rises  the  great  Schattberg,  rightly 
named,  for  it  deprives  the  valley  of  the  western  sun  full  early.  The 
parish  church,  dedicated  to  S.  Andrew,  was  built  in  1435 ;  the  carvings 
of  the  high  altar  by  a  Benedictine  named  Feistenberger,  a  native  of 
the  place,  whose  whole  family  is  famous  for  devotion  to  art;*  the  altar- 
piece  was  added  in  1663,  it  is  by  Spielberg,  a  Hungarian.  There  is 
another  very  old  church  called  the  Stadtkirche,  dedicated  in  honour  of 
S.  Catherine.  Besides  these,  there  is  the  Kapuzinerkirche,  the  Spital, 
and  the  Mariahilfkirche.  In  the  neighbourhood  are  two  old  castles, 
Lehenberg,  and  Kapsbui^ ;  and  snugly  hidden  in  the  wild  pine  forests 
mantling  the  Schattberg,  is  the  pilgrimage  chapel  of  Maria'Hulf  auf  dem 
Kniepciss,^  dating,  however,  only  from  the  seventeenth  century;  the 
country  round  it  is  very  wild,  and  the  Ehrenbach  is  to  be  met  at  several 
points,  making  its  mimic  thunder  over  the  rocks;  not  far  from  here 
is  a  little  lake  bearing  the  imposing  name  of  'the  Black  Sea,'  which 
it  derives,  however,  from  the  dark  colour  given  to  its  waters  by  the 
trees  which  have  fallen  into  it,  and  which  have  spoilt  it  as  a  fishing- 
ground. 

Further  south,  and  a  little  off  the  high-road,  is  Aurach ;  its  church  is 
one  of  the  oldest  of  Tirol,  and  was  built  very  early  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  in  honour  of  S.  Rupert,  the  apostle  of  the  district;  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  village  is  a  chapel  which  contains  a  curious  image  of  our 
Lady,  said  to  be  moulded  in  stone,  probably  by  a  process  similar  to  the 
artificial  stone-works  of  the  present  day.  The  artificer  is  said  to  have 
been  Dietmar  HI.,  Prince-bishop  of  Salzburg,  (who  reigned  from  1090  to 
1101;)  he  is  said  to  have  cast  only  four  such,  and  each  in  a  different 

*  There  was  a  father  and  seven  sons.  They  flonrished  in  the  early  half  of  the 
eighteenth  centnty,  and  are  counted  among  TiroFs  glories. 

t  Not  to  be  confounded  with  the  Enie  Pass,  which  our  route  crosses  after  Lofer. 


288  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

mould ;  the  one  he  gave  to  the  Bargspital  of  Salzburg  was  afterwards 
bought  by  an  inhabitant  of  Aurach ;  the  other  three  are  at  S.  Peter's  at 
Salzburg,  Maria  Gmain  near  Reichenhall,  and  Eloster  Niederaich. 

After  Aurach,  the  road  crosses  back  to  the  left  side  of  the  stream,  and 
in  less  than  an  hour  the  straggling  hamlet  of  Jochberg  is  reached ;  the 
church  is  modern,  but  built  on  the  site  of  one  of  the  fifteenth  century ;  it 
has  some  frescoes  by  one  of  the  Feistenbergers.  There  are  some  copper- 
works  in  the  neighbourhood.  Pass  Thum  is  reached,  after  seme  six  or 
seven  miles  further  of  gentle  ascent,  the  boundary  of  the  Grossache 
against  Finzgau  in  the  province  of  Salzburg.  The  old  road  was  steeper, 
but  was  sanctified  by  a  sort  of  hermitage  chapel,  dedicated  to  the 
Assumption  of  our  Lady ;  the  hermit  devoted  himself  to  the  service  of 
the  wayfarers,  gave  them  a  night's  lodging,  and  directed  them  on  their 
way.  About  seven  miles  through  the  Pass  is  Mittersill,  called  the  Venice 
of  Pinzgau,  because  the  mountain  torrents  not  infrequently  convert  its 
streets  into  canals.  It  is  the  chief  town  of  the  Pinzgau.  The  second  is 
Zell-am-See,  which  is  the  first  stage  of  a  diligence  running  daily  between 
Mittersill  and  Lofer;  there  is  another  to  Salzburg  by  way  of  Lend, 
where  in  the  Church  of  S.  Hippolitus  is  some  curious  old  stone  carving. 

The  towering  peaks  seen  to  the  westward  in  the  range  here  broken 
through  are  those  of  the  Grosse  Rettenstein.  In  a  deep  fissure  of  one  of 
its  lower  slopes  is  another  chapel  of  our  Lady,  where  pilgrims  have  for 
centuries  kept  up  the  custom  of  bringing  bread  crumbs  for  a  little  grey 
mouse  which  to  their  simple  understandings  symbolizes  the  holy  souls  who 
lie  expectant  under  the  altar  on  high.  Almost  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
a  spot  is  pointed  out  where  Burg  Falkenstein,  one  of  the  castles  of 
Margaretha  Maultasch  which  every  comer  of  Tirol  boasts  of  possessing, 
is  said  to  have  stood.  A  beautiful  myth,  fabling  of  the  decline  of  the 
Bergsegetiy  lingers  here.  In  a  projecting  rock,  here  caUed  a  wall,  (Wand,) 
it  is  said  was  once  an  iron  door,  which  used  to  be  opened  for  a  blythe 
young  senner  by  a  beautiful  maiden  who  came  out  to  meet  him  whenever 
he  sought  her.  She  would  take  him  with  her  under  the  babbling  floods 
of  the  rolling  stream,  or  through  the  living  rock  into  her  glorious  palace, 
and  when  they  parted  she  always  poured  out  a  fiood  of  shining  gold  for 
him  to  carry  home.  There  they  met  a  whole  spring  and  summer  through, 
in  sunshine  and  joy  and  love ;  but  afterwards  came  a  sad  autumn  day, 
and  when  the  Senner  arrived  at  the  bank  of  the  stream,  instead  of 
running  gaily  into  his  arms,  the  maiden  met  him  with  a  melancholy 
boding  sigh.  '  To-day  we  meet  for  the  last  time,'  she  sobbed.  '  We  are 
betrayed ;  other  eyes  have  spied  our  happy  greetings,  and  we  may  meet 
no  more.'  Since  then  no  gold-giving  midd  has  been  seen,  and  the  door 
is  no  longer  visible  in  the  rocky  Wand. 

The  road  which  leads  northwards  out  of  S.  Johann  is  more  isolated 
and  difficult  than  that  last  pursued,  as  there  is  hardly  anything  better 
than  mountain  paths.  The  first  village  passed  is  Kirchdorf,  situated  on 
a  rising  ground  on  the  left  bank  of  the  stream.     It  had  a  very  ancient 


tRADlTIONS  OF  TIROL.  289 

parish  <;hurch,  dating  from  S.  Henry,  990-1000  ;  but  this,  as  well  as  its 
thriving  dwellings,  were  shattered  in  the  Bavarian  invasion  of  1703,  and 
reduced  to  ruins  in  that  of  1809.  The  name  of  Rupert  Wintersteller,  who 
signalized  himself  by  his  self-devotion  in  the  first,  in  which,  besides 
exposing  himself  to  the  greatest  danger,  he  expended  5000  florins — all  his 
savings — in  arming  and  equipping  the  Landesschiitzen,  was  honoured  from 
generation  to  generation  in  his  humble  home,  where  the  trophies  of  his 
patriotic  conflicts  and  the  testimoniab  of  the  Empress  Maria  Theresa's 
esteem  and  gratitude,  remained  to  keep  alive  ^e  tradition  of  his  worth. 
In  the  campaign  of  1797-1809,  another  Rupert  Wintersteller,  his  great- 
grandson,  repeated  his  deeds  with  the  fidelity  of  a  mountain  patriot ;  his 
exertions  and  energy  in  the  defence  of  his  valley  won  him  the  grade  of 
Schatzen  Major ;  and  in  the  storming  of  the  little  town  he  lost  a  value  of 
46,300  florins,  and  was  taken  prisoner  to  Munich,  where  he  remained  till 
Tirol  was  restored  to  Austria ;  he  died  in  1823. 

After  Kirchdorf,  the  path  leads  solemnly  and  slowly  enough  under  the 
shadow  of  the  great  Kaiserberg  to  Kossen.  There  is  another  almost 
parallel  path  on  a  higher  level,  which  is  even  more  difiicult ;  it  leads  past 
Gasteig,  a  little  primitive  village,  which  is  surrounded  by  the  thick  pine 
forests  of  the  Kolbenthal.  On  emerging  from  this,  there  is  an  isolated 
peak  of  rock  crowned  by  a  chapel,  so-called  Zum  Jockel^  which  it  is  said 
was  built  to  commemorate  the  deliverance  of  the  valley  from  a  demon 
who  infested  the  neighbourhood.  After  this  the  path  passes  through  the 
lower  slopes  of  the  Kaiser,  on  which  the  saying  goes,  that  ^  all  plants  of 
the  earth  grow,^  and  connected  with  which  are  endless  sayings  of 
Venedigei'  Mdnnlein^*  who  came  and  dug  gold  out  of  the  earth  around. 

The  path  after  this  attains  a  height  of  5000  feet  through  a  district 
called  the  Wildanger,  which  later  on,  on  account  of  its  fertility  in  useful 
piantSi  is  changed  for  that  of  the  Teufelswurzgaften.  After  passing  this 
blooming  episode,  a  Kessely  or  basin  as  we  should  say,  is  reached, 
surrounded  by  bare  and  barren  walls  of  rock,  the  lowest  2000  feet  in 
height,  on  which  the  only  token  of  life  is  fragments  of  stone  heedlessly 
thrown  down  the  precipice  by  the  eagles  who  have  their  nests  above. 
Ascending  over  paths  where  there  is  scarcely  hold  for  the  foot,  and  over 
snow  and  ice,  an  elevation  of  6000  feet,  the  highest  point  of  the  trajet, 
is  attained,  and  an  almost  unrivalled  panorama  opened  to  view.  This  is, 
however,  a  course  very  rarely  taken.  An  hour  before  Kossen,  is 
Schwend,  at  which  point  the  neighbourhood  once  more  assumes  a  ^friendly' 
character.  The  Church  of  Schwend  dates  from  the  fourteenth  century, 
and  has  an  esteemed  picture  of  S.  Sebastian  on  a  side  altar.  The  descent 
hence  to  Kossen,  which  lies  among  smiling  meadows,  is  pleasant  enough ; 
and  the  little  town  itself  is  astonishingly  thriving  in  appearance,  con- 
sidering its  remote  situation.      The  brewery  of  KapcU  in  the  outskirts, 

♦  Venetian  dwarfs.  Many  parts  of  Tirol  are  rifo  with  legends  derived  from  the 
intercourse  with  Venice.  The  success  of  its  shrewd  merchants,  poetized,  was  easily 
fkbled  of  as  of  those  at  whose  touch  everything  turned  to  gold. 

VOL.    10.  20  PART  57. 


290  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. ' 

with  its  neat  chapel  and  splendid  view,  should  not  he  overlooked.  Not 
far  from  it  is  a  rather  grandly  intended  rustic  memorial  stone,  recording 
a  local  contest  with  the  Bavarians  in  1703,  and  a  nearly  obliterated 
inscription  states  that  sixty  Tiroleans  here  cut  in  pieces  one  thousand 
Bavarians,  as  they  forced  their  way  through  the  neighbouring  pass. 
The  accommodation  at  Kossen  is  quite  tolerable,  and  an  interesting  loop 
excursion  may  be  made  hence  by  way  of  the  Walchsee  and  Ebbs,  and 
back  by  Mauthaus  and  Klobenstein.  The  way  is  almost  a  complete 
solitude,  but  beautifully  diversified  with  rock  and  meadow,  woodland  and 
water,  and  the  peaks  of  the  Kaiser  still  grandly  presiding  over  the 
background.  The  Walchsee  (not  to  be  confused  with  two  or  three  other 
lakes  of  the  name)  is  about  half  way  between  Kossen  and  Ebbs,  (some 
seven  miles  along  the  Inn,  north  of  Kufstein,)  and  reflects  a  pretty 
little  village  of  its  own  name  on  its  banks.  Ebbs  is  larger  and  more 
important,  but  not  so  pleasantly  situated ;  there  is  a  path  hence  (north- 
west direction)  by  Sachring  to  Erl,  where  every  Sunday  during  July 
and  August  the  custom  of  giving  the  Fassionsspiel  still  obtains,  and  keeps 
the  peasantry,  who  flock  in  from  all  the  country  round,  riveted  on  the 
representation  of  the  mystery  of  the  Redemption,  from  twelve  in  the  day 
to  six  in  the  evening.  Near  it  is  the  pass  of  Windhausen,  equally 
celebrated  with  the  other  passes  we  have  been  visiting,  for  the  heroic 
defence  of  the  Year  Nine.  Another  (north-easterly)  leads  to  Mauthaus, 
a  frontier  town,  but  commanding  no  pass,  and  which  has  therefore  been 
lefl  at  peace ;  and  after  this  leads  fearfully  along  a  ledge  in  the  crag,  too 
dangerous  in  most  seasons  for  the  tourist  on  account  of  the  avalanches, 
though  less  difficult  than  the  shorter  stretch  which  leads  thence  back  to 
Kossen.  At  a  distance  of  some  six  miles  is  the  hermitage  of  Klobenstein, 
whence  help  has  often  been  held  out  to  the  wayfarer.  The  last  hermit 
was  killed  by  an  avalanthe  in  the  second  or  third  decade  of  the  present 
century.  The  chapel,  dedicated  to  our  Lady  of  Loreto,  is  still  much 
sought  out ;  near  it,  and  still .  more  difficult  of  access,  is  another  and 
older  chapel,  in  which  there  is  a  foundation  providing  for  Mass  to  be 
said  on  three  Saturdays  in  the  course  of  the  year,  which  consequently 
are  locally  called  goldene  Samstage ;  there  seems  to  be  no  record  of  the 
erection  of  this  one,  but  the  way  in  which  the  other  came  to  be  built  is 
curious.  It  was  the  year  1664  ;  George  Toller,  a  native  of  Kossen,  lay 
tossing  on  his  bed  in  a  dangerous  state  of  fever ;  in  the  healthier  intervals 
of  his  delirium,  he  vowed  that  if  his  petition  for  the  intercession  of  our 
Lady  in  favour  of  his  restoration  were  answered,  he  would  erect  a  chapel 
in  memory  of  the  holy  house  of  Loreto,  near  the  hermitage  of  Klobenstein. 
tie  recovered,  but  continued  to  defer  the  fulfilment  of  his  vow,  though 
when  sufficiently  restored  to  undertake  the  difficult  journey,  he  went  to 
render  thanks  at  this  little  shrine.  Another  pilgrim,  tottering  with  the 
weak  steps  of  the  convalescent,  approached  the  sanctuary  at  the  same 
moment  from  the  opposite  side.  Both  knelt  and  poured  out  their  hearts 
in  thanksgiving  before  the  lowly  shrine.     Afterwards,  as  they  sat  them 


THE  FLOWER  SERMON.  291 

down  to  rest,  they  asked  each  other  the  cause  of  their  visit.  Toller  had 
no  sooner  told  his,  than  the  other  exclaimed  that  he  had  exactly  narrated 
his  own  case;  his  name  was  Wolfgang  Ober,  and  he  came  from  Grabstatt, 
in  Bavaria.  Each  was  convicted  by  the  other's  presence  of  his  remiss- 
ness, and  each  undertook  to  support  the  other  in  carrying  out  the  work, 
and  before  they  parted  arranged  how  it  should  be  divided  between  them ; 
in  a  year  and  a  day  it  was  complete.  The  reason  why  both  selected  our 
Lady  of  Loreto  for  the  dedication,  was  that  a  legend  of  angeb'  intervention 
lingered  round  the  earlier  chapel.  As  it  ran,  there  had  knelt  there  a 
poor  weary  woman  who  had  come  a  long  and  lonesome  way  on  foot  to 
beg  her  husband's  recovery  from  dire  sickness.  She  had  borne  up  with  a 
strange  courage  as  she  toiled  over  hill  and  brake,  but  now  that  she  had 
fulfilled  her  undertaking,  she  no  longer  felt  the  strength  to  return.  She 
lay  down  at  the  foot  of  the  Lady  altf^  as  one  ready  to  die,  and  cried  aloud 
for  help.  There  was  none  on  earth  to  hear  but  the  ravens  and  tiie  eagles 
circling  above  the  giddy  height ;  but  out  of  the  stony  rock  walked  the 
Virgin  Mother  rich  in  help,  (kolfreiche^)  and  as  she  laid  her  veil  on  the 
crag,  it  gently  rent  itself  in  twain,  and  the  weary  woman  found  her  way 
shortened,  so  that  while  it  had  taken  her  many  hours  of  toil  to  come,  one 
would  suffice  to  restore  her  to  her  cottage ;  hence  the  place  was  called 
Klobenstein,  (the  Cloven  Stone);  but  the  chapel  was  thus  left  on  the 
other  side  of  the  ravine,  so  when  the  weary  woman  had  taken  her 
departure,  the  holy  angels  came  down  from  on  high,  and  lifting  it  in 
their  hands,  bore  it  across  to  the  spot  it  now  occupies,  as  once  they 
carried  the  Holy  House  of  Nazareth  over  the  sea  to  Loreto. 

(To  he  continued.)  R.  H.  B. 


THE  FLOWER  SERMON. 

BT  THB  AUTHOB  OT  *A  CBBI8TMA.8  TWBMTT  TEAB8  AGO.* 

CoLLiNSON,  in  his  History  of  Somersetshire,  speaking  of  Yatton,  says, 
tliat '  John  Lane  of  this  parish  left  half  an  acre  of  ground  to  the  poor 
for  ever ;  reserving  a  quantity  of  the  grass  for  strewing  the  church  on 
Whit- Sunday.' 

For  many  years  past  a  sermon  upon  flowers  has  been  preached  in 
Shoreditch  annually  on  Whit-Tuesday ;  an  old  gardener,  enamoured  of 
his  floral  charges,  having  bequeathed  a  certain  sum  of  money,  in  trust 
to  the  Royal  Society,  'for  the  providing  of  a  clergyman  to  deliver  it.' 
This  had  been  familiar  to  us,  not  only  as  a  legend  but  as  a  reality,  from 
our  childhood's  days,  for  our  father  had  often  been  invited  to  preach  it ; 
and  we,  a  large  party  of  boys  and  gii4s  about  the  tea-table,  had  been  in 
the  habit,  for  days  before,  of  hazarding  many  a  guess,  or  even  bolder 
suggestion,  as  to  what  the  text  would  or  should  be.     *  Consider  the 


292  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

lilies/  was  a  favourite  one,  being  very  apposite.  But '  Much  too  common- 
place, my  love/  would  be  the  reply  to  that.  'Hose  of  Sharon'  came 
next ;  but  naturally  all  these,  patent  to  the  minds  of  everyone,  had  year 
by  year  been  used  up,  and  we  had  to  confess,  when  told,  perhaps,  that 
it  would  be  such  a  one  as  ^  He  giveth  them  their  meat  in  due  season,' 
and  that  the  discourse  would  turn  upon  corn,  that  it  sounded  much 
more  '  uncommon,'  and  that  there  would  be  a  great  deal  to  say  about  it. 

Shoreditch  was  a  very  long  way  off,  and  an  out-of-the-way  place  to 
take  young  folks  to.  We  did  not  attend  these  annual  services,  nor  in 
fact  were  they  much  frequented  by  any.  Perhaps  not  more  than  a  doscen 
persons  heard  the  carefully  thought  out  sermon,  or  profited  by  the  lessons 
which  the  good  old  gardener,  so  long  since  dead,  would  have  had  them 
taught  concerning  the  beauty  and  charm  of  God's  creatures. 

Knowing  all  this,  which  by-the-bye,  not  one  in  ten  thousand  Londoners 
does  know,  we  were  taken  by  surprise  when,  about  a  week  before  Whit- 
Sunday  last,  an  announcement  appeared  in  the  public  papers  to  the  effect 
that  'The  Flower  Sermon,  usually  preached  at  St.  James's,  Aldgate, 
would  this  year  be  preached  at  the  Church  of  St.  Katharine  Cree, 
Leadenhall  Street,  on  Whit-Tuesday  evening,  by  the  Rev.  W.  M. 
Whittemore,  D.D.,  that  the  service  would  be  choral,  members  of  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral  special  service  choir  attending,  that  the  church  would  be 
crowded,  and  that  it  was  the  custom  for  all  the  young  people  present  to 
carry  bouquets  of  flowers.* 

Our  first  mental  question  was,  *  Is  this  the  Flower  Sermon,'  of  which, 
like  so  many  others  who  have  lived  within  sound  of  Bow  Bells  all  their 
lives,  we  have  never  before  heard ;  or  has  our  old  acquaintance  of  poor 
Shoreditch  prior  right  to  the  appellation  T  And  then  we  began  to 
wonder  whether  other  flower  sermons  of  which  we  knew  nothing  might 
be  preached  at  Whitsuntide  in  other  places ;  and  this  led  us  to  Collinson's 
notice  of  the  grass-strewing  in  Yatton  Church  on  Whit-Sunday. 

The  evening  in  question,  June  the  7th,  was  bright  and  balmy.  A 
long  drive  through  streets  of  holiday-makers  streaming  to  the  purer  air 
of  our  *  NortheiTi  Heights,'  through  dreary  Islington,  amid  street- vendors 
of  sherbets,  *  water  from  the  cooler  '  at  a  halfpenny  a  glass,  rows  of  poor 
little  birds  in  cages,  and  stalls  of  wind-fallen  fruit  and  drooping  plants, 
about  which  ragged  children  played ;  on  through  the  busy  regions  where 
looms  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  and  the  massive  Bank  of  England  rears 
its  heavy  walls;  brought  us  at  length  to  Leadenhall  Street,  and  the 
doors  of  the  old  church  of  St.  Katharine  Cree. 

'This  church,'  writes  an  old  chronicler  of  the  past  century,  *is  so  called 
from  its  being  dedicated  to  St.  Katharine,  an  Egyptian  Virgin,  and  was 
distinguished  from  other  churches  of  the  name  by  the  addition  of  Cree 
or  Christ,  from  its  vicinity  to  the  conventual  Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity, 
which  was  originally  called  Christ  Church. 

It  met  with  the  usual  changes  in  the  time  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  passing, 
through  the  hands  of  sundry  patrons,  till  it  came  finally  to  a  haberdasher 


THE  FLOWER*  SERMON.  '  293 

of  London,  named  Jerome  Knapp,  when  it  was  agreed  that  £150  per 
annum  in  lieu  of  tithes  should  be  raised  by  the  parishioners,  out  of  which 
the  officiating  Curate  should  be  paid  £50  per  annum  for  the  first  ten 
years,  besides  surplus  fees,  and  £70  per  annum  afterwards.  At  one  time 
this  church  was  so  buried  by  the  frequent  raising  of  the  pavement  in  the 
High  Street,  (now  Leadenhall  Street,)  that  they  were  obliged  to  descend 
into  it  by  seven  steps.'  Tiie  same  quaint  historian  adds,  ^  The  present 
edifice  was  erected  in  1630.  At  the  west  end  of  this  new  church,  on 
the  south  side,  stands  a  pillar  of  the  old  church,  as  it  stood  and  was  then 
erected,  which  pillar,  being  eighteen  feet  high  from  the  basis,  or  foot,  to 
the  chapiter,  or  head,  upon  which  the  old  arch  was  raised,  and  not  above 
two  feet  now  appearing  above  the  floor  of  the  present  church,  shews  that 
the  floor  is  raised  flfteen  feet  above  that  of  the  old.  This  parish  church, 
being  a  donative,  paj^s  neither  first-fruits  nor  tithes.  It  is  a  curacy,  and 
the  parishioners  have  the  privilege  of  choosing  their  own  ministers,  who 
must  be  licensed  by  the  Bishop  of  London.' 

What  stormy  vestry  meetings  those  must  have  been  when  the  new 
minister  was  being  canvassed  for,  we  think ! 

Beneath  the  Gothic  arched  portal  of  this  old  church  we  passed,  out 
of  the  din  of  the  bustling  street,  and  with  difficulty  squeezing  our  way 
in,  truly  we  were  astonished  at  the  sight  that  met  our  eyes.  An  over- 
flowing congregation  filling  all  the  square  old  high-backed  pews,  lining 
the  nave  and  aisles,  seated  on  extempore  benches,  or  standing  as  thickly 
AS  elbows  would  allow,  the  crowd  extending  to  the  porch  and  even  beyond 
it.  For  ourselves,  having  arrived  a  little  late,  we  were  fain  to  be 
content — and  grateful  for  it  too — with  space  for  our  two  feet  within  the 
sheltering  walls  of  a  certain  pew  where  several  other  ladies  also  stood 
during  the  whole  service. 

A  goodly  congregation  of  men,  women,  and  children  it  was,  although  the 
service  is  supposed  to  be  chiefly  for  the  latter.  Almost  everyone  carried 
a  bouquet  of  bright  sweet- smelling  flowers,  pinks,  geraniums,  or  roses, 
from  sober  middle-aged  spinsters  down  to  the  little  children  in  pinafores ; 
indeed,  as  Dr.  Whittemore  said,  anyone  who  felt  too  proud  or  too  old  to 
carry  one,  must  feel  out  of  place  at  this  service. 

It  opened  with  the  following  hymn  — 

'  Spared  to  another  spring, 

We  raise  our  grat'efiil  songs ; 
*Ti8  pleasant,  Lord,  Thy  praise  to  sing, 
For  praise  to  Thee  belongs. 

Ten  thousand  difierent  flowers 

To  Thee  sweet  ofierines  bear ; 
And  tuneful  birds  in  shady  bowers, 

Warble  Thy  tender  care. 

The  fields  on  every  side, 

The  trees  on  every  hill. 
The  glorious  sun,  the  rolling  tide, 

Proclaim  Thy  wondrous  skill. 


294  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

But  trees  and  fields  and  skies 

Still  praise  a  God  unkoown ; 
For  gratitude  and  love  can  rise 

From  living  hearts  alone. 

These  living  hearts  of  ours 

Thy  holy  Name  would  bless, 
The  firagrance  of  ten  thousand  flowers 

Would  please  the  Saviour  less. 

While  earth  itself  decays, 

Our  souls  can  never  die ; 
Prepare  them  all  to  sing  Thy  praise. 

In  better  songs  on  high !' 

The  Psalms  appointed  were  the  72nd  and  the  beautiful  104th,  teeming 
with  the  poetry  of  nature.  The  anthem  was,  '  I  will  magnify  Thee,  O 
God,  my  King ;  and  I  will  praise  Thy  Name  for  ever  and  ever.  Every 
dny  will  I  give  thanks  unto  Thee ;  and  praise  Thy  Name  for'ever  and 
ever.  The  eyes  of  all  wait  upon  Thee,  and  Thou  givest  them  their  meat 
in  due  season ;  Thou  openest  Thine  hand,  and  fillest  all  things  living  with 
plenteousness.'  Before  and  after  the  sermon  were  sung  Bishop  Heber*8 
two  hymns,  ^By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill/  and  'Thou  whose  Almighty 
Word.' 

The  text  chosen  was  from  Canticles — 'The  flowers  appear  on  the 
earth ;'  and  Dr.  Wbittemore  called  his  hearers'  attention  to  five  principal 
lessons  from  it  First,  GocTs  Love  in  giving  us  bright  and  beautiful 
flowers,  not  as  a  necessity  to  our  existence,  but  as  a  source  of  deep  and 
pure  enjoyment.  This  he  illustrated  by  a  little  anecdote  of  a  strawberry 
plant  given  to  the  inmate  of  a  hospital  ward,  where,  when  the  possibility 
was  realized  of  positively  a  ripe  live  strawberry  some  day  appearing  on 
it,  the  intensest  keenest  interest  grew  up  amongst  the  sufierers  there, 
as  hour  by  hour  pale  wistful  faces  watched  first  for  a  tender  bud,  then 
for  the  little  starry  blossom,  and  then  for  the  formation  of  the  tiny  fruit, 
till  the  universal  joy  and  expectation  was  crowned  by  the  ripening  of  the 
luscious  crimson  berry. 

Secondly,  the  flowers  were  to  teach  us  Jaith  in  God ;  for  if  He  cares 
for  them,  He  will  for  us.  And  again,  eager  listening  ears  drank  in  the 
story  of  the  African  traveller,  lost  in  a  barren  expanse  of  desert  waste, 
who,  casting  himself  down  in  despair,  perhaps,  as  he  thought,  to  die, 
presently  perceived  at  his  side  a  tiny  blue  blossom.  '  That,'  he  reflected, 
'  has  been  set  here  and  tended  by  our  Father  in  Heaven.  He  will  not 
sufler  me  to  perish.'  And  so  with  renewed  hope  and  courage  he  rose, 
and  persevered  till  the  route  was  found. 

Thirdly,  we  were  to  note  GotTs  Wudom  shewn  in  the  subtle  and 
mystenous  mechanism  of  these  delicate  structures,  in  their  wondrous 
formation  suited  to  various  soils  and  many  climes,  in  their  gradual  trans- 
formations from  seedlings  to  fruit- bearing  growth,  causing  them  to  become 
sweet  food  for  man  or  beast,  and  to  renew  and  multiply  themselves. 


ANNIVEBSABY  OF  FBINCE  CONSORT'S  ASSOCIATION.      295 

'  Fourthly,  God^s  benevolence^  affording  to  the  poorest  and  youngest,  bb 
well  as  those  better  off,  a  means  of  bestowing  innocent  pleasure  upon 
others. 

And  lastly,  we  were  reminded  of  the  lesson  that  all  must  learn  sooner 
or  later,  that  as  the  grass  withereth  and  the  6ower  fadeth,  so  all  our- 
earthly  pleasures,  even  the  brightest  and  the  best,  must  vanish. 

The  deepest  attention  was  paid  from  beginning  to  end  of  the  simple 
but  earnest  discourse,  and  we  trust  that  many  will  remember  in  years 
to  come  the  lessons  from  the  '  Flower  Sermon '  heard  in  St.  Katharine 
Cree. 

It  seems  to  us  a  goodly  custom  this  of  enticing  some  of  the  youthful 
holiday-makers  of  the  much-abused  Whitsuntide,  witlnn  the  walls  of 
some  one  of  our  venerable  City  churches,  there  to  unite  in  thanking  and 
praising  God  for  His  welcome  gift  of  bright  and  fragrant  blossoms  at 
this  season  of  the  year,  when  the  winter  is  indeed  over  and  gone,  the 
keen  winds  of  March  and  the  clouds  of  April  are  past,  the  sun  shines 
forth  from  the'  heavens,  and  '  the  flowers  appear  on  the  earth.* 

This  ^  Flower  Sermon,*  so  far  as  we  have  since  been  able  to  learn,  is 
not  in  itself  an  ancient  institution,  although  perhaps  an  imitation  of  the 
older  one. 

The  special  service  was  originated  by  Dr.  Whittemore  himself  some 
sixteen  or  seventeen  years  ago,  in  order  to  interest  young  people  in 
nature  and  its  teachings. 

We  wbh  it  all  success,  and  can  but  hope  that  it  may  live  to  grow  into 
an  old  custom,  and  that  it  may  in  its  turn  find  other  imitators,  for  we 
understand  that  hundreds  of  persons  who  would  have  listened  to  the 
Flower  Sermon  had  to  turn  from  the  low  porch  of  St.  Katharine  Cree 
on  this  Whit-Tuesday  night,  for  want  of  space  within. 


THE  TWENTIETH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE 
PRINCE  CONSORT'S  ASSOCIATION, 

HELD  IN  THE  HOME  PARE,  WINDSOR. 

July  7th,  1870. 
My  dear j 

From  nine  o'clock  this  morning  till  half-past  six  this  evening, 

with  the  exception  of  half  an  hour  for  lunch,  and  the  time  taken  in 

driving  down  and  up  from  the  field,  I  have  been  on  my  feet,  and  am 

rather  tired ;  so  I  sit  down  to  recover  myself  by  writing  to  you. 

The  morning  was  transcendently  fine :  a  soft  breeze  blowing,  glorious 

sunshine,  with  great  pufb  of  fieecy  cotton  clouds  flitting  across  the  sky, 

and  all  giving  promise  of  a  most  beautiful  day  for  the  jubilee  of  the 

Prince  Consort's  Windsor  Association.    In  the  Home  Park,  under  the 


296  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

shelter  of  tlie  huge  elms  you  always  admire  so  much,  the  long  diDner- 
tents  were  erected ;  and  also  the  canopy,  of  some  gorgeous  Indiao 
tapestry,  under  which  the  Queen  was  to  sit  when  she  gave  away  the 
prizes.  Besides  these,  there  were  the  large  and  welUfiUed  flower  tents, 
,the  smaller  tents  arranged  near  at  hand  for  the  vegetahle  and  handicraft 
exhibitors,  who  were  to  display  the  results  of  their  winter  and  spring 
toil,  and  the  two  large  Alexandra  stands  brought  from  Ascot  for  the 
accommodation  of  the  visitors  ;  the  whole  making  up  a  most  lively  scene. 

When  I  came  on  the  ground,  at  about  ten  o'clock,  the  finishing  touches 
were  being  put  to  the  brilliant  flower-stands  contributed  by  Turner  and 
others,  of  Slough  and  Reading;    and   the  Honorary  Secretaries  were 
passing  to  and  fro,  busied  in  their  several  departments.     Some  were 
engaged  in  examining  and  apportioning  prizes  to  the  various  articles  of 
handicraft,  many  of  which  displayed  much  ingenuity  and  talent.     For 
instance,  there  were  model  steam-engines  and  electric  batteries,  musical 
instruments,  admirable  drawings,  pin-cushions,  and  table  covers,  worked 
by  the  patient  fingers  of  soldiers  through  the  long  winter  evenings  out  of 
tiny  bitd  of  old  regimental  cloth  ;  inlaid  tables,  work-boxes,  stuffed  birds,- 
and  cases  of  butterflies  and  beetles.    These  and  others  of  a  like  kind 
formed  a  goodly  array  on  one  stand  ;  whilst  on  the  opposite  side  were 
various  specimens  of  plain  needle-work,  embroidery,  and  fancy  work, 
Quperintended  by  ladies  whose  office  it  was  to  award  the  prizes. 

Then  the  vegetables  were  a  sight  indeed !  nent  little  baskets  of 
potatoes  and  cucumbers,  peas  and  beans,  cherries  and  strawberries,  with 
bundles  of  carrots  and  turnips,  looked  most  inviting ;  whilst  the  thought 
that  they  were  all  the  productions  of  tiny  cottage  gardens  or  small 
allotments,  and  were  probably  the  result  of  work  af\er  the  day's  labour 
was  over,  made  the  show  not  only  interesting,  but  highly  creditable  ta 
the  exhibitors. 

From  the  entrance  to  the  Home  Park,  long  files  of  pedestrians  were 
now  to  be  seen  approaching  the  tents ;  for  this  being  the  twentieth 
anniversary  of  the  Association,  everyone  who  had  on  any  former 
occasion  gained  a  prize,  had  on  this  day  received  an  invitation  to  the 
dinner  (as  well  as  afterwards  to  the  tea)  provided  on  the  ground.  As  the 
different  parties  entered  the  enclosure,  they  wandered  at  leisure  from  one 
tent  to  another,  admiring  the  vegetables,  needle-work,  and  handicraft, 
and  the  display  of  exquisite  flowers. 

By  one  o'clock,  the  great  dinner-tent  was  filled ;  the  prizemen  of  tlje 
present  year  occupying  a  separate  table,  the  rest  arranged  according  to 
their  several  parishes.  A  bugle  of  the  Life  Guards  had  been  secured, 
and  after  a  few  notes  to  call  attention,  the  Chairman,  General  Seymour, 
briefly  addressed  the  assembled  guests,  numbering  about  fifteen  hundred, 
and  then  Grace  was  said  by  one  of  the  clergy,  and  the  feast  began. 

Several  had  come  from  a  distance,  and  had  already  visited  the  Castle, 
so  a  good  appetite  was  added  to  their  hearty  appreciation  of  the  good 
cheer  provided  by  Messrs.  Layton  of  Windsor. 


ANNIVERSARY  OF  PRINCE  CONSORT's  ASSOCIATION.      2D7 

With  others  who  were  equally  privileged,  I  walked  round  the 
crowded  tables ;  and  it  was  most  pleasurable  to  see  on  all  sides  of  me, 
countenances  which  bore  the  impress  of  rectitude  and  worth,  bearing 
their  own  testimony  to  the  fact  which  we  had  shortly  before  been  called 
upon  to  believe,  that  the  assembly  was  composed  of  the  picked  men  and 
women  from  all  tlie  parislies  around^  and  I  felt  strongly  what  an 
impetus  for  good  must  be  given  by  such  a  gathering  on  such  an  occasion, 
not  only  to  those  present,  but  to  others  who  hoped  in  due  time  to  be 
there  also. 

I  may  here  state  that  the  object  of  the  Association  is  to  distinguish 
those  who  are  most  conspicuous  for  well  brought  up  families,  for 
cleanliness  in  house  and  person,  for  long  continued  service  in  one 
situation,  young  people  who  have  kept  their  first  place  more  than  three 
years,  and  the  best  cultivators  of  allotments  and  gardens.  The  prize 
card  is  the  decoration  of  the  poor  man's  home,  and  many  a  one  there  is 
who  values  it  far  beyond  the  money  prize  which  he  receives  with  it.  I 
remember  hearing  the  case  of  one  man — he  was  a  stoker  on  the  Midland 
Counties  Railway — whose  parents  had  received  a  prize  for  a  well  brought 
up  family.  On  the  death  of  his  father  and  mother,  the  little  property 
was  divided  by  will  amongst  the  children,  and  a  younger  son  got  the 
mangle  and  the  better  part  of  the  furniture,  because  he  was  married  and 
had  a  young  family.  Hie  elder  brother,  who  had  no  children,  and  to 
whom  very  little  was  left,  said,  '^  I  don't  mind  about  that ;  Mother  has 
left  me  her  prize  certificate  with  the  Queen's  own  signature  ;  that  to  me 
is  worth  all  the  rest." 

Meanwhile  the  dinner  has  been  progressing  fast  and  furious;  huge 
tankards  shall  I  say  ?  no — we  had  better  tell  the  truth — honest  wash- 
hand  jugs  by  the  score  were  filled  with  foaming  beer  for  those  who  liked 
it,  whilst  for  the  goodly  company  of  abstainers,  lemonade  and  ginger-beer 
were  provided.  The  side-liangings  of  the  tent  were  not  let  down,  so  that 
the  breeze  had  free  passage  ;  and  most  grateful  it  was,  for  the  heat 
would  otherwise  have  been  overpowering.  At  length  all  seemed  satisfied, 
and  attention  being  drawn  by  the  bugle,  the  cliairman  again  addressed 
the  guests  in  a  kind  and  hearty  speech,  giving  suggestions  as  to  the 
disposal  of  their  time  till  tea  should  be  ready  at  four  o'clock.  A  meiTy 
laugh  wns  elicited  by  his  proposal  to  put  the  Home  Park  Cricket-ground 
at  the  disposal  of  any  old  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  might  wish  for  a 
game.  He  also  reminded  those  who  had  not  already  been  there,  that 
it  was  Her  Majesty's  wish  that  the  Castle,  the  aviary,  the  farm  and  dairy, 
should  be  thrown  open  to  all  visitors,  and  that  they  only  had  to  shew 
their  tickets  to  obtain  admission.  He  then  said  that  tlie  Bishop  of 
Oxford  would  address  them,  and  that  it  was  his  first  public  appearance 
as  their  Diocesan.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  standing  close  to  his 
Lordsliip,  who  is  remarkable  for  his  manly  and  dignified  presence,  with 
a  countenance  full  of  good  sense  and  kindliness.  His  speech  was  of  a 
congratulatory  character,  and  bore  the  impress  of  a  sound  religious  tone. 


298  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Soon  after  the  close  of  his  address,  the  companj  began  to  disperse ; 
and  I  was  amongst  those  who  found  the  most  attractive  lounge 
was  under  the  shade  of  the  huge  elms,  where  we  sat  and  listened  to  the 
playing  of  the  military  bands,  till  a  stir  and  gathering  together  of  the 
stewards  (who  were  marked  by  rosettes)  told  us  that  some  of  the  Royal 
party  were  coming.  It  proved  to  be  the  Prince  and  Princess  Christian, 
who  had  come  over  from  Frogmore  in  good  time,  to  be  present  at  the 
Queen's  arrival.  This  was  not  long  delayed.  By  the  time  their  Royal 
Highnesses,  with  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Gordon,  had  taken  up  their  station  in 
one  of  the  ilower  tents,  as  well  as  the  Duke  of  Buccleugh  and  the  Bishop 
of  Oxford,  and  most  of  the  Stewards  and  Officers  of  the  Association 
who  stood  near,  the  two  outriders  in  scarlet  liveries,  and  the  four  well- 
known  greys,  with  their  postilions,  were  seen  approaching.  The  carriage 
drew  up  quickly,  the  servants  opened  the  doors,  and  Her  Majesty 
alighted,  followed  by  the  Princesses  Louise  and  Beatrice.  It  was  an 
exceedingly  pretty  sight.  The  Queen  gave  her  hand  to  the  lady  nearest 
to  her,  who  curtsying  low,  kissed  it.  The  Princess  Christian  stood  next ; 
and  the  Queen  again  putting  out  her  hand,  she  curtsied  low  and  raised 
it  to  her  lips,  but  the.  Queen  almost  at  the  same  moment  drew  her 
daughter  forward  and  kissed  her  affectionately.  Then  moving  forward 
a  step  or  two,  the  Queen  stood  still  for  an  instant,  as  if  to  take  in  all 
the  surrounding  at  a  glance,  and  then  graciously  bowing,  again  went 
forward  ;  General  Seymour,  as  Chairman  of  the  Association  and  Equerry 
to  the  Queen,  acting  now  as  guide  to  the  whole  cortege ;  and  as  they 
passed  slowly  through  the  double  file  of  Stewards  and  other  officers,  he 
most  gracefully  named  each  in  succession  to  Her  Majesty,  who  bowed 
to  them  with  a  kindly  smile  as  they  bent  low  before  her.  And  so,  her 
attention  being  judiciously  drawn  to  the  several  objects  worthy  of  notice 
in  her  progress,  she  emerged  from  the  flower-tents,  upon  the  open  space, 
the  centre  of  which  was  occupied  by  Tippoo  Saib's  tent  of  crimson  and 
gold,  and  on  either  hand  the  Alexandra  stands  filled  from  base  to  top 
with  ladies  and  gentlemen  spectators,  and  in  front  the  long  dinner  tent, 
where  the  prizemen  new  and  old  were  all  again  assembled. 

A  most  charming  incident  now  followed.  After  noticing  such  of  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  were  honoured  by  the  Royal  recognition. 
Her  Majesty  passed  on  at  once  to  the  side  centre  of  the  dinner  tent, 
to  see  and  be  seen  by  her  humble  subjects.  These  all  stood  up  at  her 
approach,  and  for  a  moment  of  breathless  silence  gazed  at  their  Queen ; 
and  then  as  if  moved  by  one  united  impulse,  the  fifteen  hundred  voices 
burst  forth,  not  in  a  loud  overpowering  cheer,  but  deep,  heart-felt,  and 
subdued,  in  the  singing  of  the  National  Anthem.  One  verse  only  was 
given,  but  it  carried  with  it  the  fervent  love  and  prayer  of  all  who 
heard  and  joined  in  it  Not  till  it  was  over  and  the  many  voices 
hushed,  did  the  Queen  move  from  her  place;  then  with  a  gracious 
acknowledgement,  she  turned  round,  and  accompanied  by  the  Princesses 
and  ladies  in  waiting  she  proceeded  to  inspect  the  handicraft,  needlework, 


ANNIVBBSAEY  OF  PRINCE  CONSOET's  ASSOCIATION.      299 

and  yegetable  stalls  ;  and  afterwards  ascended  tbe  steps  of  the  throne 
tent  conducted  by  her  equerry,  and  with  the  Princesses  stood  whilst 
the  address  was  read  aloud  by  General  Seymour. 

£very  precaution  had  been  taken  that  there  should  be  now  no  delay 
in  the  presentations ;  so  during  the  address,  the  stewards  were  busied  in 
arranging  the  successful  candidates  in  order ;  and  immediately  it  was 
concluded,  they  were  one  after  another  put  forward,  General  Seymour 
reading  over  their  names  and  qualifications  in  a  clear  distinct  voice. 
The  Queen,  standing  somewhat  forward  in  the  centre  of  the  tent,  received 
from  the  Princesses  (who  stood  just  behind  her)  the  packets  of  money 
and  the  framed  certificates,  marked  with  the  names  of  the  prizemen; 
and  as  they  came  up,  Her  Majesty  placed  in  their  hands  these  welcome 
testimonials  of  merit 

The  Queen  appeared  to  be  very  much  pleased  with  everything.  She 
occasionally  spoke  to  the  prizemen,  and  shewed  anxiety  that  each  one 
should  receive  his  own  proper  reward.  In  one  or  two  instances  the 
packet  of  money,  or  the  certificate,  came  to  the  wrong  person,  and  Her 
Majesty  would  not  proceed  till  the  mistake  was  rectified. 

Throughout  the  whole  proceeding  there  was  an  air  of  such  gentle  ease 
and  homeliness,  that  one  almost  lost  sight  of  the  presence  of  Royalty  in 
the  feeling  of  filial  and  dutiful  love  to  the  chief  actor  on  the  scene,  who, 
like  a  mother  in  the  presence  of  her  family,  was  bestowing  rewards 
and  favours  on  the  most  deserving  of  her  children. 

Not  knowing  how  far  Her  Majesty's  health  would  allow  her  to  go 
through  the  fatigue  of  the  day,  it  had  been  arranged  that  when  the 
greater  number  of  prizemen  had  received  their  rewards,  there  should 
be  a  break  in  the  proceedings,  to  allow  of  her  retiring,  when  the 
Princess  Christian  had  graciously  promised  to  give  the  remaining  prizes 
and  conclude  the  ceremony.  But  when  it  came  to  this  part  of  the 
proceedings,  the  Queen  intimated  her  wish  to  continue,  and  begged  that 
the  rest  of  the  candidates  should  come  forward.  This  was  an  agreeable 
and  unexpected  surprise,  and  some  little  delay  occurred  whilst  the 
stewards  were  gathering  together  and  marshalling  the  remaining  prize- 
men. Many  of  these  were  children,  but  the  Queen  stood  most  good- 
naturedly  waiting  till  they  came  up,  and  then  continued  as  before,  to 
hand  the  children  their  certificates  and  packets  of  money,  speaking  to 
one  and  another  as  they  stood  before  her.  Two  little  incidents  impressed 
me  as  I  was  watching  this  most  charming  scene. 

A  young  man  who  had  exhibited  a  model  steam  engine,  and  gained 
the  first  prize  of  £I  5s.,  was  retiring  with  a  second  prize  of  £1,  which 
had  been  handed  up  by  mistake ;  but  before  he  had  gone  far,  the  Queen 
perceived  the  mistime  and  had  him  recalled,  and  would  have  given  him 
the  right  amount  with  her  own  hands,  had  not  someone  anticipated 
her  wishes  by  acting  as  go-between. 

The  other  incident  was  of  the  same  character.  A  poor  blind  woman 
was  brought  forward,  but  as  she  could  not  ascend  the  steps,  her  friend 


300  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

went  up  instead.  Seeing  the  woman  standing  there  and  curtsying, 
the  Queen  supposed  her  to  he  the  right  person,  and  handed  her  the 
prize ;  hut  on  learning  the  true  state  of  the  case,  she  made  a  forward 
movement,  as  if  she  would  have  gone  down  the  steps  to  place  it  in 
the  hands  of  the  hiind  woman  herself. 

This  part  of  the  day's  ceremonial  heing  now  over,  and  General 
Seymour's  duties  as  presenter  of  the  prizemen  ended,  he  retired,  whilst 
all  the  stewards  and  officers  fell  hack.  The  Queen,  on  whom  all  eyes 
were  fixed,  stood  motionless  for  a  moment,  as  the  great  crowd  of 
spectators  howcd  low  and  curtseyed;  and  then,  returning  her  acknow- 
ledgement, she  descended  the  steps  and  retired  to  her  carriage  amidst 
ringing  and  hearty  cheers. 

So  ended  a  day  which  will  he  memorable  among  the  poor  of  Windsor 
and  the  neighbourhood  for  many  a  long  year  to  come.  That  her 
Majesty's  graciousness  is  appreciated  by  them,  I  have  evidence  in  a 
letter  of  one  of  the  cottagers  to  a  member  of  the  Association  who  had 
recommended  him  for  a  prize.     He  writes  as  follows : 

Sir, 

I  feel  it  my  duty  to  return  you  my  sincere  thanks  for  the  great  honour 
I  have  received  this  day  from  your  untiring  kindness ;  it  is  the  greatest  honour 
I  have  ever  had  in  my  life,  and  many  thousands  would  have  been  proud  of  it, 
though  I  am  no  more  deserving  of  it  than  those ;  but  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  return 
my  sincere  thanks  to  you,  and 

BeHcve  us  to  remain, 

Your  humble  servants, 

G and  C P . 

H.  C.  H. 


THE  WOMEN  OF  LA  VENDEE. 

II. 

[So  much  interest  was  expressed  for  the  Vendean  Ladies  whom  we 
introduced  a  year  ago  to  our  readers,  that  we  tliink  they  will  like  to 
have  another  *  episode '  from  the  book,  *  Une  Paroisse  Vendecnne,'  which 
furnished  the  first  account.  Its  author  states  that  all  he  relates  are' 
facts.] 

During  the  terrible  night  which  succeeded  the  battle  of  Le  Mans,  there 
was  one  family  which  did  not  join  the  crowd  that  thronged  the  road  to 
Laval.  Cruelly  thrust  out  of  house  and  home,  tliey  sought  in  vain  under 
cover  of  night  to  escape  from  the  town.  On  one  side  there  were  the 
republicans,  with  death  in  their  train  ;  on  the  other,  streets  crowded  with 
carriages,  cannon,  baggage,  and  a  forlorn  company,  which,  stealing  under 
the  coach  wheels,  filled  every  outlet,  and  trampled  corpses  under  foot 
Three  ladie?,  Madame  Gourreau,  her  daughter,  Madame  de  Jouch^re, 


the' WOMEN  OF  LA  VENDEE.  SOI 

and  Madame  de  Boguais,  had  cast  themselves,  worn  oat  with  fatigue  and 
saffering,  into  the  first  corner  they  could  find.  A  forsaken  stable  was  as 
welcome  a  refuge  to  them  as  to  the  poorest  '  brigandes ;'  and  their  state 
of  exhaustion  was  such,  that  despite  their  great  danger,  they  were  able  to 
snatch  a  moment's  sleep. 

The  dreary  and  sunless  winter's  day  began  to  appear,  like  some  funeral 
torch.  An  uncertain  light  hardly  penetrated  the  thick  fog  which  hung 
over  the  town  as  if  it  were  one  vast  winding-sheet,  and  could  be  only 
pierced  through  by  flashes  from  the  enemy's  guns.  Icy  rain  fell  in 
torrents;  one  would  have  said  that  heaven  veiled  its  light  in  order  to 
conceal  the  woes  of  sufiering  humanity.  In  the  course  of  this  day  of 
bloody  memory,  few  people  felt  themselves  sufficiently  courageous  to 
practise  the  virtue  of  hospitality.  Madame  de  Gourreau  was  forced  by 
cruel  threats  to  forsake  her  retreat.  She  wandered  through  the  streets 
of  Le  Mans  without  venturing  to  inquire  which  way  the  Vendean  army 
had  gone.  Madame  de  Jouch^re  accompanied  her,  together  with  Madame 
Boguais  and  her  three  daughters ;  the  eldest  of  these,  whose  worn  features 
told  of  a  long  and  suffering  illness,  leant  on  her  mother's  arm.  Af\er 
they  had  tried  for  some  time  to  find  a  way  out  of  the  town,  they  at  last 
took  courage  to  inquire  of  a  woman  who  had  just  opened  the  door  of  her 
house.  '  If  you  go  down  that  street,'  she  answered,  *  you  will  soon  be  in 
the  country.*  The  wretch  was  deceiving  them.  In  a  few  minutes  they 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  infuriated  soldiers. 

These  were  commanded  by  General  Savary,  who,  touched  with 
compassion  when  he  saw  the  mother's  suffering,  and  the  youth  and  beauty 
of  the  daughters,  threw  himself  between  the  soldiers  and  their  victims, 
and  averted  ^e  bayonets  which  were  threatening  to  destroy  them. 
'  Comrades,'  he  cried,  '  is  it  not  ah  act  unworthy  of  you  to  stain  your 
arms  with  the  blood  of  these  brigandes?  It  is  the  executioner  alone  who 
must  bring  them  to  justice  if  they  are  guilty.  Take  them  to  prison,  and 
remember  that  you  will  have  to  answer  for  their  safety.' 

They  dared  not  disobey.  But  when  they  heard  the  shouts  of  one  who 
had  discovered  some  gold  about  Madame  Gourreau's  person,  several 
turned  back  and  wrangled  over  their  victim.  'O  Mother!'  exclaimed 
Madame  de  Jouch^re, '  you  shall  not  die  alone,  your  daughter  will  follow 
you  r  She  tore  herself  from  Jhe  arras  of  Madame  Boguais,  who  vainly 
tried  to  hold  her  back,  and  threw  herself  among  the  soldiers.  A  locket 
which  she  always  wore,  containing  a  portrait  of  her  youngest  brother,  at 
that  time  a  soldier  in  Conde's  army,  escaped  from  its  place  in  her 
bosom. 

*  This  is  the  wife  of  a  brigand-general,'  cried  the  merciless  soldiers ; 
'down  with  all  enemies  of  the  Republic  !' 

These  words  were  succeeded  by  the  report  of  a  gun,  and  a  volley  of 
oaths,  which  shewed  Madame  Boguais  what  had  been  the  fate  of  her  poor 
friends.  ^The  wanderings  of  the  survivors  were  to  end  in  a  convent,  into 
which  several  thousand  Yendeans  had  already  been  thrown,  and  which 


802  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

served  as  a  prison.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a  sharp  winter,  and  a  few 
bundles  of  straw  made  a  very  insufficient  protection  from  the  damp 
bricks.  A  bitter  wind  blew  through  the  broken  windows ;  and  the 
prisoners  could  only  keep  some  little  warmth  in  them  by  huddling  close 
together.  Every  day  they  had  to  endure  the  insults  of  their  jailors,  and 
the  rude  questions  of  the  revolutionary  committee.  A  party  of  informers 
had  been  collected  from  the  neighbouring  towns,  to  try  and  discover  some 
relation  or  former  friend  whom  they  might  betray.  Each  morning  the 
door  was  opened,  and  a  certain  number  of  prisoners  were  led  out  to 
execution ;  their  places  were  soon  filled  by  others,  who  before  long  had 
to  undergo  a  like  fate. 

A  fortnight  had  thus  elapsed,  when  an  unlooked-for  ray  of  hope  shone 
upon  the  prisoners.  There  were  some  few  courageous  and  humane 
officers  amongst  the  number  who  had  been  left  at  Le  Mans.  M.  de 
Fromental,  who  was  one  of  them,  was  allowed,  as  a  favour,  to  visit  the 
prisons.  He  had  sworn  that,  even  if  it  cost  him  his  own  life,  he  would 
rob  the  scaffi:>ld  of  some  of  its  victims.  Deeply  distressed  at  the  sight  of 
Mademoiselle  Eulalie  Boguais,  who  was  walking  about  with  a  young 
sister,  he  approached  and  spoke  to  her.  '  Have  you  no  relation  or 
guardian  here.  Mademoiselle  V 

*  I  have  my  mother  and  two  sisters,'  replied  Eulalie. 

^  I  should  like  to  speak  to  them  privately,'  he  added  in  a  low  voice. 

Eulalie  was  full  of  astonishment  when  she  heard  these  few  words 
spoken  in  a  compassionate  and  gentle  tone,  a  language  to  which  she  was 
unaccustomed.  She  timidly  raised  her  blue  eyes  to  the  stranger's  fine 
countenance,  and  found  that  he  was  trying  to  conceal  an  involuntary  tear. 
*  Monsieur,'  said  she,  *  I  believe  your  pity  is  sincere :  follow  me ;  this  is 
my  mother's  room.' 

Madame  Boguais  lay  in  a  comer  of  the  prison,  overwhelmed  with  the 
weight  of  her  sorrows.  A  slow  fever  consumed  her,  all  her  strength  had 
left  her,  and  only  returned  to  her  when  she  had  to  accompany  her  children 
to  the  tribunal,  and  wished  to  inspire  them  with  her  own  courage.  At 
this  moment  the  saddest  thoughts  were  filling  her  heart.  If  God  were 
only  to  require  ?ier  life,  what  was  to  become  of  her  poor  daughters  T, 
who  was  there  to  protect  them?  who  would  guide  them?  would  they 
ever  in  a  land  of  exile  see  their  father?  Were  they  destined  to  spend 
their  lives  in  an  obscure  prison  ?  or,  still  more  horrible  I  would  they  only 
obtain  their  freedom  by  the  favour  of  their  tormentors?  She  was 
awakened  from  these  gloomy  thoughts  by  her  daughter's  kiss,  and  she 
shuddered  when  she  saw  a  Republican  officer  standing  before  her. 

'  Madame,'  said  M.  de  Fromental,  *  as  I  am,  unfortunately,  a  stranger 
to  you,  I  fear  that  you  may  not  feel  confidence  in  me.  I  had  come  here 
with  the  intention  of  liberating  some  of  the  prisoners,  when  a  happy 
opportunity  brought  me  near  you.  I  know  that  to-night  it  is  intended 
to  massacre  all  those  who  are  imprisoned  here.  I  know  the  Jailor,  and 
that  he  can  be  bought  over,  and  I  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  save  you 


THE  WOMEN  OF  LA  VEKDSE.  303 

a&d  your  children**  He  ixnmediatelj  departed,  without  waiting  for  a 
reply. 

Darl^ess  and  silence  had  succeeded  that  day's  excitement  in  the  prison, 
and  sleep  had  brought  forgetfulness  of  their  troubles  to  the  greater  number 
of  prisoners.  Mesdemoiselles  Boguais  were  resting  their  heads  on  their 
mother's  knee,  and  uniting  their  prayers  with  hers,  when  the  jailor  made 
a  sign  to  them  to  rise  quietly.  He  then  took  them  into  a  litUe  cell  near 
bis  room,  where  he  desired  them  to  keep  complete  silence.  They  were 
hardly  shut  in,  when  they  heard  movements,  unusual  at  such  an  hour. 
Threats,  shouts,  and  frightful  oaths  were  mixed  up  with  the  confused 
noise  of  the  crowd,  and  the  stifled  groans  of  the  unhappy  victims.  A 
sanguinary  band  had  come  to  claim  their  prey,  and  had  broken  into  the 
prison^  to  see  if  any  detenus  could  have  escaped  their  fury.  Several  hours 
of  dreadful  tumult  followed.  The  cries  of  these  mad  wretches  resounded 
on  all  sides.  They  overran  the  wards,  searched  all  over  the  old  building, 
and  when  at  length  they  had  satisfied  themselves  that  (as  they  thought) 
not  one  victim  was  lacking,  they  went  out  into  the  street,  driving  the 
prisoners  before  them,  chained  together  in  couples.  The  cries  of  the 
rabble  could  long  be  heard ;  and  from  the  obscure  cell  where  they  had 
been  taken  for  safety,  Madame  Boguais  and  her  daughters  listened  to  it 
in  terror ;  but  it  died  away  by  degrees,  like  the  sea  breaking  on  some 
distant  rocks.  Then  they  heard  the  beat  of  drums,  the  sullen  murmur  of 
the  storm,  a  sharp  rattle  of  musketry,  and  all  was  still. 

The  daylight  now  appeared  through  a  narrow  loop-hole,  the  only 
opening  by  which  the  air  could  enter.  It  shone  upon  two  fresh  faces, 
two  new  companions  in  captivity,  who  also  owed  their  safety  to  the  jailor. 
These  were  Madame  d'  Aubeterre,  Abbess  of  Rouceray,  and  one  of  her 
nuns.  They  had  been  the  first  to  enter  the  hiding-place,  and  had  there 
passed  the  night  in  prayer,  as  motionless  as  those  marble  figures, 
sculptured  by  our  pious  forefathers  with  hands  clasped,  kneeling  on  their 
tombs. 

The  prison  was  re-filled  by  the  n^xt  day.  Madame  Boguais  and  one 
of  her  daughters  were  recognised  by  Le  Sieur  Proust,  who  himself 
inscribed  their  names  in  the  prison  register.  Thid  unfortunate  circum- 
stance overthrew  M.  de  Fromental's  hopes,  and  baffled  his  plans.  Ever 
since  the  day  when  he  first  spoke  to  Madame  Boguais,  this  good  man  had 
resolved  either  to  save  her,  or  die  in  the  attempt.  He  had  at  once  put 
himself  into  communication  with  the  jailor,  a  stupid  mercenary  being. 
In  vain  had  M.  de  Fromental  implored  him  to  favour  the  prisoners' 
escape  during  that  terrible  night,  of  which  we  have  just  spoken.  The 
miserable  creature,  quite  incapable  of  a  generous  act,  in  hope  of  a  higher 
bribe,  endlessly  prolonged  the  cruel  captivity.  Nevertheless,  by  dint  of 
prayers  and  promises,  M.  de  Fromental  thought  he  might  depend  upon 
him.  He  was  only  awaiting  a  favourable  opportunity,  when  the  jailor 
suddenly  came  to  him  and  declared  that  he  had  changed  his  mind.  It 
seemed  as  if  nothing  could  surmount  the  timidity  of  this  'earth-bound' 


304  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

soul.     To  all  entreaties  he  only  replied  that  he  was  not  going  to  endanger 
hi3  life  to  save  that  of  an  imigr^s  wife. 

'  You  wretch,'  cried  M.  de  Fromental,  out  of  patience,  *  I  know  that 
you  have  sold  their  liberty  to  several  prisoners,  for  I  have  the  proof  of  it, 
and  I  could  easily  have  your  head  off.  Now  if  you  value  life,  listen  to 
me.  Madame  Boguais  and  only  one  of  her  daughters  have  their  names 
inscribed  on  your  fatal  register ;  you  can  tlierefore,  without  compromise, 
be  blind  to  the  escape  of  the  others.  If  you  are  asked  what  is  become  of 
them,  you  can  say  that  they  are  dead ;  you  will  be  believed  if  you  say  so, 
for  the  executioner  takes  the  prisoners  by  chance  every  day,  without 
counting  those  he  leaves.  Choose  for  yourself  either  this  money  or  the 
scaffold.'  * 

'This  is  not  sufficient/  said  the  jailor  quietly,  and  with  an  immoveable 
countenance. 

'  Well,  you  shall  have  as  much  again ;  but  this  very  night  I  shall 
knock  at  your  door.  And  woe  betide  you  if  the  two  prisoners  are  not 
forthcoming  !* 

*"  They  shall  be,'  said  the  jailor,  and  departed. 

A  short  note  told  Madame  Boguais  of  this  project.  To  the  first  joy 
that  her  perusal  of  it  inspired,  there  soon  succeeded  a  feeling  of  un- 
certainty. Even  though  she  owed  her  life  to  M.  de  Fromental,  ought 
she  to  give  what  was  dearest  and  nearest  to  her  into  his  keeping  t  On 
the  other  hand,  what  right  had  she  to  throw  a\ray  their  only  hope  of 
escape  ?  Dreadfully  perplexed,  she  remained  silent  and  motionless  for  a 
long  time,  overwhelmed  with  trouble. 

'  My  dear  children,'  she  said  at  length,  almost  inaudible  from  her  sobs, 
*  we  are  going  to  be  separated.  This  very  night  two  of  you  ai'e  to  regain 
your  freedom !  I  am  desired  to  decide  nhich  two — that  is  more  than 
a  mother  can  do.' 

*  We  will  never,  never  be  parted  from  you,'  said  the  daughters,  bathing 
her  with  their  tears. 

*  I  am  the  eldest,'  interrupted  Rosalie ;  *  it  is  my  right  to  stay  with  you.' 
*What  do  you  say.   Sister?  do  you  think  we  will  leave  you  to  be 

sacrificed  for  us  ?  Indeed,  what  is  to  become  of  us  ?  where  are  we  to  go 
in  the  charge  of  an  unknown  man  ?     Better  a  thousand  times  to  die !' 

'  My  beloved  children,'  said  the  mother,  *  Heaven  will  guard  you,  and 
will  not  withdraw  t!ie  Arm  which  has  supported  you  until  now.  Trust 
in  It,  and  receive  that  blessing  which  a  dying  mother's  prayer  can  bring 
down  on  her  children.' 

The  day  passed  in  this  touching  conflict.  Night  came  on,  and  nothing 
Iiad  been  decided  upon,  when  the  entrance  of  their  jailor  put  an  end  to 
this  cruel  uncertainty.  He  seized  the  arms  of  Mesdemoiselles  Eulalie 
and  Celeste  Boguais,  and  drew  them  into  a  low  room,  where,  after  a 
thousand  precautions,  he  opened  fur  them  a  garden  door  into  the  street. 

*  Here  it  must  be  asked,  was  ^L  de  Fromental  justified  in  patting  a  lie  into  the 
jailor's  mouth,  that  good  might  come  ? 


THE  WOlfEN  OF  LA  VENDEE.  305 

M.  de  FromenUl  was  awaiting  them  'there ;  he  made  them  get  into  a 
covered  waggon  where  was  his  luggage ;  and  when  the  day  had  dawned, 
a  trustworthy  soldier  drove  the  cart  off  on  the  Angers  Road,  in  the  midst 
of  a  long  file  of  vehicles,  destined  for  the  troops  from  Ch&teauhriant  At 
Nort,  M.  de  Fromental,  who  till  then  had  accompanied  them,  was  obliged 
to  go  to  Nantes.  He  gave  instruclions  to  his  faithful  servant,  handing 
him  some  money,  and  a  letter  for  a  worthy  lady  at  Ch&teaubriant,  who 
had  offered  her  house  to  the  young  prisoners. 

Their  troubles  were  nearly  over,  when  death  separated  them  for  even 
Poor  Celeste  had  been  ill  from  trouble  and  uneasiness  since  their  first 
day's  journey:  obliged  to  ensure  her  own  and  her  sister's  safety  by 
remaining  shut  up  without  taking  any  fresh  air,  she  arrived  at  Noyaz  in 
such  a  state  of  suffering,  that  it  was  impossible  to  resume  their  journey ; 
and  that  very  night  she  expired  in  terrible  suffering. 

The  cause  of  her  agonies,  which  lasted  several  hours,  has  never  been 
discovered,  but  remains  a  fearful  mystery.  Eulalie  and  her  guide,  who 
were  the  only  witnesses,  believed  they  could  trace  poison,  administered 
in  a  soothing  draught.  Their  suspicion  fell  on  a  wretch  who  had  found 
out  their  secret,  and  who  later  escaped  M.  de  Fromental's  vengeance  by 
flight.  Mademoiselle  Boguais  received  tender  hospitality  when  she 
arrived  at  Chd.teaubriant,  and  there  recovered  her  health,  which  had 
been  greatly  disordered  by  so  many  shocks.  While  in  that  place,  she 
heard  of  her  mother's  death  from  typhus  fever  in  the  prison  at  Le  Mans. 
She  then  wished  to  go  back  to  Angers,  to  be  near  her  youngest  sisters, 
but  the  fear  of  uselessly  compromising  them  and  her  grandmother,  made 
her  postpone  her  return. 

M.  de  Fromental  had  just  told  her  of  the  feelings  which  were  filling 
his  heart.  In  his  exquisite  delicacy  he  was  not  satisfied  with  a  consent 
merely  from  gratitude,  but  he  obtained  that  of  Eulalie's  grandmother ; 
and  a  letter  of  M.  Boguais,  written  from  Germany,  had  brought  him  a 
father's  thanks  and  blessing. 

The  marriage  took  place  at  Ch&teaubriant.  M.  de  Fromental  obtained 
leave  of  absence,  which  allowed  him  to  take  his  young  wife  into  Lorraine, 
there  to  be  made  known  to  her  new  relatives.  He  was  recalled  to  Le 
Mans,  through  the  desire  of  liberating  his  sister-in-law,  Mademoiselle 
Rosalie  Boguais.  She  had  come  out  of  prison,  thanks  to  the  courageous 
efforts  of  a  noble  woman,  who  is  still  remembered  by  many  Vendeans. 
An  excellent  man,  M.  Amoult,  procured  a  passport  for  her  at  the  peril  of 
his  life,  and  himself  conducted  her  to  Nancy,  where  she  found  her  sister. 

Such  is  Madame  de  FroraentaFs  touching  story,  told  with  all  its 
beautiful  details.  Much  love  and  gratitude  were  bestowed  on  M.  de 
Fromental  by  all  the  Boguais  family.  He  still  shewed  himself  the  best 
and  most  noble  of  men.  He  supported  his  father-in-law  in  exile,  and 
bought  back  a  part  of  his  fortune  for  him.  M.  de  Fromental  died  child- 
less, after  five  years  happy  married  life,  deeply  lamented,  and  most 
tenderly  beloved  as  husband,  benefactor,  and  friend. 

vou  10.  21  PART  57. 


306  THE  MONTHLY  PACKBT. 


EAST  LONDON  NURSING  SOCIETY. 

Those  who  know  of  illness  only  in  a  country  parish,  where  a  neighbour's 
willing  kindness  and  experience  oflen  to  a  great  degree  make  up  for 
lack  of  training,  and  where  many  a  household  is  ready  and  anxious  to 
provide  nourishment  and  comforts  as  required,  will  need  to  be  reminded 
how  very  different  is  the  state  of  the  sufferer,  whether  from  lingering 
illness  or  from  accident,  in  the  crowded  street  of  a  London  parish  or 
district,  where  all  are  engaged  in  the  same  struggle  for  a  livelihood, 
where  there  are  none  to  help. 

Many  suffer  severely  and  permanently  from  the  want  of  a  nurse  who 
can  and  will  carry  out  the  doctor's  orders,  and  enforce  the  plainest 
and  most  essential  sanitary  laws.  To  provide  such  a  nurse  is  always 
difficult,  oflen  impossible;  yet  there  are,  in  every  large  town,  many 
more  cases  needing  skilful  and  experienced  care  than  can  be  received 
into  hospitals. 

In  Liverpool  an  admirable  system  is  at  work,  which  provides  for 
each  district  a  resident  trained  nurse.  Ought  not  as  much  to  be  done 
in  London? 

The  present  attempt  to  meet  an  acknowledged  and  pressing  need  must 
be  the  more  fully  described,  that  it  is  difficult  for  a  stranger  to  see  the  full 
practical  working  of  the  plan.  At  the  Nurses*  Home,  48,  Philpot  Street, 
he  may  see  the  Matron,  a  lady  who  is  admirably  qualified  for  her  position 
by  her  own  experience  as  a  trained  nurse  and  knowledge  of  district  work. 
There  also  he  will  find  such  probationers  as  may  be  training  in  the  London 
hospital ;  but  to  know  what  is  actually  being  done,  he  must  follow  the 
nurse  to  Poplar,  Bromley,  Stepney;  he  will  see  her  at  her  daily  work,  going 
out  morning  by  morning  to  give  counsel  and  aid,  to  dress  the  wound, 
to  bandage,  to  poultice,  to  attend  to  general  health,  to  advise  for  the 
sick  child,  to  say  when  admission  to  the  hospital  or  instant  recourse  to 
the  doctor  is  necessary,  to  teach  the  healthy  members  of  the  family  how 
to  soothe  and  relieve  inevitable  pain  and  wearinesss,  to  insist,  as  neither 
doctor  nor  chance  visitor  can,  on  attention  to  cleanliness  and  ventilation 
in  the  sick  room.  The  good  thus  done  does  not  pass  away  with  the 
occasion — many  homes  shew  permanent  good  effects  of  the  visits,  advice, 
and  example  of  the  nurse. 

This  much  her  skill,  experience,  and  authority  as  nurse  enable  her 
to  do.  Some  will  ask.  Can  she  do  no  moret  Her  true  office  and 
work  must  not  be  misunderstood.  Her  work  is  not  that  of  the 
clergyman,  nor  of  the  visitor  sent  by  him;  she  is  not  a  sister,  but  a 
nurse :  yet^  as  every  Christian  woman  knows,  it  is  at  once  her  privilege 
and  duty  to  be  ever  in  act  and  word  mindful  of  her  high  calling; 
and  surely  the  nurse,  in  self-forgetting  care  for  others,  may  especially 
feel  herself  to  be  following  humbly,  closely,  in  the  footsteps  of  our 


EAST  LONDON  NUESING  SOCIETY.  307 

Divine  Master,  who  stood  by  so  many  sick-beds,  and  ever  made  the 
healing  of  the  body  a  means  of  blessing  to  the  soul.  Words  of 
Christian  love  and  counsel  are  willingly  received  from  one  whose  daily 
visit  is  looked  forward  to  as  a  relief  and  comfort. 

To  return  to  practical  details.  Each  nurse  acts  under  a  lady 
superintendent,  who  allows  her  a  certain  quantity  of  soup  or  meat 
weekly,  and  to  whom  she  may  apply  when  other  comforts  for  the  sick 
are  urgently  needed ;  she  keeps  a  register  of  cases  attended,  in  which 
she  enters  how  such  supplies  are  distributed. 

Her  nursing  work  is  under  the  eye  of  the  matron,  who  visits  each 
district  frequently,  and  can  thus  judge  of  her  skill,  attention,  and  general 
conduct. 

Nurses  have  for  the  past  year  been  at  work  in  four  districts.  The 
number  of  cases  attended  necessarily  varies,  but  the  average  has  been 
220,  and  to  each  case  about  fifteen  visits  have  been  paid.  The  nurse  is 
everywhere  thankfully  received,  both  by  her  patients,  and  by  the  clergy 
and  laity  iuterested  in  the  welfare  of  the  people.  Other  districts  are 
now  applying  for  nurses,  and  are  ready  to  provide  lodgings,  and  ladies 
superintendent;  but  the  committee  who  are  responsible  for  the  wages 
and  clothing  of  each  nurse,  are  not  yet  able  to  add  to  the  number. 

Annual  subscriptions  to  the  amount  of  £45  suffice  to  maintain  a 
nurse. 

The  number  of  applications  for  nurses  to  attend  private  oases ;  and 
the  fact,  that  of  those  trained,  some  are  by  age,  disposition,  and 
previous  habits,  more  fit  for  district,  and  others  for  private  nursing- 
make  it  desirable  to  have  at  the  Home  nurses  who  can  be  sent,  on 
application  to  the  matron,  Mrs.  Duane,  to  any  family  needing  their 
services. 

(In  an  urgent  case,  in  a  clergyman's  family,  such  help  has  been 
freely  given;  but  in  regular  course)  the  profits  from  private  nursing, 
are  at  present  added  to  the  funds  for  maintaining  district  nurses  for 
the  poor;  it  is  however  hoped,  part  at  least  may  in  future  be  laid  by 
as  the  nucleus  of  a  retiring  or  pension  fund,  which  must  in  time  become 
necessary  to  such  a  society. 

Will  not  those  who  rejoice  in  the  blessings  of  health,  and  those  who 
know  the  sufferings  of  illness,  be  alike  desirous  to  aid  this  endeavour  to 
bring  help  and  comfort  to  the  homes  of  the  sick  and  sorrowful  ?  Annual 
subscriptions  and  donations  may  be  sent  to  the  Secretary,  48,  Pbilpot 
Street,  London  Hospital. 

All  contributions — nourishment,  medicine,  linen,  books,  pictures — 
would  be  gladly  received,  at  the  same  address,  by  Mrs.  Duane,  who 
is  at  all  times  ready  to  supply  any  information  required,  and  to  hear 
of  women  willing  to  train  as  nurses,  with  the  object  of  giving 
themselves  earnestly  to  either  branch  of  the  work  of  the  East  London 
Nursing  Society. 


308  THE  MONTHLY  PACKST. 


BITS  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK. 

(St.  Mark,  xiv.  13-16.) 

Our  Lord  knew  the  moment  when  this  man  would  he  passing  with  his 
pitcher  of  water.  He  must  have  seen  him  go  to  the  well,  or  have  known 
the  time  of  day  when  it  was  his  custom  to  do  so ;  He  knew  that  the 
'  upper  xoom'  in  that  house  was  '  the  guest-chamher  ;*  it  was  before  His 
mind's  eye  '  furnished  and  made  ready.' 

What  an  idea  this  gives  of  His  continual  presence !  He  knows  thd 
routine  of  our  day ;  the  hours  of  our  various  occupations,  and  what  time 
they  take ;  our  going  out  and  our  coming  in ;  the  places  we  visit ;  the 
persons  we  meet,  even  casually ;  and  He  sees  and  knows  not  only  the 
grand  old  forests  and  the  flowery  solitudes,  where  we  are  almost  con- 
strained to  remember  Him,  but  our  rooms !  our  furniture !  the  arrange- 
ment of  our  apartments!  and  lest  we  should  think  that  this  dose 
observation  belonged  only  to  His  sojourn  upon  earth,  we  are  told  thai 
He  afterwards  spoke  of  'the  street  which  is  called  Straight'  and  the 
house  therein ;  and  either  personaUy  or  by  His  angel,  of  the  temporaiy 
lodging  of  Peter,  in  the  house  by  the  sea-side.  May  all  our  little  every- 
day life  be  such  as  to  make  this  a  pleasant  thought.  Is  it  presumptuous 
to  carry  it  out  t  no ;  the  very  question  arises  from  that  unbelief  that 
would  make  some  things  too  great  and  some  too  small  for  Him,  ta 
Whose  eyes  in  truth  all  things  are  naked  and  open.  The  arrangement 
of  her  home  fiUs  a  large  place  in  the  care  of  every  right-minded  woman  ; 
and  as  luxury  in  decoration  is  certainly  one  of  the  strongest  features  of 
society  at  the  present  day,  it  cannot  but  be  a  fit  subject  to  consider  as  in 
His  sight,  with  the  recollection  that  He  sees  '  the  room  furnished.'  To 
lay  down  rules  is  difficult  for  oneself  and  impossible  for  others,  especiall/ 
as  in  the  diversities  of  human  constitution  there  may  on  this  subject  be 
in  one  mind  a  coarse  insensibility,  and  in  another  a  morbid  fastidiousness^ 
so  that  while  to  one  the  temptation  is  to  gratify  the  eye  at  any  cost,  the 
temptation  of  the  other  is  to  overlook  or  despise  the  graces  of  social  life» 
and  to  have  such  a  dull  and  gloomy  home  as  once  led  a  little  child  to 
exclaim,  '  I  know  He  sees  me  in  the  pretty  garden,  but  I  don't  believe 
He  looks  into  this  dirty  little  dingy  room  I '  but,  making  full  allowance 
for  every  diversity  of  taste,  perception,  and  circumstance,  yet  surely  an 
influence  producing  some  effect,  and  affording  either  encouragement  or 
rebuke,  would  be  produced  by  the  habitual  recoUection  that  '  Christ 
watches  by  a  Christian's  hearth,'  and  observes  all  those  little  doings  or 
omissions  which  express  character  in  a  language  as  distinct  as  words ; 
that  the  feminine  duty,  '  well-ordered  home,  man's  best  delight,  to  make,* 
is  as  much  within  £Us  cognizance  as  the  management  of  a  hospital ;  and 
that  the  womanly  thankfulness  that  all  at  home  is  bright  and  fair  sounds 

in  His  ear  as  distinctly  as  her  evening  hymn. 

C.  B. 


309 


THE  WAR,  1870. 

(Isaiah,  xxyi.  12.)  • 

God  the  Father,  Who  created 

This  Thy  world  in  purity ; 
Who  Thine  own  hast  never  hated, 

Even  when  they  turned  from  Thee : 
Hear  the  battle-cries  increase— 
Heavenly  Father,  grant  us  peace. 

God  the  Sok,  Whose  love  unbounded 
Brought  us  life,  through  bitter  death; 

Who  by  murderers  surrounded, 

Prayed  for  them  with  failing  breath : 

Bid  the  angry  warfare  cease — 

Jesus,  Saviour,  grant  us  peace. 

God  the  Holt  Ghost,  Whose  blessing 

Ever  rests  in  quiet  hearts ; 
Who,  Thy  grace  divine  possessing, 

Meekly  strive  to  do  their  parts : 
From  dismay  our  souls  release — 
Holt  Spirit,  grant  us  peace. 

God  Triune,  great  God  Eternal, 
Let  Thy  sovereign  Voice  be  heard ; 

Hosts  of  earth,  and  hosts  infernal, 
Tremble  at  the  mighty  word. 

Echoed  from  Thy  « Holy  Hill,' 

Downward  wafted,  '  Peace,  be  still !' 

Peace  to  armies  rushing  madly, 
Fiercely  shedding  brothers'  blood ; 

Peace  to  orphans,  wailing  sadly. 
Peace  to  weeping  widowhood. 

Peace  for  aching  heart  and  head. 

Peace  to  d3ring  and  to  dead. 

God  of  mercy,  God  of  pity. 
Bring  us  to  Thy  rest  above. 

In  the  new  and  Heavenly  City, 

Naught  can  mar  the  peace  and  love. 

Call  Thy  weaxy  children  there. 

Triune  God!  oh,  hear  our  prayer ! 


810  THE  MONTHLY  FACKJBT. 


CONSEltS  DE  LECTURES  FRANCAISES- 

PAB  MADAME  DE  WITT,  n6e  GUIZOT. 

Lettm  du  Phrt  Lacordairt  a  sa  FamtUe  €t  d  sea  ami«,  Suivies  de  Lettm  h  ta  Mhr§ 
PubH^les,  par  M.  Villard. — On  a  la  beaucoup  de  lettres  da  P^re  Lacordairei  sans  jamaia 
■e  lAHser,  tant  la  grandear  et  la  largear  de  son  &me,  comme  de  son  esprit,  s'y  tronrent 
m^l^es  i  une  simplicity  Tranche  et  affectaeuse.  Les  deax  grandes  biographies  da 
cel^bre  Dominicain,  celle  de  Vami  da  couvent,  le  P^re  Chocame,  et  celle  de  Tami 
da  monde,  M.  Foisset,  Tadmirable  portrait  ^crit  par  Tami  de  tons  les  temps,  le 
compagnon  de  toates  les  lattes,  le  Comte  de  Montalemb^t,  n'avaient  pas  saffi  k 
noas  faire  connaitre  le  P^re  Lacordaire  tout  entier  sans  la  pablication  de  ses  lettres. 
C*est  nn  plaisir  qai  menace  de  devenir  rare  qae  de  rencontrer  dans  le  sein  da 
Catholicisme  des  imes  k  la  fois  convaincaes  et  libres  avec  lesquelles  les  points  da 
■jmpathie  sont  et  restent  pins  frappants  qae  les  dissonnances. 

1  VoL  in  8vo.    V*  Palmb,  52,  Rne  de  Grenelle,  St.  Germain. 

Madamt  la  Marquise  de  Barol,  sa  vie  raconiiey  par  le  Vicomte  de  Melnn. — ^Ici 
encore,  nous  aroos  la  joie  d*admirer  sans  rdserves  une  grande  existence  et  nne  grande 
intelligence  toat  entiere  consacr^es  au  Service  de  Diea.  Madame  de  Barol,  I'amie 
et  la  protectrice  de  Silvio  Pellico,  chez  laqaelle  il  a  troavd  an  refuge  au  sortir  de 
MesprtaonSj  et  anpr^  de  laqaelle  il  a  achov^  ses  jours,  la  fondatrice  et  la  pers^r^rante 
amie  de  tant  d'cBuvres  de  charit^  a  rencontr^  an  hbftorien  digne  d'elle  ches  M.  le 
Yicomte  de  Melun,  celui  qui  a  fait  connaitre  an  monde  la  SoBur  Rosalie,  et  qui, 
depuis  bien  ann^es,  dirige  li  Paris  tant  de  travaux  utiles.  Le  moindre  n*est 
assurdment  pas  I'cntvre  des  renseignements,  secoqrable  k  tons  ceux  qui  desirent 
s'o^cuper  des  pauvres  sans  pouvoir  les  visiter  h  domicile.  Un  mot  address^  an 
bureau  des  anncUes  de  la  Charity  avec  le  nom  et  Taddresae  de  Tindiffent,  procure, 
au  bout  de  deux  jours,  des  renseignements  tr^  coroplets  et  exacts  sur  la  situation  et 
les  mantes  du  demandeur.  CEuvre  modeste,  s'il  en  ftit,  mais  d*une  grande  atillt^ 
pratique  et  qui  devrait  ^tre  mieux  connu. 

1  Vol.  in  8vo.    DouxiOL,  29,  Bne  de  Toumon. 

Le  Chdteau  de  Zolkien  cu  la  Pologne  au  X  VII  •  Sikk^—LeH  petits  r^its  empnint^ 
k  I'ancienne  histoire  de  Pologne  et  tirtfi,  par  une  jeune  fiUe,  des  documena 
autheutiques,  out  ce  caract^re  particulier  a*une  profonde  sympathie  pour  lea 
Polonais,  pour  leur  courage  et  leur  h^ro'ique  ddvouement,  ami  au  sentiment  de  ce 
qui  leur  manque  et  de  ce  qui  a  toajours  fait  ^chouer  leurs  plus  nobles  entreprises, 
c'est  k  dire  le  bon  sens,  la  pr^voyance  et  la  notion  du  possible,  m^rites  qui  n'ont 
iamais  fait  partie  de  Theritage  des  qualit^s  fortes  et  des  charmes  s^uisants  que  lea 
Polonais  conservent  encore  j  usque  dans  leur  am^re  destin^e. 

1  VoL  in  l2mo.    Michel  Lbvt,  2,  Rue  Vivienne. 

Scenes  d*£nfance  et  de  Jeunesse,  par  Mad.  de  Pressens^. — ^Les  lecteurs  du  Montkjtf 
Packet  connaissent  la  grftce  s^rieuse  et  les  pures  le9ons  des  livres  de  Madame  de 
Pressens^.  lis  retrouveront  ces  solides  agrements  dans  le  nouveau  volume  qu'elle 
offre  au  public,  particuli^rement  dans  /e  Lundi  de  Paques  et  le  Petit  Marquis, 

I  Vol.  in  12mo.    Metstteib,  88,  Rue  des  Saints  P^res. 

L* Histoire  de  France^  depuis  les  Temps  les  plus  reculA  jusqu*en  1789,  racont^e  a  mes 
Petits  En/ants,  par  M.  Guizot.  Onvrage  iUustr^  de  200  gravnres  sur  bois,  public 
par  livraisons  paraissant  chaqne  semaine,  chez  M.  Hacnette,  79,  Boulevard  St. 
Grermain. — Le  plan  et  le  but  de  1  ouvrage  sont  retraced  dans  une  lettre  de  M.  Guizot 
Il  aeB  ^diteurs  dout  nous  donnous  ici  nn  fragment : — 

'  Vous  avez  entendu  dire,  Messieurs,  que  depuis  plusieurs  ann^es,  je  me  donne  le 
patemel  plaisir  de  raconter  Thistoire  dc  France  k  mes  petits-en&nts,  et  vous  me 
demandez  si  je  n'ai  pas  dessein  de  publier  ces  Etudes  de  famille  sar  la  grande  vie  de 


CORRESPONDENCE.  311 

Botre  patrle.  Telle  n'ayait  pas  M  d*abord  ma  pens^e,  c*^tait  de  mea  petits  enfant* 
et  d'eoz  seals  que  je  me  pr^ccapais.  J'ayais  It  dessein  de  lenr  faire  vraiment 
comprendre  notre .  histoire  et  de  les  j  int^resser  en  satisfaisant  k  la  fois  lenr 
intelligence  et  lenr  imagination  en  la  leor  montrant  k  la  fois  claire  et  yivante. 
Tonte  histoire,  celle  de  la  France  snrtoat,  est  nn  vaste  et  long  drame  oh.  let 
^v^nements  s*encbainent  selon  des  loin  d^tennin^es,  et  dont  les  actenrs  jouent  des 
rdles  qn'ils  n'ont  pas  re9aes  tout  faits  ni  appris  par  coeur,  et  qai  sont  les  i^sultats, 
non  settlement  de  lenr  situation  native,  mais  de  lenr  propre  pens^e  et  de  lenr  propre 
Yolont^.  II  7  a  dans  Thistoire  des  peuples,  deux  series  de  causes  k  la  fois 
essentiellement  diverses  et  intimement  nnies ;  les  causes  naturelles  qui  president  an 
conrs  g^n^ral  des  ^v^nements  et  les  causes  libres  qui  viennent  y  prendre  place.  Les 
hommes  ne  font  pas  toute  Thistoire,  elle  a  des  lois  qui  lui  viennent  de  plus  haut, 
mais  les  hommes  sont,  dans  rtiistoirCf  des  etres  acti5)  et  libres  qui  y  produisent  des 
r^sultats  et  y  exercent  nne  influence  dont  ils  sont  responsables.  Les  causes  fatales 
et  les  causes  libres,  les  lois  d^termin^cs  des  ^v^nements  et  les  actes  spontan^j  de  la 
liberty  bumaine,  c'est  Ik  Thistoire  tout  entiere.    Cest  dans  la  reproduction  iidele  de 

ces  deux  dl^ments  que  consistent  la  v^rit^  et  la  moralitd  de  ses  r^eits Je  n'ai 

jamais  ^t^  plus  papp^  de  ce  double  caract^re  de  Thistoire  qu'en  la  racontant  k  mes 
petits-enfants. ....  Pour  atteindre  le  but  que  je  me  proposais,  jai  toujours  pris  soin 
de  rattacher  mes  r^its  on  mes  reflexions  aux  grands  ^v^nements  on  aux  grands 

personnages  de  Thistoire En  la  racontant  k  mes  petits-enfants,  je  me  suis 

quelquefois  attardd  dans  quelque  anecdote  particuli^re  oh  je  trouvais  le  moyen  de 
mettre  en  vive  lumi^re  I'esprit  dominant  du  temps  ou  les  mGsurs  caractkristiques  des 

{copulations,  mais,  sauf  ces  rares  exceptions,  c*est  toujours  dans  les  grands  faits  et 
es  grands  personnages  historiques  que  je  me  suis  ^tabli  pour  en  faire  dans  mes 
r^citSy  ce  qu*ils  ont  4t4  dans  la  realite,  le  centre  et  le  foyer  de  la  vie  do  la  France.' 


CORRESPONDENCE. 

Sir, 

I  think  it  possible  that  R  H.  B.,  (to  whom  we  owe  the  very  interesting 
^Traditions  of  Tirol,')  and  perhaps  others  of  your  readers,  may  care  to  hear  some  of 
the  particulars,  as  they  are  treasured  hj  his  family,  of  the  defence  of  Schamitz  by 
Baron  Swinbnme.  R.  H.  B.  speaks  of  it  in  No.  XIII.  of  the  Traditions  of  Tirol, 
vol.  ix.  page  508.  That  defence  was  so  gallant  as  to  oil  forth  the  respect  and 
admiration  even  of  his  enemies,  and  Baron  Swinburne  was  given  permission  to 
name  his  own  terms  of  surrender. 

He  requested  for  himself,  and  those  under  him,  that  they  might  be  allowed  to 
retain  their  swords ;  this  was  granted,  and  the  prisoners  were  sent  to  Aix-la-Chapelle, 
where  everyone  was  asking  in  astonishment  who  were  *les  prisonniers  avec  Teptfe 
a  c6!^.' 

The  Eagles  of  Austria  that  had  been  so  nobly  defended  by  the  Englishman  and 
his  little  band,  nerer  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  French.  One  of  the  Tirolese  escaped 
with  the  colours  vrrapped  round  his  body  under  his  clothes,  and  though  he  was 
hunted  among  the  mountains  for  months,  he  was  neyer  taken ;  and  some  years  after 
he  came  to  his  Commander  in  Vienna  and  gave  him  the  colours  he  had  so  bravely 
defended.  They  are  now  in  the  possession  of  Baron  Edward  Swinburne,  the  son  of 
the  defender  of  Schamitz,  who  himself  won  before  he  was  eighteen  the  Order  of  *  the 
Iron  Crown,'  by  an  act  that  well  deserves  to  be  called  *  a  golden  deed ;'  and  ere  he 
was  twenty  he  had  led  his  first  and  last  forlorn  hope,  where  he  received  so  severe  a 
wound  as  to  cost  him  his  leg,  which  has  incapacitated  him  for  further  service. 

His  father  received  the  highest  military  decoration  of  Austria,  that  of  *  Maria 
Teresa ;'  he  fon^t  at  Austerlits  and  Wagram ;  on  the  latter  occasion  he  was  severely 
wounded.    Later  in  life,  he  was  for  many  years  Governor  of  Milan. 

Hoping  that  a  short  record  of  true  and  faithful  services  performed  by  Englishmen 
for  their  adopted  country,  may  prove  of  some  interest  to  your  readers,  and  with  many 
thanks  to  B.  H.  B.  for  what  has  been  of  so  much  mterest  to  ns, 

I  am.  Sir,  yours  faithinny, 

A  SwiiTBunNn. 


312  THE  MONTHLY  PACKIT. 


^Notices  to  Cobbespokdents. 

No  MS.  can  &i  returned  uide»s  the  Author's  ntune  and  ctddreu  he  written  on  tV;  and 
^tarnp*  be  sent  with  it. 

Contributions  must  often  be  delayed  for  want  ofspac%  hut  their  writers  may  he  assured 
that  when  room  can  be  found  they  shafl  appear. 

Many  thanks  are  returned  by  The  Mission  Sisters  of  St  P«ter*s,  Pljmoiith,  ybr  55.  in 
stamps,  Jrom  D.  L. ;  a  Parcel  from  J.  E.  A.,  who  begged  to  he  told  the  cost  of  carriage, 
therefore  with  thanks  the  Sisters  inform  her  that  it  was  Is.  Gdl ;  a  Parcel  of  Flannel  and 
prints  and  books  from  D.  £.  B. — the  hut  is  gratefully  acknowledged  as  the  third  donation 
from  the  same  kind  helper ;  Is.  6d  in  stamps^  from  Miss  W.  Exterior  Sisters  of  St. 
Maiy's,  who  have  kindly  sent  presents  of  clothing,  ffc,  are  requested  to  believe  how  very 
speedily  and  usefully  their  gifts  have  been  transferred  to  the  many  who  needed  them, 

P.  H.  will  be  obliged  to  any  of  the  readers  of  The  Monthly  Packet  who  can  gioe  her 
some  information  upon  the  process  of  printing  natural  ferns  upon  wood ;  or  if  there  be  any 
hand-book  written  on  this  subject,  P.  H.  having  vainly  inquired  for  such  a  publication  in 

some  cf  the  principcd  JJondon  art  shops. Does  P.  H.  mean  the  effect  produced  by 

spattering  in  sepia  or  Indian  ink  around  leaves  laid  down  on  woocl,  and  afterwards  touched 
up  by  the  handf 

Janet  will  be  glad  if  the  Editor  or  any  of  the  Correspondents  of  The  Monthly  Packet 
can  tell  her  of  a  good  book  of  Questions  and  Answers  on  the  Collects,  suitable  for  very 

ignorant  girls  of  from  twelve  to  seventeen  in  a  Sunday  School  in  the  north  of  England. 

The  Questions  on  the  Collects,  in  tlte  Third  Volume  of  The  Monthly  Paper  of  Sunday 
Teaching  (^Mozleys)  would  best  answer  your  purpose. — Ed. 

Eta. — Mercer's  Hymn  Book  would  be  thankfully  received  for  The  Church  of  the 
Holy  Trinity,  Uazlemere,  High  Wycombe,  Bucks. 

Wilfred. — Surely  '  to  be  bound  upon  his  errand  *  does  not  mean  necessarily  that  he  is 
the  sender,  but  rather  duit  the  errand  concerned  him.  Moreover,  does  not  descending 
imply  ascending,  or  soaring  again,  in  the  case  of  a  celestial  being  f 

Declined  with  thanks. — Poem  on  War. 

Mr.  Allnutt  acknowledges,  with  thanks,  the  recemt  of  5s.  in  stamps,  from  A.  A.,  for 
The  Nursery  of  the  Good  Shepherd,  Portsea.  Mr,  Allnutt  has  cUso  addressed  a  letter 
to  A.  A.,  Post-ofBce,  Dereham,  which  will  fully  explain  the  apparent  carelessness  of 
which  she  complains. 

With  many  thanks,  A.  P.  has  decided  on  the  verse  beginning  *  God,  my  Father,  in  Tliy 
tight,*  for  morning,  and  the  following  for  evening: — 

*  Now  I  lay  mo  down  to  sleep, 
I  prnv  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep ; 
If  I  stiould  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take: 
And  this  I  ask  for  Jesos*  sake.* 

A.  P.  would  be  very  glad  to  hear  of  a  suitable  book  of  stories  to  read  to  the  same  little 

boy  of  four  as  a  treat  on  Sundays. Would  not  Agatnos  answer  the  purpose — using  the 

Say}ture  stories  before  the  allegories  f 

Presbyter  Anglicanus. — St.  Apollonia  was  an  aged  virgin  of  the  Church  at  Alexandria^ 
who  w€U  martyrM  in  a  tumult  of  the  people,  a.d.  249,  unasr  the  Emperor  Philip.  All  her 
teeth  were  knocked  out  by  blows  on  her  face,  and  she  was  then  burnt.  A  tooth  is  her 
emblem,  and  she  was  viewed  as  the  saint  to  be  invoked  in  tooth-ache.  We  do  not  know  of 
any  English  church  unckr  her  dedication. 


John  and  Charles  Mosley,  Printers,  Derby. 


THE 


MONTHLY    PACKET 


OF 


EVENING    READINGS 


OCTOBER,   1870. 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OF  DANTE. 

The  last  Canto  ended  with  the  arrival  of  the  poets  at  the  bridge  which 
spans  the  ninth  gulf,  the  prison  of  those  who  on  earth  have  caused 
divisions,  civil  or  religious,  among  mankind.  Dante  feels  language  fail 
him  when  he  tries  to  record  their  miserable  state,  as  he  sees  them  walk 
bleeding  and  mutilated  under  the  blows  of  a  fiend  who  hacks  each  as  he 
passes,  the  wounds  healing  again  and  ready  for  a  fresh  stroke  by  the 
time  the  round  is  completed.  Here  they  see  Mohammed,  Ali,  and  other 
heretics  and  schismatics ;  Curio,  with  the  tongue  cut  out  of  his  mouth, 
for  having  given  counsel  to  Julius  Csesar  to  embark  on  civil  war ;  Mosca 
degli  Uberti^  one  of  those  who  brought  about  the  establishment  of  the 
disastrous  feuds  of  the  Guelfs  and  Ghibellines ;  and  lastly,  Bertrand  de' 
Bom,  Viscount  of  Hauteforte  near  Ferigueux,  who  encouraged  Prince 
Henry  to  rebel  against  his  father,  Henry  II.  of  England.  This  last 
addresses  them  bearing  his  head  like  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  and  holds  it 
out  to  them  when  he  speaks,  for  the  sake  of  greater  distinctness. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  twenty-ninth  Canto,  Virgil  hastens  Dante 
from  the  ninth  to  the  tenth  and  last  gulf  of  the  eighth  circle,  saying 
that  it  is  now  midday  of  the  Saturday  before  Easter,  and  that  the  gulf 
is  twenty-two  miles  in  circumference,  so  that  he  cannot  possibly  stay  to 
see  all  its  occupants.  It  is  worthy  of  observation,  that  this  measurement 
18  almost  exactly  equal  to  the  circumference  of  the  city  of  Rome,  and 
the  coincidence  is  possibly  not  undesigned.  To  Virgil's  exhortation 
Dante  replies  that  he  is  looking  for  one  of  his  kinsmen  whom  he  has 
reason  to  believe  he  shall  find  in  the  ninth  gulf;  on  which  Virgil  rejoins, 
that  Geri  del  Bello,  cousin  of  Dante's  father,  had  already  passed  while 
the  poet  was  occupied  with  Bertrand  de  Born,  and  had  pointed  with  a 
threatening  gesture  at  him ;  being  discontented  apparently  that  none  of 
his  family  had  yet  avenged  his  death,  which  befell  him  in  the  midst  of  a 
dispute  with  one  of  the  family  of  the  Sacchetti. 

Then  they  walk  on  and  reach   the  tenth  gulf,   tenanted    by  liars 
in  word  and  deed.     The  first  whom  Dante  sees   are  afflicted  with 

VOL.   10.  22  PART  58. 


3 14  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

leprosy  and  other  loathsome  diseases,  and  lie  massed  on  the  ground 
in  shapeless  heaps.  These  are  Alchemists;  and  among  them  he 
sees  and  converses  with  Griffolino  of  Arezzo  and  Capocchio  of  Siena. 
Then,  in  the  thirtieth  Canto,  he  describes  the  torments  of  those  who 
in  life  personated  others  for  their  own  ends,  those  who  manufactured 
false  coin,  (of  whom  he  discourses  with  Adamo  of  Brescia ;)  and  lastly, 
the  liars  in  word,  Potiphar's  wife,  and  Sinon  the  Greek,  who  by  false 
representations  induced  the  Trojans  to  receive  the  wooden  horse  into 
their  city.  Adamo  and  Sinon  lie  within  arm's  length  of  each  other,  and 
when  the  former  mentions  Sinon  to  Dante,  and  describes  his  crime,  the 
latter,  in  rage  at  being  named,  clenches  his  fist  and  hits  him  a  smart 
blow,  returned  as  smartly  by  Adamo.  The  two  then  enter  into  a 
wordy  quarrel  of  coarse  sarcasm  at  each  other's  ailments,  Adamo  being 
afflicted  with  dropsy  and  Sinon  with  burning  fever;  at  which  Dante 
listens  till  called  off  by  Virgil  in  a  tone  of  rebuke  at  his  taking  interest 
in  such  low  wrangling,  though  his  shame  at  the  admonition  speedily 
ensures  Virgil's  forgiveness. 

Then,  in  the  thirty-first  Canto,  the  poets,  leaving  the  eighth  circle, 
take  their  way  across  the  border  to  the  ninth,  or  circle  of  traitors. 
Through  the  gloom  Dante  hears  the  sound  of  a  horn,  and  sees  what  he 
imagines  to  be  towers,  but  which  a  closer  inspection  shews  to  be  the 
giants  that  in  old  times  tried  to  scale  the  ramparts  of  Heaven,  seen 
only  from  the  waist  upward,  their  feet  standing  on  the  lower  level  of 
the  ninth  circle,  and  half  their  bodies  being  thus  hidden  from  the  poet's 
view  by  the  precipice.  The  first  giant  they  reach  is  ISiimrod,  whose  horn 
sounds  more  terribly  than  Orlando's  after  the  defeat  of  Charlemagne  at 
Koncesvalles,  which  we  are  told  was  heard  at  a  distance  of  eight  miles. 
He  venting  his  rage  in  a  confused  medley  of  words,  emblematic  of  the 
dispersion  of  tongues  at  Babel,  is  rebuked  by  Virgil,  who  leads  Dante 
to  the  left,  past  Ephialtes,  who  for  his  attempt  against  Heaven  is 
strongly  chained  by  both  neck  and  arms,  till  they  come  to  Antaeus, 
whose  form  issues  upright  and  unfettered  five  ells  above  the  level  of 
the  ground.  Virgil  invokes  his  aid,  assuring  him  of  Dante's  power  to 
revive  his  fame  among  men  if  ho  will  stoop  down  and  place  them  below 
in  the  ninth  circle.  The  giant  consents,  takes  up  the  poets  in  his  arms, 
and  places  them  lightly  at  his  feet,  then  instantly  raising  himself  till  he 
gains  hi&  former  position. 

The  three  concluding  Cantos  of  the  Inferno  describe  the  torments  of 
the  trsdtors  embedded  in  the  frozen  river  or  rather  lake  of  Cocytus,  to 
which  reference  has  already  been  made  at  the  end  of  the  fourteenth 
Canto.  This  ninth  circle  is  divided  into  four  parts,  named  Caina, 
Antenora,  Tolomea,  and  Giudecca,  and  occupied  by  betrayers  of  their 
kinsmen,  their  country,  their  friends,  and  their  benefactors,  respectively. 
There  seems  to  be  no  real  separation  between  these  different  regions, 
though  the  whole  slopes  gradually  towards  the  centre.  Some  think 
that  a  distinction  is  made  in  the  various  degrees  of  guilt  by  the  extent 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OP  DANTE.  315 

to  which  the  sinners  are  immersed  in  the  frozen  lake ;  but  this  does  not 
clearly  appear  from  the  poem,  except  that  the  occupants  of  the  Giudecca, 
like  flies  in  amber,  are  totally  imprisoned  beneath  the  surface.  The 
words  Caina  and  Giudecca  explain  themselves ;  Antenora  derives  its 
title  from  the  Trojan  prince  An  tenor,  who  according  to  some  accounts 
assisted  the  Greeks  at  the  destruction  of  Troy ;  while  Tolomea  is  named 
from  Ptolemy  King  of  Egypt,  who  assassinated  his  friend  Pompeius 
Magnus  on  his  arrival  by  sea  after  the  battle  of  Pharsalia. 

In  the  thirty-second  Canto,  the  'ladies'  of  line  10  are  the  Muses; 
Tabemich  in  line  28,  is  a  mountain  of  Sclavonia,  perhaps  not  now  to 
be  identified ;  Pietrapana,  a  peak  of  the  Appennines  near  Lucca.  The 
two  spirits  of  line  41  are  Alessandro  afld  Napoleone  degli  Albert!,  who 
quarrelled  and  fought  over  their  paternal  inheritance,  each  slaying  the 
other.  The  Bicenzio  is  a  small  river  which  flows  into  the  Arno  about 
a  dozen  miles  below  Florence.  The  traitor  of  line  61  is  Modred,  the 
nephew,  though  the  Italian  story  calls  him  son,  of  King  Arthur,  pierced 
through  by  his  spear  from  breast  to  back,  so  that  the  sun  shone  through 
him  and  made  a  hole  in  his  shadow.  It  will  be  seen  that  this  is 
different  from  the  version  adopted  by  Tennyson,  where 

*  Arthur  at  one  blow, 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself^  he  fell/ 

Focaccia  de'  Cancellieri  of  Pistoia,  a  young  man  of  notoriously  dissolute 
manners,  slew  his  uncle  in  a  fit  of  anger,  and  by  bis  conduct  is  said  to 
have  given  rise  to  the  parties  of  the  Bianchi  and  Neri  in  his  native 
city.  Somewhat  similar  was  the  crime  of  Sassuolo  Mascheroni,  though 
other  accounts  are  also  narrated  of  him.  Alberto  Camicione  de'  Pazzi 
murdered  his  cousin ;  Carlino,  of  the  same  family,  in  1303  accepted  a 
bribe  from  the  Florentines  to  betray  the  castle  of  Piano  di  Trevigne  in 
Valdamo,  in  which  several  of  the  Bianchi  had  taken  refuge.  Then  the 
poets  pass  to  the  next  region,  where  Dante  happens  to  strike  his  foot 
against  the  head  of  Bocca  degli  Abati,  whose  treachery  caused  the 
defeat  of  the  Florentines  at  Montaperti,  already  mentioned  in  connexion 
with  the  story  of  Farinata  in  the  tenth  Canto.  The  scene  that  follows 
is  singularly  energetic  and  picturesque.  It  will  be  remembered  that  the 
sinners  stood  face  downwards,  as  stated  in  line  37,  so  that  Dante  would 
have  to  use  some  effort  to  get  a  sight  of  Bocca*s  face,  as  he  would  not 
tell  his  name.  Then  we  have  mentioned  Buoso  da  Duera  of  Cremona, 
who  being  posted  with  a  large  force  in  firont  of  Parma  to  resist  Charles 
of  Anjou,  was  bribed  by  Guy  de  Montfort  to  leave  an  important  pass 
open  to  the  invading  army,  a  piece  of  treachery  which  brought  about 
the  destruction  of  Cremona.  Then  other  betrayers  of  Florence  during 
the  civil  discord  that  prevailed ;  and  lastly  Ganellone,  the  betrayer  of 
Charlemagne  at  Roncesvalles  in  the  Pyrenees,  the  defeat  already  alluded 
to  in  the  preceding  Canto,  and  Tebaldello  de'  Manfred!,  Governor  of 


316  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Faenza,  who  Burrendered  that  city  to  Giovanni  Count  of  Bomagna  in 
1282.  After  this  the  poets  continue  their  journey,  till  on  the  confines 
of  Antenora  and  Tolomea  they  behold  the  two  spirits  of  line  125, 
Ugolino  della  Gherardesca  and  Buggieri  d^li  Ubaldini,  of  whom  we 
shall  hear  more  in  the  following  Canto. 


THE  INFERNO.— CANTO  XXXEL 

Had  I  at  my  command  rhymes  harsh  and  bitter 

Such  as  might  suit  the  pit  of  melancholy, 

Base  of  all  other  rocks  \  it  then  were  fitter 
That  I  should  press  out  into  language  fully 

My  &ncy's  juices ;  but  such  sternness  lacking 

Not  without  fearfulness  I  bring  me  truly 
To  speak.     For  'tis  no  jester's  undertaking 

To  paint  the  base  and  centre  of  creation, 

Nor  of  a  tongue  to  infant  cries  awaking. 
But  may  those  ladies  hear  my  invocation  10 

Who  erst  Amphion  to  build  Thebes  assisted ; 

So  shall  the  truth  be  one  with  my  narration. 
O  people  beyond  all  to  ill  enlisted, 

Who  fill  a  spot  whereof  to  speak  appalleth, 

Better  ye  here  as  sheep  or  goats  existed ! 
There  as  we  stood  in  the  dark  pit  that  falleth 

Slant  from  the  giant's  feet  ev'n  to  the  lowest, 

And  at  the  high  wall  yet  I  gazed,  there  calleth 
A  voice  unto  me,  'Mark  well  how  thou  stowest 

Thy  footsteps,  lest  thou  make  sad  interference  20 

With  thy  poor  brethren's  heads,  as  on  thou  goest' 
Then  saw  I^  thereto  turning  in  adherence. 

Before  me  and  below,  a  lake  congealed 

And  seeming  glass  not  water  in  appearance. 
Never  is  Austrian  Danube  so  concealed 

By  winter's  thickest  vail,  nor  Tanais  sweeping 

'Neath  the  cold  heaven,  as  was  here  revealed ; 
H&d  Tabemich  or  Pietrapana  heaping 

Their  mighty  masses  fidlen  there,  not  even 

The  rim  would  have  gone  crick.    And  as  when  peeping        80 
Snout  above  water  'neath  the  midnight  heaven 

The  frog  stands  still  and  croaks,  while  thoughts  of  gleaning 

Oii  through  the  village  maiden's  dreams  are  driven ; 
So,  ice-bound  to  where  shame  appeareth,  keening 

Shrilly  the  spirits  stood,  of  wan  complexion 

And  teeth  like  storks'  note  chattering.    Downwards  leaning 


THE  DIVINA  COMMBDIA  OF  DANTE.  817 

Each  kept  his  face  concealed  ;  their  sore  affection 

Of  mouth  the  freezing  rigour  testified, 

Their  eyes  gave  witness  of  the  heart's  dejection. 
Gazing  somewhile  around  me,  I  descried  40 

Two  at  my  feet  so  mutually  enlacing, 

That  hair  with  hair  was  mingled.    Then  I  cried, 
'  Say  ye  who  stand  thus  hreast  to  hreast  embracing. 

Say  who  are  ye  f '    And  back  their  necks  they  strained. 

And  when  their  glances  were  towards  me  facing, 
Their  eyes  before  all  watery  inwards,  drained 

Tears  through  the  lids ;  and  then  the  frost  alighted     ' 

Thereon,  that  frozen  'twixt  them  they  remained. 
Plank  unto  plank  hath  dovetail  ne'er  united 

So  strongly ;  whereon  like  two  goats  together  50 

They  butted  ;  them  such  anger  had  excited. 
And  one  deprived  through  that  most  bitter  weather 

Of  both  his  ears,  exclaimed,  yet  downwards  bending, 

*'  Why  keep  us  so  within  thy  glance's  tether  1 
If  who  these  are  thou  wouldst  be  apprehending, 

They  from  their  sire  Alberto  did  inherit 

The  valley  whence  Bicenzio's  wave  descending 
Doth  flow.     One  body  bore  them ;  and  a  spirit, 

Search  all  Caina  through,  shalt  thou  find  never 

That  more  to  be  encrystalled  here  doth  merit.  60 

Not  him  whose  breast  and  shade  did  Arthur  sever 

At  that  one  blow,  well  with  his  might  agreeing ; 

Not  even  Focaccia ;  not  him  whose  head  ever 
Projecting  outwards  hindereth  me  from  seeing, 

And  was  Sassuolo  Mascheroni  named ; 

Well  truly  shouldst  thou  know  him,  Tuscan  being. 
And  that  no  further  speech  from  me  be  claimed, 

I  am  Camicion,  looking  for  the  traces 

Of  Carlin,  who  shall  make  me  less  ashamed.' 
Then  I  descried  a  thousand  doggish  faces,  70 

Made  so  by  cold ;  whence  shudder  cometh  o'er  me, 

And  will  come  ever,  at  those  icy  spaces. 
Whilst  passing  on  to  the  mid  point  before  me, 

Whereto  all  gravitating  force  uniteth, 

And  trembling  at  the  eternal  gloom  I  bore  me ; 
Naught  know  I  whether  will  or  chance  inviteth 

Or  fate;  but  going  where  the  heads  are  thickest 

My  foot  'gainst  one  face  violently  smiteth. 
He  weeping  straight  exclaimed,  *  Wherefore  kickest 

Me  so  ?  unless  thou  come  fresh  vengeance  taking  80 

For  Montaperti,  why  to  hurt  me  seekest?' 


318  THE  MOXTHLY  PACKET. 

Then  I,  '  Mj  Master,  here  thy  progress  breaking 
Await,  till  of  some  doubt  through  him  I  rid  me ; 
Then  will  I  on,  what  haste  thou  wiliest  making/ 

Mj  guide  stopped  still,  and  I  in  quest  applied  me 
To  him  who  yet  in  harshest  tones  blasphemed, 
^  Who  art  thou,  who  so  angrily  has  chid  me  V 

'And  who  art  thou,'  he  answered,  *  who  hast  dreamed 
To  pass  through  Antenora,  blows  according 
That  wert  thou  living  would  too  hard  be  deemed  t' 

^Living  I  am,  and  set  for  thy  rewarding,'  90 

Was  my  reply,  *  if  fame  to  thee  doth  matter, 
Space  for  thy  name  among  my  notes  affording.' 

*  Quite  the  reverse  I  want :  off  with  thy  chatter,' 

Said  he,  ^  and  give  me  reason  for  complaining 
N6  more ;  ill  knowst  thou  in  this  place  to  flatter.' 

Then  by  the  scalp  I  seized  him,  and  retaining 

Firm  hold  I  said,  '  Thy  name  thou  needs  must  give  me. 
Or  not  one  hair  slialt  thou  have  here  remaining.' 

'  Not  even,'  he  said,  *  if  thou  of  all  deprive  me,  100 

Will  I  my  name  or  face  to  view  be  lending. 
If  on  the  head  a  thousand  blows  thou  drive  me.' 

I  in  my  hand  his  hair  collected  rending, 

More  than  one  lock  already  thence  had  haled. 

He  shrieking  all  the  while,  and  downwards  bending 

His  eyes,  when  cned  another,  *  What  hath  ailed 
Thee,  Bocca?  is't  not  enough  thy  jaws  should  chatter. 
But  thou  must  bark?  what  fiend  hath  thee  assailed!' 

*  Now  for  more  words  of  thine,  ill-minded  traitor,' 

I  said,  '  I  care  not ;  of  the  truth  disclosed  110 

To  thy  disgracing  will  I  be  narrator.' 
'  Away,'  he  said,  *  speak  as  thou  art  disposed ; 

But  him  forget  not,  when  thy  footstep  leaveth 

This  place,  whose  tongue  so  glib  hath  interposed. 
Here  he  the  money  of  the  Frenchmen  grieveth  ; 

"Him  of  Duera,"  thou  mayst  say,  "I  traced 

Where  the  cold  pool  the  guilty  ones  receiveth." 
And  if  thou  ask  who  else  is  here  encased, 

Lo  Beccheria,  he  whose  throat  the  sweeping 

Bevenge  of  Florence  gashed,  near  thee  is  placed.  120 

Then  John  Soldanier,  his  station  keeping 

Yonder  with  Ganellon,  and  him  whose  treason 

Unbarred  Faenza's  gates  when  men  were  sleeping.' 
Then  leaving  him,  we  saw  after  a  season 

Two  ice-bound  in  a  nook,  with  heads  so  mixed    ^ 

That  this  was  cowl  to  that ;  and  as  by  reason 


MUSINGS  OVER  THE  CHRISTIAN  TEAR.  819 

Of  want  one  gnaws  a  crast,  so  the  tipper  fixed 
.  His  teeth  upon  the  fiesh  beneath  him  lying, 

Where  to  the  nape  the  brain  base  is  affixed. 
So  Menalippus'  temples,  Tjdens  dying  160 

Did  gnaw  not  otherwise  in  hate  disdainful, 

Than  he  the  skull  and  parts  around.     Then  crying 
To  him,  ^  O  thou  who  shew'st  by  sign  so  baneful. 

Thy  hate  of  him  on  whom  thou  dost  regale  thee, 

Tell  me,'  I  said,  '  the  cause ;  it  may  be  gainful. 
That  if  thou  dost  on  his  account  bewail  thee, 

I  learning  who  ye  are  and  his  transgression, 

In  the  upper  world  hereafler  may  avail  thee. 
If  that  I  speak  with  lose  not  its  expression.' 

(To  be  continued.) 


MUSINGS  OVER  THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR 
AND  LYRA  INNOCENTIUM. 

ST.  LUKE. 

Here  we  have  the  contrast  between  St.  Luke  and  Deraas,  both  pupils 
of  the  same  Saint,  side  by  side  in  his  cell  in  his  firat  imprisonment,  but 
in  the  last — alas!  only  Luke  is  with  him,  Demas  having  loved  this 
present  world.  The  thought  leads  to  that  which  must  often  have  wrung 
the  hearts  of  many — the  question  why,  when  in  all  other  cases  results 
follow  exactly  upon  given  treatment,  in  the  case  of  the  human  soul,  the 
effects  should  be  so  entirely,  often  so  piteously,  diverse !  So  it  is ;  and 
it  is  well,  only  too  well,  that  we  should  take  warnikig  that  to  consort 
with  a  Saint  gives  no  security. 

*  Vainly  before  the  shrine  he  bends, 

Who  knows  not  the  true  pilgrini^s  part ; 
The  martyr's  cell  no  safety  lends 
To  him  who  wants  the  martyr^s  heart.* 

On  the  other  hand,  what  a  blessing  waits  on  a  true  follower  such  as 
was  Luke,  the  beloved  physician,  not  only  to  the  body  but  to  the  soul, 
delighting  (as  we  are  reminded  in  the  note)  to  bring  home  to  the 
contrite  heart  such  messages  of  mercy  as  the  parables  of  forgiveness! 
Like  St.  Luke,  who  treasured  up  for  us  the  Song  of  the  Angels  and 
the  Canticles  of  the  Church,  such  a  faithful  spirit  is  verily  worthy  of 
entering  into  the  gleam  '  that  round  the  martyr's  death-bed  plays ;'  and 
thus,  while  the  world  leads  away  its  frail  votaries,  the  true  fond  nurslings 
of  the  Church  cling  but  the  closer  to  their  Lord  and  to  her. 


320  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Next  we  have  the  bright  sweet  poem  on  *  Lessons  and  Accomplish- 
ments,' addressed  to  the  Church — 

*■  Mother  of  Christ's  children  dear, 
Teacher  true  of  loving  fear.* 

The  dedication  of  our  talents  is  the  subject.  Observe  the  two 
clauses,  each  connected  with  the  Saint,  as  painter  and  writer.  Like 
him,  who,  as  tradition  tells,  with  pencil  as  well  as  with  pen, 

*drew 
Christ's  own  holy  Mother  true,* 

may  our  dreams  and  fancies  of  artistic  beauty  be  pure,  and  to  the  praise 
of  God. 

And  again,  even  as  St.  LukQ  recorded  the  most  Holy  Life,  and 
handed  down  to  us  the  history  of  the  foundation  of  the  Church,  and 
the  doings  of  the  Saints,  so  when 

*'  o'er  our  childish  trance 
History  bids  her  visions  glance ; 
Wonders  wild  in  airy  measures, 
Records  grave  from  memory's  treasures ; 
Guide  thou  well  the  heart -winning  line, 
May  our  love  and  hate  be  thine.^ 

This  is  a  very  notable  sentence,  and  one  that  it  would  be  well  to  carrj 
with  us  in  our  judgements  and  predilections  as  we  read.  This  is  the 
way  to  find  the  true  scale,  and  keep  our  mind  from  being  warped  by 
admiration  of  unhallowed  genius,  successful  ambition,  or  that  more 
specious  liberality  which  is  really  want  of  faith. 

It  is  curious  that,  on  the  fact  that  St.  Luke  was  a  physician,  there 
should  be  no  clause  in  the  poem  for  the  consecration  of  science,  except 
so  far  as  it  is  included  in  the  title,  ^  Lessons  and  Accomplishments.'  In 
truth,  matters  relating  to  physical '  or  mathematical  science  never  did 
seem  to  come  much  before  the  poet's  mind:  I  can  only  recollect  one 
saying  of  his  that  had  any  relation  to  either.  This  was  in  a  sermon, 
where  he  brought  in  the  text  from  the  first  chapter  of  Ecclesiastes — 
*  That  which  is  crooked  cannot  be  made  straight ;  and  that  which  is 
wanting  cannot  be  numbered,'  applying  it  as  a  token  that  Solomon  had 
come  to  the  points  that  have  bafiied  all  ever  since  his  time — the  squaring 
the  circle,  and  exact  division  of  certain  numbers  by  certain  numbers, 
{e.^.  those  that  result  in  circulating  decimals.) 

In  this  poem— evidently,  from  its  structure,  just  like  that  of  ^May 
Garlands,'  written  more/or  than  about  children — he  was  placing  himself 
in  the  child's  point  of  view,  and  thinking  of  the  actual  lessons  of  our 
cai'ly  days,  rather  than  specifying  the  heads  of  the  entire  range  of 
human  study. 


MUSINGS  OYER  THB  CHBISTIAN  YEAR.  321 


ST.  SIMON  AND  ST.  JUDE. 

The  openiDg  of  to-day's  poem  is  one  of  the  difficalties  that  is  apt  first  to 
strike  students  of  The  Christian  Year,  and  in  effect  it  requires  to  be 
understood  that  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mother  is  regarded  as  in  some 
measure  a  type  or  emblem  of  the  Church,  so  that  what  is  said  of  the  one 
applies  to  the  other.  The  word  type  hardly  expresses  our  meaning ;  but 
we  know  that  whereas  our  Blessed  Lord  was  'incarnate  by  the  Holy 
Ghost  of  the  Virgin  Mary/  so  the  new  birth  of  the  Christian  member  of 
Christ's  Body  is  through  the  Holy  Spirit  and  the  Church.  Thus  in  the 
Apocalypse,  the  woman  clothed  with  the  sun  and  with  the  moon  under 
her  feet,  who  received  wings  to  fiy  into  the  wilderness  to  save  her  child 
from  the  dragon,  resembles  the  Israelite  congregation  at  first,  the  holy 
Virgin  next,  and  most  fully  and  entirely  the  Church,  the  mother  ever 
bearing  children,  whom  the  dragon  is  ever  waiting  to  devour. 

With  a  mind  thoroughly  imbued  with  this  accordance,  the  poet  sees  in 
the  Mater  Dolorosa,  '  tiie  Cross  in  sight,  but  Jesus  gone,'  a  type  of  the 
mourning  Church,  when  the  bridegroom  is  taken  away,  and  especially  in 
time  of  coldness  of  faith  and  suffering.  Then  as  the  beloved  disciple  took 
the  holy  mother  to  his  own  home,  to  tend  and  cherish,  so  the  faithful  few, 
in  the  time  of  distress,  guard  the  Church  and  shelter  her  in  the  '  genial 
isle '  of  their  own  households,  where  the  Spirit  of  the  dying  Son  is  present. 
From  such  shelter  new  vigour  springs  forth.  I  think  there  must  be  some 
connecting  thought  here,  the  clue  of  which  is  lost  The  verses  look  very 
much  as  if  they  had  been  suggested  by  some  instance  of  a  persecuted 
father  of  the  Church  being  sheltered  by  some  faithful  friend  to  whom  he 
formed  a  great  contrast,  through  some  evil  times — say  Bishop  Ken  at 
Longleat,  or  the  like,  ^d  on  such  a  loving  union  and  tendance  between 
different  characters ;  the  poem  then  proceeds  to  describe  the  beauty  of  the 
*  two  and  two,'  when  *  fervent  old  age  and  youth  serene '  join  in  praise,  or 
when  the  high  clear  intellect  is  in  close  contact  with  the  lowly  and 
untaught ;  or  again  when  the  sorrowful  and  afflicted  is  cheered  by 

'  Some  spirit  full  of  glee,  yet  taught 
To  bear  the  sight  of  dull  decay, 

And  nurse  it  with  all-pitying  thought. 

Cheerful  as  soaring  lark,  and  mild 
As  evening  blaclbird^s  full-ton^d  lay, 

When  the  relenting  sun  has  smiled 

Bright  through  a  whole  December  day.* 

Such  responsive  notes  come  to  cheer  the  ^  lonely  watcher  of  the  fold.'  Or 
his  comrade's  song  of  faith — the  greeting  from  distant  parish,  or  maybe 
the  trumpet  note  of  some  more  distant  missionary-— come  floating  on  the 
air  full  of  encouragement, 

*  And  bids  thee  yet  be  bold  and  strong, 
Fancy  may  die,  but  faith  is  there!* 


822  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

The '  two  and  two '  of  this  day  gave  it  the  above  poem ;  its  Collect  gave  it 
what  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  anthor^s  compositions — ^the 
similitude  of  the  Church  to  the  waterfall.  It  is  simple,  while  so  full  of 
grandeur,  that  we  dare  not  attempt  prose  paraphrase  or  even  comment^ 
for  every  stanza  is  clear,  even  to  the  wonderful  climax — 

*"  Scorn  not  one  drop ;  of  drops  the  shower 
Is  made,  of  showers  the  waterfidl, 

Of  children*B  souls  the  Power 
Doomed  to  be  Queen  o'er  all.' 

(7b  b€  continued,) 


HYMN-POEMS  ON  NOTABLE  TEXTS. 

BY  THE  REV.  S.  J.   STONE,  B.A. 

▲UTHOB   OF   *LTBA.  FIDELIUM.' 

No.  X.— THE  MEASUEE  OP  LOVE. 

'  What  is  the  Breadth,  and  Length,  and  Depth,  and  UQjghV—Ephesians^  ili.  18. 

{Tune,  Preston.) 

LoBD  Jestts,  Who  didst  freely  give 

Thyself  to  death  that  I  might  live, 

O  let  that  love,  in  fullness  shown 

To  Thine  elect,  by  me  be  known — 

The  Love  eternal,  infinite, 

The  Breadth,  and  Length,  and  Depth,  and  Height. 

Tis  writ  upon  the  Tree  that  stands 
With  arms  outstretched  o'er  all  the  lands, 
Deep-rooted  in  the  lowest  gloom 
Of  fallen  Adam's  sin  and  doom, 
Yet  pointing  where  in  beauty  lies 
A  new  creation's  Paradise. 

O  Breadth  of  Love !  o'er  all  the  world 

Its  blessed  banner  is  unfurled, 

From  north  to  south  is  heard  the  fame 

Of  the  Adorable  One  Name, 

From  east  to  west  the  tidings  spread  ; 

Te  lost,  come  home  I  arise,  ye  dead ! 

O  Love,  that  wrought  for  sinful  man 
Ere  man  was  made  and  sin  began, 


THE  SONG  OF  TIIE  THREE  CHILDREN,  323 

Whose  work  of  grace  can  comprehend 
The  timeless  age  bejond  the  End : 
O  Length  of  Love,  Eternity ! 
It  ever  was,  shall  ever  be ! 

O  Depth  of  Love !  none  lie  so  low 
In  earth's  abyss  of  sin  and  woe. 
But  the  pure  rays  can  reach  the  gloom, 
The  tender  voice  reverse  the  doom : 
No  heart  so  poor,  no  soul  so  vile, 
But  there  His  mercy  waits  to  smile. 

But  now,  with  vision  rapt  above, 
Adore,  my  soul,  the  Height  of  Love : 
Beyond  where  angels'  feet  have  trod. 
Before  the  great  White  Throne  of  God  ; 
And  doubt  no  more,  no  more  despair, 
The  Height  of  Love  can  set  thee  there. 

O  measure  of  the  grace  unpriced ! 

Thy  marks  of  Love,  Lord  Jesu  Christ  ! 

O  grant  that  this,  in  fullness  shown 

To  Thine  elect,  by  me  be  known, 

The  Love  eternal,  infinite. 

The  Breadth,  and  Length,  and  Depth,  and  Height 

Amen.    . 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  THREE  CHILDREN, 

O  ALL  ye  Works  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the 
Lord  : — 

God  saw  everything  that  He  had  made,  and  behold  it 
was  very  good ;  *  therefore  let  all  His  works  praise  Him,  *  Qenesb,  l  ai. 
and  His  saints  give  thanks  unto  Him.  ^  •  ^w^™  ^^^'  i^- 

Fraise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  for  ever. 
O  ye  Angels  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord  : — 

Ye  that  excel  in  strength,  ye  that  fulfil  His  commandments, 
and  hearken  unto  the  voice  of  His  words  ;  *  ye  angels,  whose  >  Fnim  cUL  aa 
sweeping  garments  and  waving  robes  are  seen  in  every 
breath  of  air  and  ray  of  light,  and  every  beautiful  prospect ;  *  *?^|I™"»  "^^ 

Ye  angels,  praise  Him,  whose  faces  see  God  in  Heaven; 

Praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  for  ever. 


S24  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

O  ye  Heavens,  bless  ye  the  Lobd  : — 

1  Psalm  viiL  8.         Ye  heaTeoB,  the  work  of  His  fingers ;  ^  je  beayens,  which 
sptairndtTiiLs.   He  bowed  when  He  came  down^  into  the  tabernacle  of 

Mary;  ye  heavens,  which  hid  yoar  faces  from  the  sixth 

to  the  ninth  hour  of  His  awful  Passion ; 

Praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Waters  that  be  above  the  firmament,  bless 
ye  the  Lobd  : — 

1  Bev.  iv.  6.  O  sea  of  glass  like  unto  crystal  before  the  throne, '  praise 

Him  that  sitteth  thereon,  Who  liVeth  for  ever  and  ever. 

*  Ber.  sir.  3.  O  voicc  from  Heavcn,  as  the  voice  of  many  waters ; '  ye 

choirs  of  the  Lamb,  which  follow  Him  whithersoever  He 
goeth,  as  ye  sing  your  new  song,  bless  ye  the  Lord. 

O  pure  river  of  water  of  life,  clear  as  crystal^  proceeding 
*BeT.  zziLL      out  of  the  throne  of  God  and  the  Lamb,'  make  glad  with 
the  rivers  of  thy  flood  the  city  of  God,  the  holy  place  of 
the  tabernacle  of  the  Most  Highest;  and 

Praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  for  ever. 
O  all  ye  Powers  of  the  Lord, — 

1  CoL  L 16.  Created^  by  Him  and  for  Him ;  ^   ye  powers,  also,  and 

s  CoL  iL  u.        principalities  of  Satan, '  of  which  He  made  a  show  openly, 

triumphing  over  them  in  His  Cross.  Ye  powers  of  Heaven, 
>  St  Mark,  xUL    which  shall  be  shaken '  when  the  Son  of  Man  anseth  to 

shake  terribly  the  earth ; 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Sun  and  Moon, — 

Thou  San,  arising  as  a  bridegroom  from  Thy  chamber, 

1  PBaim  xix.  6.     rcjoicing  as  a  giant  to  run  Thy  course.  ^      Thou  Snn  of 

3  Maiftchi,  iv.  9.    Righteousness,  arising  with  healing  in  Thy  wings ; '  before 

whose  brightness  the  beasts  get  them  away  together,  and 

*  Psalm  dv.  32.    lay  them  down  in  their  dens ;  ^ 

*  Psalm  buOL  7.       Thou  Moou,  in  whosc  reign  shall  be  abundance  of  peace  ;^ 
« Psalm  dv.  19.    appointed  for  certain  seasons,^  steadfast  for  ever  in  heaven.^ 

«  Ps.  buudz.  87.       '^'^ 

Thou  SuD  to  rule  the  day  triumphant, 
7  Goneste,  1 16.  Thou  Moon  to  rule  the  night  militant. ' 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  THREE  CHILDREN.  325 

O  ye  Stars  of  Heaven, — 

Ye  who,  having  turned  many  to  righteousness,  shine  as  the 
stai's  for  ever  and  ever ; '  ye  stars,  who  in  your  courses  fight  >  Daniel,  ziL  8. 
against  Sisera;*  ye  morning  stars,  sing  together  unto  God.'  J  j°J*2^^^7. 
Praise  Him,  all  ye  stars  and  light.  *  *  Pwini  cxivii  i. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Showers  and  Dew, — 

Prayers  of  the  saints,  whose  doctrine  droppeth  as  the 
rain,  whose  speech  distilleth  as  the  dew,  as  the  small  rain 
upon  the  tender  herh,  as  showers  upon  the  grass.  ^  ^  i>«ut  xzzJL  2. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Winds  of  God, — 

Powers  of  the  most  Holy  Spirit.  Wind  blowing  where  it 
listeth,  of  which  we  cannot  tell  the  sound,  whence  it  cometh, 
or  whither  it  goeth ;  ^  >  st  John,  ul  s. 

Sound  as  of  a  sudden  rushing  mighty  wind,  filling  all 
this  house  in  which  we  are  sitting.^    Awake,  O  north  wind ;  >  Acts,  it  2. 
and  come,  thou  south !  blow  upon  my  garden,  that  the  spices 

may  fiow  out. '  *  Cantldes,  ir.  IB. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Fire  and  Heat, — 

Love  of  Jesus,  ever  burning,  ever  bright;  coal  from  the 
mystic  altar,  laid  upon  my  lips,  purging  me  from  all  iniquity 
and  sin.  ^  1  isaiah,  vl  e,  7. 

O  Fire  ever  burning,  ever  bright,  make  Thou  our  hearts 
to  bum  within  us,  while  Thou  talkest  with  us  by  the  way.*    '8^-  ^^  »iv. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

» 

O  ye  Winter  and  Summer, — 

Adversity  and  prosperity.    In  both  seasons,  yea,  in  all 
times  of  our  tribulation,  in  all  times  of  our  wealth,  ^  shall  *  utmy  or  Cng- 
living  waters  go  out  of  Jerusalem,  in  summer  and  in  winter 


826  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

»cJt*ofvirtory  ®^*^^  ^'  ^'^    ^^®  Cross  of  Christ  is  my  Nicopolls,'  I  have 

« Titas,  iu.  19.     determined  there  to  winter.^ 

« Psalm  ziiu.  4.        I  will  go  to  the  altoT  of  God,  ^  for  there  is  my  wine  and 

•  Jer.  xL  10.       my  Summer  fruits  ;*  therefore 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever, 

O  ye  Dews  and  Frosts, — 

Gifts  of  the  Most  Holy  Spirit,  in  the  heart  of  sinners, 
1  Dent  xxxiL  2.  distilling  as  the  dew  upon  the  tender  grass,  ^  quenched  and 
dried  up  in  the  icy  chillness. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Frost  and  Cold, — 

Heart,  as  of  Pharaoh,  hardened  yet  more  by  the  gifts 

>  Ex.  ix.  84, 8&    of  God,  ^  cold   in   thy  contempt,   knowing  not   the  Lord, 

neither  letting  Israel  go.     Perverted  grace-abandoned  heart, 

let  Grod's  power  be  shewn  in  thee,  and  His  Name  be  declared 

«  Kom.  ix.  17,  Ac.  in  the  earth.  ^ 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Ice  and  Snow, — 

Desolation  and  anguish  coming  from  the  Lord.  He 
casteth  forth* His  ice  like  morsels;  who  is  able  to  abide  His 

i5S?SLW."*fr^s*®^*  We  are  leprous  in  Thy  sight,  white  as  snow.« 
Tet  in  the  day  of  affliction  shall  we  be  remembered.     Heat 

>Jo^xxiv.  19.    shall  consume  our   snow-waters,^  and  our  ice  shall  melt 

*  Eodos.  UL  Iff.    away  in  the  fair  warm  weather.^    Therefore, 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Nights  and  Days, — 

Sorrow  and  joy.  Heaviness  enduring  for  a  night,  joy 
1  Psalm  lux.  s.  coming  in  the  morning.^  One  day  tell  another^  yea,  one 
s  PMOm  xix.  2.     night  certify  another.  ^ 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  THREE  CHILDREN.  827 

O  ye  Light  and  Darkness, — 

Grood  and  evil.    Divided  for  ever  by  a  perpetual  decree.'  *  ctenwis,  i  4. 
O  darkness  and  light,  both  alike  to  God,«  « ^  ««^  ii- 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever, 

O  ye  Lightnings  and  Clouds, — 

Preachers  of  holiness,  Apostles  of  Christ;  ye  lightnings 
giving  shine  unto  the  world ;  ^  ye  clouds  His  chariot,  *  com- 1  pJJi'SI^.  J?" 
passing  us  about  with  witnesses,^  descending  in  gracious  rain  *  Heb.  xn  i. 
upon  the  earth,  from  which  ye  were  drawn  up  on  high  by 
the  Sun  of  Righteousness ; 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  let  the  Earth  bless  the  Lord  : — 

For  the  earth  ^  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fullness  thereof.  ^  ^  Fsaim  xxIt.  i. 
Who  can  count  the  dust  of  Jacob,  and  the  number  of  the 
fourth  part  of  Israeli*    As  for  the  earth,  out  of  it  cometh  •  Nnxn. xxiu. lo. 
bread,  and  under  it  is  turned  up  as  it  were  fire.     The  stones 
of  it  are  the  place  of  sapphires,  and  it  bath  dast  of  gold.' 'Joi^zxyiii.  e. 
Shall  indeed  the  dust  give  thanks  unto  Thee,  or  shall  it 
declare  Thy  truth  I*    Let  the  field  be  joyful,  and  all  that  is  *  r»ta»  ^cxx.  lo. 

in  it ;  *  »  Paalm  xcvL  12: 

Yea,  let  it  praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  for 

ever. 

0  ye  Mountains  and  Hills, — 

Visible  Churches  of  the  saints,  scattered  and  rare,  but 
high,  vast,  and  deeply  rooted.  ^     Hear,  O  ye  mountains,  the "  Newman's  i 

Tit  1*  /.,..  «,  ,•  mens,  voL  Iv. ' 

Lords  controversy,  and  ye  strong  foundations  of  the  earth.'  sMicab,TL2. 

For  the  mountains  also  shall  bring  peace,  and  the  little 

hills  righteousness  unto  the  people.^    Therefore  »PMdmixjdL«. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  all  ye  Green  Things  upon  the  Earth, — 

Ye  righteous,  which  flourish  like  a  palm-tree,  which  spread 
abroad  like  a  cedar  in  Libanus ; '  as  the  valleys  are  ye  spread  >  Puim  scu.  ii. 

A  t.  6.  the  multitude  of  the  faithful  who  are  awaiting  in  the  earth  Christ's  second 
coming. — See  Dr.  Nealo  on  Fsalm  xxiv.  1. 


Ser- 
17& 


328  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

forth,  as  gardens  by  the  river  side,  as  the  trees  of  lign-aloes 
which  the  Lord  hath  planted,  and  as  cedar-trees  beside  the 

s  Nam.  xzlr.  6.     waters.^ 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him^  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Wells,— 

Sacraments  of  the  Church.  With  joy  will  we  draw 
1  Isaiah,  ziL  9.  water  out  of  the  wells  of  salvation ;  ^  for  with  Thee  is  the 
s  Psalm  xuvL  9.  well  of  life ;  and  in  Thy  light  shall  we  see  light.  ^ 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever, 

O  ye  Seas  and  Floods, — 

Trials  and  temptations  of  this  troublesome  world.     Surely 

He  hath  founded  it  upon  the  seas,  and  prepared  it  upon  the 

1  Psalm  xxiv.  9.   floods.  ^    The  sorrows  of  death  compassed  me,  the  overflow- 

< Psalm  xvUL  8.   ings  of  ungodlincss  made  me  afraid.^    The  waves  of  the  sea 

are  mighty,  and   rage  horribly;  but  yet   the  Lord  who 

» Ptaim  xdiL  4.   dwelleth  on  high  is  mightier.  • 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Whales,  and  all  that  move  in  the  Waters, — 

Ye  great  ones  of  this  world,  who  make  a  path  to  shine 
1  Job,  xiL  83.  after  you,  one  would  think  the  deep  to  be  hoary.  ^  It  is  the 
^Psaim  xxiz.  8.  Lord  that  commandeth  the  waters.^  He  breaketh  the  heads 
'PiaimizziT.H.  of  Leviathau  in  pieces.'  Therefore  let  heaven  and  earth 
« Psalm  iziz.  86.  praise  Him ;  the  sea,  and  all  that  moveth  therein.^ 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  all  ye  Fowls  of  the  Air, — 

Saints  which  fly  towards  Heaven.  Mounting  up  with 
I  Isaiah,  xL  81.  wlogs  as  the  eagles,^  but  by  the  Cross  alone.  V^Tho  are 
« iMdab,  u.  &      these  that  fly  as  a  doud,  and  as  the  doves  to  their  windows  T' 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 


THE  SONG  or  THB  THREE  CHILDREN.  329 

O  all  ye  Beasts  and  Cattle, — 

Crooked  and  perverse  generations  of  wicked  men.  The 
ungodly,  which  is  a  sword  of  Thine.  ^  *  P"i»a  xvIL  i«. 

Ask  now  the  beasts,  and  they  shall  teach  thee ;  and  the 
fowls  of  the  air,  and  they  shall  tell  thee.*  *  J<>^  ^^  ^• 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  ;  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Children  of  Men, — 

Man,  made  in  the  image  and  likeness  of  God. '     The  way  *  Gcneds,  l  2«. 
of  man  is  not  in  himself;  it  is  not  in  man  that  walketh  to 
direct  his  steps.*     The  eyes  of  all  wait  upon  Thee,  O  Lord  ;  *  Jer. x.  28. 
and  Thou  givest  them  their  meat  in  due  season.*  'Paaimcxiv.  ik. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  let  Israel  bless  the  Lord  : — 

Church  of  Christ.     His  holy  nation,  His  peculiar  people.*  *  i  at  Peter,  a. «. 
How  goodly  are  thy  tents,  O  Jacob,  and  thy  tabernacles,  O 
Israel  I  ^    He  that  keepeth  thee  will  not  sleep ;  behold,  He  ^  Num.  zziv.  6. 
that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither  slumber  nor  sleep.  ^     Let 'PsaimczzLS,^. 
Israel  rejoice  in  Him  that  made  him ;    let  the  children  of 
Zion  be  joyful  in  their  king.  *  *  Fsaim  cxUx.  2. 

Praise  Him,  and  magnify  Him  for  ever. 
O  ye  Priests  of  the  Lord, — 

Priests  of  His  Church ;  stewards  of  His  bounties.     The 
priest's  lips  should  keep  knowledge ;  for  he  is  the  messenger 
of  the  Lord  of  Hosts.  ^     Let  Thy  priests  be  clothed  with  *Maiiichi,u.7,8. 
righteousness ;  and  Thy  saints  sing  with  joyfulness.^  '  p«-  cxxxIL  9. 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  Servants  of  the  Lord, — 

Deacons  and   ministers   of  the  Church.      O  praise  the 
Lord,  all  ye  His  hosts ;   ye  servants  of  His  that  do  His 
pleasure.'      His  servants  shall  serve  Him  ;.  and  they  shall*  Fsaim  du.  21. 
see  His  Face;  and  His  Name  shall  be  in  their  foreheads.^  ^ Rev.  xxIl  a,  4. 
Be  ye  clean  that  bear  the  vessels  of  the  Lord.'  *  isaiah,  m.  il 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

VOL.   10.  23  PART  58. 


330  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

0  ye  Spirits  and  Souls  of  the  Righteous, — 

Souls  of  the  faithful,  by  the  mercy  of  Grod  resting  in  peace. 

Turn  again  then  unto  thy  rest,  O  my  soul;  for  the  Lord 

spuimczTLT.    hath  rewarded  thee.'      The  souls  of  the  righteous  are  in 

*  wifdom,  UL 1.   the  hand  of  God,  and  there  shall  no  torment  touch  them.' 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  ye  holy  and  humble  Men  of  heart, — 

Childlike  saints  of  God.     Better  is  it  to  be  of  an  humble 
spirit  with   the  lowly,  than   to  divide  the  spoil  with  the 

>  PrtfT.  xtl  19.     strong.  *     For  God  resisteth  the  proud,  and  giveth  grace  to 

*  St  Jcmet,  lY. «.  the  humble.  ^ 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

O  Ananias,  Azarias,  and  Misael, — 

Noble  army  of  martyrs.     Of  whom  the  world  was  not 

>  Beb.  zL  S8.       worthy.  ^     Gold  is  tried  in  the  fire,  and  acceptable  men  in 

*  Eodm.  tL  s.      the  furnace  of  adversity.  ^     I  will  bring  the  third  part  through 

*  Zeeh.  ziiL  9.      the  fire,  and  will  refine  them  as  silver  is  refined.' 

Bless  ye  the  Lord  :  praise  Him,  and  magnify 

Him  for  ever. 

Glory  he  to  the  Father^  and  to  the  Son,  and  to  the  Holy 

Ghost ; 

Aa  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever  shall  he,  world 

without  end.    Amen, 

E.  C.  W. 


THE  FOUR  GIANT  PLANETS. 

BY  RICHARD  A.  PROCTOR,  B.A.,  F.RA.S. 

▲mnOR  OF   'OTHER  WORLDS  THAN  OURS,*  &C. 

It  is  impossible  for  anyone  who  has  formed  a  clear  conception  of  tlie 
Solar  System — who  has  its  characteristics  distinctly  present  before  his 
mind's  eye — to  contemplate  without  a  sense  of  wonder,  the  contrast 
between  the  two  families  into  which  the  planetary  scheme  is  divided. 
The  relation  is  one  which  has  been  discussed  over  and  over  again  ; 
Humboldt   has  exhibited    it  in   a  very   striking    manner;    Sir  John 


THE  FOUR  GIANT  PLANETS.  331 

Ilerschel  h(is  dwelt  irery  forcibly  on  its  character ;  and  yet — to  me,  at 
least — ^it  always  presents  frosh  points  of  interest  the  more  it  is  contem- 
plated. It  is  one  of  those  striking  features  which  impress  one  at  once 
AS  significant  of  some  important  law.  Let  us  briefly  inquire  into  the 
nature  of  this  difference  between  the  minor  and  the  major  planets  of  the 
Solar  System,  as  a  preliminary  to  the  consideration  of  the  family  of  giant 
planets. 

In  the  first  place,  I  mus{  puint  out  that  no  work  on  astronomy  with 
wliich  I  am  acquainted  gives  an  adequate  picture  of  the  Solar  System. 
I  have  often  read  with  wonder  that  passage  in  Whewell's  *  Bridgewater 
Treatise,*  in  which  he  remarks  that  *  all  who  have  opened  a  book  of 
astronomy  know '  what  are  the  characteristics  of  the  Solar  Sjrstem,  as 
respects  the  shape  and  position  of  the  planets'  paths.  I  have  opened 
many  books  of  astronomy;  I  have  seen  many  in  which  pictures  are 
introduced  which  profess  to  exhibit  the  relations  of  the  planetary  orbits : 
yet  if  I  trusted  to  those  pictures  to  give  me  ideas  respecting  the  planets' 
paths,  I  should  remain  very  ill-informed  indeed  on  the  subject.  One 
wonders  therefore  where  the  books  of  astronomy  are  to  be  met  with  in 
which  Whew  ell  found  the  satisfactory  pictures  he  refers  to. 

There  is,  indeed,  a  difficulty  in  representing  the  whole  planetary 
scheme  in  a  single  picture,  and  the  difficulty  is  one  very  intimately 
associated  with  the  subject  I  am  upon.  The  distances  between  the 
paths  of  tlie  outer  planets  are  enormously  greater  than  those  which 
separate  the  paths  of  the  inner  planets.  From  the  Sun  to  Mercury's 
path  is  but  35,000,000  miles;  thence  to  Yenus's,  31,000,000  miles; 
thence  to  the  Earth's,  25,000,000  miles  ;  and  thence  to  the  path  of  Mars 
48,000,000  miles.  All  these  distances  added  together  make  but 
139,000,000  miles,  while  no  less  than  422,000,000  miles  separate  the 
path  of  Jupiter  from  that  of  his  next  neighbour,  Saturn ;  914,000,000 
miles  separating  Saturn's  pnth  from  that  of  Uranus  ;  and  992,000,000 
miles  intervening  between  the  paths  of  Uranus  and  Neptune.  It  will 
be  seen  at  once,  then,  that  any  picture  which  presents  satisfactorily  the 
relations  between  the  paths  of  the  four  inner  planets,  would  become  far 
too  lai^e  for  any  ordinary  book  if  the  paths  of  the  outer  planets  were 
introduced.  On  the  other  hand,  a  picture  including  the  paths  of  the 
outer  planets  would  present  the  paths  of  the  inner  planets  on  so  minute 
a  scale  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  make  out  their  relations. 

On  this  account  it  is  preferable  (as  in  my  charts  of  the  planetary 
orbits)  to  make  a  separate  chart  for  each  family.  This  points  to  the 
first  and  one  of  the  most  characteristic  distinctions  between  the  minor 
and  the  major  planets. 

Taking  next  the  question  of  size,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  that  there 
is  something  very  significant  in  the  great  difference  between  even  the 
least  of  the  family  of  larger  planets  and  the  greatest  of  the  family  of 
smaller  planets.  Uranus,  according  to  the  best  modern  measurements, 
is  the  least  among  the  giant  planets  ;  our  Earth  the  greatest  of  the  four 


332  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

inner  planets.  Now,  Uranus  is  no  less  than  seventy-four  times  as  large 
as  the  Earth.  But  it  is  perhaps  when  we  add  together  the  volumes  of 
the  members  composing  each  family,  and  compare  the  result,  that  we 
8^  the  really  wonderful  nature  of  the  disproportion  between  the  giant 
planets  and  the  family  of  which  our  Earth  is  the  chief  member.  Jupiter, 
Saturn,  Uranus,  and  Neptune,  taken  together,  exceed  in  bulk  the 
combined  volume  of  Alercury,  Venus,  the  Earth,  and  Mars,  somewhat 
more  than  one  thousand  times ! 

Then  there  is  that  very  strange  relation  which  characterizes  the 
density  of  the  giant  planets.  All  the  four  inner  planets  have  a  mean 
density  very  similar  to  the  Earth's.  The  reader  is  aware  that  the  mean 
density  of  the  Earth  is  about  five  and  a  half  times  that  of  water ;  in  other 
words,  that  the  Earth  weighs  about  as  much  as  five  and  a  half  globes  of 
water,  each  equal  in  size  to  herself.  Now  Mars,  whose  substance  is 
lighter  than  that  of  any  other  of  the  lesser  planets,  has  yet  a  density  four 
times  as  great  as  that  of  water.  But  when  we  turn  to  the  giant  planets, 
we  find  a  totally  different  state  of  things.  Jupiter  alone  has  a  density 
exceeding  that  of  water,  and  that  onl^  by  one-third;  so  that  it  would 
take  three  globes  as  large  as  Mars,  fashioned  out  of  the  substance  of 
Jupiter,  to  weigh  as  much  as  Mars  does.  Neptune  and  Uranus  weigh 
about  as  much  as  globes  of  water  of  equal  size ;  while  Saturn  has  a  mean 
density  only  three-fourths  the  density  of  water. 

So'  that  when  we  come  to  add  the  masses  of  the  smaller  and  of  the 
larger  families  as  we  before  added  their  volumes,  instead  of  finding  the 
combined  mass  of  the  giant  planets  exceeding  one  thousand  times  the 
mass  of  the  smaller  family,  we  find  that  Jupiter,  Saturn,  Uranus,  and 
Neptune,  together,  exceed  but  about  two  hundred  times  the  combined 
mass  of  Mercury,  Venus,  the  Earth,  and  Mars.  The  disproportion  is 
still  wonderful,  but  how  wonderfully  it  has  been  reduced. 

Then  there  is  another  surprising  distinction.  Among  all  the  four 
members  of  the  inner  family,  we  find  but  one — the  Earth — ^which  has  an 
attendant  orb.  Only  one  moon  as  compared  with  four  planets.  But 
the  giant  planets  are  far  exceeded  in  number  by  their  satellites.  Jupiter 
has  four,  Saturn  eight,  Uranus  four  at  least,  *  and  Neptune  one  at  least ; 

*The  Savilian  Professor  of  Astronomy  has  taken  me  to  task  in  no  measured  terms 
for  expressing  my  belief  that  Uranus  has  more  than  four  moons.  He  anks  how  I  can 
venture  to  set  my  opinion  against  the  observations  of  Mr.  Lassell,  the  President  of 
the  Astronomical  Society,  who,  with  his  splendid  reflector,  four  feet  in  aperture,  has 
been  unable,  after  repeated  search,  to  discover  more.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however, 
I  have  set  the  observations  of  Sir  W.  Herschel  against  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Lnssell. 
We  know  quite  certainly  that  Herschel  watched  six  minute  points  of  light  with  his 
fbar-feet  reflector,  and  that  only  two  of  these  have  since  been  idcntifled.  Positive 
observations,  made  by  such  an  astronomer  as  Herschel,  cannot  be  fairly  opposed  by 
any  amount  of  negative  evidence ;  but  we  happen  to  have  reason  to  expect  that  Mr. 
Lassell  would  fkil  to  find  the  faintest  of  these  twinklers,  for  Herschel  could  not  see 
them  when  his  telescope  was  used  as  Lassell's  has  been,  (as  a  Newtonian,)  but  only 
by  the  method  called  front  vision,  which  Lassell  has  not  yet  tried. 


THE  FOUB  GIANT, PLANETS.  333 

80  that  there  are  seventeen'  moons  at  least  as  compared  with  four  planets. 
Satam's  wonderfuf  riiiig-system  is  unique  in  the  whole  planetary  scheme ; 
but  still  ma  J  be  regarded  as  evidencing  the  greater  tendency  to  richness 
of  structure  in  the  outer  family  of  planets. 

Lastly — though  we  might  extend  these  preliminary  remarks  to  many 
other  points  of  distinction — it  is  very  remarkable  indeed  that  the  four 
inner  and  smaller  planets  all  rotate  on  their  axes  in  about  the  period  of 
our  terrestrial  day,  while  the  rotation -periods  of  the  outer  planets,  so  far 
as  they  have  been  determined,  (that  is,  in  the  case  of  Jupiter,  Saturn, 
and  Uranus,)  amount  to  about  ten  hours  only.  It  is  amazing  indeed  to 
consider  that  the  giant  bulk  of  Jupiter,  more  than  one  thousand  two 
hundred  and  thirty  times  larger  than  our  Earth,  is  whirled  round  upon 
its  axis  in  a  period  considerably  less  than  half  the  time  in  which  the 
Earth  rotates  I 

It  seems  almost  incredible  that  two  systems  of  orbs,  so  distinct  from 
each  other  in  all  the  chief  features  of  planetary  character,  should  so 
long  have  been  classed  together  by  astronomers.  It  is  not  that  the 
distinctions  above  pointed  out  have  not  been  all  along  fully  recognized  ; 
but  that,  being  recognized,  the  idea  should  not  have  been  suggested  that 
there  is  no  more  real  resemblance  between  the  members  of  the  two 
families,  tlian  between  primary  planets  and  satellites,  or  even  than  there 
is  between  the  planets  and  their  primary,  the  Sun. 

And  yet  so  thoroughly  had  the  idea  been  accepted  that  the  eight 
primary  planets  should  be  regarded  as  in  general  respects  forming  a 
similar  family,  that  the  view  I  have  recently  put  forward  in  *  Other 
Worlds  than  Ours,'  that  the  outer  planets  and  inner  planets  are  in  a 
wholly  different  condition,  has  been  received  as  something  startling,  if 
not  incredible.  Indeed,  the  Be  v.  Professor  Pritchard,  Vice-president  of 
the  Royal  Astronomical  Society,  has  been  so  staggered  by  the  novel 
notion  as  to  have-  been  led  to  assert  in  one  and  the  same  sentence  that 
he  can  neither  understand  nor  accept  the  theory.  The  readers  of  this 
magazine  may  be  interested  to  hear  a  few  arguments  in  favour  of  a 
theory,  which  though  novel  is  perfectly  simple,  and  respecting  which  the 
greatest  astronomer  living  has  written  to  me  that  though  it  startled  him 
at  first  sight,  he  finds  it  to  be  supported  by  evidence  which  cannot  safely 
be  neglected.     I  have  now  some  yet  unnoticed  arguments  to  adduce. 

We  examine  Jupiter  under  much  more  favourable  circumstances  than 
any  of  the  other  giant  planeta,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  is  veiy  much 
nearer  to  us.  Saturn,  which  comes  next,  is  more  than  twice  as  far  ofiT, 
(comparing  the  distances  when  each  planet  is  in  the  most  favourable 
position  for  observation.)  So  that  we  must  turn  to  Jupiter  for  the  most 
reliable  information  we  can  obtain  respecting  the  constitution  of  the 
outer  family  of  planets. 

The  first  telescopic  view  of  the  planet,  under  adequate  powers,  exhibits 
a  feature  which  characterizes  none  of  the  minor  planets.  I  refer  to  the 
planet*8  belts.    These  deserve  a  more  careful  and  thoughtful  study  than 


334  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

astronomers  have  jet  accorded  to  them.  There  is  usually  a  great 
equatorial  bright  belt,  bounded  on  each  side  bj  two  dark  belts,  then 
bright  and  dark  belts  alternatelj,  to  the  ashen  grej  poles  of  the  planet. 
Sometimes  the  total  number  of  belts  is  small,  sometimes  considerable,  so 
that  there  would  appear  to  be  no  permanence  in  the  conditions  under 
which  these  belts  are  formed.  This  is  further  shewn  bj  the  rapid 
changes  to  which  they  are  sometimes  seen  to  be  subject,  an  hour  or  two 
sufficing  for  the  disappearance  of  a  belt  several  thousands  of  miles  in 
width— a  belt,  that  is,  wiiich  exceeds  our  Earth  many  times  in  surface ! 

Now,  the  usual  explanation  of  these  belts  associates  them  with  the 
trade* wind  regions  and  the  equatorial  calm  belt  on  our  own  Earth.  We 
are  told  that  the  enormously  rapid  rotation  of  Jupiter  would  cause  such 
regions  to  be  much  more  marked  than  on  our  own  Earth,  because  the 
contrast  between  the  slower  motion  in  high  latitudes,  and  the  rapid 
motion  at  the  equator,  must  be  so  much  greater. 

It  appears  to  me  that  this  explanation  is  altogether  inadequate. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  perfectly  certain  that  there  are  no  belts  of  cloud 
completely  encircling  our  Earth,  as  those  of  Jupiter  (supposing  them  to 
be  cloud-belts)  encircle  that  planet.  If  the  Earth  were  so  placed  as  to 
present  to  an  observer  a  disc  as  large  as  Jupiter,  it  is  quite  certain, 
(from  what  physical  geography  teaches  us,)  that  she  would  present  an 
appearance  wholly  unlike  that  of  the  giant  planet  It  is  doubtful 
whether  any  si^ns  of  true  belts  would  be  ordinarily  visible :  certainly  no 
complete  belts  would  be  seen.  And  it  would  be  possible,  by  comparing 
one  set  of  observations  with  another,  to  shew  that  the  fragments  of  belts 
belonged  to  definite  regions  of  the  Earth — to  the  oceau-regions  in  fact. 
Now,  in  the  case  of  Jupiter,  no  such  relation  can  for  a  moment  be 
supposed  to  exist.  The  belts  go  quite  round  tlie  planet ;  they  are  seen 
in  both  hemispheres ;  and  there  is  absolutely  no  part  of  the  planet,  not 
even  excepting  the  equatorial  zone,  of  which  it  can  be  said  that  it  is 
always  occupied  by  a  belt  of  a  particular  character. 

And  there  is  one  peculiarity  which  has  never  yet,  so  far  as  I  am  aware, 
been  considered  in  the  way  I  am  now  to  point  out.  We  know  that  the 
equatorial  cloud-range  on  our  own  Earth  is  a  mid*day  phenomenon. 
*  The  sun  almost  always  rises  in  a  clear  sky,*  says  the  eminent  meteor- 
ologist Kamtz,  referring  to  the  equatorial  rains;  ^towards  mid-day, 
isolated  clouds  appear,  which  pour  out  prodigious  quantities  of  rain. 
These  showers  are  accompanied  with  violent  gales.  Towards  evening 
the  clouds  dissipate,  and  when  the  sun  sets  the  sky  is  perfectly  clear.' 
It  is  therefore  quite  obvious  that  to  anyone  regarding  the  Earth's 
illuminated  face,  there  would  be  seen  a  broken  range  of  clouds,  well 
marked  across  the  central  part  of  the  Earth's  disc,  and  not  reaching  the 
edge  of  the  disc.  For  the  middle  of  a  planet  so  seen  is  the  part  where 
the  sun  is  overhead  to  the  people  on  the  planet,  the  edge  being  the  part 
where  the  sun  is  upon  the  horizon ;  and  we  have  just  seen  that  the  sun 
rises  and  sets  in  a  clear  sky  at  the  equator.     Now,  the  belts  of  Jupiter 


THB  POUR  GIANT  FLANETS.  385 

extend  right  across  his  disc ;  or  so  nearly  to  the  edge  as  bj  no  means  to 
correspond  to  sach  a  state  of  things  as  I  tiave  described  above.  Nor  do 
astronomers  believe  that  the  belts  are  really  wanting  close  to  the  edge  of 
the  disc ;  but  only  that  foreshortening  renders  them  less  distinct.  That 
excellent  observer,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Webb,  speaking  of  the  aspect  of  Jupiter, 
as  seen  last  winter  in  his  fine  Browning- With  reflector  nine  inches  in 
aperture,  remarks,  'I  have  not  been  able  to  corroborate  the  general 
assertion  that  the  grey  belts  become  much  lighter  towards  their  ends.  I 
have  repeatedly  remarked  that  they  faded  but  little;  and  in  a  fine 
observation  on  November  17, 1  noted  that  I  hardly  thought  the  difference 
would  have  struck  me  if  I  had  not  looked  for  it :  the  prind^pal  belt  could 
then  be  followed  quite  to  the  limb,  as  in  De  La  Rue's  magnificent 
engraving.' 

Now  this  is  something  very  remarkable.  It  is  no  new  discovery ;  but 
it  is  one  of  many  features  of  the  Solar  System  which  have  not  received  all 
the  attention  they  merit  When  we  see  a  bright  belt  (in  reality  a  cloud- 
belt)  extending  right  across  Jupiter's  disc,  it  really  tells  us  that  from 
morning  to  night  in  that  particular  latitude  on  the  giant  planet  the  sky 
is  cloud-covered.  And  when,  as  in  the  case  of  the  great  equatorial 
bright  belt,  such  an  appearance  is  observed  year  after  year,  (in  such  sort 
that  when,  as  lately,  it  is  interrupted,  the  change  attracts  the  attention 
of  the  whole  astronomical  world,)  we  can  arrive  at  no  other  conclusion 
than  that  day  after  day  for  years  in  succession,  the'  sky  of  the  Jovian 
people,  in  those  latitudes,  is  cloud-covered.  And  not  only  day  after  day, 
but  night  at\er  night ;  for  it  would  be  absurd  to  suppose  that  the  clouds 
vanish  regularly  after  sunset  and  re-appear  before  sunrise.  The  first 
relation  would  be  conceivable,  but  the  regular  formation  of  clouds  before 
sunrise  would  be  wholly  incomprehensible. 

We  have  then  this  very  perplexing  circumstance,  that  certain  Jovian 
cloud- belts  which  the  Sun  is  supposed  to  have  raised  as  he  does  our  own 
clouds,  continue  for  days,  and  sometimes  even  for  years  in  succession 
wholly  unaffected  apparently  by  the  Sun's  aclion.  And  we  have  this 
further  perplexity,  that  the  only  cloud-region  which  can  be  regarded  as  a 
permanent  feature  of  our  Earth's  economy,  bears  no  resemblance  what- 
ever in  its  primary  characteristics  to  the  imagined  cloud-regions  of  the 
planet  Jupiter. 

But  there  is  a  yet  stranger  circumstance  to  be  noticed,  and  one  which 
is  to  my  mind  wholly  inexplicable  according  to  the  received  interpretation 
of  the  cloud-belts  of  the  major  planets.  To  exhibit  the  argument  I  am 
now  to  deal  with,  we  must  turn  to  the  planet  Saturn ;  for  the  argument 
is  founded  on  an  effect  due  to  the  inclination  of  the  Earth's  axis,  and 
Saturn,  unlike  Jupiter,  is  inclined  at  a  considerable  angle  to  his  orbit.  > 

The  region  of  greatest  heat  upon  the  Earth,  or  that  upon  which  the 
Sun  shines  vertically  at  mid-day,  passes  north  of  the  equator  during  our 
summer,  and  south  of  the  equator  during  the  summer  of  the  southern 
hemisphere.     Accordingly,  the  tropical  calm  region   travels  backwards 


336  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

and  forwards  across  the  equator,  being  considerably  north  of  it  in  Jalj 
and  considerably  south  in  January.  ^  The  region  of  calfos,'  says  Buchan 
in  his  excellent  Hand-book  of  Meteorology,  *  is  a  belt  of  about  four  or 
five  degrees  in  breadth,  stretching  across  the  Atlantic  and  the  Pacific, 
generally  parallel  to  the  equator.  It  is  marked  by  a  lower  atmospheric 
pressure  than  obtains  to  the  north  and  to  the  south  of  it,  in  the  regions 
traversed  by  the  trade-winds.  It  is  also  characterized  by  the  daily 
occurrence  of  heavy  rains  and  severe  thunder-storms.  The  position 
of  the  calms  varies  with  the  Sun,  reaching  its  most  northerly  limit 
(latitude  twenty-five  degrees  north)  in  July,  and  its  most  southerly  (the 
corresponding  southern  latitude)  in  January.' 

So  that  if  anyone  were  to  watch  our  Earth  as  we  watch  Saturn,  he 
would  see  the  fragmentary  cloud-zone  shifting  in  position  from  north  to 
south  and  back  again,  in  each  year.  Now,  in  the  case  of  Saturn's 
equatorial  bright  belt,  no  such  change  of  position  is  noted.  Throughout 
the  whole  course  of  the  Saturnian  year  this  belt  remains  persistently 
equatorial.  And  yet  Saturn's  equator  is  inclined  more  than  twenty-six 
degrees  to  the  plane  in  which  the  planet  travels ;  so  that  if  the  belt  were 
really  caused  by  solar  action,  it  should  shifl  backwards  and  forwards  over 
a  range  of  more  than  fifty  degrees  of  Saturnian  latitude.  Does  it  not 
appear  to  follow  inevitably  that  the  belt  is  due  to  some  action  within  the 
planet  itself? 

Jupiter's  inclination  is  but  little  more  than  three  degrees,  so  that  it 
would  be  very  difficult  to  detect  any  motion  of  the  equatorial  belt  of 
Jupiter,  and  therefore  equally  difficult  to  draw  any  certain  conclusion 
from  the  fact  that  no  such  motion  has  been  detected.  But  it  is  worth 
mentioning  that  Mr.  Webb  noticed  last  year  that  the  equatorial  belt 
seemed  to  be  not  quite  central,  and  that  on  his  mentioning  to  me  the 
amount  of  the  discrepancy,  I  found  it  corresponded  quite  closely  with 
the  effect  due  to  the  inclination  of  the  planet,  on  the  assumption  that  the 
centre  of  the  belt  was  really  equatoiial.  In  other  words,  the  planet  was 
slightly  tilted  as  respects  the  Sun,  and  the  belt  had  followed  the  tilt, 
instead  of  following  the  Sun  as  it  should  have  done  if  its  clouds  are 
raised  by  his  action. 

But,  important  as  these  considerations  are,  there  is  another  circum- 
stance which  seems  to  afford  yet  stronger  evidence  against  the  theory 
that  the  cloud-belts  of  Jupiter  and  Saturn  are  sun-raised.  When  we 
remember  the  enormous  distance  which  separates  Jupiter  from  the 
Sun — a  distance  so  enormous  that  the  Sun  can  exert  but  one-twenty- 
eighth  part  of  the  direct  heating  effect  which  he  exerts  at  the  Earth's 
distance,  it  seems  incredible  that  the  idea  should  ever  have  been  enter- 
tained that  the  Sun  raises  such  clouds  as  ours  in  the  atmosphere  of 
Jupiter.  Of  course,  if  we  imagine  the  clouds  to  be  wholly  different 
from  ours,  and  the  atmosphere  also  wholly  different  in  constitution,  ihi$ 
difficulty  is  removed,  though  the  two  former  ones  (which  are,  I  take  it, 
individually  sufficient  to  prove  that  the  cause  of  the  belts  is  within 


THE  FOUR  QLANT  PLANETS.  337 

Jupiter's  mass)  remain  unaflTected.  But  a  theory  which  gives  Jupiter  an 
elementary  constitution  wholly  different  from  that  of  the  Earth,  is  not  by 
any  means  rendered  inviting  by  its  simplicity ;  and  in  the  face  of  what 
we  now  know  respecting  the  constitution  of  the  Sun  and  of  meteors,  can 
hardly  be  regarded  as  admissible. 

The  three  independent  reasons  above  adduced  seem,  whether  regarded 
severally  or  in  combination,  to  force  upon  us  the  conclusion  that  the 
processes  to  which  the  belts  of  the  giant  planets  are  due,  take  place 
within  the  substance  of  those  planets  tliemselves.  Forces  of  tremendous 
energy  would  seem  to  be  at  work,  by  which  enormous  cloud-masses  are 
continually  thrown  into  the  atmospheres  of  these  planets.  Accustomed 
as  we  are  to  regard  Jieat  as  the  special  form  of  force  which  acts  in  this 
way,  we  seem  led  to  the  conclusion  that  the  substance  of  the  giant 
planets  is  intensely  heated.  I  would  invite  special  attention  to  the  fact, 
that  we  have  been  led  to  this  conclusion  by  the  consideration  of  the 
observed  peculiarities  of  Jupiter  at  the  present  time.  I  can  see  no 
escape,  I  will  not  say  from  the  conclusion  itself,  but  from  this  result — 
that  the  conclusion  affords  the  most  natural  and  obvious  interpretation 
of  observed  facts.  It  does  happen  that  those  who  have  speculated  as  to 
the  origin  of  the  Solar  System,  (of  whom  I  am  one,)  have  been  led  to 
regard  it  as  highly  probable  that  Jupiter  was  not  only  far  hotter  when  first 
formed  than  any  of  the  other  planets,  but  would  also  retain  his  internal 
heat  much  longer  than  smaller  planets.  But  this  method  of  arriving  at 
the  conclusion  that  Jupiter  is  still  intensely  heated  is  merely  speculative, 
however  probable  it  may  appear ;  the  other  is  much  more  reliable. 

The  theory  that  Jupiter  and  Saturn,  and  therefore  their  companion 
giants,  Uranus  and  Neptune,  ai*e  in  an  intensely  heated  condition,  is  so 
surprising  and  so  novel,  that,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  it  has  been 
received  by  many  with  incredulity.  Yet  we  have  seen  that  very  sober 
reasoning  on  observed  appearances  leads  us  almost  irresistibly  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  theory  is  true.  I  have  now  tp  touch  upon  evidence, 
which,  while  confirming  the  supposition  that  Jupiter  is  thus  heated,  seems 
to  exhibit  some  of  the  effects  of  his  heat  in  so  amazing  a  light,  that  I 
shall  not  wonder  if  many  among  my  readers  are  disposed  rather  to 
disbelieve  the  evidence  altogether  than  to  accept  the  results  which  fiow 
inevitably  from  it. 

Let  me  give  the  evidence  in  the  words  of  one  of  those  who  observed  the 
fact  referred  to — the  late  Admiral  Smyth,  one  of  the  most  practised  and 
skilful  observers  of  modern  times :  '  On  Thursday,  the  26th  of  June,  1828,' 
he  writes,  '  the  moon  being  nearly  full,  and  the  evening  extremely  fine,  I 
was  watching  the  second  satellite  of  Jupiter  as  it  gradually  approached 
to  transit  the  disc  of  the  planet  My  instrument  was  an  excellent 
refractor  of  three  and  three-quarters  inches  aperture,  and  five  feet  focal 
length,  with  a  power  of  one  hundred.  The  satellite  appeared  in  contact 
at  about  half-past  ten,  (by  inference,)  and  for  some  minutes  remained  on 
the  edge  of  the  limb,  presenting  an  appearance  not  unlike  that  of  the 


338  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

lunar  mountains  which  come  into  view  during  the  first  quarter  of  the 
moon,  until  it  finally  disappeared  on  the  body  of  the  planet.'  It  is 
important  to  notice  this  description  carefully,  because  it  shews  that  the 
satellite  had  really  begun  in  the  usual  way  its  passage  across  the  face  of 
the  planet.  ^At  least  twelve  or  thirteen  minutes  must  have  elapsed, 
when,  accidentally  turning  to  Jupiter  again,  to  my  astonishment  I 
perceived  the  same  satellite  outside  the  disc.  It  was  in  the  same 
position,  as  to  being  above  a  line  with  the  lower  belt,  where  it  remained 
distinctly  visible  for  at  least  four  minutes,  and  then  suddenly  vanished/ 
Admiral  Smyth  gives  three  drawings  of  Jupiter  in  illustration  of  this 
remarkable  observation.  In  the  first  we  see  the  satellite  outside  the  disc, 
in  the  second  the  satellite  is  on  the  disc,  and  in  the  third  it  is  as  in  the  first! 

Now,  if  there  were  no  further  evidence,  we  could  not  reject  such 
evidence  as  this.  Practised  observers,  like  Admiral  Smyth,  do  not 
fancy  they  see  things  which  never  really  happened ;  they  know  how  to 
distinguish  between  real  and  optical  peculiarities;  in  fine,  when  they 
tell  us  they  saw  such  and  such  an  event,  we  may  conclude  most  con- 
fidently that  that  event  did  actually  occur.  But  we  have  further  evidence. 
Admiral  Smyth  proceeds  thus:  'As  I  had  observed  the  phenomena  of 
Jupiter  and  his  satellites  for  many  years  without  noticing  any  remark- 
able irregularities,  I  could  not  but  imagine  that  some  optical  or  other 
error  prevailed,  especially  as  the  satellite  was  on  this  side  of  the  planet. 
But  a  few  days  aflter wards  I  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Maclear,  of 
Biggleswade,  informing  me  that  he  had  also  observed  the  same 
phenomenon,  but  that  he  had  considered  it  a  '* Kitchener's  wonder;*' 
and  about  the  same  time.  Dr.  Pearson  having  favoured  me  with  a  visit, 
asked  me  whether  I  had  noticed  anything  remarkable  on  the  26th,  for 
that  he  had,  in  accidentally  looking  at  Jupiter,  seen  the  second  satellite 
re-appear/  Here  then  were  three  observers,  at  different  stations,  with 
telescopes  of  different  size,  all  positive  as  to  the  extraordinary  deviation 
from  rule.* 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Webb,  particularly  cautious  in  receiving  evidence, 
remarks,  that  *  the  authority  of  Smyth  alone  would  have  established  the 
wonderful  fact.'  He  presently  adds,  ^  Explanation  is  here  set  at  defiance ; 
demonstrably  neither  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  Earth  or  of  Jupiter,  where 
and  what  could  have  been  the  cause  ?     At  present,  we  can  get  no  answer.' 

But  I  would  venture  to  submit  that  the  apparent  paradoxes  of  nature 
are  never  really  inexplicable.  They  require  only  to  be  dealt  with 
patiently  and  thoughtfully,  to  be  made  to  reveal  their  interpretation. 
That  interpretation  may  be,  and  ordinarily  is,  surprising,  but  the  surprising 
nature  of  the  evidence  is  in  itself  the  means  of  rendering  our  acceptance 
of  the  legitimate  inference  the  more  confident. 

Let  us  look  this  observation  in  the  face. 

Here  is  a  planet  around  which  a  satellite  is  circling ;  and  so  for 
as  appearances  go  the  satellite  stopped  suddenly  on  its  course,  and 
even  retraced  a  portion  of  its  career.     But  the  laws  of  nature  forbid 


THE  FOUB  GIANT  PLANETS.  339 

U8  to  suppose  that  this  really  happened — save  by  a  miracle,  (an  inter- 
pretation which  we  are  free  to  dismiss  in  this  case.)  If  anything  could 
happen  to  stop  one  of  Jupiter's  moons,  and  to  force  that  moon  back  along 
its  course,  it  is  absolutely  certain  that  from  that  time  forth  the  satellite 
would  travel  backwards ;  unless  we  suppose  that  some  new  force  set  it 
on  its  coui*se  again  with  exactly  its  former  speed.  But  even  then  it 
would  be  some  twenty  minutes  or  so,  thenceforth,  behind  its  true  place— 
for  Smyth  tells  us  it  re-appeared  twelve  or  thirteen  minutes  afler  dis- 
appearing, and  continued  visible  several  minutes.  Now,  each  moon  of 
Jupiter  is  far  too  carefully  watched  for  such  a  discrepancy  in  its  future 
motions  to  remain  undetected ;  even  if  the  stoppage  and  re-starting  of  the 
satellite  could  be  admitted  as  a  possible  explanation. 

Can  we  suppose,  however,  that  the  planet  itself  had  moved  from  its 
place?  The  idea,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  is  utterly  untenable.  We 
have  only  to  turn  to  the  pages  of  Tyndairs  Treatise  on  Heat,  to  learn 
that  if  any  force  could  stop  Jupiter  on  his  course,  the  planet  would 
be  vaporized  by  the  enormous  heat  which  would  be  generated  in  the 
tremendous  conflict. 

We  have  seen  how  Mr.  Webb  has  remarked  that  any  effects  produced 
by  our  own  atmosphere  are  quite  unavailable  to  cause  so  remarkable  a 
phenomenon.  Every  observer  knows  that  when  the  air  is  in  a  disturbed 
state  a  satellite  close  by  Jupiter  might  seem  to  vanish  for  a  few  moments, 
because  at  ^ch  times  (when  the  air  seems  to  boil  as  it  were)  the  outline 
of  a  planet  seems  to  ripple,  and  the  ripples  might  for  a  time  obliterate 
the  satellite.  But  no  observer  ever  saw  a  satellite  steadily  approach 
Jupiter,  under  such  circumstances,  then  remain  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
or  so  invisible  and  then  re-appear,  to  be  again  steadily  visible  for  several 
minutes.  Everyone,  in  fact,  who  is  at  all  familiar  with  the  telescopic 
aspect  of  Jupiter,  will  agree  with  Mr.  Webb  that  no  peculiarities  of  our 
atmosphere  can  explain  the  strange  phenomenon  we  are  now  dealing  with. 

But  there  must  be  some  explanation ;  nor  can  we  fail  to  be  led,  by  the 
very  difficulties  we  have  just  been  considering,  to  the  true  explanation. 

Knowing  that  the  satellite  continued  its  course  as  usual,  while  Jupiter's 
mass  remained  unchanged  in  its  position  as  the  centre  of  the  satellite's 
motion,  there  yet  remains  for  us  the  fact  that  the  outline  of  Jupiter's 
disc,  which  at  one  moment  had  appeared  outside  the  satellite,  afterwards 
appeared  tvilkin.  This  outline,  then,  must  have  shifted  in  position, 
without  any  corresponding  change  in  the  position  of  Jupiter.  There  is 
absolutely  no  resisting  this  conclusion.  It  only  remains  that  we  should 
inquire  how  this  change  of  outline  can  be  accounted  for. 

Can  we  suppose  that  under  the  influence  of  some  tremendous  internal 
forces  the  crust  of  Jupiter  could  be  raised  so  enormously  that  its  sudden 
subsidence  would  account  for  the  re-appearance  of  the  satellite?  It 
seems  to  me  that  such  an  upheaval  is  altogether  too  gigantic  for  us  to 
suppose  it  possible. 

But  there  is  another  way  in  which  the  apparent  outline  of  Jupiter 


340  THK  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

might  change  very  rapidlj.  Supposing  that  the  intense  internal  heat  of 
the  planet  causes  a  very  deep  atmosphere  to  be  generally  more  or  less 
cloud-laden,  it  is  quite  possible  that  a  very  elevated  layer  of  clouds  might 
be  very  rapidly  dissipated  by  a  warm  atmospheric  current.  If  this  took 
place  at  a  part  which  happened  to  lie  on  the  edge  of  the  disc  as  seen  by 
us,  the  figure  of  Jupiter*s  outline  would  be  suddenly  changed  at  this 
particular  part  of  the  disc.  It  is  true  that  for  the  change  to  be  rendered 
sensible  to  us,  so  many  millions  of  miles  away,  the  supposed  layer  of 
clouds  must  be  several  hundred  miles  above  the  surface  of  Jupiter — in 
other  words,  the  atmosphere  of  Jupiter  must  be  of  enormous  extent 
compared  with  ours,  and  probably  wholly  different  in  constitution.  But 
there  is  nothing  in  this  which  need  surprise  us,  considering  what  we 
have  already  learned  respecting  the  total  difference  of  character  between 
the  major  and  the  minor  planets.  At  any  rate,  we  obtain  in  this  way 
a  possible  (though  startling)  explanation,  of  a  phenomenon  of  a  most 
amazing  character,  which  was  yet  undoubtedly  observed. 

But  it  is  worthy  of  notice  that  the  astronomer  Schroter  was  led,  on 
more  than  one  occasion,  to  believe  that  the  figure  of  Jupiter  was  not  so 
regular  as  it  ordinarily  appears.  It  seemed  flattened  in  places,  an 
appearance  which  would  correspond  exactly  with  the  results  due  to  such 
processes  of  change  as  I  have  imagined. 

Saturn  is  so  much  farther  ofi*  than  Jupiter,  that  it  might  seem  hopeless 
to  turn  to  the  ringed  planet  for  information  such  as  that  just  considered. 
Yet,  strangely  enough,  we  have  clearer  and  more  complete  information 
respecting  changes  of  figure  in  the  case  of  Saturn,  than  in  that  of  Jupiter. 
Many  of  my  readers  are  doubtless  familiar  with  the  fact  that  Sir  William 
Herschel  at  times  thought  the  disc  of  Saturn  to  be,  not  as  usual  elliptical, 
but  irregular  in  shape — resembling  an  oblong  with  rounded  comera.  It 
is  almost  impossible  that  so  practised  and  skilful  an  observer  as  the  elder 
Herschel  should  have  been  mistaken  on  such  a  subject ;  but  it  may  be 
as  well  to  notice  that  other  observers  also  have  noticed  this  peculiar 
appearance,  which  has  been  somewhat  quaintly  entitled  the  *  square- 
shouldered  aspect.'  Regarding  such  peculiarities  as  due  to  the  same 
cause  as  the  corresponding  changes  of  outline  observed  in  Jupiter,  we 
should  be  forced  to  regard  Saturn  as  the  scene  of  yet  more  surprising 
processes  of  change.  One  can  hardly  form  any  adequate  conception  of 
the  heat  requisite  to  raise  cloud-layers  to  so  enormous  a  height  in  Uie 
Saturnian  atmosphere,  that  they  would  appreciably  afiect  the  apparent 
figure  of  the  planet. 

But  only  a  few  months  since,  a  change  was  observed  in  the  aspect  of 
Jupiter,  which  was  perhaps  quite  as  suggestive  of  the  action  of  violent 
heat  as  even  the  phenomena  ^ust  considered. 

Mr.  Browning,  the  most  original  optician  of  the  day,  and  also  one 
of  our  most  skilful  observers,  surprised  astronomers  last  winter  by 
announcing  that  the  bright  white  belt  which  usually  surrounds  the 
equatorial  parts  of  Jupiter,  had  become  darker  than  neighbourin^aits, 


THE  FOUH  GIANT  PLANETS.  34 1 

and  was  also  singularly  coloured.  In  the  course  of  a  few  months' 
observation,  this  zone  was  observed  to  change  in  colour  from  yellow  lake 
to  ruddy  brown,  to  orange-yellow,  to  Roman  ochre,  and  to  other  varieties 
of  red  and  yellow  tint ;  and  when  the  planet  passed  out  of  view,  on 
approaching  conjunction  with  the  Sun,  these  processes  of  change  were 
still  going  on. 

To  form  an  adequate  conception  of  the  wonderful  character  of  these 
changes,  the  actual  extent  of  this  belt  must  be  remembered.  The  best 
estimates  of  the  average  width  of  the  belt  would  give  to  the  zone  an 
extent  exceeding  some  twelve  or  fourteen  times  the  whole  surface  of  this 
Earth.  Over  the  whole  of  this  enormous  extent  the  processes  of  change, 
whatever  they  may  have  been,  which  caused  the  apparent  change  of 
colour,  were  taking  place  on  a  scale  which  sufficed  to  render  the  change 
readily  perceptible  to  us  at  a  distance  of  more  than  four  hundred  millions 
of  miles  from  the  planet. 

It  appears  to  me  impossible,  in  the  face  of  such  evidence,  to  regard 
the  condition  of  Jupiter  as  in  any  sense  resembling  that  of  the  Earth,  or 
the  three  other  planets  which  circle  within  the  zone  of  asteroids.  The 
giant  planet  seems  as  distinct  from  the  four  minor  planets  as  the  Sun 
himself  is.  Processes  of  the  most  amazing  character  are  taking  place 
beneath  that  cloudy  envelope  which  forms  the  visible  surface  of  the 
planet  as  seen  by  the  terrestrial  observer.  The  real  globe  of  the  planet 
would  seem  to  be  intensely  heated,  perhaps  molten  through  the  fierce- 
ness of  the  heat  which  pervades  it.  Masses  of  vapour  streaming 
continually  upwards  from  the  surface  of  this  fiery  globe  would  be 
gathered  at  once  into  zones,  because  of  their  rapid  change  of  distance 
from  the  centre.  That  which  is  wholly  unintelligible  when  we  regard 
the  surface  of  Jupiter  as  swept  like  our  Earth's  by  polar  and  equatorial 
winds,  is  readily  interpreted  when  we  recognize  the  existence  of  rapidly 
uprushing  streams  of  vapour.  It  is  easy  to  shew  that  the  difference  in 
the  two  cases  is  striking.  Our  trade-winds,  we  know,  are  caused  by 
the  steady  indraught  of  air  from  cooler  to  warmer  regions.  Now,  if  the 
Earth  were  as  large  as  Jupiter,  but  in  other  respects  unaltered,  the 
indraught  would  be  enormously  diminished;  because  the  distance 
separating  two  places  unequally  warmed,  would  be  increased  more  than 
tenfold,  and  so  the  variation  of  atmospheric  pressure  would  be 
proportionately  more  gradual.  As  it  is,  the  trade- winds  are  gently 
blowing  winds — were  such  a  change  to  take  place  they  would  be  scarcely 
perceptible.  Nor  would  a  further  change  to  the  rapid  rate  of  rotation 
observed  in  the  case  of  Jupiter  make  up  for  the  effect  of  increase  of 
dimensions.  For  the  increase  of  dimensions  is  in  the  proportion  of  no 
less  than  ten  to  one,  whereas  the  rate  of  rotation  is  increased  but  in  the 
proportion  of  five  to  two.  But  now  let  it  be  noticed  that  the  winds 
blowing  towards  the  equator  only  result  in  the  easting  of  the  trade-winds 
in  so  far  as  they  carry  the  air  farther  away  from  the  Earth's  axis,  and  (in 
the  latitudes  where  they  blow)  a  very  considerable  motion  towards  the 


342  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

equator  would  only  prodace  a  relativ^elj  small  increase  of  distance  from 
the  axis.  But  an  air-current  blowing  vertically  upwards,  instead  of 
horizontally  towards  the  equator,  would  carry  its  particles  much  faster 
away  from  tlie  axis.  They  would  seem  therefore  to  lag  more  obviously 
against  the  direction  of  rotation. 

So  that  if  we  suppose  currents  of  vapour  to  be  continually  forcing 
their  way  upwards  from  the  heated  and  probably  fluid  mass  of  Jupiter, 
we  can  readily  understand  that  as  they  ascended  they  would  seem  to  lag 
eastwards  in  a  much  more  marked  manner  than  our  trade- winds  do,  and 
that  therefore  the  resulting  cloud  zones  would  be  much  better  defined, 
and  altogether  more  remarkable  in  character.  That  a  change  of  level 
rather  than  of  latitude  is  concerned  in  the  formation  of  the  Jovian  belts, 
is  confirmed  by  an  observation  made  by  the  eminent  astronomer  Schmidt, 
that  the  rotation-period  of  Jupiter  has  a  different  value  according  as  it 
is  determined  from  light  spots  or  from  dark  spots  on  the  planet — that  is, 
from  spots  at  high  or  low  levels  in  the  atmosphere  of  Jupiter. 

I  have  taken  Jupiter  as  affording  the  best  means  available  to  us  for 
the  determination  of  the  general  characteristics  of  the  major  planets. 
The  evidence  derived  from  observations  of  Saturn  is  not  dissimilar,  but 
Saturn  is  so  much  farther  oflT,  that  that  evidence  is  less  distinct  and 
decisive.  As  for  Uranus  and  Neptune,  it  may  be  regarded  as  hopeless 
to  look  for  any  satisfactory  information  respecting  the  physical  habitudes 
of  these  planets,  from  observations  made  with  any  telescopes  at  present 
constructed.  It  must  suffice  to  remark  that  no  evidence  has  been 
obtained  which  tends  to  negative  any  of  the  conclusions  pointed  to  by 
the  above  considerations. 

We  have  reason  to  conclude  that  the  four  planets  which  resemble  each 
other  so  closely  in  their  general  attributes,  all  vast  in  bulk,  all  of  low 
specific  gravity,  all  rapidly  rotating,  all  satellite-attended,  all  so  markedly 
unlike  the  minor  planets,  Venus,  Mercury,  the  Earth,  and  Mars,  are  not 
orbs  depending  upon  the  Sun  for  their  supply  of  heat.  Rather,  it  would 
seem  as  though  at  present  the  heat  which  pervades  the  substance  of 
these  monster  planets  were  too  great  to  permit  any  life  to  exist  upon 
their  wide  surfaces.  At  least-,  no  such  forms  of  life  as  we  are  familiar 
with  could  exist  where  from  depths  of  several  hundred  miles  heated 
vapour-currents  are  propelled  to  the  upper  regions  of  an  extensive 
atmosphere.  We  may  reasonably  question  whether  the  existence  of  life 
upon  these  noble  orbs  must  not  be  referred  to  the  future  rather  than  to 
the  present  time.  Jupiter,  with  his  singularly  symmetrical  satellite- 
system  ;  Saturn,  girt  about  by  his  mighty  rings,  and  circled  by  as  many 
moons  as  there  are  primary  planets  in  the  Solar  System ;  Uranus  and 
Neptune,  little  known  to  us,  .but  surpassing  all  the  minor  planets  together 
both  in  bulk  and  weight; — surely  these  four  giant  planets  must  have  been 
fashioned  by  the  Almighty's  hand  to  be  the  abode  of  life.  But  there 
would  be  nothing  contrary  to  what  we  already  know  of  the  workings  of 
the  Creator,  if  for  many  long  cj'cles  of  years  the  processes  of  preparation 


THE  PILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  343 

sboald  oontinae,  before  any  forms  of  life  are  to  appear  upon  these  mighty 
orbs.  To  Him  in  Whose  eyes  *  a  thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday/ 
these  cycles  involve  no  real  waste,  whether  of  time  or  of  space.  He 
'  basCeth  not ;'  but  when  the  fullness  of  time  shall  have  come,  the  noblest 
orbs  within  the  Solar  System  will  be  put  to  their  destined  use,  as  certainly 
as  with  next  year's  summer  the  fields  will  ripen  towards  harvest. 


THE  PILLARS   OF  THE  HOUSE; 

OR, 

UNDER  WODE,   UNDER  RODE. 
CHAPTER  X. 

THE  FAMILY  COBWEB  ON  TUE  MOVE. 

'  Oh !  the  auld  house,  the  auld  honse, 
What  though  the  rooms  were  wee ; 
Oh  I  kind  hearts  were  dwelling  there, 

And  balmies  full  of  glee.' 

Ladif  Nairn, 

EvERTONE  except  Edgar  would,  it  was  hoped,  stay  at  home  till  after 
the  Epiphanj,  that  most  marked  anniversary  of  birth  and  death. 

Clement  at  tirst  declared  it  impossible,  for  St  Matthew's  could  not 
dispense  with  him  on  the  great  day ;  and  Fulbert  grinned,  and  nudged 
Lance  at  his  crest-fallen  looks,  when  he  received  full  leave  of  absence 
for  the  next  three  weeks. 

But  Lance  was  bursting  with  reverse  troubles.  The  same  post  had 
brought  him  a  note  from  his  organist;  and  that  'stupid  old  Dean,'  as 
he  irreverently  called  him,  had  maliciously  demanded  'How  beautiful 
are  the  feet,'  with  the  chorus  following,  and  nobody  in  the  choir  was 
available  to  execute  the  solo  but  Lance.  He  had  sung  it  once  or  twice 
before ;  and  if  he  had  the  music,  and  would  practise  at  home,  he  need 
only  come  up  by  the  earliest  train  on  the  Epiphany  morning;  if  not, 
he  must  arrive  in  time  for  a  practice  on  the  5th  ;  he  would  be  wanted  at 
both  the  festival  services,  but  might  return  as  early  as  he  plciised  on 
Monday  the  9th. 

Lance  did  not  receive  the  summons  in  an  exemplary  spirit.  It  is 
not  certain  that  he  did  not  bite  it.  He  rolled  on  the  floor,  and 
contorted  himself  in  convulsions  of  vexation ;  he  '  bothered '  the  Dean, 
he  *  bothered  *  the  Precentor,  he  '  bothered '  the  Organist,  he  *  bothered ' 
Shapcote's  sore  throat,  he  'bothered*  Harewood's  wool-gathering  wits, 
he  '  bothered '  his  own  voice,  and  thereby  caused  Clement  to  rebuke  him 
for  foolish  murmurs  instead  of  joy  in  his  gift. 


M4  THS  MONTHLY  PACK£T. 

^A  ^ne  gifl.to  rejoice  in,  to  make  one  be  whipped  off  by  an  old 
fogey,  when  one  most  wants  to  be  at  home !  I  thank  my  stars  I  can*t 
sing !'  said  Fulbert. 

'  I  should  thank  mine  if  Bill  Harewood  had  any  sense,'  said  Lance, 
sitting  up  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.  *  He  can  go  quite  high  enough  when 
he  pleases ;  only,  unluckily,  a  goose  of  a  jack-daw  must  needs  get  into 
the  cathedral  just  as  Bill  had  got  to  sing  the  solo  in  '^  As  pants  the  hart ;" 
and  there  he  stood  staring  with  his  mouth  wide  open — ^and  no  wonder, 
for  it  was  sitting  on  the  old  stone-king's  head !  Wasn't  Miles  in  a  rage ; 
and  didn't  he  vow  he'd  never  trust  a  solo  to  Harewood  Agsdn  if  he  knew 
it !  Oh,  I  say,  Wilmet — ^Fee,  I  know !  Do  let  me  bring  Bill  back  with  mo 
on  Monday  morning ;  and  he  could  go  by  the  six  o'clock  train.    Oh,  joUy !' 

*But  is  he  really  a  nice  boy.  Lancet'  asked  Wilmet,  doubtfully. 

'  Oh,  isn't  he  just  ?  Youll  see !  His  father  is  a  Yicar-choi'al,  yon 
know,  lives  in  our  precincts ;  his  private  door  just  opposite  ours,  and 
'tis  the  most  delicious  house  you  ever  saw !  You  may  make  as  much 
row  as  you  please,  and  nobody  minds  1' 

'I  know  who  Mr.  Harewood  is.  Librarian  too,  is  he  not?'  said  Felix. 
'  I  have  heard  people  laughing  about  his  good-natured  wife.' 

*  Aren't  they  the  people  who  were  so  kind  to  you  last  year,  Lance,' 
asked  Cherry,  'when  you  could  not  come  home  because  of  the  measles?' 

*  Of  course. .  Do  let  me  bring  him.  Fee,'  entreated  Lance ;  '  he  is  no 
end  of  a  chap — captain  of  our  form  almost  always — and  such  a  brick 
at  cricket !  I  told  him  I'd  shew  him  the  potteries,  and  your  press,  and 
our  organ,  and  everything — and  it  is  such  a  chance  when  we  are  all  at 
home !  I  shall  get  the  fellows  to  believe  now  that  my  sisters  beat  all 
theirs  to  shivers.' 

'Can  you  withstand  that  flattering  compliment,  Wilmet?'  said  Felix, 
laughing.     '  I  can't !' 

'He  is  very  welcome,'  said  Wilmet;  'only,  Lance,  he  must  not  stay 
the  night,  for  there  really  is  not  room  for  another  mouse.' 

The  little  girb  had  heard  so  much  about  Bill  Harewood,  that  they 
were  much  excited ;  but  their  sympathy  kindly  compensated  for  the  lack 
of  that  of  the  elder  brothers.  Fulbert  pronounced  that  a  cathedral 
chorister  could  never  be  any  great  shakes ;  and  Clement  could  not 
forgive  one  who  had  been  frivolous  enough  to  .be  distracted  by  a 
jack-daw ;  but  Lance,  trusting  to  his  friend's  personal  attractions  to 
overcome  all  prejudice,  trotted  blithely  off  to  the  organist-schoolmaster, 
to  beg  the  loan  of  the  music,  and  received  a  promise  of  a  practice  in 
church  in  the  evening.  Meantime,  he  begged  Clement  to  play  the 
accompaniment  for  him  on  the  old  piano.  Neither  boy  knew  that  it 
had  been  scarcely  opened  since  their  father's  hand  had  last  lingered 
fondly  upon  it.  Music  had  been  found  to  excite  their  mother  to 
tears;  Geraldine  resembled  Fulbert  in  unmusicalness,  and  Wilmet  had 
depended  on  school,  the  brothers  on  their  choir-practice,  so  that  the 
«ound  was  like  a  new  thing  in  the  house ;  nor  was  anyone  prepared 


THE  PILLAKS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  345 

• 

^ther  for  the  superiority  of  Clement's  playing,  or  for  the  exceeding 
heauty  and  sweetness  of  Lance's  singing.  No  one  who  appreciated  the 
rar^  quality  of  his  high  notes  wondered  that  he  was  indispensable ; 
Geraldine  could  hardly  believe  that  the  clear  exquisite  proclamation, 
that  came  floating  as  from  an  angel  voice,  could  reaUy  come  from  the 
little,  slight,  grubby,  dusty  urchin,  who  stood  with  claaped  hands  and 
uplifted  face ;  and  Clement  himself — though  deferring  the  communication 
till  Lance  was  absent,  lest  it  should  make  him  vain— confided  to  Wilmet . 
that  they  had  no  such  voice  at  St.  Matthew's,  and  it  was  a  shame  to 
waste  him  on  Anglicans. 

Wilmet  hardly  entered  into  this  enormity.  She  had  made  a  discovery 
which  interested  her  infinitely  more.  Little  Theodore,  hitherto  so 
inanimate,  had  sat  up,  listened,  looked  with  a  dawning  of  expression 
in  the  eyes  that  had  hitherto  been  clear  and  meaningless  as  blue 
porcelain,  and  as  the  music  .ceased,  his  inarticulate  hummings  continued 
the  same  tune.  Could  it  be  that  the  key  to  the  dormant  senses  was 
found?  His  eyes  turned  to  the  piano,  and  his  finger  pointed  to  it  as 
soon  as  he  found  himself  in  the  room  with  it,  and  the  airs  he  heard  were 
continually  reproduced  in  his  murmuring  sounds ;  that  '  How  beautiful !' 
which  had  first  awakened  the  gleam — his  own  birth-day  anthem — being 
sure  to  recur  at  sight  of  Lance ;  while  a  doleful  Irish  croon,  Sibby's 
regular  lullaby,  always  served  for  her,  and  the  ^  Hardy  Norseman '  for 
Felix,  who  had  sometimes  whistled  it  to  him.  Wilmet  spent  every 
available  moment  in  awaking  the  smile  on  the  little  waxen  face  that 
had  never  responded  before ;  it  seemed  to  be  just  the  cheering  hope  she 
needed  to  revive  her  spirits,  only  she  was  almost  ready  to  renounce  her 
journey  with  A  Ida  for  the  sake  of  cultivating  the  new-found  faculty. 

No  one  would  permit  this ;  and  indeed,  so  (sr  from  waiting  to  be 
exhibited  to  Lance's  friend,  the  two  sisters  received  their  billet  de  route 
on  the  very  day  he  was  expected;  and  there  was  no  appeal,  since  a 
housekeeper  was  to  travel  from  Centry,  who  would  take  charge  of  them 
to  London,  whence  they  would  go  down  with  Mr.  Underwood.  Poor 
Wilmet  was  much  dismayed  at  leaving  Geraldine  to  what  they  both 
regarded  as  the  unprecedented  invasion  of  a  strange  boy;  indeed,  the 
whole  charge  made  Cherry's  heart  quail,  though  she  said  little  of  her  fears, 
knowing  the  importance  of  Wilmet's  having,  and  enjoying,  her  holiday ; 
and  Mr.  Audley  promised  extra  aid  in  keeping  order  among  the  boys. 

But  as  they  came  in  that  evening  from  the  practice  at  the  church,  to 
which  Clement  had  insisted  on  their  coming  to  hear  Lance,  Mr.  Audley 
beckoned  Felix  to  his  room  with  the  words,  '  There's  a  thing  I  want  to 
talk  over  with  you.' 

Felix  recollected  those  ominous  words  to  Mr.  Underwood,  and  stood 
warming  his  hands  in  dread  of  what  might  be  coming.  It  was  all  he 
feared. 

*I  wanted  to  say — 1  wanted  to  tell  you — '  began  Mr.  Audley.  *I 
would  not  have  chosen  this  time,  but  that  I  think  it  may  save  Wilmet 

VOL.   10.  24  PART  58. 


346  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

something  to  be  able  to  tell  her  friends  that  the  present  arrangement  is 
to  cease.' 

'Wilmetl'  exclaimed  Felix;  then  bethinking  himself.  ^Was  that 
what  Tom  Underwood  meant  t  But  you  will  not  trouble  yourself  about 
such  rubbish.' 

'  Well,  you  see,'  began  the  Curate,  with  heightening  colour,  ^  it  can't 
be  denied  that  your  sister  has  grown  up,  and  that  things  are  changed.' 

'  Mrs.  Froggatt  did  ask  me  if  you  were  going  on  here,'  said  Felix, 
still  unconvinced;  'but  can't  we  leave  people  to  be  stoopid  without 
interfering  with  us  V 

'  Felix,  you  ought  to  be  a  better  protector  to  your  sisters.  You  would 
not  like  to  have  my  Lady  remonstrating — nay,  maybe  writing  to  my 
mother :  she  is  quite  capable  of  it.' 

Felix's  cheeks  were  in  a  flame.  'If  people  would  mind  their  own 
business,'  he  said ;  '  but  if  they  unll  have  it  so—' 

'  They  are  right,  Felix,'  said  the  Curate  quietly ;  '  appearances  must 
be  carefully  heeded,  and  by  you  almost  more  than  by  anyone.  Your 
slowness  to  understand  me  makes  me  almost  doubtful  about  mj  fiirther 
design.' 

'  Not  going  away  altogether !' 

'  Not  immediately ;  but  things  stand  thus — Dr.  White,  my  old  tutor, 
you  know,  and  Feman's,  is  nearly  sure  of  the  new  Bishopric  in 
Australia,  and  he  wants  me.' 

Felix  hardly  repressed  a  groan. 

'  Any  way,  I  should  not  go  immediately ;  but  when  your  father  spoke 
to  me  about  the  guardianship,  he  made  me  promise  not  to  let  it  stand  in 
the  way  of  any  other  call.  I  fancied  he  had  mission  work  in  his  mind, 
and  it  disposes  me  the  more  to  think  I  ought  not  to  hold  back;  but 
while  your  dear  mother  lived,  I  would  not  have  gone.' 

'  Yes,  you  have  been  very  good  to  us,'  was  all  Felix  could  say.  '  But 
when  V 

'  Not  for  some  time ;  but  I  am  not  going  this  moment*  Three  months 
notice  Mr.  Bevan  must  have,  and  if  he  requires  it,  six;  I  must  spend 
some  time  at  home,  and  very  like  shall  not  be  off  till  you  are  of  age— 
certainly  not  if  I  find  there  is  any  difficulty  in  handing  the  management 
of  things  over  to  you.  How  long  I  remain  with  you  must  depend  on  cir- 
cumstances.    How  much  notice  must  you  give  before  leaving  this  house  V 

'  I  do  not  know — ^half  a  year,  I  fancy.     You  think  we  ought  to  give 
it  up  ?     I  suppose  it  is  too  large  for  us  now.' 
,    '  And  you  could  take  no  lodger  but  one  of  the  old-lady  type.' 

'Horrid!'  said  Felix.  'Well,  we  will  see;  but  it  wiU  be  a  great 
stroke  on  poor  Cherry — she  can  remember  nothing  before  this  house.' 

'It  will  be  very  good  for  her  to  have  no  old  associations  to  sit 
brooding  over.' 

'My  poor  little  Cherry!  If  I  saw  how  to  cheer  up  her  life;  but 
without  your  lessons  it  will  be  more  dreary  for  her  than  ever  I' 


THB  PILLABS  07  THE  HOUSE.  S47 

*  Oive  her  all  you  can  to  do,  and  do  not  be  over-careful  to  keep  your 
anxieties  from  her  knowledge.  She  is  very  much  of  a  woman,  and  if 
you  leave  her  too  much  to  herself,  she  will  grow  more  introspective.' 

'  Wilmet  and  I  have  always  wanted  to  shelter  her ;  she  never  seems 
fit  for  trouble,  and  she  is  so  young  V 

*  Compared  with  you  two  venerable  people  V  said  Mr.  Audley,  smiling. 
*  But  her  mind  is  not  young,  and  to  treat  her  as  a  child  is  the  way  to 
make  her  prey  upon  herself.  I  wish  her  talent  could  be  more  cultivated ; 
but  meantime  nothing  is  better  for  her  than  the  care  of  Bernard  and 
Stella.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  promote  them  out  of  her 
hands.' 

*  Very  well ;  but  she  will  miss  you  sorely.' 

^  I  hope  to  see  her  brightened  before  I  am  really  gone ;  and  I  am  not 
going  to  decamp  from  this  house  till  some  natural  break  comes.  To 
do  that  would  be  absurd  I' 

There  was  a  silence ;  and  then  Felix  said  with  a  sigh,  ^  Yes,  a  smaller 
house,  and  one  servant.    I  will  speak  to  Wilmet. 

^Perhaps  you  had  better,  so  that  she  may  have  an  answer  in  case 
she  is  attacked.' 

Wilmet  was  aghast  at  first,  but  a  hint  from  Alda  made  her  acquiesce, 
not  with  blushing  consciousness,  but  with  the  perception  that  the  way 
of  the  world  was  agiuDSt  the  retention  of  the  lodger ;  and  sorry  as  she 
was  to  lose  Mr.  Audley,  her  housewifely  mind  was  not  consoled,  but 
distracted  by  calculations  on  the  difierence  of  expenditure.  Agun  she 
tried  to  beg  herself  off  from  her  visit,  in  the  dread  that  Felix  would  go 
and  take  some  impracticable  house  in  her  absence — some  place  with 
thin  walls,  no  cupboards,  and  no  coal-hole ;  and  she  was  only  pacified 
by  his  solemn  promise  to  decide  on  no  house  without  her.  She  went 
away  in  an  avalanche  of  kisses  and  tears,  leaving  Geraldine  with  a 
basket  full  of  written  instructions  for  every  possible  contingency,  at 
which  the  anxious  maiden  sat  gazing  anxiously,  trying  to  store  her 
mind  with  its  onerous  directions. 

*  Shall  I  give  you  a  piece  of  advice.  Cherry  ?'  said  the  Cm*ate,  as  he 
saw  the  dark  eye-brows  drawn  together. 

^  Oh,  do !'  she  earnestly  said. 
'  Put  all  that  in  the  fire  r 

*  Mr.  Audley  r 

*  And  go  by  the  light  of  nature  I  Ton  have  just  as  many  senses  as 
Wilmet,  and  almost  as  much  experience ;  and  as  to  oppressing  yourself 
with  the  determination  to  do  the  ver^  thing  she  would  have  done  under 
all  circumstances,  it  is  a  delusion.  People  must  act  according  to  their 
own  nature,  not  someone  dse's.' 

*  Certainly,'  said  Geraldine,  smiling.  *  I  could  never  walk  stately  in 
and  say,  "  Now,  boys !" — and  much  they  would  care  for  it  if  I  did.' 

'  It  seems  to  be  a  case  for  *'  Now,  boys !"  at  this  moment,'  said  Mr. 
Audley ;  *  what  can  all  that  row  be  V 


848  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

^Oh,  it  must  be  that  dreadful  strange  boy,  Lance's  Mend/  sighed 
Geraldine,  almost  turning  pale.  Then  trying  to  cheer  up,  'But  it  is 
only  for  the  day,  and  Lance  wished  it  so  much.' 

As  she  spoke,  the  shout  of  *  Cherry,  here's  Bill!'  came  nearer,  and 
the  -whole  of  the  younger  half  of  the  family  tumbled  promiscuously  into 
the  room,  introducing  the  visitor  in  the  midst  of  them.  To  the  elders, 
'  no  end  of  a  chap '  appeared,  as  Mr.  Audley  said,  to  mean  all  ends  of 
shock  hair,  and  freckles  up  to  the  eyes;  but  when  Fulbert  and  Lance 
had  whirled  him  out  again  to  see  the  lions  of  Bexley,  Bobina  and 
Angela  were  oyerheard  respectfully  pronouncing  that  he  was  nice  and 
spotty,  like  the  dear  little  frogs  in  the  strawberry-beds  at  Catsacre,  and 
that  his  hair  was  just  the  colour  Cherry  painted  that  of  all  the  very  best 
people  in  her  '  holy  pictures.' 

The  object  of  their  admiration  was  seen  no  more  till  the  middle  of 
dinner,  when  all  three  appeared,  immoderately  dusty ;  and  no  wonder, 
for  the  organist  had  employed  them  to  climb,  sweep  fashion,  into  the 
biggest  organ-pipe,  to  investigate  the  cause  of  a  bronchial  affection  of 
long  standing,  which  turned  out  to  be  a  dead  bat  caught  in  a  tenacious 
cobweb. 

Shortly  after,  the  guest  was  found  assisting  Angela  in  a  tableau,  where 
a  pen-wiper  doll  in  nun's  costume  was  enacting  tha  exorcism  of  the  said 
bat,  in  a  cave  built  of  wooden  bricks. 

Clement  was  undecided  whether  to  condemn  or  admire ;  and  Geraldine, 
to  whom  Edgar  had  lent  some  volumes  of  Ruskin,  meditated  on  the 
grotesque. 

Before  there  had  been  time  for  the  fanciful  sport  to  become  rough 
comedy.  Lance  had  called  off  his  friend  to  see  the  potteries ;  and  to  poor 
Cherry's  horror,  she  found  that  Robina  had  been  swept  off  in  the 
torrent  of  boyhood.  Clement,  pitying  her  despair  and  self-reproach, 
magnanimously  offered  to  follow,  and  either  bring  the  little  maid  back, 
or  keep  her  out  of  harm's  way ;  and  for  some  time  Cherry  reposed  in 
the  conviction  that '  Tina  was  as  good  as  a  girl  any  day.' 

But  at  about  a  quarter  to  six,  a  little  tap  came  to  Mr.  Audley's  door, 
and  Angela  stood  there,  saying  with  a  most  serious  face,  'Please,  Mr. 
Audley,  Cherry  wants  to  know  whether  you  don't  think  something 
must  have  happened?'  And  going  up-stairs,  he  found  the  poor  young 
deputy  in  a  nervous  agony  of  despair  at  the  non-return  of  any  of  the 
party,  quite  certain  that  some  catastrophe  had  befallen  them,  and 
divided  between  self-reproach  and  dread  of  the  consequences. 

'  The  very  first  day  Wilmet  had  gone !'  as  she  said. 

It  was  almost  time  for  Harewood's  train,  which  made  it  all  the  more 
strange.  Mr.  Audley  tried  to  reassure  her  by  the  probability  that  the 
whole  party  were  convoying  bim  to  the  station,  and  would  appear  when 
he  was  gone ;  but  time  confuted  this  pleasing  hypothesis,  and  Cherry's 
misery  was  renewed.  She  even  almost  hinted  a  wish  that  Mr.  Audle\^ 
would  go  out  and  look  for  them. 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  849 

'  And  then/  he  said,  smiling,  '  in  an  hoar's  time  you  would  be  sending 
Felix  to  look  for  me.  No,  no,  Cherry,  these  waiting  times  are  oflen 
hard,  no  doubt ;  but  as  I  fear  you  are  one  of  those  destined  to  '^  abide 
by  the  tents  "  instead  of  going  out  to  battle,  you  had  better  learn  to  do 
your  watching  composedly/ 

*0  Mr.  Audleyl  how  can  I?  I  know  it  must  be  very  wrong,  but 
how  can  I  not  care?'  And  verily  the  nervous  sensitive  girl  was 
quivering  with  suspense. 

'  '^  He  will  not  be  afraid  for  any  evil  tidings,  'for  his  heart  standeth 
fast  and  believeth  in  the  Lord," '  answered  Mr.  Audley.  ^  1  see  that  does 
not  tell  you  how  not  to  be  afraid;  but  I  imagine  that  a  few  trusting 
ejaculations  in  the  heart,  and  then  resolute  attention  to  something  else, 
may  be  found  a  help.' 

Cherry  would  have  sighed  that  attention  was  the  most  impossible 
thing  in  the  world ;  but  before  she  had  time  to  do  so,  Mr.  Audley  had 
begun  to  expound  to  her  his  Australian  scheme.  It  excited  her 
extremely;  and  as  a  year  and  a  half  seemed  an  immense  period  of 
time  to  her  imagination,  the  dread  of  losing  him  was  not  so  immediate 
as  to  damp  her  enthusiasm.  They  had  discussed  his  plans  for  nearly  an 
hour  before  Cherry  started  at  the  sound  of  the  door,  and  then  it  was 
only  FeHx  who  entered.  He  was  irate,  but  not  at  all  alarmed ;  and 
presently  the  welcome  clatter  of  steps  approached,  and  in  dashed  the 
wh(de  crew,  mired  up  to  the  eyes,  but  in  as  towering  spirits  as  ever. 

Their  dday  had,  it  appeared,  been  caused  by  a  long  walk  that  ensued 
upon  the  visit  to  the  potteries,  and  a  wild  venture  of  Will  Harewood 
upon  impracticable  ice,  which  had  made  him  acquainted  with  the  depths 
of  a  horse-pond.  There  was  none  of  the  dignity  of  danger,  for  the 
depths  were  shallows,  and  the  water  only  rose  to  his  waist;  but  the 
mud  was  above  his  ancles,  and  he  had  floundered  out  with  some 
difficulty.  He  wanted  to  walk  back  with  no  more  ceremony  than  a 
water-dog ;  but  the  Underwoods  had  made  common  cause  against  him, 
and  had  dragged  him  to  a  cottage,  where  he  had  the  pleasing  alternative 
of  an  old  woman's  blankets  and  petticoats  while  his  garments  were 
drying.  He  was  as  nearly  angry  as  a  Harewood  could  be,  Lance 
observed,  declaring  that  they  should  never  have  got  him  into  the 
cottage  without  fighting  him,  if  Tina  had  not  been  so  tall,  and  if  Robin 
had  not  nearly  cried ;  while  he,  throwing  off  all  responsibility,  ascribed 
all  his  lateness  to  his  friend's  ^maggots.'  No  more  trains  stopped  at 
Bexley  till  after  midnight ;  but  as  to  his  absence  causing  any  uneasiness 
at  home,  he  laughed  at  the  notion,  and  was  corroborated  by  Lance  in 
averring  that  they  had  too  much  sense;  listening  with  undisguised 
amazement  to  the  elaborate  explanations  and  apologies  about  Robina, 
which  Clement  was  scrupulously  pouring  forth  to  his  brother  and  sister, 
saying  that  he  would  have  brought  her  home  at  once,  but  that  he  really 
did  not  like  to  trust  those  boys  alone. 

Whereat  Lance  held  up  his  hands  with  a  dumb  show  of  amazement 


850  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

that  convulsed  Fulbert,3ill  Harewood,  and  Bobina  herself,  with  agonies 
of.  half-suppressed  merriment.  The  boy  had  come  in,  prepared  to  be 
graye  and  quiet,  as  knowing  how  lately  affliction  had  come  to  the 
family,  and  having  been  warned  by  Lance,  that  ^as  to  going  on  as  we 
do  in  the  precincts,  why,  it  would  make  Cherry  jump  out  of  her  skin.' 

But  by  some  extraordinary  influence — ^whether  it  were  the  oddity  of 
William  Harewood's  face,  or  the  novelty  of  his  perfect  insouciance  in 
the  household  whither  care  had  come  only  too  early — some  infection 
seized  on  the  young  Underwoods,  and  before  the  end  of  the  evening 
meal,  if  the  '  goings  on '  were  not  equal  to  those  in  the  precincts,  they 
were  at  any  rate  not  far  short  of  it. 

Lance  presently  incited  his  friend  to  shew  ^  how  he  had  mesmerized 
LiTcy.'  Clement  made  a  horrified  protest ;  and  Greraldine  looked  alarmed 
at  her  eldest  brother,  who  began,  ^  Indeed,  Lance,  we  can  have  nothing 
of  that  sort  here.' 

^  But,  Felix,  I  do  assure  you  there  is  no  harm.' 

'Upon  my  word  and  honour,  there's  not  a  spice  of  anything  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  could  stick  at,'  added  Will  Harewood. 

'  It  is  impossible  there  should  not  be  harm,'  interposed  Clement ;  but 
the  boys,  including  Fulbert,  were  in  such  fits  of  laughter,  that  Felix 
began  to  suspect  the  seriousness  of  the  performance ;  and  when  Lance 
sprang  at  him,  exclaiming,  ^  111  go  to  Mr.  Audley  1  Fee— Cherry— will 
you  be  satisfied  if  Mr.  Audley  says  we  may  V  Felix  and  Cherry  both 
consented ;  and  Lance  rushed  off  to  make  the  appeal,  and  returned  not 
only  with  full  sanction,  but  with  Mr.  Audley  himself,  come  to  see  the 
operation.  This  perfectly  satisfied  Felix,  who  even  consented  on  the 
entreaty  of  his  brothers  to  become  the  first  subject ;  and  Cherry  knew 
that  where  the  Curate  and  Felix  had  no  scruples,  she  need  have  none ; 
but  for  all  that,  she  was  more  than  half  frightened  and  uncomfortable — 
above  all,  when  Clement,  amid  shouts  of  mirth  from  the  three  school- 
boys, indignantly  marched  away  to  shut  himself  up  in  his  cold  bed-room. 

By-and-by,  after  some  unseen  preparation — ^all^  the  more  mystifying 
because  carried  on  in  the  kitchen,  where  Sibby  always  used  to  keep 
Theodore  in  a  cradle  till  Felix  was  ready  for  him — Will  Harewood 
caused  Felix  to  stand  exactly  opposite  to  him  and  to  the  spectators, 
with  a  dinner-plate  in  his  hand,  and  under  injunctions  to  imitate 
the  operator  exacUy.  Armed  with  another  plate,  William  rubbed  his 
own  finger  first  on  the  under  side  of  the  plate,  and  then,  afler  some 
passes  and  flourishes,  on  his  own  forehead,  entirely  without  efi^ect  so  far 
as  he  himself  was  concerned ;  but  his  victim,  standing  meekly  good- 
natured  and  unconscious,  was  seen  by  the  ecstatic  audience  to  be,  at  each 
pass,  painting  his  own  face  with  the  soot  from  a  fiame  over  which  his 
plate  had  been  previously  held.  The  shrieks  of  amusement  redoubled  at 
the  perplexity  they  occasioned  him,  till  they  penetrated  the  upper  rooms; 
and  suddenly  a  cry  of  horror  made  all  turn  to  the  door,  and  see  a  littie 
white  bare-footed  figure  standing  there,  transfixed  with  fright,   which 


BTGONSS.  851 

increased  tenfold  when  Felix  hurried  towards  it^  not  yet  aware  of  the 
condition  of  his  visage,  until  a  universal  shout  warned  him  of  it ;  while 
Lance,  darting  in  pursuit,  picked  up  Bernard,  and  by  his  wonderful 
caressmg  arts,  and  partly  by  his  special  gifts  of  coaxing,  partly  as  the 
object  of  the  little  fellow's  most  fervent  adoration,  made  the  scattered 
senses  take  in  that  it  was  ^  all  play,'  and  even  carried  back  the  little  white 
bundle,  heart  throbbing  and  eyes  staring,  but  still  secure  in  his  arms,  to 
admire  Fdix  all  black,  and  then  to  be  further  relieved  by  beholding  the 
restoration  of  the  natural  hue  at  the  pump  below  stairs. 

Then  amid  Sibby's  scoldings  and  assurances  that  the  child  would  catch 
his  death  of  cold,  Bernard  was  borne  up-stairs  again  by  Felix,  i(lio  found 
Clement  in  the  nursery  comforting  the  little  -girls,  and  prevented  them 
from  following  the  example  of  their  valiant  pioneer.  Felix,  now 
thoroughly  entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  joke,  entertained  for  a  moment 
the  hope  of  entrapping  Clement;  but  of  course  Bernard  could  not  be 
silenced  from  his  bold,  and  rather  doubtful,  proclamation,  that  ^The 
funny  boy  made  Felix  black  his  own  face,  and  I  wasn't  afraid.' 

'  Naughty  boy  1'  commented  Stella.  ^  Poor  Fee  I'-^and  she  reared  up 
to  kiss  him,  and  stroke  the  cheeks  that  had  suffered  such  an  indignity. 

^  What !  it  was  only  a  trick  ?'  said  Clement  slowly,  as  if  half  mystified. 

*  Of  course,'  said  Felix ;  ^  could  not  you  trust  to  that?' 

^  I  don't  know.    Cathedrals  are  very  lax,  and  it  had  a  questionable  name.' 

*  O  Clem !  if  it  had  not  been  in  you  before,  I  should  wish  you  had 
never  gone  to  St.  Matthew's.  Come  down  now,  don't  let  us  disturb  the 
little  ones  any  longer. — Good-night,  Angel ;  good-night,  little  Star ;  well 
not  make  a  row  to  wake  you  again.' 

(To  be  continued,) 


BYGONES. 

BY  A.  MILUKOFF. 

(ntAKSLATED  VBOM  THB  RU8B  BT  H.  C  ROHAMOFr.) 

CHAPTEB  II.  (continued.^ 
IfT  CHILDHOOD. 

At  Troitzky  we  remained  two  days,  stopping  at  the  house  of  a 
townsman.  We  occupied  one  small  room,  the  walls  of  which  were 
pasted  all  over  with  prints,  among  which  one  in  particular,  representing 
the  Monastery  with  S.  Sergius  in  the  clouds  above  it,  and  another, 
illustrative  of  the  Mice  burying  the  Cat,  attracted  the  eye  of  the  beholder. 
There  was  very  little  furniture — merely  a  table  and  three  wooden  stools ; 


852  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

and  at  nigkfc  they  used  to  bring  as  an  enormous  sack  filled  with  hay  to 
repose  on.  From  early  morning  we  were  at  the  Monastery,  wandering 
from  one  church  to  another.  My  mother  stood  out  the  whole  of  Matins 
and  Mass,  and  left  me  with  Bitka  in  the  yard,  but  the  pilgrim  did  not 
seem  to  care  much  for  this  deprivation ;  and  I  conjecture  that  the  love  of 
pilgrimagmg  in  this  good  woman  was  not  so  much  the  result  of  piety,  as 
the  habit  of  leading  a  desultory  and  wandering  life.  She  ran  races  with 
me  in  the  broad  avenues  of  the  Monastery,  took  me  to  the  shops  where 
the  pictures  of  S.  Sergius  were  sold,  to  the  studios  where  they  are 
painted,  to  the  sacristy,  and  to  the  pancake  bakery  near  the  walb  of  the 
Monastery.  And  on  my  childish  mind  a  strange  but  charaeteristie 
picture  imprinted  itself,  in  which  there  were  churches,  glittering  with 
gold  and  in  the  light  of  tapers,  the  perfume  of  incense,  black  rows  of 
singing  monks,  the  sacristy  with  its  garments  shining  with  precious 
stones,  the  crowd  of  wretched  beggars  and  shocking  cripples  at  the  gateSf 
and  the  booth  outside  the  walls  where  dirty  women  bake  pancakes  amid 
eternal  screams  and  scoldings.  Riches  and  poverty,  solemn  singing  and 
loud  scolding,  are  inseparably  connected  with  my  recollections  of  Troitzky. 

Bitka  led  me  into  Church  merely  to  hear  the  reading  of  the  Gospel  or 
the  singing  of  the  Cherubim's  Hymn.  During  the  latter  on  one  occasicoi 
a  circumstance  occurred  which  made  a  gi*eat  impression  on  me.  At  the 
sound  of  the  first  words  of  the  Hymn,  we  heard  a  wild  howl,  mingled 
with  sobs  and  frantic  cries>  in  which  might  be  distinguished  the  barking 
of  a  dog  and  the  crowing  of  a  cock,  and  terrible  heart-rending  groans. 
All  eyes  wei*e  turned  towards  the  direction  from  whence  these  sounds 
proceeded ;  and  soon  a  woman,  struggling  in  such  strong  convulsions  that 
several  men  could  scarcely  support  her,  was  borne  past  us. 

^  What  is  the  matter  ?'  I  asked  of  my  mother,  trembling  from  fnght. 

*  A  screamer,'  *  she  whispered. 

*  A  what  ?  a  screamer  ? ' 

*  Say  your  prayers,  my  friend,*  whispered  my  mother. 

When  Bitka  and  I  left  the  church,  I  began  to  question  her  about  the 
woman,  and  what  made  her  struggle  and  scream  so. 

*  Poor  dear  I  she  is  spoiled  ! '  f  was  the  answer. 
'  Who  spoiled  her  ?     How  was  she  spoiled  ? ' 

*Bad  people.  She  was  spoiled  according  to  the  rules  of  the  Black 
Books.' 

*  What  Black  Books  ? ' 

*  Certain  books  that  are  kept  in  the  Soukhareff  tower ;  bricked  up  in 
the  walls,  they  say.' 

Although  my  father  and  mother  subsequently  endeavoured  to  assure 
me  that  the  woman  was  ill,  I  could  not  forget  the  horrible  *  screamer,' 
and  each  time  I  thought  of  her  it  was  with  a  shudder ;  and  whenever  I 

*  A  person  who  is  either  really  afflicted  with  a  peculiar  form  of  epilepsy,  or  who 
for  her  own  ends  pretends  to  be  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit.  (TVoiv.) 

t  Bewitched.    (JVans.) 


BTGONES.  853 

passed  by  the  tower  I  always  wondered  whereabouts  the  mysterious 
Black  Books  were  concealed  in  its  walls. 

We  bade  good-bye  to  Bitka  at  Troitzky.  A  fellow-pilgrim  turned  up 
there,  and  they  arranged  to  go  together  to  RostofT,  and  I  and  my  mother 
returned  to  Moscow.  Our  journey  home  was  less  prolonged  than  the 
first,  for  we  went  by  ooach  this  time.  Long,  long  after  that,  when  I  lay 
awake  in  my  little  bed,  I  brought  to  mind  our  pleasant  walk  to  Troitzky, 
and  thought  with  envy  of  Bitka,  who  wandered  all  the  summer  from 
monastery  to  monastery,  with  a  long  long  road  before  her,  endless  fields, 
fresh  verdure,  and  gay  flowers. 

My  pilgrimage  to  Troitzky  did  not  save  me  from  the  melancholy 
predictions  of  Ivan  Yakovlivitch.  Some  months  later  I  fell  seriously  ill ; 
it  was  at  the  time  of  the  thaw;  my  father  was  at  the  counting-house,  and 
my  mother  had  gone  to  see  a  relative,  while  I  had  obtained  permission 
to  play  in  the  yard.  It  was  a  warm  sunshiny  day;  the  snow  had 
disappeared,  but  there  was  no  verdure  to  be  seen,  except  here  and  there 
little  reddish-green  tufts  of  newly  springing  nettles.  The  sparrows 
chirped  on  the  walls  and  fences,  and  on  the  little  balcony  the  pigeons 
were  cooing  in  company  with  their  meek  little  spouses.  I  sat  a  little 
while  with  Maria  Ivanovna,  climbed  up  twice  into  the  pigeon-house  with 
Luke  Lukitch,  and  all  the  remaining  time  played  in  the  yard. 

When  they  put  me  to  bed  in  the  evening  I  turned  from  side  to  side, 
and  could  not  get  to  sleep  till  morning  dawned ;  and  although  they  gave 
me  warm  drinks  and  kept  me  at  home,  I  was  seized  with  ague  the 
following  night,  and  it  continued  unUl  the  summer  without  intermission. 
Now  I  lay  in  fearful  heat,  now  shivered  beneath  two  quilted  counter-* 
panes.  At  first  they  treated  me  with  'domestic  means'  from  Maria 
Ivanovna's  medicine*  chest,  and  put  a  written  charm  against  the  twelve 
Sisters- Ague,  daughters  of  King  Herod,  under  my  pillow.  But  I  derived 
no  benefit  from  either.  Then  my  father  took  me  to  the  Sheremetieff 
Hospital  for  advice,  but  the  medicines  prescribed  for  me  did  me  no  good, 
and  in  fact  I  became  worse  and  worse.  My  mother  pledged  her  best  , 
winter  cloak,  and  sent  for  a  doctor.  His  visits  continued  until  all  the 
money  thus  raised  was  gone,  and  in  the  meantime  the  ague  shook  me 
more  fiercely  than  ever.  A  circumstance  at  last  occurred  which  rendered 
this  illness  for  ever  memorable  to  me. 

A  relation  <^  ours  came  to  see  us — the  very  person  whom  my  mother 
went  to  visit  on  the  day  I  caught  cold. 

'  Do  you  know,  Lizavetta  Ivanovna,'  said  she  to  my  mother,  *  I  have 
come  here  to  speak  to  you  about  your  Sascha.*  I  am  sorry  to  see  the 
child  suffer  so  long.  I  was  telling  a  friend  about  him  the  other  day,  and 
she  recommended  me  a  woman  who  undertakes  to  cure  him,  and  does  not 
expect  any  remuneration  beforehand.' 

*Whoisshe?' 

*  An  old  woman  from  the  Andronie£f  Monastery.' 

*  Dim.  of  Alexander  or  Alexandra,  (Soschinka^Saschduro.) 


354  THB  MOKTHLT  PACKET. 

*  And  how  does  she  cure  people! ' 

*  Welly  don't  be  frightened,  bat  the  fact  is  that  she  uses  poison,  I  am 
told ;  but  she  gives  it  in  proportion  to  the  age  and  state  of  the  patient. 
She  cures  nothing  but  ague.' 

*  It  is  awful  I '  said  mj  mother. 

*  Welly  as  you  please,  of  course.  But  my  friend  absolutely  swore  that 
this  woman  has  placed  such  patients  on  their  feet,  as  even  the  very 
Grerman  doctors  had  given  up.  My  advice  is  to  try  your  luck^- 
look  what  the  child  is  reduced  to  ! ' 

«  My  mother  spoke  to  my  father  on  the  subject,  and  after  a  consultation 
they  decided  to  send  for  the  wonderful  wise  woman.  The  next  day  she 
came.  She  was  a  tall  thin  old  woman  in  a  dark  nankeen  dress,  and  with 
a  handkerchief  on  her  head,  the  ends  of  which  hung  down  behind.  In 
her  hand  she  carried  a  little  bundle.  When  she  entered  the  room  she 
began  to  cross  herself  and  to  bow  low,  not  before  the  picture,  but  before 
the  open  window,  making  immense  signs  with  two  fingers  only,*  and 
then  made  a  respectful  obeisance  to  my  parents.  Having  h^urd  the 
particulars  of  the  commencement  of  my  illness,  and  its  subsequent 
development ;  and  having  inquired  also  about  my  habits  and  tastes,  she 
begged  to  see  me,  and  was  introduced  into  my  sick  room,  where  I  lay 
covered  with  a  warm  quilt  and  my  &ther's  fur  pelisse  into  the  bai^n. 
She  sat  down  by  my  bed-side,  put  her  long  hand  on  my  head,  and  did 
not  stir  for  a  long  time,  only  whispering  occasionally  with  a  deep  sigh, 
'  O  Lord  Jesu  Christ,  have  mercy  on  us,  sinners  I '  At  last  she  broke 
silence  and  spake,  informing  us  that  the  disease,  though  very  obstinate, 
was  curable.    , 

*  What  do  you  use  for  curing  it  f '  asked  my  father. 

'Excuse  me^  Sir,  but  that  is  my  business  1'  answered  the  old  woman 
dryly.  *  What  my  Saviour-God  has  revealed  to  me,  I  use  to  help  good 
people.' 

*  And  there  is  nothing  in  it  dangerous  for  the  child  ? ' 

*  If  you  fear  anything  I  had  better  leave  it  alone  altogether ;  just  as 
you  please ;  I  do  not  force  myself  upon  anybody.  If  you  trust  me  I  am 
ready  to  assist  you ;  and  if  you  do  not — ^why,  it  is  your  own  choice.' 

But  my  father  and  mother  decided  to  place  me  under  the  old  woman's 
care.  She  began  by  saying  her  prayers  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  the  window,  with  frequent  prostrations,  and  then  desired  that 
some  black  bread  and  pounded  sugar  might  be  brought,  and  took  out  of 
her  bundle  a  little  linen  bag.  To  a  dessert-spoonful  of  sugar  she  added 
a  small  pinch  of  a  white  shining  powder,  and  stirred  them  together  for  a 
long  time  on  a  saucer ;  then  sprinkled  it  all  on  a  slice  of  black  bread, 
and  desired  me  to  eat  it  and  not  to  leave  a  single  crumb.  She  prepared 
a  similar  portion  for  me  to  take  the  next  day.  The  first  doses  of  this 
medicine  had  no  effect  whatever  on  me,  except  producing  a  slight  degree 
of  nausea. 

*  All  signs  of  her  being  one  of  the  '  Old  Faith '  sect. 


BYGONES.  355 

In  a  day  or  two  sbe  came  again,  sat  down  by  my  bed-side  and  sighed 
a  long  time>  whispering  her  usual  ejaculations.  She  then  prepared  a 
dose  for  me  in  the  same  manner  as  before,  but  with  a  larger  portion  of 
the  white  powder.  In  like  manner  her  visits  were  repeated  for  about 
three  weeks,  and  each  time  the  salutary  powder  was  added  to  the  sugar 
in  larger  and  larger  quantities,  but  I  no  longer  felt  the  slightest  nausea 
from  it.  The  ague  was  gradually  leaving  me;  the  paroxysms  became 
less  and  less  frequent  My  mother  did  not  know  how  to  make  enough 
of  my  leech. 

It  happened  just  at  this  time  that  Luke  Lukitch,  when  in  a  great 
bustle  to  send  out  his  decoy-pigeons  to  entice  a  stray  bird  as  quickly  as 
possible,  fell  from  the  balcony,  and  injured  his  head  so  seriously  that 
they  were  obliged  to  send  for  a  doctor  immediately.  Maria  Ivanovna» 
who  had  all  along  taken  a  lively  interest  in  iqc  and  all  that  concerned 
me,  spoke  to  him  about  me  and  my  illness,  and  hinted  that  a  suspicious 
sort  of  person  was  treating  me  with  a  suspicious  sort  of  medicine.  The 
doctor,  by  her  request,  came  to  our  apartments,  and  it  happened  that  at 
that  very  moment  I  was  eating  the  medicated  bread.  He  tasted  it,  and 
was  horror-struck  I 

*  How  long  have  you  been  feeding  him  in  this  way  ? '  he  asked  at 
length. 

*  Three  weeks,'  answered  my  father. 

*  Is  it  possible  ?    And  every  day  with  this  mixture  ? ' 

'Yes,  with  a  powder,  the  quantity  of  which  was  increased  at  each 
dose.' 

*  What  are  you  all  thinking  of  ?     Why,  it  is  arsenic  I ' 
My  mother  clasped  her  hands. 

*  At  any  rate,  he  is  better,'  remarked  my  father ;  *  the  ague  is  leaving 
him.' 

'  That  proves  that  the  little  boy  has  a  very  fine  constitution.  He  has 
become  accustomed  to  the  poison.  But  such  a  portion  as  you  have  just 
given  him  is  sufficient  to  kill  a  grown  person.    Who  attends  him  ? ' 

^  An  old  woman.' 

'  Who  is  sh^  and  where  does  she  livet ' 

^  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ? '  asked  my  father  in  his  turn. 

'  I  am  bound  to  give  information  of  such  proceedings  to  the  authorities, 
because  such  a  woman  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  poisoner ! ' 

'  Be  so  good  as  to  excuse  me,'  said  my  &ther  firmly.  *  My  boy  was 
ill  three  months  ;  several  doctors  prescribed  for  him  and  did  him  no  good 
whatever,  while  this  good  woman  put  him  on  his  legs  again.  And  you 
want  me  to  become  informer  against  her,  and  to  repay  her  with 
ingratitude  for  the  recovery  of  my  son  ?  God  forbid !  For  no  con- 
siderations on  earth  will  I  betray  the  poor  woman  I  on  the  contrary,  I 
will  do  all  in  my  power  to  prevent  your  injuring  her.' 

The  doctor  persuaded,  threatened,  and  argued  for  a  long  time  in  the 
endeavour  to  prove  that  our  leech  might  do  other  people  harm ;  but  this 


356  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

had  no  effect  whatever,  for  mj  father  woald  not  communicate  her  name 
or  address  to  him.  He  even  went  to  the  old  woman  to  warn  her ;  and 
after  that  she  always  used  to  come  to  our  house  when  the  greater  part 
of  the  family  were  still  asleep,  early  in  the  morning.  I  continued  to 
take  my  arsenic  for  a  week  longer,  and  at  last  the  ague  completely  left 
me. 

'Well,  rodiminkoy ! ' *  she  said  on  taking  leave  of  me,  'you  will  be 
well  now,  and  the  ague  will  never  bother  you  any  more.* 

And  it  is  a  fact  that  I  have  never  bad  it  since.  A  medical  man  told 
my  mother  afterwards,  that  this  copious  use  of  poison  had  been  of  infinite 
benefit  to  me;  but  however  that  may  be,  it  was  ever  after  the  firm 
conviction  of  our  family,  that  my  deliverer,  as  far  as  the  treatment  of 
i^ue  was  concerned,  beat  all  the  faculty  of  Moscow  hollow. 

After  my  illness  I  got  more  intimate  than  ever  with  Maria  Ivanovna, 
and  she  used  to  call  me  in  still  more  frequently,  always  treating  me  to 
preserves.  When  my  mother  left  home  I  used  to  pass  whole  days  with 
her,  and  frequently  finished  them  by  falling  asleep  on  her  bed ;  but  she 
did  not  allow  me  to  lie  down  on  it  when  it  was  covered  with  the  patch- 
work  quilt,  which  in  general  lay  in  the  lowest  drawer  of  her  commode. 
I  soon  observed  that  it  was  not  spread  on  the  bed  on  high  days  and 
holidays,  but  on  certain  particular  dates,  the  signification  of  which  was 
known  to  no  one  but  the  Capitansha ;  not  even  Luke  Lukitch  knew. 

This  quilt,  the  very  first  time  I  saw  it,  attracted  my  attention.  It  was 
arranged,  after  the  manner  of  a  chess-board,  out  of  innumerable  square 
scraps  of  all  possible  stuffs  and  colours.  Such  quilts  I  afterwards 
frequently  saw  in  the  families  of  merchants  of  low  degree,  and  in  other 
not  very  well-to-do  houses.  But  Maria  Ivanovna's  was  distinguished  by 
the  pieces  being  arranged  without  the  slightest  approach  to,  or  attempt 
at,  symmetry,  and  of  the  most  various  and  dissimilar  materials.  In  all 
probability  it  was  not  put  together  all  at  once,  but  little  by  little,  in  the 
course  of  many  years;  for  on  one  side  the  scraps  were  old-fashioned, 
faded,  and  even  worn  ;  while  the  nearer  they  approached  the  other  side 
the  fresher  they  became,  and  terminated  in  materials  and  patterns  of  the 
present  day.  The  last  row,  of  quite  new  bits,  was  not  entirely  finished, 
and  in  one  comer,  in  the  place  of  a  check,  only  a  portion  of  dark  lining 
was  to  be  seen. 

Llaria  Ivanovna  did  not  like  anyone  to  come  into  her  bed-room  when 
it  was  spread  on  the  bed,  and  even  grumbled  at  Luke  Lukitch  if  he 
peeped  in  on  such  days.  If  she  were  questioned  why  it  was  still 
unfinished,  she  would  knit  her  brows  and  reply  that  there  was  no  stuff 
to  her  taste  for  it. 

I   alon6  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  entering  the  bed-room  on  such 

occasions.     She  was  not  cross  to  me  when  I  examined  the  different  bits, 

and  would  even  ask  me  which  square  I  liked  in  particular.     When  I 

did  not  see  it  for  a  long  time,  and  inquired  the  reason,  the  Capitansha 

*  A  term  of  cndearmeut,  from  the  word  rodntfy — ^kindred,  relative. 


BYGONES.  367 

sometimes  replied  merely  with  a  sigh,  and  at  others  said,  ^It  is  not  a 
holiday  for  it  to-day,  my  pigeon.'  I  of  course  understood  nothing 
whatever  by  such  explications;  and  I  did  not  feel  particularly  interested 
in  them ;  but  in  course  of  time  I  was  initiated  into  the  history  of  this 
mysterious  quilt. 

And  this  is  how  it  was.  Ten  years  had  passed  since  we  left  St. 
Saviour's  parish ;  Luke  Lukitch  had  long  since  died  of  an  apoplectic  fit, 
but  his  widow  still  lived  in  the  house  and  let  part  of  it  to  a  lady  lodger. 
My  mother  had  by  no  means  given  up  the  acquaintance  of  her  old 
landlady,  and  we  frequently  went  to  see  her.  I  was  about  eighteen  years 
old,  when  one  day  my  mother  sent  me  to  her  for  a  domestic  receipt,  and 
the  old  lady  received  me  in  her  bed-room,  where  she  was  sitting  before 
a  little  table  near  the  old  commode  with  the  brass  lions'  heads,  threading 
dried  white  mushrooms  on  a  string.  She  was  much  aged,  though  her 
face  was  as  prepossessing  as  ever. 

On  the  bed  lay  the  well-known  quilt ;  it  seemed  also  to  have  grown 
old  with  its  mistress,  but  still  it  was  not  completed.  I  examined  it 
with  curiosity,  as  an  object  connected  with  some  of  my  most  pleasant 
recollections.  Maria  Ivanovna  observed  this,  and  said  to  me,  'You 
recognize  the  old  counterpane,  my  pigeon.' 

*  Of  course,  Maria  Ivanovna !  I  can  remember  it  ever  since  I  was 
quite  a  little  fellow.' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  she  affectionately. 

'I  always  fancied  that  it  was  particularly  dear  to  you?' 

'Very  dear,  little  friend!'  said  the  Capitansha  thoughtfully,  almost  in 
a  whisper. 

'On  account  of  its  associations,  doubtless  ?' 

'Yes.  Of  course  the  scraps  themselves  are  of  no  value.  I  might 
have  found  many  much  prettier.  Do  you  remember  how  yon  used  to 
ask  me  questions  about  it,  and  why  I  got  it  out  on  certain  days  ?' 

'It  is  a  secret,  I  suppose,  Maria  Ivanovna?' 

'  Well,  something  like  it,  but  not  an  old  woman's  caprice.  Listen  to 
what  I  shall  tell  you,  my  pigeon,  and  don't  think  that  I  have  grown 
quite  a  chatterbox ;  no,  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about.  It  is  not  to 
many  people  that  I  have  told  the  history  of  that  quilt,  but  I  should 
like  to  tell  you,  and  I  am  in  the  humour  for  a  chat  to-day.  What  is 
it  that  the  young  ladies  now-a-days  keep  ?  A  book,  you  know,  with 
drawings  and  verses.  What  do  they  call  it?  Have  you  ever  seen 
one?' 

'An  album?' 

'Yes,  yes;  an  album.  Well,  then,  little  friend;  in  those  albums  you 
gentlemen  certainly  do  scrawl  all  sorts  of — that  is,  perhaps  there  may 
be  a  page  or  two  which  are  not  passed  by  with  indifference ;  but  for  the 
greater  part  it  is  all  collected  because  it  is  the  fashion — words  and  ink ! 
My  quilt  is  my  album,  but  not  like  those  of  your  friends  the  young 
ladies :  there  is  not  one  check  in  it  that  my  heprt,  as  well  as  my  eyes, 


358  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

does  not  recognize.  I  tell  jon  this  because  yon  are  a  good  lad,  and  Trill 
not  langh  at  the  old  woman*' 

'Can  one  find  it  in  one's  heart  to  laugh  at  anch  things,  Maria 
iTanovna?' 

^Yes,  one  can.  Young  people,  in  their  intercourse  with  the  aged, 
forget  that  some  time  or  another  thej  also  will  be  old.  And  a  good 
thing  too,  that  they  forget  it ;  there  is  a  time  for  everything.  Only  one 
thing  I  must  say :  God  grant  everybody  plenty  of  happy  recollections  of 
their  yonthl  plenty  to  laugh  and  to  weep  over.  And  my  youth,  thank 
God,  has  a  store  of  them.' 

The  Capitansha's  face  brightened  up  with  a  smile  thai  shone  from  her 
kind  eyes. 

*  I  am  quite  sure  of  that,  Maria  Ivanovna.  You  are  a  beauty  still !' 
I  exclaimed  enthusiastically.  ^I  dare  say  many  a  conquest  is  inscribed 
on  that  quilt?' 

*  A  little  of  everything,  friend ;  conquests  and  losses.  Man's  life  is 
as  checquered  as  that  quilt ;  it  has  its  dark  and  its  bright  spots ;  only 
one  ought  to  know  how  to  live.  I  dare  say  you  imagine  that  I  passed  all 
my  life  over  preserves  and  mushrooms?  No,  pigeon  of  mine,  it  did  not 
quite  pass  so.  I  declare  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  doing  quite  right  to 
chatter  so  to  you,  but  I  want  to  talk ;  and  I  am  somehow  so  fond  of  you  V 

*  Thank  you  for  your  confidence.' 

*  Don't  mention  it !  it  is  mere  selfishness  on  my  part.  Then  I'll  teU 
you  about  the  quilt.  All  my  life  is  threaded  there,  just  like  beads.  I 
began  to  collect  those  scraps  when  I  was  a  girl,  and  I  never  dreamed 
that  it  would  be  a  sort  of  album  to  me<  Do  you  see  that  bit  of  white 
muslin  there — ^at  the  pillow— on  a  pink  lining  ?  It  belonged  to  the  dress 
that  was  made  for  me  on  my  leaving  school.  I  was  a  pretty  little  fool 
then,  white  and  pink,  like  my  gown.' 

'  I  suppose  you  went  to  your  first  ball  in  it' 

^No,  my  dear;  first  of  all  my  father  took  me  to  church  to  say  my 
prayers.  He  liked,  the  deceased,  for  people  to  go  to  church  in  their  best 
clothes.  We  went  also  to  the  Tversky  Chapel,*  and  could  hardly  reach 
it,  for  at  the  Voskresensky  Gates  there  was  a  crowd  of  people,  and 
a  troop  of  horsemen  were  cantering  from  the  Boulevard,  the  horses  in 
ostrich  feathers,  and  all  the  cavaliers  in  velvet  and  gold.  The  soldiers 
that  stood  on  guard  at  the  guard-house  beat  their  drums;  the  people 
cried,  *The  Emperor!  the  Emperor!  Pavel  Petrovitch!t  (He  was 
expected  just  then  to  the  Coronation.)  And  it  turned  out  that  they 
were  only  some  equestrian  performers  who  had  come  to  Moscow  on  the 
occasion  of  the  Coronation,  to  play  in  the  circus.  The  Emperor  heard 
of  this,  and  was  very  angry,  and  reduced  the  officer  of  the  guard  to  the 
ranks  with  his  own  hands.    But  where  have  I  got  to?' 

♦  Dedicated  to  onr  Lady  of  Tver,  (^Trata,') 

t  The  Emperor  Paul,  grandfather  of  the  present  Emperor.  Began  to  reign  1796, 
died  1801.  (^Trans.) 


BTG0NX8.  359 

*  And  what  green  stuff  is  this  by  the  side  of  the  white  gown  ?' 

^That  is  a  dress  also.  It  was  made  for  my  name's-day.  There  was 
a  gentleman  at  dinner  that  day — ^Nedilinsky-Melitzky,  a  poet;  and  he 
composed  some  congratalatory  couplets  to  me»  in  which  he  compared  me 
to  a  wild  violet,  (or  a  spring  violet  ?)  I  was  in  that  same  dress  too,  when 
a  certain  person  came  who  played  on  the  harpsichord.  Oh,  oh,  oh !  I 
was  jnst  seventeen  1  That  was  the  man  who  made  me  feel  that  I  had  a 
beating  heart!  till  then  I  was  not  aware  of  it;  I  frolicked  and  giggled 
from  morning  till  night' 

'WasitLokeLukitch?' 

^What  are  you  thinking  i£t  my  pigeon?  Are  yoa  joking?  Don*t 
yon  know  that  Lake  Lukitch  was  my  second  husband?  Do  you  see 
that  levantine,  blue  with  the  white  spots?  My  recollections  of  Luke 
Lukitch  begin  with  it,  and  look  how  many  stripes  there  are  before  we 
get  to  it  I  Only  don't  think  that  all  those  dresses  were  worn  on 
occasions  of  heart  affairs !  There  is  plenty  of  the  agreeable  there,  but 
scarcely  less  of  the  sad.  Look  at  that  dark  merino,  the  end  bit  in  the 
fourth  row ;  that  was  a  gown  of  my  mother's,  made  not  long  before  her 
death.  She  was  buried  in  it.  And  the  blue  bit  near  it  was  from  my 
sister  Eatinka;  when  she  came  out  for  the  first  time  she  danced  an 
ecossaise  in  that  dress  at  the  Assembly  Ball.  The  Emperor,  His  Imperial 
Majesty,  the  deceased  Alexander  Pavlovitch,  was  at  that  ball,  and  he 
was  pleased  to  inquire  who  she  was.  That  yellow  gros-de-Tours  by  its 
side  was  a  present  from  my  first  husband,  when  he  was  betrothed  to  me.' 

'Tell  me,  Maria  Ivanovna,  which  stripe  contains  the  sweetest 
remembrances  ?' 

'  Well,  you  are  curious,  my  pigeon  1'  said  the  old  lady,  smiling. 
^  Look  in  the  second  stripe — a  lilac  cotton  print  with  gcej  spots ;  a  very 
simple  pattern,  yet  what  do  you  think  it  represents?  my  first  kiss! 
Okhl  what  am  I  talking  about?  I  really  ought  not  Well,  never 
mind ;  you  will  not  judge  me  too  harshly.  That  scrap  is  a  great  pet  of 
mine,  aJthough  it  is  faded  now.  We  lived  at  Sokolniky,  *  and  an  aide- 
de-camp  used  to  visit  us.  It  was  a  summer's  evening,  warm,  with  little 
lilac  clouds,  and  a  smell  of  apples  from  the  garden,  and  we  were  sitting 
on  the  balcony.  Oh,  life,  life!  WeU,  that'U  do  about  him.  Further 
we  shall  have  other  recollections.* 

'Of  Luke  Lukitch?' 

*  How  you  do  bother  about  Luke  Lukitch  I  Did  not  I  tell  you  that  he 
begins  at  the  seventh  stripe?  First  of  all  we  have  my  first  husband, 
and  then  my  widowhood.  You  know  I  was  a  widow  three  years?' 
'But  is  there  anything  more  like  the  lilac  print?' 
'  Sweets,  do  you  mean  ?  Certainly  there  are,  a  little.  I  was  a  kind- 
hearted  fool,  and  believed  what  the  men  said.  But  why  need  I  tidk 
about  that  ?  there  are  many  bright  colours,  it  is  true,  but  there  are  darker 
shades  also,  perhaps  more  than  the  bright  ones.    For  instance,  that 

^  One  of  the  suburbs  of  Moscow. 


360  THE  MOirrHLY  PACKET. 

cherry-coloured  muslin ;  it  was  a  high-bodied  dress  of  mine  when  we 
ran  awaj  from  Moscow  to  Vladimir  in  the  year  '12.  A  wretched 
Frenchman  was  quartered  on  us,  an  officer  taken  prisoner.  He  was  very 
fond  of  paying  court  to  young  ladies,  and  I  liked  to  listen  to  his  nonsense, 
and  the  rascal  wheedled  me  into  giving  him  a  handsome  ring — which  he 
went  and  sold !  Once  he  wanted  to  take  a  new  pair  of  ear-rings  out  of 
my  very  ears !  my  husband  had  only  just  made  me  a  present  of  them.' 

*  Answer  me  one  question,  my  kindest  Maria  Ivanovna?' 

*  What  question?' 

'  Are  there  no  more  bits  like  the  lilac  cotton  ?' 

*  If  you  know  too  much,  ray  friend,  you  will  soon  grow  old !  *  I 
dare  say  you  pay  attentions  to  some  girl,  don't  you  I  and  perhaps  even 
dream  of  marrying  the  angel?  Wait  a  bit;  your  heart  has  a  long 
service  before  it.  Yes — about  Luke  Lukitch?  I  have  not  forgotten 
him ;  he  was  a  very  good  man.  But  I  have  talked  too  much  already. 
Enough  for  to-day  I  In  the  last  stripes  the  colours,  you  see,  get  darker 
and  darker.  Just  as  it  is  in  life.  You  know  I  did  not  invent  the  history 
of  my  quilt ;  time  did  it  for  me.  But  I  have  not  added  a  scrap  for  three 
years.  I  have  nothing  to  lose  or  to  gain  now.  All  that  remains  is 
to  make  mourning  for  my  own  self,  and  thus  finish  the  last  square.' 

'But  on  what  particular  days  do  you  lay  it  on  your  bed?' 
'  On  those  that  the  scraps  have  rendered  memorable.' 

*  And  to-day  ?    Which  one  is  it?' 

^  The  checked  gros-de*Naples  in  the  tenth  row,  violet  and  black.' 

'And  what  does  it  signify?' 

'My  last  conquest!'  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  hardly  perceptible  sigh; 
^  but  it  was  one  of  those  conquests  which  cost  the  conqueror  very  dear. 
God  forbid  the  making  of  them !' 

Maria  Ivanovna  sighed  again,  more  deeply  than  before ;  and  rose  to 
look  for  the  receipt  in  the  middle  drawer  of  her  commode, 

(^To  be  continued,) 


NUNN'S  COUET. 

CHAPTER  IV. 
*  Love  is  life's  only  sign  V 


When  John  Treville  was  making  out  what  he  termed  a  'grand  pro- 
gramme' for  his  birth-day,  he  commenced  with  the  exclamation,  'No 
study  on  that  day,  if  I  know  it!'  Accordingly,  he  awoke  on  that 
morning  with  the  full  conviction  of  its  being  a  holiday  in  the  fullest 
sense.     '  Creation's  wondrous  choir '  was  chanting  forth  its  early  matin 

*  A  proverb  used  to  silence  the  inquiries  of  inquisitive  people.  {Trans,) 


NUNN'S  COURT.  361 

song,  as  he  opened  the  window  to  let  in  the  dewj  air  of  an  unclouded 
August  morning.  It  seemed  such  a  melodious  hurst,  that  his  music- 
loving  soul  would  have  heen  content  to  stay  and  learn  its  melody,  *  all 
true,  all  faultless,  all  in  tune,'  hj  heart,  hut  Edwin  Mortimer  soon  came 
to  remind  him  that  they  should  he  late  for  the  holy-day's  feast 

The  echo  of  that  lay  uf  nature's,  though,  still  remained  with  him,  as  he 
knelt  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  and  seemed  to  represent  the  worship  of  the 
whole  earth. 

As  the  two  friends  walked  hack  after  the  service,  they  talked  together 
of  the  hlessed  saint,  sought  and  found  under  the  fig  tree's  shade,  and 
who  for  his  very  guilelessness  was  chosen  to  be  a  pillar  in  that  most 
glorious  and  costly  edifice,  whose  pinnacles  ascend  up  into  Heaven,  and 
whose  hreadth  stretches  out  into  all  the  corners  of  the  earth. 

John  sprang  up  the  stone  steps  on  arriving  at  home,  for  his  grand- 
mother was  standing  in  the  doorway. 

*  May  God  bless  you,  my  own  boy,'  was  all  the  old  lady  could  say ; 
and  she  took  his  arm,  and  let  him  lead  her  into  the  breakfast-room. 

*  Johnny,'  she  snid,  just  as  they  were  finishing  their  breakfast,  *you 
will  see  my  present  to  you  before  the  day  is  over.* 

There  was  an  air  of  mystery  about  her,  which  was  fully  explained 
when  her  grandson  led  her  two  hours  later  into  the  chapel  belonging  to 
Nunn's  Court.  As  they  entered,  Dr.  Murray  and  Mr.  Mortimer,  surpliced^ 
issued  from  tlie  little  room  which  served  as  a  vestry,  followed  by  the 
little  choir  chanting  the  Benedictus  as  they  went  to  their  seats  at  the 
eastern  end  of  the  building,  where  James  Giles  was  playing  on  a 
harmonium,  the  gift  of  Mrs.  Treville.  The  little  chapel  was  full  enough 
now,  and  radiant  with  nature's  gifts. 

It  needed  no  other  assurance  than  the  bright  glance  of  love  which 
beamed  in  John's  eyes,  to  satisfy  Mrs.  Treville  that  her  present  was  fully 
appreciated ;  yet  when  the  service  was  over,  and  the  last  note  of  the 
receding  choir  had  died  away,  and  they  were  standing  together  listening 
lo  James's  voluntary,  the  words,  '  The  very  thing  I  had  been  wishing  for, 
Granny!'  were  not  unwelcome. 

'  You  will  despise  my  fiute,  Sir,  afler  this,'  James  said,  as  they  were 
leaving  the  chapeL 

^  We  must  not  despise  old  friends,'  Mrs.  Treville  remarked. 

*I do  not.  Ma'am,'  he  answered;  ^nor  shall  I  forget  that  my  flute  was 
the  means  of  bringing  Mr.  Treville  to  our  court  first.' 

James  went  on,  and  Mrs.  Treville  asked  John  what  he  thought  of 
Agnes's  pupiL 

'  Did  she  really  do  all !     That  March  from  Athalie  was  capital/ 

'Here  she  comes!'  said  Mrs.  Treville,  as  two  young  ladies  advanced 
to  meet  them. 

*  We  have  been  wondering  what  could  have  become  of  the  Frau 
Grossmutter,'  Grace  Allyn  said,  throwing  her  arms  round  her  neck,  and 
kissing  her  warmly. 

VOL.   10.  25  PABT  58. 


862  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'  Oh !  I  am  always  safe  with  Johnnj,  jou  know,  Grace/  Mrs.  TrevfUe 
replied. 

John  in  the  meantime,  after  shaking  hands  with  Agnes,  tendered  bis 
thanks  to  her  for  the  pains  she  had  bestowed  upon  the  choir. 

'  It  is  quite  a  new  thing,  John,  for  jou  to  thank  me,'  she  observed, 
with  a  slight  intonation  of  vexation. 

*  For  that  reason  I  feel  I  ought  to  do  so  to-daj,'  he  answered. 

'.I  would  rather  have  it  like  old  times ;'  then  thinking  she  had  been 
too  abrupt,  she  added,  *  Please  don't  thank  me  any  more ;  I  liked  the 
work.' 

*  Pretend  I  haven't  thanked  jou,  then,'  he  said,  and  laughed ;  but  his 
laugh  was  not  natural,  and  it  made  his  grandmother  turn  from  Grace 
and  ask  if  anything  was  the  matter. 

Agnes  said  no.  Mrs.  Treviile  was  not  satisfied,  and  remarked  that 
she  looked  tired. 

'  Aggie  works  too  hard,'  said  Grace  caressingly.  '  I  never  wished  to 
be  a  more  useful  being  so  much  as  I  have  lately  done,  since  I  find  how 
i&capable  I  am  of  helping  her.' 

'  And  teaching  that  choir,  too,'  remarked  John. 
i    *  Oh,  it  is  not  that,'  Agnes  exclaimed,  and  the  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

^  The  heat  is  trying,  and  she  is  not  strong,'  said  Grace,  interrupting  the 
uncomfortable  silence  that  ensued,  'so  we  will  leave  her  to  come  on 
slowly  with  '^  the  Grandmother,"  and  you  and  I,  Mr.  Treviile,  will  go  on 
to  the  court  to  hear  old  Ben's  instructions  on  kiteology  to  Mr.  Mortimer ; 
'^  he  don't  know  nothing  o'  kite-fiying," '  she  added,  mimicking  the  old 
man's  tone.  John  went  on  with  her.  Before  they  entered  the  court, 
she  dropped  her  bantering  tone,  and  said, 

'  Mr.  Treviile,  you  must  excuse  my  dictating  to  you,  but  teaching  these 
children  does  Agnes  no  barm ;  it  is  a  wholesome  recreation,  and  takes 
her  mind  from  home  cares.  The  singing  lessons  were  the  first  things  to 
rouse  her  after  dear  Mrs.  Murray's  death — she  was  my  godmother,  you 
know !'  There  was  a  slight  trembling  of  the  lip ;  but  they  were  in  the 
court  now,  and  all  her  mirth  returned. 

Birth-day  congratulations  now  greeted  John  on  all  sides,  and  the  little 
ones  gave  him  three  cheers  at  old  Ben's  instigation;  but  the  slightest 
speck  of  a  cloud  had  arisen  to  obscure  the  birth-day  brightness.  Where- 
fore, and  whence  its  origin,  he  could  not  tell.  He  was  too  thoroughly 
practical,  however,  and  too  much  accustomed  to  dealing  honestly  with 
himself,  to  remain  long  in  doubt.  He  found  himself  standing  close  to 
Agnes  not  long  after,  and  was  just  going  to  ask  her  if  she  felt  better, 
when  instead  he  was  prompted  to  say,  'You  never  misunderstood  me 
before,  Agnes !' 

Their  eyes  met,  and  involuntarily  both  looked  down.  Only  for  one 
moment  though,  for  he  almost  immediately  said,  looking  straight  at  her, 
'  My  grandmother  thinks  you  do  more  than  you  are  able,  and  I  only 
wanted  to  ease  you.' 


niinn's  court,  863 

^  If  Mrs.  Treville  thinks  so ;  I  think  I  had  better  give  up  the  choir 
then,  John.' 

'  Not  if  you  regret  it,  Agnes.' 

'  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  regret  it,  if  I  have  only  done  it  for  the  work's 
sake,  as  I  said  not  long  ago.' 

Here  Mrs.  Treville  interrupted  them,  saying,  '  Do  look  at  Grace  !' 

Both  did  as  directed ;  and  it  served  to  remind  them  that  there  was  no 
more  time  for  private  conferences,  and  John  rushed  off  to  join  the 
cricketers,  who  were  in  readiness  to  start  for  the  ground.  Old  Ben's 
patience  had  received  a  complete  and  final  trial,  and  he  unhesitatingly 
declared  that  it  wanted  some  *'  sprightly  person '  to  know  how  to  handle 
a  kite. 

*  So  it  does,  Ben,'  said  Grace  sympathizin^y ;  ^  and  Mr.  Mortimer  is 
decidedly  not  sprightly.  We  think  very  highly  of  Mr.  Mortimer,  but  he 
is  not  sprightly;  in  fact,  he  is  too  much  of  a  gentleman,  isn't  he, 
Ben?' 

'  Master  Treville  is  sprightly  enough ;  and  I  never  seed  a  gentleman  if 
he  ain't  one,'  returned  the  old  man  testily. 

'Yes,  Ben,'  Grace  continued,  'Master  Treville  is  a  gentleman  and 
sprightly  too ;  jou  are  quite  right  But  now,  do  you  think  I  am  sprightly 
enough  to  be  allowed  to  carry  this  monster  kite  to  the  field  and  to  take 
care  of  it  until  you  arrive  there  ?  Mrs.  Treville's  chaise  is  coming  for 
you  almost  directly,  and  we  ought  to  be  going  on.  And,  Ben,'  she 
added,  '  I  will  take  such  care  of  it,  and  will  only  let  Mr.  Mortimer  carry 
the  taiL' 

'  Edwin  Mortimer  laughed  so  much  at  this  speech,  that  Ben  was  softened 
enough  to  say,  '  Ah,  Miss  Grace,  you  know  how  to  come  over  us  all !' 

And  it  was  Grace  bearing  the  kite  in  her  arms  that  drew  forth  Mnk 
Treville's  exclamation. 

As  John  passed  her,  he  remarked  that  she  would  tire  herself;  but  she 
laughingly  answered  that  it  was  all  along  of  Mr.  Mortimer's  not  being 
sprightly. 

Agnes's  task  was  to  drive  Mrs.  Treville  and  Ben  to  the  field  where  the 
sports  were  to  be  held ;  afterwards  to  set  some  of  the  elder  girls  from  the 
court  to  play  at  croquet ;  then  to  find  up  her  father  and  take  him  with 
her  to  see  what  Grace  was  doing. 

The  kite  was  up  to  Ben's  satisfaction,  and  the  little  ones  admiringly 
watching  its  ascent,  and  Grace  was  endeavouring  to  initiate  Mr* 
Mortimer  in  the  use  of  a  battledore. 

'  Well,  mad-cap,'  said  the  Doctor,  '  what  can  you  make  of  our  most 
learned  student  V 

'  Positively  nothing !'  she  answered,  stamping  her  foot  '  My  patience 
is  gone  quite.  Now  you  dear  darling  Doctor,  just  take  his  battledore 
and  let  us  have  a  game  together.' 

Dr.  Murray  was  about  to  comply,  when  Agnes  exclaimed,       ^  ^^ 

'Papa,  there's  Mr.  Yardley  and  his  daughters !' 


364  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

'  So  there  is,  I  declare,  with  an  extra  amount  of  starch  in  his  white 
cravat,  in  honour  of  the  occasion,'  said  G-race. 

Dr.  Murray  threw  down  his  battledore,  and  advanced  to  greet  the 
fresh  arrivals. 

'  Who  are  they  V  asked  Mortimer. 

*  He  of  the  white  cravat,*  answered  Grace,  *  is  the  Vicar,  a  very  good 
man.  and  therefore  he  don't  approve  of  me,'  she  added  demurely. 

'  Oh,  Gracie  dear,  you  should  not  say  that !'  said  Agnes.  '  You  know 
it  was  a  mutual  misunderstanding.' 

*  It  was  nothing  of  the  kind,  Agnes ;  it  was  simply  this — ^he  desired  to 
know  if  I  were  at  the  top  of  the  tree,  and  I  told  him  I  was  but  slowly 
ascending  it.  "Then,  my  dear  Miss  AUyn,  you  are  not  safe,"  he 
immediately  remarked;  and  the  intelligent  shake  of  the  head  which 
followed,  and  in  which  his  white  cravat  most  obediently  sympathized, 
deprived  me  of  all  chance  of  misunderstanding  him.' 

'  But,  Grace  dear,  you  were  not  vexed  at  being  told  that  you  were  not 
safe?' 

'  Not  vexed  at  that,  Agnes,'  she  said  with  downcast  eyes ;  '  but  I  know 
he  thinks  I  have  not  even  a  safe  footing.' 

'  Tou  do  not  doubt  that,  Grace,  I  am  sure,'  said  Agnes  softly,  and 
taking  up  the  cross  which  hung  round  Grace's  neck. 

A  look  was  answer  enough  ;  and  those  eye-lids  again  raised  their  dark 
lashes,  and  the  smiles,  that  were  so  seldom  absent  from  those  ruby  lips, 
were  again  in  full  play. 

*  I  will  run  and  ask  Mr.  Yardley  to  play  at  battledore  with  me !'  she 
exclaimed;  but  was  stopped  by  Agnes,  who  suggested  that  old  Ben 
looked  tired,  and  must  be  led  into  the  tent  to  rest  Grace  immediately 
went  to  him,  and  Mortimer  asked  Agnes  what  he  could  do. 

'  I  think,'  she  answered,  '  we  must  get  the  kite  down  now,  and  yon 
can  assist  in  drawing  in  the  string.  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  all 
the  other  gentlemen  are  with  the  cricketers.' 

Old  Ben  was  glad  to  rest  in  the  tent,  but  fatigue  and  heat  had  made 
him  cross,  and  he  would  not  confess  to  being  glad  of  anything ;  moreover, 
he  was  averse  to  letting  Mortimer  draw  down  the  kite.  Agnes  and 
Grace  did  what  they  could  to  soothe  him,  but  in  vain ;  and  it  was  quite 
a  relief  to  both  when  they  had  at  last  got  him  into  the  easy-chair 
provided  for  him,  and  resting  his  head  on  a  cushion,  he  fell  asleep.  Dr. 
Murray  and  Mr.  Yardley  offered  to  keep  a  watch  over  him ;  while  the 
two  girls,  taking  the  Miss  Yardleys  with  them,  went  in  search  of  Mrs. 
TreviUe. 

*  How  beautiful  is  the  contrast  between  old  age  and  youth !'  remarked 
Mr.  Yardley,  as  his  eye  rested  upon  the  old  man.  'Your  daughter, 
Doctor,  seems  to  have  made  him  her  especial  charge.' 

'  Not  quite,'  said  the  Doctor ;  '  Grace  does  almost  as  much  for  him  as 
Ag^e  does.' 

*  Does  she  really !'  returned  Mr.  Yardley ;  '  I  was  agreeably  surprised 


nunn's  court.  365 

to  see  how  gently  she  aided  in  getting  him  into  the  tent,  for  I  confess  I 
had  thought  it  impossible  to  control  her  volatile  movements.' 

*  Not  volatile !'  the  Doctor  said  curtly. 

*  The  mirth  of  an  unsubdued  nature  cannot  fail  to  be  volatile.' 
'Yardley,'  said  the  Doctor  gravely,  Met  us  not  mar  this  bright  day 

by  any  controversial  argument!  Grace  Allyn  is  my  godchild;  I  have 
watched  over  her  from  the  font,  and  you  may  believe  me  that  I  have 
never  regretted  the  promises  I  made  in  her  name.' 

'  Your  watch,  too,  would  be  a  vigilant  one,  I  know ;  and  your 
standard  is  a  high  one,'  Mr.  Yardley  observed  musingly. 

'  Christ's  standard  is  His  own  Cross,  and  I  have  none  other,'  answered 
the  Doctor. 

^  Strange  is  it,  that  standing  on  the  same  Bock,  we  should  yet  be  at 
issue  on  so  many  points !' 

Jt;;:'And  those  points  we  will  let  rest,  at  least  for  to-day,  content  in 
knowing  that  we  are  both  striving  to  labour  for  the  same  Master.' 

'  Yet  not  resting  upon  that  labour !'  was  the  anxious  rejoinder. 

*  Resting  upon  nothing  short  of  the  Cross,'  the  Doctor  answered. 
'  I  mean,  we  do  not  trust  to  the  merit  of  anything  we  do.' 

'  God  forbid  that  we  should  place  any  merit  in  such  sin-stained  labour 
as  ours,'  said  the  Doctor,  reverently  uncovering  his  head,  and  ejaculating 
in  an  under-tone,  ^  Lead  me  to  the  Rock  that  is  higher  than  I !' 

Mr.  Yardley  paused,  awed  by  the  Doctor's  manner,  and  seeing  Mrs. 
Treville  coming  towards  him,  he  advanced  to  meet  her. 

The  Grandmother,  as  Grace  AUjn  was  wont  to  call  her,  always 
brought  to  Dr.  Murray's  mind  the  sainted  Anna ;  '  Erect  in  heart,'  like 
that  *  meek  widow,'  not  intent  on  earthly  joy,  she  found  '  Heaven  on 
earth,  and  Christ  in  His  Israel.'  Mr.  Yardley's  propensity  to  argue  was 
always  overcome  in  her  presence,  and  he  felt  flattered  now  at  the  evident 
pleasure  she  manifested  in  her  reception  of  him. 

'  The  cricket  match  will  not  be  ended  yet ;  may  I  request  you  to  take 
my  grandson's  place,  and  lead  me  to  the  dinner- table  ?'  she  said,  with 
quiet  dignity. 

The  table  was  prepared  in  an  open  tent  in  another  part  of  the  field, 
and  was  found  to  be  well  laden  with  provisions.  The  people  were 
summoned  to  it  by  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  and  glad  enough  were  they  of 
the  summons.  Dr.  Murray  brought  in  the  eldest  Miss  Yardley,  and 
Mortimer  her  sister.  Agnes  and  Grace  were  too  busy  to  be  brought 
in  by  anyone;  and  when  all  were  seiited  they  came  in  with  old  Ben, 
and  devoted  themselves  entirely  to  him.  Beef  and  mutton,  plum- 
puddings  and  fruit-pies,  in  turn  disappeared,  and  then  Dr.  Murray  rose 
to  propose  the  health  of  John  Treville.  In  his  absence,  the  Doctor 
could  dwell  on  the  grand  purpose  he  had  in  view,  of  restoring  to  the 
Church  its  lawful  property,  and  of  counteracting  in  the  meantime,  as 
far  as  in  him  lay,  the  evil  consequences  of  the  sequestration. 

'  This  godly  resolution,'  continued  the  Doctor,  *  was  formed  in   his 


866  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

early  boyhood ;  and  it  was  for  that  reason  that  he  determined  to  labour 

principally  for  the  young;    and  for  their  happiness  and   good  neither 

time  nor  money  has  been  spared.     Children,  pray  for  him!   for  I  feel 

that 

**  We  must  not  mar  with  earthlv  praise 
What  God*8  approving  word  hath  sealed;'' ' 

The  sound  of  cheering  was  arrested,  and  a  stillness  fell  upon  all,  as 
old  Ben  rose  slowly  from  his  chair,  and  stood  with  one  hand  resting 
on  Agnes*s  shoulder.  His  voice  was  feeble  but  distinct ;  and  the  halo 
of  old  age  cast  a  quieting  influence  on  all  around  him. 

^Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  when  the  young  master  spreads  out  his 
table  again,  old  Ben  may  be  sleeping  in  the  dust.  And  I  ask  your 
pardon,  and  beg  you  to  bear  with  a  feeble  old  man,  while  I  tell  these 
ehildren  what  I  know  the  young  master  would  like  them  to  know, 
even  if  he  did  not  like  to  tell  them  hisself.  Children,  I  did  not 
always  love  you,  as  I  love  you  at  this  day — big  and  little,  I  love  yoa 
all.  I  loved  you  first,  because  Master  Treville  did.  I  love  you  now, 
because  Jesus  does.  Children,  I  once  said  to  Master  Treville,  when 
I  had  no  hope,  no  love,  nor  nothing,  '*  Sir,  what  first  made  you  think 
of  these  things?  when  I  was  young,  I  thought  only  old  people  cared 
about  going  to  church  and  things  like  that!"  His  eyes  lighted  up, 
and  he  said,  with  such  a  beautiful  look,  says  he,  ''Ben,  it  was  my 
grandmother  I"  And  I  think  and  know,  that  nothing  could  please 
him  more  than  that  at  the  first  dinner  he  has  given  us,  and  more 
'cause  it  is  his  birth-day,  we  should  just  drink  the  health  of  the  dear 
lady  who  has  helped  to  make  him  what  he  is.  And  I  think,  too, 
that  he  will  like  to  remember  that  it  was  old  Ben  who  proposed  it' 

His  voice  faltered  at  the  end,  and  a  tear  rolled  down  his  wrinkled 
cheek.  Dr.  Murray  blew  his  nose  vehemently,  but  the  sound  was 
stifled  in  the  tremendous  hurrah  which  followed* 

There  was  a  strong  arm  round  the  Grandmother*s  neck  at  the  end. 
John  Treville  had  run  up  from  the  cricket-field  to  see  how  the  dinner 
was  progressing,  and  had  arrived  just  as  old  Ben  was  concluding  his 
speech. 

'  Just  in  time  to  return  thanks,  Granny ;  and  what  a  speech  I  shall 
make!'  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  But  Mrs.  Treville  was  too  much 
overcome  to  raise  her  eyes. 

As  the  sounds  of  the  cheering  died  away,  John  said,  in  his  usually 
monotonous  tone,  'Ben,  I  shall  never  forget  the  honour  that  you  and 
all  h|ve  done  my  dear  grandmother.' 

There  was  a  dead  pause,  as  if  everybody  expected  something  more. 
Dr.  Murray  said  testily  to  himself,  *  How  I  wish  that  boy  could  speak 
out!'  Mortimer  looked  up  in  surprbe,  and  wondered  there  had  been 
no  preparation  made  beforehand.  And  Mr.  Yardley  was  amazed. 
'No  intellect;  decidedly  no  intellect!  A  morbid  imagination  had 
perhaps  exaggerated  his  conscientiousness,  and  led  him  into  this  work; 


nunn's  court.  367 

how  would  it  end?'  The  Grandmother's  secret  ejaculation  was, 
however,  '  So  like  Johnny !' 

He  led  her  from  the  table,  and  then,  leaving  her  with  Dr«  Murray 
and  Mr.  Yardley,  went  to  old  Ben. 

'You  would  like  to  get  home  now,  Ben,'  he  said.  'I  will  go  and 
order  the  pony-chaise ;  and  Agnes,  will  you  drive  him  V 

*  Let  me  go  and  see  about  the  chaise ;  for  you  must  be  tired  enough, 
Treville,'  said  Mortimer. 

John  laughed  an  assent,  saying  that  he  should  soon  believe  the 
whole  world  was  made  to  wait  on  him. 

As  soon  as  Ben  was  off,  John  ran  back  to  the  cricket;  and  those 
lefl  behind  gave  themselves  up  to  the  amusement  of  the  children,  who 
at  five  o'clock,  had  tea,  and  then  departed  quietly  with  the  young 
ladies.  Mrs.  Treville  waited  to  see  the  cricketers  sit  down  to  a  cold 
collation,  and  soon  afler  was  driven  home.  Not  even  Mrs.  Treville's 
persuasions  could  induce  Mr.  Yardley  to  join  the  party  in  the  evening. 

John  fulfilled  his  promise,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  dancing, 
drawing  from  Dr.  Murray  the  exclamation,  that  'that  boy  could  do 
anything  but  speak  out !' 

The  remark  was  made  to  Mortimer;  but  Grace  Allyn,  who  was 
standing  by,  said,  'But,  Doctor  dear,  if  he  cannot  speak,  he  can  at 
least  do  a  great  deal  more  than  some  people ;  and  at  any  rate,  he  can 
fiy  a  kite.' 

'  And  what  does  that  mean  to  insinuate  V  asked  the  Doctor. 

'Miss  Allyn  evidently  thinks  that  kite-fiying  is  an  indisputable 
essential,'  Mortimer  observed. 

'I  think,'  said  Grace,  dropping  her  eyes,  'that  if  we  were  all  as 
practical  as  Mr.  Treville,  we  could  well  afford  to  speak  as  little.' 

'You  are  indeed  right,  Miss  Allyn;  and  sometimes  I  think  that  if 
we  could  give  him  the  gift  of  eloquence,  we  should  rob  his  practical 
nature  of  half  its  beauty,'  said  Mortimer. 

'  Perhaps  we  should,'  the  Doctor  remarked.  '  I  am  proud  of  the 
boy  ;  but  it  provokes  me  that  strangers  cannot  know  what  he  is.' 

'  The  white  cravat,  I  know,  was  a  waving  acknowledgement  of  his 
inability  to  speak,'  remarked  Grace;  'I  marked  how  obediently  it 
reciprocated  the  disdain  of  its  wearer.' 

The  two  gentlemen  tried  to  repress  a  smile,  but  an  arm  unexpectedly 
thrown  round  her  waist  made  her  start  and  exclaim,  '  Oh,  Aggie  dear, 
have  you  heard  my  naughty  speech  ?' 

Agnes's  reproof  was  set  aside  by  John  coming  to  claim  her  as  a 
partner  for  a  polka.  The  Grandmother,  however,  was  his  supper 
partner ;  and  the  birth-day  festivities  ended  with  a  few  more  dances. 
John's  last  words  were,  '  Oh,  Granny,  this  has  been  a  jolly  day  I' 

(^To  be  conHnuetL) 


368  THE  MONTHIiY  PACKET. 


THE  TWO  LAST  SUNDAYS  AT  AMMERGAU. 

My  dear  C , 

So  much  has  been  told  ahready  about  Ober  Ammergau,  thai 
I  am  hair  inclined  to  give  up  my  purpose  of  writing  you  an  account  of 
our  visit  there,  and  leave  you  to  picture  us  to  yourself,  taking  part  in  the 
scenes  which  have  been  so  vividly  described  by  Mr.  McColl  and  others. 
But  perhaps  this  would  be  hardly  fair  after  promising  you  a  letter,  and 
you  may  care  to  hear  something  of  our  own  personal  experiences. 

I  am  afraid  it  must  be  rather  a  long  stoiy,  and  as  there  was  nothing  of 
special  interest  about  our  journey,  I  will  not  take  up  time  and  paper  with 
it,  but  begin  from  the  moment  when  we  found  ourselves  at  our  journey's 
end,  and  actually  in  the  picturesque  street  of  Ober  Ammergau,  which  it 
had  seemed  so  like  a  dream  to  think  of. 

It  was  a  quarter  to  nine,  and  nearly  dark,  on  the  evening  of  Thursday 
the  14th  of  July.  I  had  written  about  three  weeks  before,  to  beg  Frau 
Yeit  to  keep  some  rooms  for  us,  and  had  found  her  answer  at  Lindau, 
promising  them,  so  we  drove  very  confidently  up  to  her  house.  Bj  this 
time  it  was  nine  o'clock,  and  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  seemed 
to  have  retired  for  the  night,  amongst  them  Madame  Yeit  herself,  for  it 
was  some  time  before  she  made  her  appearance;  when  she  came,  she 
explained  with  much  graciousness  of  manner,  that  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  receive  us  into  her  own  house,  as  her  rooms  had  been  all  bespoke 
long  before  she  had  had  my  letter,  but  she  had  secured  lodgings  for  us  at 
her  next  door  neighbour's,  Herr  Hochenleitter's,  with  which  she  hoped 
we  should  be  pleased. 

So  there  we  went,  but  found  the  people  entirely  unprepared  to  receive 
us,  having  quite  given  us  up,  owing  to  the  late  hour  and  the  heavy  rain. 
However,  they  shewed  us  the  rooms,  and  were  most  kind  in  setting  to 
work  to  mike  them  ready  and  comfortable  for  us.  They  also  made  us 
some  coffee,  and  provided  some  bread  and  butter  and  eggs  and  beer, 
which  were  all  very  acceptable  after  our  weary  journey. 

After  a  good  deal  of  time,  and  bustling  about,  the  beds  and  all  were 
said  to  be  quite  ready,  and  our  good-natured  cheery  hosts  departed,  and 
left  us  for  the  night.  The  rooms  were  beautifully  clean ;  well-scoured 
floors  of  very  broad  deal  planks,  walls  and  ceiling  tastefully  coloured  in 
distemper;  the  nice  white  muslin  window  curtains,  which  are  universal  on 
the  continent,  and  which  always  look  as  if  they  had  just  been  put  up 
clean  for  your  special  visit,  and  in  every  room  a  large  Crucifix.  Hie  one 
in  my  room  reached  nearly  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling. 

We  were  somewhat  startled,  however,  to  find  no  bed-clothes  whatever 
provided  for  the  beds,  which  consisted  of  a  spring  mattrass  only,  (no 
second  mattrass  over  it)  covered  with  a  thin  sheet  of  calico,  or  almost 
muslin ;  there  was  the  usual  wedge  to  raise  the  head  and  shoulders,  two 


THE  TWO  LAST  SUNDAYS  AT  AMMERGAU.  369 

very  soft  pillows  or  rather  loose  bags  of  down,  and  a  large  duvet  by  way 
of  bed-clothes.  This  was  rather  alarming,  but  we  knew  we  were  not  in 
an  inn,  but  in  the  private  house  of  very  small  tradespeople,  who  were 
putting  themselves  to  no  end  of  inconvenience  in  order  to  accommodate 
us,  so  we  resolved  to  say  nothing  of  any  deficiencies,  but  to  make  the 
best  of  everything.  To  use  the  duvet  for  a  covering,  as  was  evidently 
intended,  was,  in  such  warm  weather,  quite  impossible;  but  we  had 
shawls  and  dressing-gowns,  and  by  the  time  our  happy  Ammergau  visit 
was  half  over,  we  had  become  so  used  to  making  ourselves  comfortable 
without  bed-clothes,  that  we  almost  felt  inclined  to  look  upon  them  as 
superfluous  luxuries. 

Late  sleeping  was,  however,  out  of  the  question  :  we  were  close  to  the 
church,  and  the  beUs  began  to  ring,  and  footsteps  to  go  by,  at  four 
o'clock  ;  then  between  five  and  six,  a  herd  of  many  hundred  goats 
came  down  the  street,  and  passed  under  our  windows,  every  one  with  a 
little  bell  round  its  neck,  making  such  a  tinkling ;  and  half-an-hour 
later,  a  number  of  cows,  with  larger  bells.  The  goats,  we  were  told 
afterwards,  were  going  out  to  the  mountains  to  feed,  and  come  home  in 
the  evening :  the  cows  go  out  at  night  and  come  back  in  the  morning,  to 
avoid  the  great  heat. 

I  was  up  and  out  early,  for  it  was  a  bright  morning  after  the  rain,  and 
I  was  eager  to  see  more  of  the  village  than  one  could  make  out  the  night 
before. 

I  went  first  to  church ,  where  one  is  sure  to  find  Service  going  on  any 
time  after  four,  though  the  Parish  Mass  called  distinctively  '  Gottesdienst' 
at  which  the  parish  school,  and  choir,  and  the  largest  congregation, 
attend,  is  not  until  eight  o'clock. 

The  chjirch  is  large  and  well  cared  for ;  a  good  deal  decorated  inside, 
though  not  in  the  best  taste,  but  very  ugly  outside,  with  one  of  those 
bulbous  spires,  if  spire  it  can  be  called,  which  prevail  in  that  part  of  the 
world. 

The  village  is  rather  straggling,  each  house  standing  apart,  and 
generally  with  a  bit  of  garden  or  orchard  round  it,  making  a  pleasant 
mixture  of  green  throughout.  The  houses  have  a  very  alpine  look,  from 
the  wide-spreading  roofs  of  wood  shingle,  weighted  with  stones,  which 
are  so  familiar  to  us  in  Swiss  scenery.  They  are  very  large,  but  then 
you  must  remember  that  only  about  one-third  of  the  space  covered  by 
each  roof  is  the  dwelling-house;  the  other  two-thirds  are  occupied  by 
the  stables  and  cattle  stalls  below,  and  the  great  hay  barn  above.  The 
gables  of  the  houses  are  almost  invariably  surmounted  by  a  Cross,  and 
there  is  generally  a  good  deal  of  outside  ornamentation  ;  sometimes  of 
carved  wood-work,  sometimes  fresco-painting,  of  a  rather  coarse  kind, 
but  not  without  artistic  skill  and  power,  and  always  of  sacred  subjects. 

It  was  a  strange  dream-like  feeling,  to  stroll  about  this  quiet  village, 
looking  in  outward  respects  so  like  any  of  the  other  villages  of  the 
Bavarian  Highlands,  and  to  think  of  the  wonderful  performance,  which 


870  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

the  inhabitants  bound  upon  themselves  by  solemn  vow  about  two  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago,  and  which  has  been  so  faithfully  kept,  and  so  marvel- 
lously fulfilled,  that  every  tenth  year  as  it  comes  round,  thousands  of 
visitors  (I  might  rather  say  pilgrims,  for  with  the  country  people  at  least, 
it  is  truly  in  the  spirit  of  a  religious  pilgrimage  that  they  come)  are 
drawn  here,  at  great  cost  of  toil,  trouble,  inconvenience,  and  self-denial, 
to  be  present  at  the  Sacred  Drama  of  the  Passion  of  our  Lord. 

It  was  a  strange  feeling,  as  one  watched  the  smith  at  work  at  his  forge, 
or  the  hay-makers  busy  in  the  meadows,  or  the  children  playing  in  the 
street,  to  remember  that  on  Sunday,  these  very  men,  women,  and 
children,  would  be  engaged  in  so  solemn,  almost  awful  a  representa- 
tion. 

A  large  portion  of  the  inhabitants,  about  five  hundred  in  all,  take  part 
in  the  performance;  the  greater  number  have,  of  course,  only  subordinate 
parts,  and  there  is  nothing  at  all  to  distinguish  them  from  other  peasants 
of  their  country ;  those  who  take  the  principal  characters  may  generally 
be  guessed  at  by  the  long  fiowing  hair  which  they  wear ;  and  so  com- 
pletely do  they  identify  themselves  with  the  characters  assigned  them,  that 
they  seem  familiarly  to  go  by  their  names  in  the  village.  People  hardly 
seemed  to  understand  if  we  spoke  about  Maier,  he  is  simply  'Christus;' 
and  the  same  with  the  rest.  Joseph  of  Arimathea  meets  us  in  the  street^ 
and  we  see  S.  Peter  standing  at  his  house  door. 

At  first  it  gives  one  a  kind  of  shock  to  hear  Christus  familiarly  spoken 
of ;  but  there  is  not  the  slightest  irreverence  in  their  way  of  doing  it,  and 
the  person  who  bears  that  sacred  Name  is  of  a  grave  sad  countenance, 
Very  pale,  and  judging  by  the  few  times  that  we  have  seen  him,  sUent 
and  reserved.  We  never  heard  his  voice  in  the  street,  or  saw  him  join 
in  the  talk  or  merriment  going  on  around.  His  manner  is  cahn  and 
dignified,  but  without  any  sign  of  self-consciousness ;  it  is  as  if  he  had  so 
meditated  and  dwelt  upon  the  Holy  Image  which  it  is  his  part  to  set 
forth,  that  unconsciously  he  bore  some  traces  of  it  about  him,  even  in 
common  daily  life.  He  is  a  wood-carver,  and  thereby  perhaps  the  fitter 
representative  of  '  The  Carpenter : '  certainly  nothing  ever  brought  before 
one  so  vividly  the  human  life  of  our  Lord  for  those  eighteen  years  in  the 
retired  village  of  Nazareth. 

On  Friday  afternoon  we  engaged  a  little  carriage  to  'drive  to  Ettal, 
formerly  a  large  Benedictine  monastery,  but  now  a  brewery,  beautifully 
situated  higher  up  the  valley,  about  two  miles  and  a  half  from  the  village. 
There  was  some  difficulty  about  getting  a  carriage,  all  being  so  busy 
bringing  strangers  in  from  all  parts  around ;  and  as  I  cannot  walk  far,  I 
asked  whether  there  was  such  a  thing  to  be  had  in  the  village  as  a 
donkey  to  ride.  The  answer  was,  'Certainly  there  is  one  ass  in  the 
village,'  but  it  was  clearly  implied  that  it  was  not  for  common  use. 

On  Saturday  we  did  nothing  (after  attending  the  eight  o'clock  service 
in  church)  but  sit  about  on  benches,  which  are  generally  to  be  found 
outside  all  the  houses,  watching  the  infiux  of  people  of  all  ranks  and 


THE  TWO  LAST  SUNDAYS  AT  AMMERGAU,  ^7 1 

d^rees  and  conditions,  and  of  all  nations  and  languages,  and  in  all 
conceivable  conveyances,  from  the  well-appointed  private  carriage  with 
handsome  horses  and  livery  servants,  to  the  common  hay-cart  or  farm 
waggon  of  the  country,  some  of  which  carried  as  many  as  twenty  or 
twenty-one  peasants.  Where  they  all  bestowed  themselves  for  the  night 
it  is  hard  to  imagine — many,  I  should  think,  must  have  spent  it  on  the 
sweet  new  hay ;  for  as  this  takes  place  only  once  in  ten  years,  it  would 
of  course  be  vain  to  build  monster  hotels,  which  would  be  utterly  useless 
for  nine  years  and  a  half.  There  are  apparently  three  or  four  village 
inns,  and  every  house  takes  in  as  many  lodgers  as  possible.  Every  room, 
and  loft,  and  bed,  is  given  up  to  the  strangers;  the  greater  the  concourse, 
the  better  pleased  are  the  Ammergau  folk,  for  the  honour  done  to  the 
Holy  Mystery  which  it  is  their  life's  object  to  set  forth.  Every  face  is 
radiant  with  good-humour;  the  kindliest  greetings  are  heard  on  all  sides; 
not  one  cross  word  did  we  hear,  not  one  angry  face  did  we  see,  nor 
(plentiful  as  the  supply  of  beer  is  on  the  occasion)  was  there  any 
symptom  of  excess  or  intemperance. 

At  six  o'clock  on  Saturday  evening,  there  was  a  full  choral  service  in 
church,  consisting  of  German  litanies  and  hymns,  ending  with  Benedic- 
tion. The  church  was  thronged.  About  seven  the  firing  of  cannon, 
followed  by  a  procession  of  the  band  through  the  street,  playing  a  spirited 
march,  gave  notice  that  the  Festival  had  begun. 

The  early  part  of  the  night  was  very  quiet ;  it  is  a  rule  that  all  the 
performers  should  retire  at  nine  o'clock,  and  the  strangers,  many  of 
whom  had  had  a  long  and  weary  journey,  were  probably  glad  to  seek  an 
early  rest  also.  But  it  was  not  for  long.  Between  two  and  three*  the 
church-bells  rang  out  loudly,  and  we  heard  incessant  footsteps  passing 
under  our  windows  to  and  from  the  church. 

Alas,  there  were  other  sounds  too;  a  little  before  three,  a  clap  of 
thunder  set  all  the  mountains  round  echoing  in  grumbling  tones,  and 
soon  heavy  rain  began  to  fall.  High  Mass  was  to  be  at  six  o'clock,  and 
fearing  that  the  church  would  be  very  full,  I  went  at  half-past  five.  It 
was  crowded,  many  standing  for  want  of  room.  Masses  were  being 
celebrated,  one  priest  succeeding  another  without  intermission,  at  all  the 
five  altars  in  the  church,  and  by  waiting  till  the  attendants  upon  one  of 
these  Services  began  to  move,  I  found  a  place. 

The  Service  was  very  hearty  and  congregational — ^much  more  '  in  the 
vulgar  tongue '  than  one  commonly  hears.  For  instance,  the  first  words 
of  the  Gloria  in  Excelsis,  the  Creed,  and  the  Sanctus,  were  intoned  by 
the  Celebrant,  and  then,  instead  of  being  taken  up  and  continued  by  the 
choir  as  usual,  a  metrical  German  hymn  was  sung,  in  which  the  people 
joined,  in  a  way  that  proved  they  were  familiar  both  with  the  words  and 
music.  There  was  no  time  for  a  Sermon,  nor  was  there  any  need,  for 
the  most  striking  and  impressive  of  sermons  was  going  to  occupy  the 
rest  of  the  day. 

A  little  before  seven  we  left  the  church,  and  returned  to  our  lodgings, 


372  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

where  our  good  landlady  had  some  coffee  ready  for  us,  and  at  half-past 
seven  we  went  to  the  theatre.  By  this  time  the  rain  had  quite  ceased, 
and  there  seemed  good  hope  of  a  fine  day ;  a  matter  of  great  importance, 
as  the  stage  and  by  far  the  largest  part  of  the  seats  for  the  audience  is 
without  any  protection  from  the  weather.  The  reserved  seats  at  the 
back  are  sheltered  by  a  kind  of  shed  or  roof  of  planking. 

By  the  time  we  got  there  the  theatre  was  nearly  full ;  the  uncovered 
part  was  one  ma^s  of  heads,  and  before  eight,  every  seat  was  occupied. 
We  were  fortunate  enough  to  have  very  good  places  in  the  covered  part, 
exactly  facing  the  middle  of  the  stage,  and  in  the  fourth  row  from  the 
front. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  sound  of  a  cannon  announced  that  the  performance 
was  to  begin,  and  the  band  played  a  short  overture.  At  its  close  the 
chorus  of  twenty  figures  in  their  beautiful  classical  dress  advanced  from 
either  side,  and  there  was  perfect  stillness  while  the  Choragus,  or  leader, 
pronounced  or  rather  sang  the  Prologue  in  a  musical  recitative,  and  with 
such  a  magnificent  voice,  that  every  syllable  was  perfectly  audible  to  us, 
aud  I  should  imagine  must  have  been  so  to  every  one  of  the  audience. 

So  many  descriptions  have  already  been  given  of  this  most  wonderful 
Mystery,  that  I  shall  not  attempt  to  give  you  any  regular  account  of  it, 
bat  only  to  mention  anything  that  dtruck  me  particularly. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  as  a  work  of  art,  the  Tableaux,  representing 
without  word  or  action  typical  scenes  from  the  Old  Testament,  were  a 
very  remarkable  part  of  the  performance.  I  did  not  expect  to  care  much 
for  them,  but  there  was  such  extreme  beauty  about  some  of  them,  and 
such  wonderful  perfection  in  their  execution,  that  one  waa  fairly  carried 
away  by  them.  How  the  tiny  children  who  bear  part  in  them  are 
trained  to  such  perfect  self-command,  and  motionless  stillness,  often  in 
very  difiScult  postures,  is  a  mystery.  But  the  perfection  of  training  goes 
beyond  even  the  little  children;  for  in  one  of  the  tableaux,  which 
represents  Tobias  parting  from  his  parents  to  perform  his  father's 
message,  a  dog  is  introduced;  I  examined  the  dog  as  carefully  as  I 
could,  with  a  good  opera-glass,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  must 
be  stuffed,  so  absolutely  still  and  motionless  it  was ;  but  when  the 
curtain  was  falling,  just  before  it  was  quite  down,  the  dog  jumped  up 
and  ran  away;  his  self-control  gave  way  a  few  seconds  too  soon,  and 
this  was  the  only  thing  which  disturbed  the  gravity  and  perfect  decorum 
of  the  congregation  ;  a  murmur  of  amusement  could  not  quite  be 
suppressed. 

These  tableaux  are  far  from  being  all  equal;  the  most  beautiful,  to 
my  mind,  were,  the  driving  of  Adam  and  Eve  out  of  Paradise;  the 
children  kneeling  round  the  Cross,  (an  exquisitely  beautiful  picture ;)  the 
leave-taking  of  Tobias  from  his  parents ;  Adam  tilling  the  ground  after 
the  curse,  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow ;  the  death  of  Abel ;  the  sale  of 
Joseph ;  the  sacrifice  of  Isaac.  Some  of  the  very  crowded  ones  I  could 
not  much  enjoy ;  but  as  the  subjects  of  the  Tableaux  are  not  of  the  same 


THE  TWO  LAST  SUNDAYS  AT  AMMBRGAU.  373 

unapproachable  nature  as  the  acted  part,  any  imperfections  in  them  are 
lees  felt.  The  only  one  of  them  which  does  come  at  all  near  to  the  same 
deep  sacredness,  viz,,  the  Bride  of  the  Canticles  bewailing  the  loss  of  the 
Bridegroom,  was,  I  thought,  a  failure. 

And  so  in  the  Flay  itself,  the  highest  perfection,  it  seemed  to  me,  was 
reached,  when  the  principal  person  had  no  longer  to  act — to  act,  that  is, 
the  part  of  a  living  man,  for  his  representation  of  death  was,  I  suppose, 
very  perfect  acting.  The  reverent  taking  down  from  the  Cross,  the 
tender  and  loving  composing  of  the  apparently  lifeless  and  sacred  limbs, 
certainly  surpassed,  to  my  mind,  everything  else  in  the  drama. 

A  German  writer  says,  there  are  three  things  which  never  disappoint 
the  expectations  formed  of  them — ^The  Cathedral  of  Cologne,  the  Sea, 
and  the  Ober  Ammergau  Passion  Play.  With  respect  to  the  last,  I 
think  almost  everyone  would  agree  with  him. 

We  saw  it  under  very  unfavourable  circumstances ;  for  in  about  two 
hours  after  it  began,  the  clouds  which  had  been  hanging  about,  and 
never  properly  rolled  themselves  up  from  the  mount^iin  sides,  began  to 
thicken,  and  rain  came  on,  at  first  slight,  but  after  awhile  becoming  very 
heavy. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  patiently  those  thousands  of  people  sat 
on,  without  any  shelter  whatever,  the  men  uncovered  as  in  church.  Now 
and  then  there  was  an  attempt  made  to  put  up  an  umbrella,  but  it  was 
not  allowed,  as  of  course  it  would  hinder  the  view  of  those  behind. 

Presently  the  Choragus  came  forward,  and  said  that  the  pause  which 
is  usually  made  from  twelve  to  one,  for  rest  and  refreshment  of  actors 
and  spectators,  woidd  take  place  at  once,  (this  was  twenty  minutes  before 
eleven)  in  hopes  that  the  weather  might  clear  later  in  the  day;  and 
that  a  gun  would  be  fired  when  the  performance  was  about  to  be 
resumed. 

The  rain  was  now  so  heavy  that  very  few  of  those  who  were  fortunate 
enough  to  be  in  covered  seats  ventured  to  leave  the  theatre;  a  good 
many  of  the  others  did,  and  those  who  remained  were  free  to  put  up 
their  umbrellas.  Some  had  baskets  of  provisions  with  them,  and  for 
those  who  had  not,  people  came  round  with  cakes,  wine,  and  beer. 
Some  refreshment  was  needful,  and  it  helped  to  pass  the  time  of 
waiting. 

Very  anxiously  we  watched  the  clouds  for  any  token  of  improvement ; 
at  last  they  began  to  disperse,  and  something  almost  approaching  to  a 
gleam  of  sunshine  lighted  up  the  village  of  Unter  Ammergau,  which  lay 
before  us,  about  two  miles  off  in  the  valley.  At  last,  after  a  pause  of 
two  long  hours,  the  rain  stopped,  and  just  twenty  minutes  before  one, 
the  welcome  cannon-shot  was  heard.  It  was  greeted  with  cheers  ; 
people  quickly  got  into  their  places  again ;  the  stately  chorus  advanced 
from  either  side  of  the  stage,  and  the  Play  went  on. 

Unhappily  the  fine  weather  did  not  last ;  before  long  the  rain  came  on 
again,  and  continued  without  intermission  till  the  end  of  the  day.     But 


874  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

there  was  no  further  iDterraption ;  the  drenched  actors  performed  their 
parts,  and  the  patient  spectators  sat  on  to  the  end,  under  such  rain  as 
must  have  soaked  their  clothes  through  and  through — and  as  the  peasant 
folk,  whose  arrivals  we  had  watched  on  Saturday,  certainly  did  not  seem 
to  be  encumbered  with  any  baggage,  I  should  fear  that  few,  if  any,  were 
provided  with  a  change  of  clothing.  But  their  patience  and  good- 
humour  were  unfailing,  as  was  also  the  reverent  attention  with  which 
they  listened  till  the  end.  The  stillness  of  such  a  vast  throng  was  at 
times  quite  remarkable — ^no  sound  was  heard  except  now  and  then  a 
suppressed  sob,  and  other  unmistakeable  tokens  of  emotion. 

The  pause  of  two  hours  instead  of  one,  made  the  performance  rather 
longer  than  usual,  and  it  was  half-past  five  before  we  left  the  theatre, 
just  ten  hours  from  the  time  we  had  taken  our  places  there  in  the 
morning.  Ten  hours  which  I  would  not  have  missed  for  anything ;  ten 
hours  which  I  hope  never  to  forget. 

It  ought,  I  think,  to  be  a  help  to  one  all  one's  life  in  trying  to  realize 
the  Grospel  history  of  the  Passion  of  our  Blessed  Lord.  Not  the  actual 
bodily  suffering :  nothing  that  we  saw  could  be  more  than  the  faintest 
shadow  of  what  one  tries  to  bring  before  one's  mind  in  meditation  upon 
that — but  the  indignities,  the  mockings,  the  rude  cruelty  of  the  soldiers, 
the  weary  dragging  hither  and  thither,  from  Annas  to  Caiaphas,  from 
Caiaphas  to  Pilate,  from  Pilate  to  Herod,  then  back  to  Pilate,  and  His 
meek  obedience  and  submission,  His  patient  dignity,  and  His  silence 
under  all,  came  before  one  with  a  power  and  reality,  that  nothing  else 
(B8  it  seems  to  me)  could  have  given  them. 

The  intense  malice  and  envy  of  the  Chief  Priests,  and  the  miserable 
infatuation  of  the  Barabbas  choice,  were  also  brought  out  with  wonderful 
force. 

We  were  the  more  glad  to  have  accomplished  our  purpose  of  being 
present  at  the  Mystery  on  this  Sunday,  because  there  had  arisen  a  fear 
that  it  might  be  the  last  representation  for  this  year.  The  news  of  the 
declaration  of  war  between  France  and  Prussia  reached  Ober  Ammergau 
on  Saturday  evening,  and  by  Sunday  it  was  known  that  twenty-eight  of 
the  young  men  of  the  village  must  go  to  join  their  regiments,  as  by  the 
German  Bund  or  League,  Bavaria  is  bound,  in  case  of  war,  to  take  part 
with  Prussia,  and  supply  a  certain  contingent  to  the  army. 

Amongst  those  thus  summoned  was  Joseph  Maier ;  or  as  the  people  of 
the  place  expressed  it,  some  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  '  Der  Christus  muss 
auch  fort.'  It  was  a  touching  thought,  that  the  man  who  so  wonderfully 
personated  our  Blessed  Lord,  must  now  go  forth  to  take  up  his  own 
cross,  (a  very  heavy  one,  for  he  leaves  a  wife  and  two  little  children,) 
and  perhaps  to  die  upon  it  Even  supposing  that  he  is  spared  to  return 
in  peace  to  his  home,  one  can  hardly  bear  to  think  of  the  trial  it  must 
be  to  him  to  turn  from  the  holy  images  with  which  his  mind  must  have 
been  so  long  filled,  to  meet  all  the  roughness,  not  to  say  all  the  horrors 
of  a  soldier^s  life,  in  the  camp  and  in  the  field. 


THE  TWO  liAST  SUNDAYS  AT  AMMERGAU,  375 

On  Monday  we  wandered  about  the  village,  bought  some  photographs, 
and  some  of  Maier's  wood- carvings,  and  made  acquaintance  with  the 
clergyman  of  the  parish.  From  him  we  learned  that  the  final  arrangement 
of  the  different  parts  took  place  in  December,  about  six  months  before 
the  Flay  was  to  begin.  There  was  first  a  special  Service  in  church,  and  a 
sermon  in  which  he  tried  to  impress  upon  his  people  the  serious  nature 
of  what  they  were  about  to  undertake,  and  exhorted  them  to  the  right 
dispositions  of  heart  for  such  a  work ;  and  then  the  characters  were 
assigned  to  the  various  actors.  The  high  honour  of  taking  the  principal 
part  is  sometimes  sought  by  more  than  one.  On  this  occasion  three 
candidates  offered  themselves,  and  the  choice  was  made  by  the  votes  of  a 
sort  of  committee  of  management. 

When  the  parts  have  all  been  assigned,  much  remains  to  be  done,  and 
there  is  full  occupation  for  the  winter  evenings  in  practising  and  re- 
hearsing, as  the  music  of  the  band  and  the  chorus  has  to  be  studied  as 
well  as  the  acted  parts.  The  good  people  of  Ober  Ammergau  spare 
neither  time  nor  pains  to  make  their  performance  as  worthy  as  possible, 
and  the  Priest  said  the  actors  were  instructed  to  make  preparation  for  it 
the  special  intention  of  their  Easter  Communion. 

Nor  does  the  clergyman's  supervision  of  the  matter  end  here :  every 
Sunday  that  the  Play  is  performed  he  is  behind  the  scenes,  suggesting, 
helping,  and  superintending.  He  seemed  quite  aware  of  the  risk  and 
danger  there  is  in  it,  but  said  that  on  the  whole  he  was  satisfied  that  the 
effect  upon  his  people  was  good.  He  also  told  us  that  it  was  so  prized 
by  the  poor  people  of  the  country  round,  that  not  unfrequently  they  will 
beg  their  way  on  foot  for  fifty  or  sixty  miles  to  be  present  at  it. 

This  was  quite  borne  out  by  our  own  observation.  We  left  Ammergau 
on  Tuesday,  and  made  our  mid-day  halt  at  the  pretty  village  of  Garmisch ; 
I  do  not  know  the  distance  exactly,  but  it  was  a  three  hours  drive,  and 
part  of  it  tremendously  steep.  While  our  horses  were  resting,  we  had 
some  talk  with  an  old  woman,  who  told  us  she  had  walked  to  Ammergau 
and  back  on  Sunday,  starting  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  not 
getting  home  till  nine  at  night.  *  I  was  tired,'  she  added,  '  but  it  was  so 
beautiful.' 

Wherever  we  went  in  that  part  of  Bavaria  and  Tyrol,  the  Passion 
Play  was  evidently  the  great  object  of  interest — almost  the  first  question 
we  were  asked  when  we  stopped  at  an  inn,  was,  whether  we  had  been 
*  to  the  Passion  f*  whether  it  was  true  that  '  der  Christus '  was  gone  ? 
was  there  to  be  no  more?  <&c.,  &c.  This  went  on  even  when  we  were 
two  or  three  days  journey  from  the  place. 

Before  we  left  Ammergau,  it  had  been  decided  that  a  deputation 
from  the  village  should  accompany  Maier  to  Munich,  with  an  earnest 
representation  of  the  case  to  the  Government,  and  a  petition  that  he 
might  be  exempt  from  military  service,  at  least  till  the  season  for  the 
performance  of  the  Mystery  was  over.  But  in  consideration  of  the 
numbers  of  strangers  who  had  engaged  lodgings,  and  were  known  to  be 


876  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

coining,  for  the  next  Sunday,  it  was  thought  that  under  any  circumstances 
the  representation  must  take  place,  and  in  the  event  of  the  petition  being 
refused,  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  who  had  been  one  of  the  candidates  for 
it,  must  act  the  principal  part. 

And  so  with  this  sad  cloud  of  anxiety  and  sorrow  hanging  over  it,  we 
left  dear  Ammergau,  little  thinking  we  should  ever  see  it  again,  and 
made  our  way  by  a  very  beautiful  and  unfrequented  line  of  country 
to  Innsbruck,  intending  to  spend  the  following  Sunday  there,  and  then 
go  up  the  valley  of  the  Inn  to  St.  Moritz  in  the  Engadine. 

When  we  left  the  theatre  on  Sunday  evening,  we  had  a  strong  feeling 
against  seeing  the  Mystery  a  second  time.  But  as  the  week  wore  on, 
this  changed,  and  day  by  day  as  we  thought  it  all  over,  the  wish  grew 
stronger  that  we  could  be  present  once  more;  and  at  last,  on  Friday 
afternoon,  we  determined  to  give  up  the  Engadine,  and  go  back  next 
day  to  Ammergau,  in  the  hope  that  Maier  might  have  been  allowed  to 
return. 

It  was  a  long  journey  to  take,  on  such  an  uncertainty;  we  started 
soon  after  six,  and  all  along  the  road  it  was,  as  before,  the  great  subject 
of  interest  and  of  conversation.  We  heard  notiiing  encouraging;  no 
one  seemed  to  have  any  certain  knowledge  as  to  the  success  of  the 
deputation,  but  the  prevailing  opinion  was,  that  there  was  no  hope  of 
the  return  of  '  der  Christus,'  and  that  if  the  Play  was  performed  at  all, 
his  part  must  be  taken  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea.  If  this  should  prove 
correct,  our  journey  would  be  in  vain,  for  we  had  quite  resolved  not  to 
see  the  Mystery  again,  if  that  part  was  taken  by  a  different  actor. 

At  about  five  o'clock  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  Ettal  mountain,  which 
is  so  steep  that  additional  horses  are  always  necessary.  I  think  there 
must  have  been  as  many  as  ten  or  twelve  pair  of  strong  horses,  standing 
ready  hai'nessed  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  waiting  the  arrival  of 
caiTiages ;  and  others  were  to  be  seen  coming  leisurely  down,  after 
having  helped  some  earlier  travellers  to  make  the  ascent. 

Here,  to  our  great  joy,  we  learned  that  Maier  had  certainly  returned, 
and  would  act  his  part  next  day;  but  at  the  same  time  we  were  told 
that  he  must  join  his  regiment  again  as  soon  as  the  representation 
was  over  ;  and  that  it  was  now  quite  settled  that  this  should  be  the  last 
performance. 

How  glad  we  were  that  we  had  ventured.  We  were  now  in  the  full 
stream  of  Saturday  evening  arrivals,  and  as  we  had  of  course  done 
nothing  about  engaging  rooms,  visions  presented  themselves  to  our  minds, 
of  the  possibility  of  having  to  sleep  in  a  barn,  or  (by  no  means  an 
uncommon  resource)  in  our  travelling-carriage.  But  we  drove  to  the 
door  of  our  former  lodging,  and  were  received  with  the  most  cordial  of 
welcomes.  It  is  not  at  all  a  usual  thing,  for  visitors  who  have  taken 
their  leave,  apparently  for  good,  to  return  the  same  season ;  and  I  believe 
it  was  looked  upon  as  a  great  tribute  to  the  Mystery.  Everything  in 
the  house  was  at  our  disposal  at  once ;  it  dropped  out,  however,  that  tlie 


DIE  WACHT  AM  BHEIN.  377 

good  people  of  the  house  were  expecting  friends  of  their  own  to  oocupy 
their  rooms.  On  hearing  this  we  said  we  could  not  interfere  with  them, 
and  proposed  to  go  at  once  and  look  for  rooms  elsewhere.  But  this  they 
would  not  hear  of;  their  iriends  would  be  taken  care  of  somewhere 
else — we  must  not  go.  'Stay  with  us — ^stay  with  us — ^you  mu8i  stay 
with  us.'  There  was  no  resisting  such  kind  pressing,  and  indeed  it  was 
very' pleasant  to  feel  so  much  at  home. 

Our  next  care  was  about  tickets  for  the  theatre.  We  spoke  to  our 
hos^  and  said  he  must  get  us  tickets  for  the  best  seats.  We  had  had 
very  good  places  before,  but  we  wanted  still  better  ones  now.  We  had 
come  all  this  way  back,  could  not  he  get  us  into  the  foremost  seats! 

He  lifted  up  his  hands  and  said,  '  Ach  I  if  I  had  but  known !'  How- 
ever, he  promised  to  do  his  best,  and  a  very  good  best  it  turned  out ;  for 
he  did  succeed  in  getting  us  two  chairs  in  the  front  row. 

Whether  it  was  being  that  much  nearer  to  the  stage,  or  the  more 
favourable  state  of  the  atmosphere,  (for  the  weather  was  perfect,)  or  our 
greater  familiarity  with  the  subject,  I  do  not  know,  but  we  certainly 
heard  very  much  more  distinctly  than  we  had  the  Sunday  before* 
Probably  all  these  causes  combined;  and  another  week's  practice  of 
German,  hearing  and  speaking,  may  have  helped  also. 

Of  the  play  itself  I  can  only  say  that  it  lost  nothing  by  repetition ; 

our  admiration  and  wonder  only  increased.     The  effect  upon  one's  own 

mind  was  in  no  way  lessened  or  impaired — ^rather,  I  should  say,  deepened 

and  confirmed ;  and  never  for  one  moment  did  we  regret  having  given 

up  our  tour  in  the  Engadine  for  the  sake  of  assisting  once  more  at  the 

Ober  Ammergau  Passion  Play. 

M.  W. 


DIE  WACHT  AM  RHEIN. 

[We  give  the  origpnal  of  this  now  famous  song^  with  a  translation,  as  a  eontribution 
to  the  literature  of  the  War.] 

£8  bmnst  ein  Raf  wie  Donnerhall,  A  oar  is  heard  as  thunder  deep, 

Wie  Schwertgeklirr  und  Wogenprall ;  As  clash  of  swords,  as  torrent's  sweep : 

Zam  Rhein  1  zum  deutschen  Rhein  I  On  to  the  Rhine !  the  German  Rhine ! 

Wer  will  des  Stromes  Hiiter  sein?  Who  will  its  faithful  guardians  be? 

Lieb,  Vaterland,  magst  ruhig  sein ;  Rest,  Fatherland  1  brave  sons  are  thine^ 

Feat  steht  und  treu  die  Wacht  am  Rhein.  Firmly  to  keep  the  '  Wacht  am  Rhein.' 

Dnrch  Hunderttausend  zuckt  es  schnell,  Millions  of  voices  far  and  near 

Und  aller  augen  blitzen  hell :  Ring  out ;  while  eyes  are  flashing  clear. 

Der  Deutsche,  bieder,  fromm  und  stark,  The  German  true,  his  conntiy's  friend^ 

Beschiitzt  die  heil'ge  Landesmark.  Stands  forth  her  boundaries  to  defend. 

Lieb,  Vaterland,  magst  ruhig  sein ;  Rest,  Fatherland !  his  heart  is  thine ; 

Fest  steht  und  trea  die  Wacht  am  Rheui.  Still  will  he  keep  the  *  Wacht  am  Rhein.' 

VOL.  10.  26  PART  58. 


378 


THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


Und  ob  mein  Hen  im  Tode  bricht 
Wirst  du  noch  drum  ein  Walscher  nicht 

Beich  wie  an  Wasser  deine  Flntb 
Ist  Deutschland  ja  an  Helden  blut. 
Lieb,  Vaterland,  magst  ruhig  sein ; 
Fest  steht  and  treu  die  Wacht  am  Bhein. 

Anf  blickt  er  in  des  Himmels  Blao'n 
Wo  todte  Helden  niederHchau'n, 
Und  schwort  mit  stolzer  Kampfeslust 

Dn  Rhein,  bleibst  dentsch  wie  mcine 

Bnist! 
Lieb,  Vaterland,  magst  ruhig  sein  ; 
Fest  steht  und  treu  die  Wacht  am  Bhein. 

80  lang  ein  Tropfen  Blut  noch  gliiht, 
Noch  eine  Faust  den  Degen  zieht, 
Und  noch  ein  Arm  die  Biichsa  spannt, 
Betritt  kein  Find  dir  deinen  Strand ! 
Lieb,  Yaterland,  magst  ruhig  sein ; 
Fest  steht  and  tren  die  Wacht  am  Bhein. 


Der  Schwur  erschallt,  die  Woge  rinnt, 
Die  Fahnen  Battem  hoch  im  Wind. 
Zum  Bhein,  zum  Bhein,  zum  deutschen 

Bhein, 
Wir  alle  wollen  Hfiter  sein  t 
Lieb,  Yaterland,  magst  ruhig  sein ; 
Fest  steht  und  treu  die  Wacht  am  Bhein. 

C.  WiLHBLM  W.  MULLEB. 


What  though  his  heart  in  death  maj  fail, 
Ne'er  shalt  thou  'neath  the  Frenchman 

quail ; 
Bich  as  in  water  is  thy  flood, 
Art  thou  in  generous  heroes'  blood. 
Best,  Fatherland !  his  strength  is  thine, 
Still  will  he  keep  the  *  Wacht  am  Bhein.* 

To  the  blue  heaven  he  lifts  his  head. 

And  spirits  of  the  noble  dead 

Hear  the  proud   oath,  which   strength 

imparts, 
'  The  German  Bhine,  for  German  hearts  I' 

Best,  Fatherland !  brave  sons  are  thine. 
They  firmly  keep  the  '  Wacht  am  Bhein.' 

Whilst  yet  one  drop  of  life-blood  flows, 
The  sword  shall  never  know  repose ; 
Whilst  yet  one  arm  the  shot  can  pour. 
The  foe  shall  never  touch  thy  shore. 
Best,  Fatherland !  for  sons  of  thine 
Shall   steadfast   keep   the  *  Wacht  am 
Bhein.' 

The  cry  speeds  on,  the  storm  sweeps  past, 
War^s  banners  waving  in  the  blast. 
On  to  the  Bhine  I  the  German  Bhine ! 

We  all  its  gaardiaiis  tmo  will  be. 
Best,  Fatherland !  brave  sons  of  thine 
For  aye  shall  keep  the  *  Wacht  am  Bhein.* 

Elizabeth  M.  Sewell. 

I>BESDBlf,  AuifUit  Sih,  1870. 


HOMBURG  DURING  THE  WAR. 

BY  AUGUSTA  FBERE. 

On  the  evening  of  July  15,  as  we  were  coming  out  peacefully  from 
an  excellent  concert  in  the  Redoute  at  Spa,  the  news  met  us — *War 
is  proclaimed!'  It  seemed  inexplicable,  as  all  the  late  intelligence  had 
been  reassuring.  Surprise  and  grief  had  their  expression,  but  we  were 
too  busy  preparing  for  a  start  for  Homburg  to  give  much  time  to 
public  matters,  and  it  was  not  till  we  reached  the  station  next  morning 
that  their  influence  on  our  individual  destinies  began  to  be  felt. 
Panic  was  in  the  air.  ^La  li^ne  est  coupee^  first  caught  the  ear  of 
our  maid,  always  prone  to  such  infection;  and  I,  slow  to  credit  mere 
report,  went  off  to  the  far  end  of  the  station,  where  the  chef  de  gare 


HOMBURG  DURING  THE  WAR.  379 

might  be  asked  what  was  really  known  of  difficulties  on  the  way.  He, 
with  abundant  lifting  of  hands  and  shoulders,  said  'he  could  tell 
nothing ;  since  the  declaration  of  war,  orders  had  come  to  issue  no 
tickets  beyond  the  frontier,*  *And  there?*  ^Probably  we  should  go 
on;  but  he  could  not  be  responsible  for  anything.'  *Had  we  not  better 
wait  a  day  or  two  to  learn  more?*  '.A^o,'  (very  emphatically;)  Mf 
you  go,  go  at  once;  in  a  few  days  it  will  be  bien  pire*  Back  I 
went.  Consultations  were  held  in  the  third  class  waiting-room,  for 
all  were   too  much  excited    to  think  of  the  proprieties.      Our  friends 

the  E s,  travelling  merely  for  pleasure,  resolved  to  return  to  Spa, 

and  await  the  course  of  events.  JF'e  had  come  abroad  expressly  for 
a  *cure'  at  Homburg — our  boxes,  our  letters,  our  money — all  were 
gone  thither.  My  sister  was  an  invalid,  myself  far  from  strong;  but 
we  were  by  no  means  prepared  to  give  up  our  whole  plan  without 
necessity;  so  I  booked  to  Herbesthal,  a  small  frontier  town  we  had 
never  heard  of  before,  but  were  sure  hot  to  forget  again,  as  on  my 
proceeding  to  the  luggage  bureau,  the  clerk  there  reiterated  his  con- 
viction that  beyond  Herbesthal  nobody  could  proceed. 

Our  friends  helped  us  off,  with  serio-comic  prognostics,  and  a 
promise  to  get  our  rooms  at  the  *  Orange  *  kept  open  till  the  afternoon, 
as  a  retreat  in  case  of  failure.  Many  intended  travellers  had  returned 
to  Spa,  but  quite  enough  went  on  to  make  the  railway  carriages,  in 
intense  heat,  almost  overpowering ;  and  when  we  reached  the  Verviers 
station,  the  scramble  at  the  buffet  was  a  terrible  aggravation  to  the 
necessity  of  changing  francs  into  thalers,  which  I  achieved  under  a 
sort  of  pelt  of  rolls  and  lumps  of  meat  hacked  off  for  eager  comers. 
Here,  however,  we  were  assured  the  line  ipas  open  for  travellers ;  but 
we  had  to  descend  and  re-book  at  the  ominous  Herbesthal,  and  then 
again  at  Aix,  where  only  second  class  tickets  for  Cologne  began  to 
be  issued.  From  the  moment  we  entered  Prussia,  bands  of  soldiers 
in  uniform,  and  recruits  in  blouses,  had  swarmed  into  the  train  amid 
loud  cheering;  and  at  Aix  the  press  for  tickets  was  so  great,  that  I 
felt  economy  had  been  a  mistake,  and  we  had  better  have  gone  first 
class  throughout.  The  'ten  minutes  halt'  melted  away  as  the  gangway 
slowly  cleared  of  its  occupants,  and  when  I  ventured  to  ask  a  civil  lad  in 
front  of  me  to  give  me  first  turn  on  account  of  a  ^kranke  schitester^ 
his  reply  was,  '  But  /  am  for  the  army,  and  must  have  a  place.*  At 
last,  tickets  in  hand,  I  escaped,  found  my  despairing  wondering 
companions,  and  a  refuge  in  a  Damen  coup^^  which  at  least  could 
not  be  invaded  by  the  military  swarm. 

There  was  a  certain  peace  in  knowing  ourselves  off  for  Cologne; 
but  heat  and  excitement  had  not  mended  the  bad  neuralgic  head-ache 
with  which  I  had  started  that  morning,  (how  long  it  seemed  ago!) 
and  so  entirely  took  away  one's  appetite  that  we  looked  ruefully  at 
the  huge  Verviers  sandwiches,  on  which  several  francs  had  been 
unprofitably  expended.     More  and  more  soldiers  poured  in;  carriages 


880  THI  MONTHLY  PACKET* 

were  added,  and  filled  to  overflowing.  Just  before  we  reached  Cologne 
a  violent  storm  of  rain  and  thander  broke  the  sultry  stillness ;  and  as 
our  train  far  over-lapped  the  long  platform,  it  was  a  'scud'  to  gain 
shelter  from  the  deluge,  amid  the  rush  of  shining  helmets,  eager  faces, 
and  long  guns  with  their  steel  spikes  slanted  in  alarming  proximity 
to  one's  nose.  It  gave  me  another  sort  of  shudder  to  think  what 
work  lay  before  them  and  their  yet  careless  excited  bearers;  but  as 
yet  all  was  so  sudden,  war  could  scarcely  be  felt  as  more  than  a 
name.  The  peals  of  thunder  reverberating  in  the  domed  roofs  of  the 
station,  seemed  in  strange  sympathy  with  the  occasion. 

Af^er  a  long  search  for  our  luggage,  involving  sundry  rushes  through 
pouring  rain  over  streaming  pavement,  we  gained  our  haven  of  Sunday's 
rest,  the  Hdtel  Bellevue  on  the  other  side  the  Rhine,  whero  pleasant 
rooms  and  quiet  revived  us  a  little.  The  storm  had  passed  off;  and 
Cologne,  with  its  many  towers,  lay  spread  before  us,  as  placid,  and 
more  beautiful  than  a  gentle  old  Dutch  looking  dame,  who,  with  a  sausage 
curl  on  each  side  of  her  fair  round  face,  had  slumbered  serenely  opposite 
to  me  through  all  the  excitement  of  our  journey. 

The  next  day  was  a  very  unquiet  Sunday.  We  had  to  'master 
the  situation,'  to  forecast  our  possibilities,  and  to  glean  from  talk  and 
papers  the  facts,  so  mysterious  still,  which  had  led  up  to  the  proclamation 
of  war.  That  Prince  Leopold  had  actually  renounced  the  Spanish 
crown;  that  Napoleon  had  still  urged  on  the  quarrel;  that  two  great 
countries,  at  least,  were  to  undergo  the  horrors  of  warfaro  upon  the 
mere  shadow  of  an  imagined  grievance; — all  this  came  foroibly  and 
astoundingly  before  us,  amid  patriotic  clamour,  and  the  moro  selfish, 
but  unavoidable,  cogitations  and  distractions  of  English  travellers 
rushing  homeward  in  a  turbulent  stream,  whero  luggage  vanished  in 
the  whirlpool,  to  come  up  again  precariously ;  and  ciroular  notes  wero 
said  to  be  becoming  almost  waste  paper;  and  even  Napoleons,  we 
were  warned,  (very  erroneously  as  it  proved,)  had  better  be  turned 
into  Prussian  money  as  quickly  as  possible.  Our  maid  kept  coming 
in  with  frosh  reports  from  families  who  had  quitted  Homburg — ^that 
the  place  was  deserted,  the  hotels  would  all  be  closed,  the  Kursaal  was 
to  be  made  a  military  hospital,  thero  would  be  nothing  left  for  the 
invalids  to  eat.  Much  of  this  rumour  we  treated  as  panic;  but  it 
was  difficult,  without  knowing  the  channels  it  came  through,  to  sift 
the  true  from  the  false.  Our  landlord  encouraged  us  to  proceed,  con- 
sidering Homburg  certainly  an  unlikely  place  to  be  occupied  by  troops, 
and  assuring  us  that  the  route  into  Switzerland  would  in  any  case 
remain  open.  So  we  decided  to  go  on;  but  telegraphing  was  now 
impoBbible — the  bureaux  contained  piles  some  feet  high  of  paid  but 
unsent  messages ;  the  friends  we  had  left  behind  could  only  be  advised 
by  letter,  and  this  should  be  posted  as  soon  as  written,  on  the  chance 
of  whatever  train  might  carry  a  mail.  I  must  say  that  this  proved  a 
more  prompt  and  orderly  channel  than  we  were  led  to  expect;  and 


HOMBUBG  DURING  THE  WAB.  381 

we  were  able  to  keep  the  E b  informed  of  oar  movements,  aa  well 

as  send  speedy  intelligence  to  wondering  friends  at  home. 

In  the  afternoon  we  went  to  oar  own  service,  and  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  exquisitely  beautiful  cathedral,  and  two  other  charches,  which, 
togetiier  with  some  fine  choral  music,  heard  at  early  morning  from 
my  bed,  were  all  the  Sunday  element  of  the  day.  At  night  the 
popular  excitement  rose  higher  than  ever — shouts  and  vehement  speeches 
in  a  caf^  close  by  gave  no  chance  of  rest  till  after  itiidnight;  and 
from  4  a.m.  the  harassed  secretary  stood  at  hb  desk,  unable  to  snatch 
a  mouthful  of  food,  so  clamorous  were  travellers  to  pay  their  bills 
and  enter  the  vortex  of  the  station. 

We  took  the  &r  quieter  conveyance  of  the  Rhine  steamers,  which 
up  the  stream  were  almost  empty,  and,  if  slo^v,  seemed  perhaps  the 
more  a  paradise  of  peace  and  leisure.  The  beauty  of  the  banks,  too, 
struck  me  more  thim  ever  at  my  first  sight,  many  years  ago  in  early 
teens.  The  contrast  of  all  their  rich  smiling  loveliness  with  the  thought 
of  coming  devastation  was  very  painful ;  and  between  admiration, 
sorrow,  and  fits  of  intense  drowsiness  caused  by  sleepless  nights,  the 
hours  passed  strangely  by  as  I  lay  on  the  deck  dozing  fitfully,  and  castle 
succeeded  castle  on  the  rocky  shore.  We  *  slept'  at  Coblenz,  where 
crowd  and  noise  seemed  to  reach  their  height  in  the  streets  surrounding 
the  *  G^ant.'  Our  craving  for  quiet  made  us  accept  gladly  some  dark 
close  rooms  over  a  small  stable  yard,  where  we  were  assured  we  could 
*  dormir  jusqu'  k  demain  soir,'  but  in  war-time  the  most  anxious  of  land- 
lords can  answer  for  nothing ;  and  all  night  the  trampling  of  newly- 
arrived  cavalry,  clattering  of  harness,  banging  of  doors,  ^kc,  went  on 
under  our  windows,  and  towards  morning  the  heat  and  odours  became 
intolerable.  In  the  dawning  twilight  an  excellent  likeness  of '  the  Duke ' 
seemed  to  say  as  it  looked  out  at  me  with  grim  pleasantry  from  the 
opposite  wall,  ^Well,  Ma'am,  we  must  grin  and  bear  it!'  During  the 
night  some  militaire  by  mistake  rushed  into  my  room,  of  which  the  door 
had  somehow  remained  unlocked ;  and  outside  it,  in  the  morning,  stood 
his  boots,  when  soon  after  seven  I  could  endure  no  more,  and  escaped 
to  the  airier  regions  below,  where  travellers  were  already  struggling 
for  breakfast  and  bill.  Waiters  did  not  seem  to  think  it  at  all  their  voca- 
tion to  attend  to  these  commonplace  needs;  they,  like  all  the  population, 
were  on  the  quays  and  squares,  and  hanging  in  doorways,  recalled 
only  by  furious  ringing  to  a  momentary  sense  of  tlieir  duty.  My  sister 
was  sleeping  on,  as  she  happily  could  do  of  a  morning  if  restless  at  night ; 
so  I  occupied  the  interval  with  newspapers,  the  German  ones  breathing 
a  fine  spirit  of  unity  and  common  national  ardour  which  one  rejoices  to 
see  this  war  call  forth ;  while  the  comic  Kladderadatsch  had  a  picture 
of  King  William  as  a  big  school-boy  shaking  his  fist  at  the  bully 
Napoleon,  skulking  in  the  background-**' Aha  I  so  you  want  your  nose 
broken  again?'  and  a  rhymed  remonstrance  addressed  to  Marshal  Prim, 
on  the  unkindness  of  having  chosen  to  single  out  a  German  prince 'for  the 


382  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

ungracious  post  of  king  in  Spain,  *  where  not  to  govern,  but  he  governed, 
IS  all  you  ask ;  O  Prim  !  could  you  not  have  found  plenty  of  stupid  youths 
at  any  corner  fit  for  your  purpose?'  every  verse  ending  with,  *  U^as  hat 
Dir  unser  Leopold  getluin  ?^ 

As  we  steamed  again  up  the  Rhine,  the  boats  came  crowded  down 
the  stream;  the  mass  of  tourists  must  have  almost  overflowed  every 
available  conveyance,  nnd  a  few  days  later  all  would  be  given  up  to 
troops,  so  it  was  well  to  get  housed  somewhere !  Bingen,  a  flat  dull- 
looking  place,  with  good  hotels  unaccountably  stuck  down  just  out  of  ail 
the  surrounding  loveliness,  was  at  least  a  change  from  the  region  of 
excitement;  it  felt  like  'Sleepy  Hollow'  in  the  American  tale,  and  in 
spite  of  railway  whistles  at  night,  the  effect  if  dismal  was  tolerably 
composing.  Our  start  by  train  next  morning  was  only  a  little  delayed 
from  military  necessities;  women  waited  on  the  platform  with  tearful 
parting  looks  as  their  young  men  went  off,  and  more  influx  and  delay  at 
Mainz  made  a  rush  necessary  at  Frankfort  for  those  who  wished  to  catch 
the  Homburc  train.  Thanks  to  an  energetic  railway  oflicial  who  took 
us  and  our  loose  parcels  in  tow,  we  succeeded ;  and  about  one,  reached  our 
destination,  though  all  the  luggage  was  left  to  come  on  by  a  later  train. 

After  the  vague  uncanny  rumours  that  had  reached  us  on  the  road,  it 
was  a  relief  to  feel  '  Here  >ve  are,  and  now  we  shall  know  what  sort  of 
state  Homburg  is  really  in  !*  The  Englischer  Hof,  where  we  had  written 
for  rooms,  was  certainly  alive,  and  our  arrival  seemed  rather  an  event, 
causing  its  active  agitated  landlord  to  bustle  about  in  a  manner  presently 
explained  by  the  fact  that  he  and  two  small-boy  waiters  were  now  the 
entire  staff  of  the  hotel  as  to  attendance.  A  cook  also  happily  remained ; 
and  some  delicate  cutlets  promptly  served  up,  together  with  the  possession 
of  a  pleasant  set  of  bed-rooms,  rich  in  sofas  like  most  foreign  ones — 
(would  that  our  hotels  would  copy  them  !) — went  far  to  create  a  sense  of 
confidence  in  Ilomburg  as  at  least  a  temporary  refuge.  A  drive  next 
day  shewed  us  the  beauties  of  its  extensive  park  and  charmingly  laid-out 

gardens ;  an  excellent  lodging,  recommended  by  Dr.  M ,  offered  ud 

the  choice  of  all  its  suites  of  pleasant  rooms,  at  a  price  unusually 
moderate ;  indeed,  there  was  only  Vemharras  du  chotx^  for  '  apartments 
to  let '  abounded  on  all  the  cheerful  pretty  boulevards,  gay  with  flowers 
and  creepers,  which  a  few  days  ago  had  been  crowded  with  equally  gay 
promenaders,  now  suddenly  flown  I  We  were  told  that  the  war  telegram 
arrived  during  the  usual  evening  concert  in  the  Kurgarten,  and  like  a 
thunder-clap  it  scattered  all  the  company  present  The  military  band 
went  off  to  the  camp ;  the  guests  rushed  to  pack  their  l>3xes  for  a  hasty 
departure;  instead  of  the  brilliant  illumination  which  was  to  have 
terminated  that  night's  fite,  darkness  and  confusion  reigned  in  the  gay 
precincts,  and  within  a  few  hours  hundreds  of  families  had  left  Homburg, 
to  the  dismay  and  almost  ruin  of  its  inhabitants,  who  thus  lost  the 
annual  harvest  on  which  they  depend.  As  the  maid  at  our  hotel  dolefully 
said,  'We  have  only  the  Kurfremden,  and  they  are  all  gone!'    Our 


HOMBURG  DURING  THE  WAR.  383 

landlord,  an  energetic  stout  man,  who  talked  English  with  his  whole 
body,  appeared  half  distracted  with  perplexity  whether  to  keep  his 
establishment  open  or  not ;  a  few  stragglers  were  still  there,  forming  the 
ghost  of  a  table  d'hdte,  but  the  rest  had  cleared  off  one  morning,  after 
obliging  him  to  sit  up  all  night  making  out  accounts ;  he  would  gladly 
have  kept  us  on  for  a  time  at  lowered  prices,  but  the  dreariness  of  an 
empty  hotel  is  oppressive,  and  no  newspaper  wiis  now  to  be  seen  there ; 
a  week  ago,  he  emphatically  stated,  you  had  everything — ^Times,  In- 
dependence Beige,  Galignani,  Saturday  Review,  &c.,  'put  I  have  put 
them  all  pack,  all,  said  he,  beating  the  air  protestingly  with  his  large 
hands.  He  seemed  to  apprehend  absolute  ruin  from  a  flight  of  journals 
that  must  be  paid  for  I 

On  the  strength  of  our  conviction  that  a  week's  stay,  at  any  rate, 
was  absolutely  needed  to  rest  and  recover  our  various  effects,  we 
moved  into  No.  7,  Kisseleffstrasse,  and  felt  so  comfortable  there,  close 
to  the  pleasant  walks,  with  music  twice  a  day  from  a  Homburg  band 
that  had  not  gone  to  the  war — so  like  the  Lotos-eaters,  indeed,  hardly 
able  to  contemplate  another  effort  of  planning  and  travelling — that  the 
admonition  we  received  from  competent  advisers,  ^If  you  wish  to  go, 
go  at  once;  or  if  not,  stay  on  quietly  and  indefinitely,'  was  almost 
tacitly  decided  in  the  latter  sense.  British  subjects  would  in  any  case 
be  safe  from  ill-usage ;  and  as  the  first  panic  subsided,  it  became 
evident  that  several  English  families,  besides  Amencans,  lingered  on, 
pursuing  the  water  treatment,  which  my  sister  had  just  begun  with 
good  prospect  of  benefit  in  due  time.  We  could  only  be  guided  by 
what  was  for  the  moment  obviously  desirable,  and  trust  to  the  future 
being  made  clear  for  us  as  it  became  necessary  to  look  further.  There 
had  been  many  gloomy  prognostics  concerning  certain  trunks  which 
had  left  Spa  just  as  the  war  broke  out,  and  seemed  too  likely  to  be 
lost  in  the  vortex  of  the  Rhine  railways.  I  had  more  than  once  put 
my  German  to  its  utmost  stretch  in  fruitless  inquiries  at  the  bureau 
des  ffiiesses,  where  the  whole  story  had  to  be  told  to  an  ill-boding 
official,  who  began  by  throwing  up  his  hands  with  a  strong  exclamation 
at  the  apparent  hopelessness  of  my  cause.  However,  in  a  day  or  two 
the  precious  packages  appeared,  were  almost  embraced,  and  not  very 
unwillingly  paid  for  at  an  enhanced  rate,  since  goods  had  ceased  to 
be  conveyed  at  all,  and  everything  came  on  by  passenger  trains — 
lucky  to  arrive  before  these  also  were  stopped!  Our  money  and  our 
letters  also  came  to  hand,  producing  a  tolerably  cheerful  state  of  things 
just  as  the  fence  (cordon  ?)  was  drawn  around  Homburg  which  would, 
for  some  few  weeks  at  least,  cut  off  all  facilities  for  leaving  it.  On 
the  24lh  of  July  the  last  train  for  general  travellers  went  to  Frankfort, 
of  which  our  landlord  and  his  wife  took  advantage,  to  visit  their  two 
young  sons  in  business  there,  and  leave  them  with  good  advice  for  their 
quiet  behaviour,  whatever  might  happen.  The  lines  of  communication 
with  Bavaria  and  Wurtemberg  would  now   be  appropriated  for  the 


384  TIIE  MOKTHLT  PACKET. 

passage  of  troops,  but  would  probably  re*open  later  for  oonyejance 
towards  Switzerland,  as  the  destruction  of  the  Baden  railway  rendered 
these  now  the  only  practicable  routes*  And  at  the  worst,  horses  and 
diligences  would  be  ayailable^  we  were  assured,  and  people  would  be 
no  worse  off  than  before  railways  existed.  So  we  resigned  ourselres 
to  our  lot,  feeling  how  unspeakably  graver  and  sadder  was  that  of  th« 
population  around  us,  already  full  of  preparations  for  the  coming  horrors ; 
and  perhaps  not  as  iully  satisfied  to  give  all  for  Prussia's  quarrel  as  if 
they  had  been  original  Prussian  subjects,  instead  of  Hessians  made  such 
by  the  war  of  '66.  Nevertheless  a  fine  spirit  seemed  to  animate  all 
classes.  The  women,  as  they  bade  farewell  to  a  body  of  soldiers, 
who,  after  marching  round  the  town  in  procession,  departed  late  on 
Sunday  night  (the  24th)  for  the  camp,  applied  themselves  to  collecting 
linen  for  the  wounds  that  must  be ;  and  soon  an  organized  committee 
was  sitting,  all  hands  busily  at  work,  a  large  barrack  being  prepared 
for  an  hospital.  And  here,  as  it  were  in  a  cleft  of  the  rock,  where  the 
noise  of  the  whirlwind  only  passed  by,  we  waited  for  news  from  day  to 
day.  It  was  a  strange  lull  after  the  excitement  of  the  first  alarm-«- 
more  awful  as  it  contained  such  vast  possibilities,  such  vague,  yet 
too  certain,  promise  of  calamity  to  come.  Wednesday,  July  27,  was 
solemnly  observed  as  a  prayer  day  in  all  the  German  churches;  and 
much  weeping  was  heard  there,  as  well  as  the  voice  of  the  preacher 
committing  the  result  to  God. 

Up  to  the  4th  of  August  littlehad  occurred  to  break  the  monotony  of 
our  quiet  life.  There  was  a  steady  continuous  current  of  preparation 
for  what  was  to  be  the  special  function  of  Homburg — the  care  of  sick 
and  wounded  soldiers.  From  the  moment  they  had  parted  with  their 
friends  and  relations,  the  good  practical  housewives  had  been  looking  up 
supplies  of  old  linen  from  those  wonderful  presses,  which  every  German 
bride  has  filled  for  her  by  her  parents ;  a  stock  to  last  generally  through 
life  I  Our  landlady,  Frau  S  ,  with  fourteen  others,  formed  a  committee 
for  the  best  disposal  of  the  material,  and  soon  lint-making  was  seen 
going  on  all  round — shop*girls  in  every  interval  of  business  (alas  I  now 
very  slack)  sat  pulling  out  the  threads  of  the  coarser  linen  for  the  purpose, 
producing  heaps  of  white  fluff;  English  ladies,  whose  travelling  ward- 
robe allowed  only  a  few  old  cambric  handkerchiefs  for  the  cause,  learned 
a  method  of  honey-combing,  with  sharp  scissors,  small  squares  for  the 
lint  to  rest  on,  which  otherwise  is  troublesome  to  remove  from  a  wound. 
This  snipping  could  be  done  easily  out  of  doors,  and  we  usually  practised 
it  with  a  small  knot  of  acquaintance  in  the  Kurgarten,  while  listening  to 
the  pleasant  music  of  a  Homburg  band,  which  happily  for  us  was  not 
required  to  help  the  fighting !  It  gave  one  a  strange  sad  sensation,  this 
combining  of  amusement  and  preparation  for  such  dire  distress ;  and  - 
thus  it  went  on  for  a  period — ^rumours  of  slight  skirmishing  on  the  frontier 
reaching  us  now  and  then,  either  utterly  shapeless  or  snl^ject  to  the 


HOMBUBQ  DUEING  THE  WAB.  885 

morrow's  coutradiction.  Where  the  armies  were  nobody  seemed  to 
know,  nor  when  they  were  likely  to  meet;  it  was  a  pause  of  terrible 
suspense,  for  one  knew  the  evil  must  come.  Meantime,  the  large  barrack 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town  was  being  converted  into  an  hospital,  and 
the  demand  for  'hands'  became  great.  Dienstmanrij  No.  19,  of  a 
corps  of  neatly-dressed  commissionaires,  in  blue  shirts,  black  belts,  and 
red  caps  with  'Express'  on  the  front,  who  had  at  first  been  engaged 
every  morning  to  draw  my  sister's  bath-chair  to  the  Brunnen,  became 
permanently  taken  up  for  public  duty,  and  sent  a  No.  22  in  his  place, 
who,  however,  was  occasionally  also  called  on  by  the  Burgomaster  to  aid 
in  the  hospital  preparations,  and  we  felt  that  minor  claims  must  yield 
to  greater !  The  able-bodied  men  of  all  ranks  also  were  formed  into  a 
corps  of  '  helpers '  for  transporting  the  wounded  to  the  hospital ;  and  on 
Saturday,  August  6th,  the  day  after  we  liad  learnt  the  first  Prussian 
success  in  the  taking  of  Weissenburg,  the  sad  work  began  in  earnest. 
Early  in  the  morning,  just  as  we  returned  from  our  water  drinking,  a 
bugle  was  heard,  up  and  down  the  street,  summoning  the  Verpflpgungs* 
corps  to  meet  the  coming  train.  Each  member,  however  occupied, 
instantly  bound  a  white  band  with  a  red  cross  on  it  round  his  left  arm, 
and  started  for  the  station,  whence  an  hour  or  so  after  a  slow  procession 
began  to  pass  along  the  Ferdinands-Strasse,  and  up  the  Obere  Promenade, 
on  which  our  street  abuts.  From  the  balcony  of  a  large  salon  adjoining 
our  rooms,  (and  to  which  this  exciting  state  of  things  gives  us  free 
access)  we  watched  the  poor  soldiers  pass ;  first  those  who  could  sit  up, 
in  carriages  driven  at  a  foot's  pace;  then  the  severely  wounded,  on 
stretchers  carried  by  long  poles  :  it  was  too  far  to  see  details,  which  were 
well  spared  to  us,  since  mere  horror  can  do  nobody  any  good ;  but  the 
maids  of  the  house,  who  had  gone  close  to  the  road,  came  back  greatly 
moved  by  the  shocking  sight.  There  were  heads  and  jaws,  all  one 
feai*ful  gash — bodies  transpierced  by  balls  in  several  places — ^yet  we  were 
told  th^  worst  cases  had  been  (as  indeed  was  obviously  needful)  left  at 
hospitals  nearer  to  the  field  of  battle ;  at  mid-day  a  second  convoy  arrived ; 
and  a  third  was  expected  late  at  night,  but  only  came  in  at  two  a.  m., 
the  delays  on  the  road  had  been  so  great ;  and  it  was  four  by  the  time 
all  were  got  under  shelter.  People  had  been  waiting  the  whole  time  at 
the  station,  with  hot  coffee,  &c.,  for  their  refreshment ;  this  seems  to  be 
organized  everywhere :  and  it  is  striking  how  calmly  and  quietly  all  this 
is  done  by  Germans;  there  is  no  noise,  no  outward  excitement,  even 
when  the  people  collect  round  the  placards  which  tell  of  victory.  A 
good  hurrah  would  be  more  congenial  to  English  feelings,  but  one  must 
admire  the  concentrated  character  which  talks  little  and  does  much. 

Colonel (an  English  officer)  was  greatly  struck  by  this  feature,  at 

the  departure  of  the  11th  corps  of  Hessians,  many  of  them  Homburgcrs, 
who  have  since  fought  with  tremendous  ardour — mere  shopkeepers  and 
men  of  all  peaceful  trades  and  professions  as  most  of  them  were.  The 
'reserves'  lately  called  out  in  the  Prussian  army  consist  of  those  who, 


386  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

from  nineteen  years  of  age,  have  served  one  or  three  years  in  the  ranks 
(those  up  to  a  certain  mark  in  education  are  excused  the  longer  term.) 
During  this  period  everyone,  noble  or  peasant,  goes  through  the  same 
training  as  a  common  soldier;  even  a  prince  has  only  the  small  privilege 
of  being  placed  in  some  corps  of  Royal  Guards,  with  a  little  more 
luxury;  but  the  upper  class  may  live  with  their  families,  instead  of  in 
barracks  at  their  quarters  for  the  time  being.  Afterwards  they  return 
to  ordinary  life,  subject  to  serve  on  emergency,  as  now,  when  every 
reserve  but  the  last  has  been  called  to  Bght.  The  discipline  is  terribly 
severe.  Capital  punishment  is  inflicted  for  small  acts  of  disrespect  or 
disobedience ;  and  the  other  day,  as  the  troops  were  coming  on  by  rail- 
road, the^train  was  stopped,  a  soldier  who  had  given  an  insolent  answer 
to  his  commanding  oflicer  was  taken  out,  tried  on  the  spot,  and  actually 
shot  by  the  side  of  the  line!  Thus  works  the  wonderful  Prussian 
machine,  strong  and  inexorable  as  a  steam-engine  once  wound  up  ;  and 
the  Germans  seem  to  feel  its  force  against  a  common  enemy  atone  for 
much  of  the  wrong  suffered  by  the  smaller  states  now  absorbed  into  its 
sphere  of  action. 

Our  morning  promenade  among  the  lovely  groves  and  flower-beds  to 
the  different  springs,  is  now  a  regular  scene  of  news-telling  and  specula- 
tion. A  stall  with  the  Daily  Telegraphy  French  Figaro^  and  an  excellent 
Frankfort  paper,  attracts  many  buyers,  in  spite  of  its  putting  Ave  or  six 
times  their  price  on  the  English  sheets !  Some  days  these  are  very  scarce, 
and  once  a  Times  fetched  a  gulden — one  shilling  and  eightpence !  It  is 
interesting  to  hear  some  comments  from  capable  ex-roilitary  heads,  as 
they  pace  the  long  avenue,  or  stand  in  a  knot  near  the  Elisabeth-brunnen  ; 
and  then  the  band  strikes  up  a  lively  waltz  that  drowns  the  voices,  or 
an  exquisite  opera  air  that  must  be  listened  to;  and  so,  in  a  curious 
alternation  of  feelings,  one  wonders  and  wonders,  and  deplores,  and 
admires  and  enjoys,  and  goes  home  to  breakfast  and  calm  down  one's 
excitements,  and  perhaps  find  letters  from  home,  that  throw  on^  for  the 
time,  into  quite  another  atmosphere — when  it  seems  strange  again  to 
recall  that  we  are  in  Germany,  in  the  midst  of  war ! 

Events  now  become  so  remarkable,  that  I  must  put  down  day  by  day 
what  occurs. 

August  7. — Before  I  left  my  room,  sundry  taps  at  the  door  betokened 
some  important  matter;  I  hunry  a  little,  open,  and  see  our  maid  in 
conference  with  Madame,  both  much  excited.  *"  Such  a  glorious  victoi^ ! 
Telegram  just  c^me — four  thousand  prisoners,  thirty  cannon  taken ;  the 
great  MacMahon  himself—'  *Not  captured?^  'No;  but  thoroughly 
defeated  and  driven  back.'  'Thank  God!'  I  say;  'tor  the  Germans 
it  is  great  news,  and  /  am  very  glad  they  have  won.'  We  stand  in 
the  salon ;  just  then  some  gentlemen  come  up  the  street   talking ;   I 

rush  to  one  window,  Frau  S to  the  other,  and  listen.     Yes,  the  same 

6toi*y — four  thousand  Gefangene^  one  hundred  ojjizier^  <&c. ;  but  what 
is  that  which  sounds  like  Mittagsessen  ?     Madame  interprets — '  It  is 


UOMBURG  DURING  THE  WAR.  387 

de  ting  what  the  French  kill  so  many  men  wiz,' — the  terrific  mitrailleuse, 
also  captured  in  some  number.  An  hour  later  comes  up  Emma,  the 
housemaid,  with  the  large  rose-coloured  placard,  signed  *Wilhelm,' 
addressed  to  the  Queen,  giving  the  details  of  *  Fritz's  victory '  at  Worth, 
in  blucic  and  white,  with  a  puzzling  intimation  at  the  close — following 
'inform  the  Queen-mother,' — that  yictoria  (who  at  first  we  supposed 
must  be  the  Crown  Princess)  was  to  be  geschossen.  This,  however, 
seems  to  have  meant  a  salvo  of  artillery  Tor  victory.  More  exciting 
telegrams  come  in  ;  alternate  periods  of  war-discussion  and  quiet 
church-services  make  up  the  day.  More  trains  bring  wounded  to  the 
hospital- barrack ;  all  last  night,  till  four,  the  corps  were  on  duty  at 
the  station.  Such  rapid  in-pouring  creates  confusion  in  the  Caserne; 
heaps  of  linen  and  all  appliances  are  there,  but  can't  be  found  when 
wanted.  However,  things  will  get  into  shape  by  degrees ;  and  on 
Monday  our  *  Madame'  achieves  a  thorough  sorting  and  arrangement. 
This  is  another  day  of  excitement,  especially  when  a  late  telegram 
brings  the  account  of  panic  at  Paris,  and  the  proclamation  of  the 
Empress,  acknowledging  defeat  in  plain  terms  one  would  scarcely  have 
expected,  after  all  the  presumptuous  boasting  of  the  French  papers. 
More  capture  of. guns  and  prisoners  near  Saarbriick  is  reported  before 
the  day  closes. 

August  9. — Fragments  of  talk  on  the  Brunnen  Promenade. — 'A 
Homburg  officer  just  returned  with  slight  wound,  says  the  mitrailleuse 
is  most  awful  in  its  action  ;  a  single  one  struck  down  an  entire  wing  of 
his  regiment !'  English  gentlemen  passing :  '  Oh,  the  Germans  are  only 
too  good-natured ;  if  their  people  get  as  well  cared  for  in  France  as 
the  French  here — '  English  ladies  passing :  *  The  doctor  wanted 
something  to  wipe  his  lancet  on,  and  she  actually  tore  up  a  nice 
pillow-case — so  reckless!  like  a  wasteful  cook.'  German  servant-girls, 
walking  four  together,  with  sad  serious  faces,  one  describing  how  a 
family  of  her  friends  are  wounded :  '  der  Eine  hat  der  jRucken 
durchgehohrrij  und  der  Andere  ist  am  Arm  geschossen,  und  der 
Dritte — '  As  I  reach  the  Obere  Promenade,  a  dull  thud  on  the  ground 
is  heard,  and  the  corps  of  helpers  come  along  with  their  strong  poles 
attached  to  pieces  of  canvas  for  litters,  and  the  white  badge  with  a 
red  cross  on  the  left  arm,  going  to  meet  another  train  of  wounded. 
Men,  women,  and  children,  follow  with  baskets  on  their  arms.  More 
than  an  hour  after,  I  see  soldiers  pass  our  garden  :  Germans  in  fair 
condition,  and  looking  cheery ;  French  gloomy  and  vindictive  in  aspect, 
some  sadly  wounded  ;  and  the  absolutely  black  Africans  resembling 
roarble  statues,  so  stern  and  motionless!  I  was  sorry  the  people 
laughed  as  they  came  by;  it  is  an  unlucky  moment,  just  as  France 
has  been  so  worsted  after  all  her  boasting.  In  the  afternoon  I  and 
C.  went  with  Madame  to  the  Caserne,  now  overflowing  with  the  new 
AiTivals,  which  it  seems  were  sent  on  here  under  a  mistake.  Many  were 
prisoner  not  requiring  hospital  treatment,  but  they  had  all  to  be  fed, 


388  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

lodged  temporarily,  and  their  clothes  renewed ;  and  about  a  hundred 
were  lying  out  in  the  court-yard,  on  beds  which,  as  well  as  their 
bedding,  belonged  to  the  regular  barrack  store,  and  had  been  stowed 
away  at  the  very  top  of  the  building.  It  had  been  a  great  business 
to  get  them  down ;  but  men  and  women  who  came  only  to  look  were 
made  to  help,  and  by  this  time  all  was  in  order.  It  was  a  singular 
scene,  as  we  looked  down  from  a  window,  this  yard  full  of  French 
and  African  soldiers,  (the  latter  looking  very  wild  and  strange  in  their 
tattered  oriental  dresses,)  some  sitting  up  and  staring  around,  with  a 
dark  blue  burnous  flung  over  their  head ;  others,  apparently  exhausted, 
had  crept,  completely  under  the  bed-clothes ;  and  some  lay  with  pale 
sad  faces,  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  wander  in  quest  of  some  consolation. 
I  could  not  but  wish  to  go  round  and  speak   to  these  poor  fellows, 

and  carried  my  point  through  some  opposition  from  Fran  S and  a 

lady  in  charge,  (the  wife  of  one  of  the  surgeons,)  both  of  wliom  seemed 
to  think  the  ^  black  men  *  too  horrible  to  be  approached  without 
necessity.  They  were  indignant  at  the  French  Emperor's  bringing 
such  '  wild  beasts '  to  fight  civilized  armies,  and  felt  strongly  impressed 
with  the  amount  of  washing  they  would  require  before  they  could 
enter  the  barrack.  I  had  already  been  talking  to  one  young  Frenchman 
in  a  ward  with  some  Germans,  who  seemed  so  pleased  with  notice,  I 
could  not  bear  to  turn  away  from  the  rest;  and  at  length  C.  and 
I  got  through  the  guard  at  the  gate,  with  an  injunction  not  to  stay 
long,  and  not  to  ghoe  anything ;  this  last  was  very  peremptory  and 
very  provoking,  as  we  had  just  seen  a  lady  dispensing  a  large  basket 
of  fruit  wiihin,  and  were  going  to  get  some  for  the  poor  French — 
however,  there  was  no  help  for  it.  We  went  round  and  spoke  to 
such  of  the  outside  patients  as  were  able  to  talk ;  C,  with  her 
honest  English  tongue,  generally  asking  ''Est  ce  que  donnez  vous  assez 
a  manger?'  while  I  sometimes  learned  a  little  personal  history  of  the 
men,  and  how  they  had  fared  since  their  wounds,  some  of  which, 
alas!  had  been  received  three  or  four  days  before,  and  only  now 
properly  dressed.  On  every  couch  there  was  some  bandaged  painful 
limb,  or  a  sufferer  from  fever,  caused  by  the  heavy  rains  they  had 
passed  through  since  the  scorching  heat  of  last  week,  which  several 
described  as  terrible.  They  spoke  well  of  the  general  treatment  they  had 
received  in  Germany.  I  did  not  like  to  ask  much  about  the  engage- 
ments where  they  had  been  captured ;  one  man  murmured,  in  speaking 
of  Weissenburg,  ^They  were  too  many  for  us  there,  we  had  no  chancel' 
and  another,  a  very  intelligent  well-mannered  Breton,  said,  *  It  is  hard  for 
us  to  suffer,  VambUum  d^un  seal  cause  la  misire  de  tant  d'autres/* 
and  whether  he  meant  Napoleon  or  Count  Bismark,  I  could  but  agree, 
and  deplore  with  him  the  horrors  of  war.  His  time  of  service  would 
be  up,  he  said,  in  October;  and  then,  if  he  escaped  the  risks  of  a 
further  campaign,  ^Je  ne  serai  plus  soldaty  d  moins  que  je  ne  le  fosse 
volonlairement/'     It  seemed  \ery  little  one  could  do,  but  the  men 


HOMBUBG  DUBIKQ  THB  WAR.  889' 

looked  pleased  to  be  spoken  to  in  their  own  langange;  and  I  dare 
say  it  made  a  small  variety  in  their  monotonous  suffering,  which  in 
some  cases  had  found  no  rest  day  or  night  since  the  battle.  Most 
had  fought  either  at  Weissenburg  on  Thursday,  or  in  smaller  actions 
in  that  district  on  Saturday.  In  one  place  the  wounded  lay  on  straw 
in  the^hurch  till  removed  for  transport  hither.  Fortunately  thb  was 
a  dry,  cool,  shady  day,  and  lying  quietly  out  in  the  air  was  a  relief 
to  the  jaded  bodies ;  but  in  the  evening  more  than  a  hundred  prisoners 
in  tolerable  condition  were  sent  back  to  Frankfort,  the  bad  cases  all 
taken  into  the  Caserne,  and  each  man  had  received  a  new  shirt  to 
replace  the  horribly  torn  and  soiled  garments  they  came  in.  Madame 
was  rather  scandalized  at  our  spending  so  much  time  among  the 
French,  and  suspected  me— quite  erroneously— of  a  leaning  to  their 
cause;  but  since  she  has  been  attending  them  more  herself,  I  think 
she  is  softened,  and  can  better  understand  our  feeling  for  them  as 
prisoners.  I  am  sure  she  would  attend  to  their  needs  as  well  as  to  her 
countrymen's;  but  to  go  up  and  talk  to  them — ifiai  was  what  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  do.  It  is  hard  for  us  to  put  ourselves  in  the 
position  of  the  Germans — ^we  whose  land  has  never  been  invaded  by 
an  enemy  for  so  many  centuries.  However,  there  is  no  comparison 
between  the  genial  hearty  succours  organized  by  the  German  people 
along  the  road,  and  the  strangely  chilling  arbitrary  system  which  in 
France  actually  prohibits  all  gathering  at  stations  for  the  purpose. 
It  may  be  only  the  carrying  out  of  die  usual  stem  French  railway 
discipline,  but  at  the  present  time  it  is  somewhat  suggestive  of  their 
notorious  dread  of  popular  manifestations. 

Thursday,  11th. — Rain  all  yesterday,  and  no  telegrams,  caused  a  sort 
of  dull  feeling  of  disappointment ;  this  morning  talk  revives  on  the 
promenade,  French  panic  and  the  dubious  state  of  Paris  being  upper* 

most.     Colonel  D observed  a  French  lady  in  the  reading-room 

yesterday  evening,  who  looked  much  depressed;  and  when  the  band 
struck  up  '  God  save  the  King,'  (pur  air,  which  is  the  Prussian  national 
anthem  also)  she  quite  broke  down ;  the  triumphant  strain  was  evidently 
more  than  a  Frenchwoman  could  bear.  I  hear  since  that  a  good  many 
French  residents  are  leaving  Homburg — ^hotel  waiters,  &c. — ^from  the 
feeling  that  they  cannot  stay  to  witness  the  rejoicings  over  their 
defeat. 

Wednesday,  17th.  A  pause  again,  as  regards  any  distinct  news  or 
remarkable  events  here.  We  have  been  several  times  to  a  Damen* 
Verein^  held  in  some  rooms  at  the  old  Schloss — ^formerly  the  Landgrave's 
palace,  and  occupied  in  the  memory  of  many,  by  the  English  Princess 
Elizabeth.  It  stands  at  the  old  end  of  Homburg,  looking  west  to  a 
lovely  prospect  of  hills  and  woods,  and  is  a  massive  picturesque  buildings 
with  a  tall  detached  tower  in  the  court  we  cross  to  go  to  the  work-rooms. 
These  are  apparently  offices,  of  a  homely  sort,  but  tidy  enough  for  the 
purpose,  with  sufficient  clean  deal  tables  and  straw  chairs,  and  windows 


390  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

which  rve  generally  manage  to  get  opened  I  There  is  a  committee  of 
ladies,  who  take  charge,  on  fixed  days,  of  the  old  linen,  &c.,  that  is  sent 

in;  Frau  S is  one,  and  on  two  of  the  other  days  the  post  is  taken 

by  a  daughter  of  the  late  '  Mistress  of  the  Robes '  at  the  Horaburg 
Court ;  so  ranks  are  a  good  deal  mixed.  A  few  English  ladies  besides 
ourselves  attend,  but  mostly  Germans  of  course,  among  whora*^  good 
deal  of  chat  goes  on,  and  cheerful  laughter  too  at  times.  The  lady  on 
duty  portions  out  the  work,  much  of  which  consists  in  mending  and 
patching,  and  contriving  how  to  make  the  best  of  ragged  materials.  The 
stock  now  comprises  linen  that  has  been  in  battle,  has  been  taken  off  the 
wounded,  and  washed,  and  has  to  be  repaired  for  further  use.  It  often 
tells  a  fearful  tale,  where  the  clothes  have  been  pierced  by  bullets,  or 
hastily  cut  away  by  the  surgeon  for  some  operation  or  dressing  I  All 
these  things  seem  to  bring  the  war  so  near.  Happily,  the  invalids  here, 
aided  by  cool  weather  and  excellent  nursing,  have  mostly  done  well,  and 
we  now  see  convalescents  often  walking  about  the  streets  more  or  less 
bandaged,  or  enjoying  music  and  cigars  in  the  gardens.  The  French 
are  not  allowed  to  go  out,  I  believe;  we  hear  they  are  terribly  dispirited ; 
but  some  of  them  have  quite  won  the  hearts  of  the  hospital  attendants. 
The  'Turcos'  were  nearly  all  sent  on  to  Mainz  and  other  fortresses. 
They  are  very  unsafe  inmates,  ready  to  rob  and  to  stab  at  every 
opportunity;  and  I  am  told  it  is  a  fact  that  many  of  the  corps  are 
convicts,  under  a  long  sentence  for  some  heinous  crime,  which  has  been 
remitted  on  consideration  of  their  military  service  I  Instances  of  their 
ferocity,  when  placed  among  the  other  sick  and  wounded,  soon  shewed 
it  was  necessary  to  put  them  under  the  strictest  surveillance.  For  the 
rest,  all  seem  amicable;  French  books  and  papers  are  supplied  to  those 
who  can  use  them,  and  our  landlord  and  others  write  letters  home  at 
their  dictation.  We  have  not  been  there  again,  for  the  number  of 
vbitors  was  found  too  exciting  at  one  time,  and  none  are  now  admitted 
without  a  special  card  for  the  day. 

Idth.  Our  soldier  inmate,  who  has  been  billeted  on  this  house  for 
some  ten  days  past,  has  this  evening  started  for  the  army,  burning  to  be 
in  the  thick  of  the  French  campaign.  He  had  been  sent  back  after 
Weissenburg,  with  only  sore  feet,  and  is  a  pleasant-looking,  healthy 
young  Westphalian,  who  served  on  the  Prussian  side  in  the  war  of 
1866.  We  have  had  sundry  chats  in  our  pretty  little  garden,  where  he 
was  wont  to  smoke  and  saunter,  and  one  day  lately  exhibited  to  us  all 
the  action  of  his  ziindnadel,  which  he  was  polishing  up  for  future  use. 
Besides  the  long  '  needle,'  (which  acts  on  the  charge  much  as  the  spike 
of  a  patent  pencil  on  the  lead,)  there  is  a  *  secret  chamber '  between  the 
powder  and  the  ball,  which  is  never  opened,  and  wherein  resides  the 
special  force  of  the  invention.  It  can  be  loaded  and  fired  ten  times  in 
a  minute,  and  though  inferior  in  range  to  the  French  ehassepot^  has  the 
advantage  of  never  spoiling  through  damp.  We  got  admittance  to  the 
Caserne  to-day,   to  carry  some  clothes  for  the  soldiers,  and  a  nice 


HOW  TO  HELP  THE  WOUNDED.  391 

Deaconess  (of  the  Darmstadt  Sisterhood)  took  us  into  three  wards.    Two 
were  occupied  entirely  by  French  wounded ;  and  we  again  spent,  I  must 
confess,  chief  of  our  time  with  them,  greatly  struck  by  the  intelligence 
and  refined  manners  of  several.     One  man  was  amusing  himself  by 
composing  and  writing  down  music,  and  his  talk  shewed  him  to  have 
cultivated  it  scientifically,  as  well  as  practically.     He  told  us  his  parents 
had   been  professional  musicians,  but  the  Revolution  of  1848  nearly 
ruined  them,  and  he  had  to  learn  a  trade,  and  only  resumed  his  art  as 
2L  pleasure  some  years  afler.     He  studied  harmony,  but  the  terms  were 
all  confusion  and  perplexity  to  hb  mind,  till  suddenly  in  singing  the  bass 
of  a  chorus  the  real  relations  of  chords,  <&c.,  dawned  upon  him  !  but  as 
he  said,  'one  would  never  have  done  with  learning  music  all  one's  life,  it 
goes  so  deep— C^«/  singulier  rCesUce-pas^  Madame?  only  six  and  a 
half  sounds  and  yet  so  much  to  be  said  by  them :  now  words  have 
twenty-six  letters  at  any  rate  to  be  combined,  and  yet  they  don't  express 
more ! '     I  quoted  to  him  Mendelssohn's  saying,  *  If  I  could  only  play 
it  to  you,  instead  of  writing,  which  is  so  poor!' — All  these  men  had 
written  home,  themselves  or  by  deputy,  some  twelve  days  ago,  and  were 
anxiously  awaiting  answers,   which  seem  strangely  slow   in   coming. 
They  had  plenty  of  books  and  papers,  and  several  lay  reading  quite 
comfortably  ;  but  no  priest  had  ever  been  near  them,  though  I  had  been 
told  two  Swiss  ones  had  been  sent  for  to  attend  the  Roman  Catholic 
patients.     A  '  pasteur '  had  given  one  of  them  a  small  French  Gospel,  of 
which  I  ventured  to  say  that  was  good  for  us  all,  being  God's  Word,  and 
a  consolation  for  the  sorrowful ;  and  he  seemed  to  have  been  reading  it. 
The  German  Soeur  attends  these  wards,  and  most  of  the  men  praised  her 
kindness  warmly,  and  said  though  they  could  not  speak  to  each  other 
they  understood  capitally.     One  or  two  seemed  to  feel  it  triste  never  to 
hear  their  own  language,  and  have  to  use  signs  for  what  they  wanted  ; 
bat  they  agreed  all  the  arrangements  were  most  comfortable,  and  indeed 
the  airiness  and  cleanliness  throughout  the  hospital  astonished  us.     No 
sick  room  in  laxurious  private  houses  was  ever  freer  frctm  smells,  and 
I  suspect  the  bare  boards  and  absence  of  all  needless  furniture  in  the 
wards  contribute  to  this  result. 

(To  he  continued.) 


HOW  TO  HELP  THE  WOUNDED, 

A  SKETCH  FOR  THE  FRANCO-PRUSSIAN  WAR  OF  1870. 

^It's  very  tiresome  there  should  be  nothing  for  us  to  do,*  said  Isabel 
Cochrane  on  one  of  these  late  August  evenings,  looking  idly  from  the 
window  at  a  shower  of  falling  rain.  A  thick  mist  hid  from  view  the 
highest  peaks  of  the  mountain  range  which  fronted  her,  but  it  was 


892  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

partial,  and  left  much  of  hill,  loch,  and  woodland,  with  a  foreground 
of  golden  harvest-fields,  to  be  seen  and  eminently  admired.  Isabel 
Cochrane's  home  was  a  little  house  at  the  very  edge  of  the  Highland 
town  of  Inyerfarie,  and  she  was  accustomed  to  a  grand  panorama  of  all 
that  was  most  beautiful  in  nature  from  the  back  window  of  the  drawing- 
room.  It  was  not  of  this  that  she  was  thinking  as  she  continued  to  gaze 
out  with  a  most  unusual  air  of  discontent ;  and  her  sister  Christine  knew 
it  was  not,  as  she  replied, 

^  Very ;  but  Aunt  Bella  won't  hear  of  our  offering  ourselves  as  nurses, 
and  we  are  so  out  of  the  way  here,  that  I  am  afraid  we  shall  not  be  asked 
for  any  sort  of  help.  I  wish  we  had  money  to  send  the  wounded — ^I  wish 
we  were  like  Miss  Evelyn.' 

The  speakers  were  twins,  fair-haired  girls  of  nineteen,  with  faces  that 
were  ordinarily  sweet  and  amiable  in  expression,  and  blue  eyes  melting 
at  the  present  time  in  sympathy  with  the  poor  French  and  Prussian 
soldiers,  now  staining  with  their  life-blood  the  battle-fields  of  France. 
All  their  generous  feelings  were  enlisted  in  the  cause,  and  they  had  gone 
to  the  aunt  with  whom  they  lived,  and  summoned  all  their  moral  courage 
to  the  task  of  begging  and  praying  her  to  let  them  go  out  as  nurses  to  the 
seat  of  war,  and  she  had  just  made  answer,  'No;'  and  as  Christine  said 
to  Isabel,  'Wasn't  it  hard?  They  had  nursed  her  through  her  latest 
attack  of  illness;  and  when  Hector  came  home  from  Japan  with  an 
unclosed  wound  in  his  arm,  had  not  they  learned  to  dress  it  for  him  ?  and 
how  then  could  it  b^  said  that  they  were  without  experience?' 

But  Mrs.  Drummond  considered  herself  responsible  to  this  very  brother 
Hector,  again  absent,  for  the  well-being  of  his  orphan  sisters ;  and  she  felt 
that  they  were  too  young,  and  too  ignorant,  not  merely  of  nursing,  but 
also  of  most  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  to  be  trusted  alone  among  strangers. 
She  had  said,  '  Nonsense,'  and  '  they  were  not  to  think  of  such  a  thing, 
there  would  be  plenty  volunteering  without  them ;'  and  the  twins  were 
bitterly  disappointed. 

'  Of  what  use  is  all  the  French  and  German  that  I  learned  with  such 
pains  ?'  exclaimed  Isabel. 

'And  don't  you  remember,  dear,  how  Dr.  Macphail,  when  he  was 
attending  Hector,  ssdd  my  hand  was  so  steady,  and  I  should  make 
a  first-rate  surgeon's  assistant?'  said  Christine.  'Why  should  one  be 
prevented  whenever  one  wishes  to  do  anything  great  or  good?  I  am 
sure  no  one  ever  would  have  done  anything  out  of  the  common,  if  they 
had  been  stopped  with  "  Nonsense  "  at  every  turn.  Where  would  France 
have  been  if  Joan  of  Arc's  relations  had  interfered  with  what  she  thought 
it  right  to  do  ?'  said  Christine,  with  a  leap  of  her  ideas.  '  And,  O  happy 
Miss  Nightingale,  that  she  was  not  under  the  dominion  of  an  aunt !'  then 
checking  herself,  for  she  was  a  good  little  girl  in  the  main,  Christine 
added,  '  I  am  sure  I  didn't  mean  to  say  that,  for  Aunt  Bella  is  very  kind 
to  us,  80  far  as  she  thinks  our  good  is  concerned,  only  we  never  can 
persuade  her  to  see  with  our  eyes,  never !' 


HOW  TO  HELP  THE  WOUNDED.  393 

No  doubt  it  was  verj  sad  that  sixty  could  not  be  persuaded  to  see  with 
the  foolish  passionate  generous  eyes  of  nineteen ;  but  tangled  threads  of 
this  nature  will  run  through  the  lives  of  the  generality  of  mankind,  and 
Isabel,  and  Christine  were  not  singular  in  their  experiences. 

'  Come  to  tea,  children,'  called  Mrs.  Drummond,  who  had  a  provoking 
habit  of  forgetting  that  her  charges  had  ever  grown  up. 

'  Tea !'  repeated  Christine  in  a  low  tone  and  with  a  tragic  air,  as  she 
prepared  to  follow  her  sister  into  the  dining-room.  ^And  our  fellow- 
creatures  are  dying  in  thousands  on  the  field  of  battle,  with  no  one  to 
give  them  water!'  She  looked  down  at  her  little  hands,  and  felt  how 
useful  they  could  be ;  was  not  it  a  perversion  of  their  natural  powers 
that  they  should  be  simply  employed  in  handing  tea  and  buttering 
scones  ? 

'  My  dear  child,'  said  Mrs.  Drummond  presently, '  what  are  you  sighing 
80  loudly  for?'  and  Christine,  in  the  act  of  uttering  one  unusually 
portentous,  caught  herself  up,  colouring. 

Isabel,  however,  took  upon  herself  to  interpret  Christine's  thoughts  and 
her  own.  *We  were  wishing.  Aunt  Bella,  that  we  were  like  Miss 
Evelyn.' 

'  And  why  V  asked  Mrs.  Drummond. 

^  Because  she  is  rich,  and  we  fancy  has  her  own  way ;  and  if  she  wants 
to  do  anything  for  the  poor  soldiera,  I  suppose  she  has  only  to  say  so.' 

'  You  suppose  ?  Pray  do  you  fancy  that  if  she  wishes  to  go  to  the  seat 
of  war,  she  has  only  to  say  so,  and  Sir  James  and  Lady  Evelyn  will  at 
once  give  her  leave  ?' 

*  I  don't  know ;  but — ' 

'My  dears,  take  my  advice,  and  try  to  help  the  soldiers  at  home, 
without  wasting  your  time  in  envying  those  who,  it  may  be,  have  more 
opportunities.  There  is  one  way,  at  least ;  and  if  you  have  not  found  it 
out  before  bed-time,  you  may  come  and  ask  me  what  it  is.' 

Both  looked  down ;  and  Christine  whispered  softly,  '  We  have  already 
tried  that  way,  but  it  seemed  doing  so  little.' 

*  Did  it  V  said  Mrs.  Drummond.  *  Well,  not  till  we  reach  the  other 
world  shall  we  learn  the  full  value  of  intercessory  prayer.  Do  not 
fancy,  dear  children,  that  I  wish  your  hearts  were  less  tender,  or  your 
sympathies  less  easily  roused,  only  they  must  not  be  suffered  to  lead 
heads  and  wills  astray.' 

The  girb  felt  the  rebuke,  and  promised  to  try  and  forget,  not  the  poor 
sufferers  over  the  water,  but  all  unsanctioned  desires  concerning  their 
relief;  and  when  the  evening  post  came  in,  their  longing  to  be  of  use 
took  another  direction,  for  their  elder  sister  Margaret,  who  lived  at  Dover 
with  an  English  aunt,  wrote  as  follows : — '  Nothing  is  talked  of  here  so 
much  as  how  to  aid  the  wounded  in  this  horrible  war.  There  are 
Meetings  and  Ladies'  Associations,  which  I  have  been  invited  to  attend, 
but  as  I  am  not  an  influential  person,  I  believe  it  would  be  waste  of  time 
for  me  to  do  so,  and  I  sit  at  home  and  sew  till  my  fingers  are  sore,  at 

VOL.   10.  27  PART  58. 


394  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

pillows,  which  I  stuff  with  paper,  and  at  hemming  sheets.  As  I  have  d9 
money,  I  am  glad  to  give  my  work.'  In  another  part  of  her  letter  she 
added,  'Women  are  not  so  much  wanted  as  strong  men  to  lift  the 
wounded.' 

'  We  have  no  money  either,'  said  the  sisters,  looking  at  one  another ; 
'  but  oh  !  how  gladly  would  we  give  our  time  if  anyone  would  but  put  us 
in  the  way  of  knowing  what  to  do !' 

Half  an  hour  later,  as  they  were  together  on  the  sofa,  bending  over  the 
'  last  Illustrated  London  News,  and  reading  to  one  another,  in  soft  girlish 
tones  that  trembled  as  they  went  on,  the  tale  of  suffering  that  we  have  all 
read  for  ourselves,  Mrs.  Drummond  called  them. 

*•  I  have  found  a  little  broth,'  she  said,  '  for  poor  BeU  Ferguson  ;  which 
of  you  will  take  it  to  her  before  the  evening  closes  in  V 

Mrs.  Drummond  had  a  way  of  planning  similar  excursions  for  her 
nieces  after  the  day's  work  was  done ;  perhaps  it  was  only  then  that  she 
ascertained  what  was  left  from  the  servants'  dinner,  and  how  much  of  it 
could  be  spared ;  perhaps  it  was  that  she  really  had,  as  her  unfriends 
were  in  the  habit  of  saying  in  expressive  Scottish  phraseology,  a  through 
other  household,  i.  e.  a  household  where  nothing  was  in  its  place ;  certainly, 
arrangements  that  might  quite  as  well  have  been  made  in  the  morning 
were  often  not  made  till  the  afternoon,  and  things  that  should  have  been 
done  before  sunset  were  defeiTcd  later.  The  girls  took  turns  in  executing 
these  and  other  little  commissions,  which  neither  of  them  liked.  It  was 
tiresome,  when  they  had  thought  themselves  in  for  the  day,  to  have  to  lace 
their  boots  afresh,  and  changing  their  nice  evening  skirts  for  rough 
apparel,  to  penetrate  some  unsavoury  close  of  Inverfarie,  a  tin  pannikin 
in  their  hands ;  and  with  a  sliglit  effort  of  memory.  Aunt  Bella  might 
surely  have  recollected  the  broth  earlier. 

'  It's  my  turn,'  said  Christine,  by  no  means  briskly. 

Aunt  Bella,  all  unconscious  of  anything  except  that  she  was  giving 
employment  to  a  rather  idle  girl,  went  on,  'And,  my  dear,  just  ask  her 
how  her  leg  is,  will  you?  It  is  a  long  time  since  she  had  any 
liniment.' 

'  Oh  !  indeed,  Aunt  Bella,'  remonstrated  Christine,  '  that's  a  subject  I 
never  mention  to  her.  If  I  did,  she  would  insist  on  shewing  it  to  me ; 
and  it*s  quite  a  wound,  and  would  make  me  sick.' 

l^Irs.  Drummond  did  not  stay  to  hear  this ;  and  Isabel,  who  could  be 
sarcastic  to  others,  was  never  so  on  the  failings  of  her  twin  sister ;  so  it 
was  Icfl  to  Christine's  conscience  to  point  out  to  her,  as  it  did  all  in 
a  moment,  a  piece  of  inconsistency  which  shocked  her.  '  Aunt  Bella  is 
quite  right;  I  am  not  fit  to  gaze  on  battle-fields  and  nurse  soldiers,  while 
I  shrink  from  a  little  piece  of  service  near  our  own  door.  What  must  I 
do  V  Bhe  thought,  as  she  walked  rapidly  down  the  close ;  '  so  many  years 
of  trying  to  be  good  and  consistent,  and  I  have  not  suceeeded  yet !  Until 
I  have  conquered  my  dislike  to  going  in  and  out  at  odd  hours,  and 
looking  patiently  at  the  sores  these  people  are  so  fond  of  shewing,  I  must 


HOW  TO  HELP  THE  WOUNDED.  395 

not  saj  another  word  about  my  wish  to  go  to  France ;  and  who  knows  if 
He  sees  me  trying  with  my  might  to  be  kind  to  His  sick  members  here, 
but  He  may  let  me  have  my  heart's  wish  of  being  useful  to  the  poor 
wounded  in  some  shape  or  other!'  For  there  -was  a  great  deal  of 
sweetness  in  Christine,  and  a  power,  Christ-given,  of  turning  the  rough- 
nesses and  vexations  of  life  into  wholesome  correctives  and  suggestions 
of  amendment  So  she  stood  by  Bell  Ferguson's  bed-side,  and  meekly 
took  her  scanty  thanks  for  the  relief  she  brought ;  while  Bell,  far  more 
intent  upon  her  miseries  and  injuries  than  she  was  upon  Christine's 
kindness,  told  her  long  and  rather  tedious  history  of  how  the  m^^bours 
was  thai  entnbus  of  her  presumed  good  fortune  in  having  attracted  the 
m)tice  of  Mrs.  Drummond  and  her  nieces,  that  they  either  gave  her  her 
namtf  ue,  scolded  her,  or  else  lefl  her  her  lone,  ue,  alone,  in  her  trouble; 
and  when  the  narrative  diverged  to  her  own  sufferings  from  a  gathered 
knee,  bore  patiently  the  illustration  of  them  that  followed,  while  Bell  with 
much  pain  and  difficulty,  but  obvious  satisfaction,  extracted  sundry  pins 
from  the  folds  of  flannel  and  calico,  and  laid  her  leg  bare. 

^Yes,  it  is  indeed  a  sad  place,'  said  Christine  gently.  'My  aunt 
wished  me  to  ask  if  you  did  not  want  some  more  of  that  nice  liniment?' 

'  Anything  the  honest  lady  pleased,'  murmured  Bell  apathetically. 

'  But  will  you  use  it  if  she  sends  you  a  fresh  bottle  ?'  asked  Christine, 
a  little  doubtful  from  her  tone. 

'  Oh  ay,  if  it  would  do  me  any  good ;  the  last  was  tcild  stuff,  and  made 
the  knee  bum;'  and  Christine,  looking  at  the  little  low  smoke-dried 
mantel-piece,  discovered,  among  ancient  family  photographs,  China  goats, 
and  fir-cones,  the  identical  bottle  of  liniment  which  Mrs.  Drummond 
had  left  there  a  fortnight  before,  and  which  had  evidently  been  barely 
touched. 

*  O  Bell,  how  naughty !    Why  didn't  you  tell  us  you  weren't  going  to 
use  it?     How  can  you  expect  to  get  well  if  you  won't  take  what  Dr. 
'  Macneil  orders  ?' 

'  Indeed,  Ma'am,  that's  very  true,'  said  Bell,  apparently  convinced  of 
her  folly. 

'Then  will  you  apply  it  regularly  every  night?  and  I  will  come  in 
a  day  or  two  and  see  how  the  knee  stands  it,'  said  Christine,  trying  to 
preserve  her  temper  for  the  sake  of  consistency. 

'  Oh,  my  darling !  nobody  else  would  do  what  you  are  doing.  That's 
just  what  I  was  saying  to  Mr.  Mackinnon.  I  said,  "  There  are  no  such 
ladies  in  Inverfarie,  so  humble  and  good,"  and  he  said  it  was  very  true, 
afid  you  was  good  angels.' 

Was  Christine  gratified  at  hearing  what  the  poor  woman  and  the 
Presbyterian  minister  had  been  saying  of  her?  Not  particularly.  In 
the  firat  place,  she  thought  it  profane  to  liken  her  to  anything  so  holy ;  in 
the  second,  she  was  uncertain  whether  Bell's  Highland  politeness  was  not 
causing  her  to  invent  this  pretty  bit  of  conversation  for  her  pleasure, 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment;   and  in  the  third,  she  was  thinking  how 


396  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

provoking  it  was  of  Bell  not  to  use  that  liniment  which  everyone  knew 
was  the  only  thing  to  cure  her  knee.  Instead,  it  was  obvious  that  the 
foolish  creature  had  applied  to  some  quack,  or  ^  wise  woman,'  and  was 
suffering  from  the  consequences.  She  quitted  Bell  at  last,  for  it  was 
growing  late,  and  there  was  no  certainty  that  she  would  keep  a  promise, 
even  if  under  strong  pressure  she  were  induced  to  make  it. 

As  Christine  left  the  house,  she  found  herself  accosted  by  a  poor  old 
woman  who  was  watching  her  progress  with  interest.  '  Ah,'  she  said, 
*  it's  bad  news  you  have  there,  I'm  thinking.' 

*Very  bad,'  said  the  young  lady,  only  remembering  then  that  she 
carried  in  her  hand  the  last  Illustrated,  which  she  was  going  to  leave  with 
a  sick  neighbour,  and  rightly  interpreting  the  wistful  glance  of  Maggie 
Forsyth's  eyes,  she  unfolded  it,  to  shew,  under  their  heading  of  *The 
Franco-Prussian  War,'  certain  ghastly  pictures  of  wounded  and  dying, 
who  strewed  like  cut-down  grain  the  awful  harvest-fields  of  France,  this 
eventful  August  of  1870. 

'  Look  at  this  one,  with  his  poor  head  raised  as  if  for  air ;  and  this, 
with  a  face-cloth  over  his.' 

Probably  Maggie's  sight  was  too  dim  to  enable  her  to  make  out 
satisfactorily,  without  her  glasses,  the  various  objects ;  but  nevertheless, 
she  was  gratified  by  Christine's  kindness,  and  the  sympathy  she  shewed 
to  the  poor  inquirer,  who  might  be  as  much  interested  as  she,  but  had  so 
few  means  of  satisfying  her  curiosity. 

When  Christine  entered  the  house,  and  found  a  fire  lit,  for  the  evenings 
were  getting  chilly  in  the  Highlands ;  Aunt  Bella  serenely  knitting  two 
stockings  at  once,  after  a  highly  ingenious  and  rather  complicated  recipe, 
which  could  only  fill  her  less  accomplished  nieces  with  distant  admiration; 
Isabel  playing  old  Gaelic  airs,  inexpressibly  sweet,  slow,  and  mournful,  on 
the  pianoforte ;  the  kitten  gambolling  with  a  clew  of  yarn  on  the  hearth, 
and  its  mother  gaging  in  a  corner  for  mice,  she  began  to  wonder  what 
good  she  had  ever  done  in  the  world,  that  so  peaceful  a  home  should  be 
hers,  while  war  and  famine  were  rendering  desolate  so  many  in  the  sunny 
land  she  had  often  longed  to  visit. 

^  One  lesson  all  tliis  shall  teach  me,  at  any  rate,'  said  Christine,  as  she 
removed  her  liat ;  '  if  I  cannot  do  as  I  wish,  I  will  at  least  try  and  be 
very  thankful  for  the  blessings  I  have,  and  that  will  be  some  good 
gained.' 

She  went  to  bed  in  a  contented  frame  of  mind,  and  fortunately  was 
able  to  infect  Isabel  with  the  same.  Still  their  thoughts  were  at  the  war ; 
and  the  last  thing  the  one  said  to  the  other,  before  they  dropped  asleep, 
was,  ^  How  nice  it  would  be  to  know  Miss  Evelyn ;  she  is  English,  and 
perhaps  she  could  at  least  tell  us  how  to  make  bandages,  and  what  is  the 
right  way  of  getting  at  the  Association  for  Aid  to  the  Wounded ;  we 
live  60  very  far  north,  we  know  nothing.'  Their  wish  was  not  long  in 
being  realized. 

Marcely  Eveljni  was  an  only  child,  and  popularly  supposed  to  have 


HOW  TO  HELP  THE  WOUNDED.  397 

everything  her  own  way,  but  was  withal  the  sweetest  natured  only  child 
that  ever  passed  unspoiled  through  a  life  of  prosperity.  Her  early  years 
had  not  been  marked  by  unusual  holiness ;  and  petted  and  shielded  from 
rough  words,  and  as  far  as  possible  from  cross  accidents,  she  might  not 
unreasonably  have  been  expected  to  develope  into  an  overbearing  and 
vain  womanhood.  Many  predicted  that  she  would,  but  these  saw  only 
the  surface  of  things.  Marcely  was  indeed  in  the  enjoyment  of  every 
luxury  that  money  could  buy — her  home  was  stately,  her  dress  was 
perfect;  she  also  had  a  great  many  blessings  that  money  cannot  buy — 
the  use  of  all  her  senses,  firm  health,  loving  parents,  real  friends :  and 
yet  she  had  hardly  begun  to  reflect,  before  she  discovered  that  life  for 
her  was  not  to  be  all  sunshine. 

Sir  James  and  Lady  Evelyn  had  Allien  between  them  into  a  sort  of 
easy-going  religion,  which  may  be  designated  as  belonging  to  no  Church. 
No  religious  denomination  appeared  to  them  of  primary  authority,  except 
as  it  was  connected  with  the  State.  When  in  England,  they  were 
accustomed  to  drive  in  a  pompous  manner  once  a  day  to  the  village 
church,  where  they  were  the  admired  of  all  eyes,  or  the  London  chapel 
which  already  overflowed  with  their  fashionable  acquaintance ;  abroad, 
they  frequently  went  nowhere,  having  a  great  horror  of  Romanists  in 
proportion  as  they  were  lenient  to  every  species  of  dissent.  When  in 
Scotland,  they  alternated  their  attendance  between  the  parish  church, 
(Presbyterian,)  and  the  little  unconsecrated  chancelless  buihling,  pathetic 
from  its  poverty,  which  stood  by  the  wayside,  at  the  entrance  of  Itiverfarie, 
and  was  yet  deeply  interesting  to  the  thoughtful  Churchman,  ns  containing 
an  altar,  and  being  the  representative  of  the  cottage  room  of  a  hundred 
years  ago,  when,  as  Dr.  Neale  tells  us,  the  clergy  of  the  Scottish  Church, 
at  the  peril  of  losing  all  they  had,  home,  liberty,  and  means  of  living, 
assembled  more  than  the  four  or  five  allowed  by  law,  after  tiie  rising  of 
'45,  for  ministering  and  partaking  of  the  Sacraments,  preiiching,  and 
hearing  the  Word  of  God,  and  praying  for  themselves  and  their 
brethren. 

This  indifference  about  the  forms  of  religion,  led  as  might  be  expected 
to  a  jealousy  over  the  impressions  which  their  daughter  received ;  and 
when  Sir  James  and  Lady  Evelyn  saw  by  means  of  reverent  gestures 
and  expressions  and  earnest  looks,  that  Marcely  was  differently  minded 
from  them,  they  withdrew  the  liberty  they  had  begun  by  allowing  her, 
took  away  the  books  which  they  had  given  her  for  elegant  poems  and 
pretty  stories,  but  which  they  now  saw  had  with  all  their  elegance  and 
prettiness,  inculcated  strict  and  stern  principles  unsuited  to  make  the 
beautiful  Miss  Evelyn  popular  in  society,  and  resisted  all  her  efforts  to 
lead  the  higher  life,  to  which  these  called  her.  But  in  the  Providence 
of  God,  the  means  which  in  some  natures  might  have  quenched  the 
spark  so  newly  lit,  acted  differently  upon  this  one. 

Marcely  had  lost  *  The  Earl's  Daughter,'  *  The  Heir  of  Redclyffe,"  The 
Daisy  Chain/  *  On  the  Banks  of  the  Thome,'  Neule's  '  Virgin  Saints,' 


398  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Lady  Herbert  of  Lea'a  *  Three  Phases  of  Christian  Love,'  and  a  small 
library  of  other  volumes,  on  which  at  one  time  she  had  regularly  spent 
all  her  pocket-money  ;  but  she  had  imbibed  their  teaching  in  the  most 
impressible  portion  of  her  life,  and  thenceforward  she  could  never  again 
be  as  if  she  had  not  read  them.  Her  shelves  were  carefully  re-filled 
with  books  of  travel  and  historical  research,  Mrs.  Wood's  and  Miss 
Braddon*s  novels,  with  a  volume  of  Mr.  Spurgeon's  sermons,  if  she  must 
have  something  for  her  serious  moments ;  and  she  was  taken  to  Killarney 
by  way  of  a  treat.  Sir  James  and  Lady  Evelyn  remarking  to  one  another, 
and  to  her,  that  they  were  sure  there  never  had  been  such  indulgent 
parents ;  her  every  reasonable  desire  was  anticipated ! 

But  Marcely  said  to  herself,  'I  had  after  all  no  such  desires.  It  had 
not  come  into  my  head  yet  to  wish  for  Killarney ;  and  though  some  of 
these  books  are  nice,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  like  them  all.  My  father 
and  mother  are  very  good  to  me  about  things  with  which  they  themselves 
sympathize,  but  they  do  not  care  for  my  poor  little  fancies.'  It  was 
very  much  under  protest,  however,  that  she  admitted  even  thus  much  to 
herself,  for  her  good  books  had  taught  her  to  look  into  the  Bible,  and  the 
Bible  said  plainly.  Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother;  and  she  did- 
honour  them  heartily,  and  tned  to  think  them  the  models  of  perfection, 
which  they  appeared  to  her  in  the  days  when  they  changed  the  colour  of 
her  shoes  from  blue  to  red,  to  suit  her  infantile  caprice. 

So  she  read  at  all  events  some  of  the  books  they  had  chosen  for  her, 
and  carried  a  bright  spirit,  and  one  determined  to  enjoy  everything,  to 
Killarney;  made  light  of  each  little  disagreeable  of  the  journey,  and 
thanked  them  warmly  for  taking  her.  But  still  there  was  something  on 
her  mind  ;  she  wanted  to  be  confirmed ;  everybody  was  so  that  had 
arrived  at  years  of  discretion.  '  That  was  true,'  said  Lady  Evelyn ;  ^  but 
there  was  no  need  to  think  about  it  yet.  Eighteen  would  be  quite  time 
enough,  and  Marcely  was  quite  a  child,  not  fifleen ;  it  was  a  mere  matter 
of  form,  that  could  take  place  as  well  later  as  now.' 

Marcely  did  not  win  her  request  till  she  was  past  seventeen,  and  then 
only  after  repeated  and  respectful  urging;  and  this  long  interval  of 
waiting  taught  her,  as  nothing  else  could  have  taught  her,  how  to  value 
the  privileges  she  was  seeking  for,  and  led  her  to  inquire  the  reason  of 
the  faith  that  was  in  her.  The  very  difficulty  that  was  made  of  her 
being  allowed  once  a  week  to  receive  the  visits  of  a  clergyman,  whose 
classes  she  was  not  permitted  to  attend,  made  her  put  an  additional 
value  upon  the  short  dry  instructions,  which  he,  being  what  is  called 
a  clergyman  of  the  old  school,  thought  sufficient  for  one  so  well  born, 
and  it  was  to  be  presumed  so  thoroughly  instructed  in  all  her  duties 
beforehand. 

At  Easter  she  had  been  admitted  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  and 
although  Lady  Evelyn  either  could  not  or  would  not  make  it  convenient 
to  let  her  remain  often,  for  there  were  always  difficulties  in  either  keeping 
the  carriage  for  her,  or  allowing  one  so  carefully  tended  to  walk  home 


HOW  TO  HELP  THE  WOUNDED.  399 

from  a  distance — it  is  a  cumbersome  thing  to  be  rich — hy  incessant 
watchfulness  she  had  managed  to  find  a  few  opportunities,  and  had  thus 
been  strengthened  in  her  loving  service. 

This  was  the  young  lady  whom  Isabel  and  Christine  Cochrane  had 
been  so  inclined  to  envy.  The  flight  of  English  to  the  Continent,  having 
been  stopped  by  this  unhappy  war.  Sir  James  Evelyn  had  given  up  his 
intention  of  spending  the  autumn  in  Switzerland,  and  had  taken  shooting 
quarters  at  Renelg,  about  a  mile  from  Inverfarie.  Benelg  was  a  most 
unusually  lovely  place,  considering  how  near  it  was  to  a  town  of  the 
importance  of  Inverfai'ie.  The  house,  small,  and  rather  inconvenient, 
decorated  with  pepper-box  turrets  after  the  style  of  the  old  Highland 
castles,  stood  at  the  entrance  of  a  perfect  little  glen,  through  which 
meandered  the  river  Farie,  beside  birch-clad  and  rocky  banks. 

On  the  day  of  which  I  have  been  speaking,  Marcely  was  standing  in  the 
dining-room,  picturesquely  furnished,  with  a  large  wide  hearth,  decorated 
with  stags'  antlers,  and  twining  long  tendrils  of  deer-grass  round  some 
pictures  of  Prince  Charles  Edward  and  Flora  Macdonald,  that  hung 
against  the  walls,  when  Lady  Evelyn  entered. 

^  My  dear,  have  you  chosen  your  dresses  for  the  meeting  f  I  am  going 
to  write  to  E about  them  to-day.' 

Lady  Evelyn  referred  to  the  northern  meeting,  held  every  September  in 
Inverness.  The  entertainment  consists  of  Highland  games,  prizes  being 
bestowed  on  the  successful  competitors,  and  these  wind  up  with  two 
balls,  at  which  all  the  proprietors  and  strangers  in  the  country  take  care 
to  put  in  an  appearance,  and  introduce  tiieir  daughters;  and  as  the 
Highland  gentlemen  go  for  the  most  part  in  full  dress,  tartan  kilts  and 
hose,  brogues  with  silver  buckles,  velvet  doublets  with  flashing  cairngorm 
buttons,  and  jewelled  daggers,  and  the  ladies  wear  all  their  diamonds, 
the  scene  is  a  brilliant  one. 

*0  Mother,  please — I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  meeting!*  exclaimed 
Marcely,  looking  up  with  a  world  of  entreaty  in  her  dai'k  eyes.  '  Oh,  if 
you  please  not  I' 

*Not  go  to  the  meeting,  Marcely?  Why,  everyone  is  going.  Lady 
Alice  Eraser  asked  me  last  night  if  I  would  join  her  party.  She  has 
been  promised  at  least  a  dozen  dancing  men.  And  y6u  need  never 
sit  down  once.  Auchnasheen,  as  Mr.  Eraser  chooses  to  be  called,  will 
introduce  your  father.' 

'  Of  course,  dear  Mother,  I  will  do  as  you  please,'  said  Marcely  gently  ; 
and  recollecting  herself,  '  I  am  sure  I  should  enjoy  the  pleasure  very 
much  if  it  were  not  for  the  thoughts  of  this  dreadful  war.  I  do  wish  we 
might  all  give  it  up  for  this  one  year,  and  not  go  dancing  and  amusing 
ourselves,  while  so  many  poor  men  are  being  mown  down  like  sheep. 
And  I  fancy,  dear  Mother,  it  would  be  such  a  pleasure,  if  yoU  would  let 
me  send  the  money  my  dresses  would  cost,  to  the  poor  wounded.  Oh,  I 
wonder  if  you  would  let  me!' 

Marcely  was  conscious  that  her  dresses  would  be  at  least  ten  pounds 


400  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Itpiece,  and  like  a  sensible  girl,  she  grudged  such  a  sum  at  the  present 
crisis.  Like  a  high-minded,  pure,  self-denying  woman,  her  heart  thrilled 
within  her  at  the  thouglit  of  the  carnage  and  agony  of  the  past  few 
weeks ;  and  she  longed,  even  as  Isabel  and  Christine  had  longed,  to  be 
of  use  in  some  way  to  the  sufferers  of  either  army. 

Lady  Evelyn  looked  annoyed.  '  My  dear,  your  father  sent  five  pounds 
to  Trafalgar  Square  the  other  day  for  their  benefit,  and  that  was  very 
handsome  from  him.  Mr.  Fraser  of  Auchnasheen,  and  Lady  Alice,  only 
gave  three  pounds  between  them.  With  all  our  other  claims,  we  can  do 
no  more,  really.  As  for  the  meeting,  you  forgot,  my  short-sighted  daughter, 
the  loss  it  would  be  to  trade  if  it  and  other  festivities  were  given  up.  And 
we  certainly  cannot  let  you  stay  away  from  your  first  public  appearance 
in  society,  too  important  a  matter  to  be  delayed ;  so  consider  it  a  settled 
thing,  my  dear,  and  talk  no  more  nonsense  about  it,  but  tell  me  what 
you  wish  to  be  dressed  in  ?  White,  I  think  it  should  be,  but  you  may 
choose  your  own  materials  and  trimmings.  I  have  a  fancy  for  lending 
you  my  gold  butterfly  the  second  night ;  everyone  says  that  will  be  the 
ball,  and  it  would  look  so  pretty  in  your  hair.' 

This  wiis  all  Marccly  gained  by  her  timid  suggestion.  Sir  James  and 
Lady  Evelyn  were  set  upon  taking  her  to  the  meeting,  and  rooms  for  the 
two  nights  were  already  engaged  at  fabulous  prices  in  Inverness;  she 
must  say  no  more  therefore,  but  make  up  her  mind  to  enjoy  herself  so  as 
not  to  disappoint  them ;  yet  it  was  a  little  difficult,  as  day  by  day  her 
heart  grew  sadder  and  heavier,  while  she  thought  of  the  dead,  piled  by 
seventies  in  their  vast  graves,  and  of  the  wounded  sinking  to  their  last 
sleep  in  the  Church  of  Forbach,  where  the  altar  was  removed  to  give 
them  room,  and  the  story  of  the  Passion  of  Christ,  painted  on  the  walls, 
was  spelt  out  to  them  by  the  feeble  ray  of  the  *  perpetual  lamp.' 

*  What  makes  you  so  listless,  Marcely  dear?'  asked  her  mother  on  the 
last  day  of  August. 

^Listless,  Mother?  surely  not  that!' 

'  Well,  you  did  not  look  happy  at  Lady  Alice's  last  night ;  and  now  I 
think  of  it,  your  father  complains  that  he  has  not  heard  you  laugh  for 
days  past.' 

*  Oh,  I  am  sorry !  I  will  try.' 

'  But,  my  dear,  you  were  not  used  to  trying  to  laugh.  I  am  afraid 
you  have  got  some  nonsense  into  your  head  about  the  war,'  said  Lady 
Evelyn,  patting  her  daughter's  pretty  hand.  '  Speak  out,  dear,  and  tell 
me  what  it  is  that  is  on  your  mind  ? ' 

^  It  isn't  much,'  said  Marcely,  trying  to  summon  her  courage.  '  Only 
I  have  been  thinking  that  I  should  like  to  try  and  do  something  or  other 
to  help  the  wounded,  if  I  only  knew  how.  I  have  no  money  of  my  own, 
and  you  may  not  think  it  right  to  give  me  a  large  sum  to  spend  myself, 
but  if  you  would  only  let  me  join  one  of  these  associations  for  aid,  I 
think  I  could  sew  for  them.' 

Lady  Evelyn's  sympathies  were  slow,  and  as  yet  the  war  had  not 


HOW  TO  HELP  THE  WOUNDED.  401 

seemed  to  come  sufficiently  near  her  to  rouse  them.  She  asked 
incredulously,  ^And  would  that  really  mak6  you  happier?  Why,  at 
your  age  1  was  thinking  of  nothing  but  gaiety;  and  so  long  as  my 
personal  comfort  was  not  affected,  I  believe  I  should  have  let  all  the 
nations  in  Europe  exterminate  one  another  without  making  myself 
nnhappy.  Selfish,  I  own ;  but  one  does  not,  I  am  afraid,  expect  young 
people  to  be  much  else.' 

Marcely  let  her  head  sink  lower,  and  a  look  came  over  her  face 
which  reminded  her  mother  of  a  snowy  spring  day  long  ago,  when  her 
governess  (Lady  Evelyn  somehow  left  those  things  to  her  governess) 
was  impressing  on  Marcely 's  dawning  intelligence  the  narrative  of 
our  Blessed  Lord's  Crucifixion.  The  child  had  shewed  her  quick 
apprehension  in  a  most  unexpected  way,  by  bursting  into  agonized 
sobs ;  and  the  instructress  was  obliged  to  leave  off,  in  order  that  she 
might  <;onsole,  which  she  did  very  tenderly,  telling  Marcely  that  all  this 
had  happened  full  eighteen  hundred  years  before  she  was  born,  and  that 
the  Lord  Jesus,  Whose  bitter  sufferings  were  making  her  cry  so  sadly, 
had  ever  since  enjoyed  the  bliss  of  Heaven  with  His  Father.  Lady 
Evelyn  turned  away  from  her  study  of  her  daughter's  face,  and  the 
softening  images  it  called  up,  feeling  that,  were  she  only  to  look  a  little 
longer,  she  might  be  tempted  to  let  Marcely  have  all  she  wished,  and 
ruin  her  prospects  of  a  splendid  marriage^  by  consenting  to  her  shutting 
herself  up,  and  giving  away  the  plenty  she  seemed  to  despise. 

But  Marcely  clung  closer,  feeling  as  if  she  must  have  sympathy* 
*  Mother,  do  you  recollect  taking  me  to  the  Academy  last  May  V 

*'  Yes,  of  course  I  do,  love,  and  Millais's  picture,  that  so  delighted  you. 
The  baby  carried  away  by  the  inundation.' 

*  I  was  thinking  of  one  of  *  The  Presentation  in  the  Temple.'  What  a 
sweet  face  that  Baby  had,  only  not  joyous  like  that  of  Millais's  baby^ 
I  almost  fancied  I  could  see  tears  in  the  eyes.  Do  you  remember  Mrs. 
Browning's  exquisite  verses  ? 

"  This  image  of  a  Child, 
Who  never  sinned  or  smiled, 
)»  *  *  * 

A  Child  without  the  heart  for  play.*' 

And  the  end  of  such  a  childhood  was  not  far  to  seek.  We  both  stood 
gazing  for  ever  so  long  at  Gerome's  **  Jerusalem,''  with  the  miraculous 
darkness  upon  it,  and  in  the  foreground  the  shadows  of  the  three  crosses, 
each  with  a  tortured  form  outstretched.  Those  pictures  have  taught  me 
so  many  things.' 

'What  have  they  taught  you?'  Lady  Evelyn  was  almost  trembling; 
these  thoughts  so  seldom  troubled  her,  and  breathed  from  such  youthful 
lips  they  struck  her  with  awe. 

'  They  have  taught  me  to  think  of  His  painful  Life,  so  pathetic,  so 
desolate,  from  His  cradle ;  and  if  this  had  not  been  enough,  you  shewed 


402  THE  MOITTHLY  PACKET. 

me  more  during  those  few  days  we  stayed  in  Edinburgh  on  our  way 
here.  Do  you  recollect  a  copy  of  Rubens  in  a  small  room  in  the 
National  Gallery?* 

'  Oh,  my  dear,  no !  I  have  no  memory  for  these  things ;  what  was  it  V 

*  A  **  Crucifixion,"  my  Mother  dear ;  the  most  awful  one  I  ever  saw. 
I  never  realized  it  all  so  fully  before,  I  never  could.  But  this  was  of 
such  large  size,  the  colours  so  bright,  the  blood — His  Blood — looked  so 
freshly  shed — and  oh,  to  think  it  was  for  me  I  Mother,  I  will  not  do 
anything  that  displeases  you,  but  I  must  give  myself  for  Him.  I  say 
to  myself  every  day,  "  I  must  see  Him ;"  and  this  morning  I  dreamt 
that  He  was  quite  near  in  His  human  Form,  and  that  I  should  see  Him 
presently.  I  know  that  just  now  I  must  be  content  to  recognize  Him 
through  His  sick  and  poor,  but  even  that  is  something.' 

'  My  dear  dear  child,  you  are  excited ;  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  well.' 
'  Indeed  I  think  I  am,  Mother — very  well ;  and  so  happy,  because  I 
fancy  I  see  signs  of  yielding.' 

Lady  Evelyn  was  saved  from  replying  by  the  announcement  of  a 
visitor,  Mr.  Austyn,  the  incumbent  of  Inverfarie.  He  was  an  old  man, 
living  alone  in  his  tiny  parsonage,  and  solacing  himself  for  the  want  of 
clerical  society  and  the  separation  from  his  English  friends,  by  cultivating 
his  garden,  and  writing  a  book,  generally  understood  to  be  too  clever 
and  deep  for  any  except  very  learned  readers.  His  pastoral  visits  were 
few  and  far  between,  for  he  was  a  shy  man,  and  one  who  came  out 
more  readily  at  the  call  of  the  poor  than  the  rich.  In  his  absence,  the 
prosperous  and  wealthy  among  his  flock  were  wont  to  boast  that  they 
could  do  anything  they  pleased  with  him ;  but  they  generally  forgot 
this  little  figment  when  he  was  by,  for  his  presence  had  the  somewhat 
stately  thougli  unconscious  repose  of  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman,  and  his 
character,  with  all  its  simplicity,  was  a  firm  one. 

*  I  believe  my  visit,  properly  speaking,  is  to  you,  Miss  Evelyn,'  he 
said,  when  the  first  greetings  had.  been  interchanged.  *  Are  you  inclined 
to  exen  yourself  for  the  wounded  V 

*  Oh  yes !'  said  Marcely  eagerly.     ^  Tell  me  of  anything  I  can  do.' 

^  The  Society  for  their  aid  has  published  directions  for  the  making  of 
charpie,  bandsiges,  &c.,'  answered  Mr.  Austyn,  laying  *  The  Penny  Post ' 
for  September  on  the  table.  *Do  you  think  you  could  help  me  in 
begging  for  old  .linen,  and  making  it  up?' 

For  the  benefit  of  anyone  who  may  not  yet  have  seen  these  rules,  I 
take  the  liberty  of  extracting  them  from  'The  Parish  Magazine,'  for 
Berkely,  Dursley,  Stinchcombe,  and  Uley. 

I  St.  Money.  Contributions  of  more  than  £5  to  be  sent  by  cheque  or 
otherwise  to  Messrs.  Coutts  and  Co.,  Strand,  London,  W.  C,  to  *  Aid  to 
Sick  and  Wounded  Fund.^  Sums  of  less  than  £5  may  be  sent  to  Captain  C. 
J.  BcROESS,  Secretary,  2,  St.  Martinis  Place,  Trafalgar  Square,  London,  W.  C. 

2nd.  Articles  which  require  the  manual  labour  of  ladies  and  others  to  make 
them  fit  for  use.     The  following  specification  is  from  the   Society: — Linty 


HOW  TO  HELP  THE  WOUNDED.  403 

(charpie^)  to  be  made  as  follows :  Out  of  clean  white  soft  linen,  neither  too 
fine  nor  coarse;  cut  the  liuen  into  pieces  about  four  inches  square,  unravel  it, 
and  mix  the  threads  up  softly,  avoiding  all  knots  or  hard  threads.  Different 
qualities  of  linen  must  not  be  mixed.  If  any  of  the  linen  is  at  all  soiled,  wash 
it  carefully  in  boiling  water  and  soap.  Lint  is  only  to  be  made  with  carefully 
washed  and  healthy  hands.  Any  dirt,  or  soiling  of  the  thread  from  sores, 
however  slight,  may  be  fatal  to  the  wounded.  Small  pieces  of  soft  old  linen, 
iree  from  seams  or  hems,  not  less  than  twelve  inches  square.  Baiulages^  two 
to  four  inches  broad,  of  stout  old  linen,  or  new  unbleached  shirting,  (calico.) 
These  must  be  cut  or  torn  the  selvage  way  of  the  thread.  Those  of  three 
yards  in  length  to  be  an  inch  and  a  half  wide ;  four  yards,  an  inch  and  three 
quarters ;  six  yards,  two  inches ;  eight  yards,  two  inches  and  a  quarter ;  tea 
yards,  two  inches  and  a  half.  The  bandages  mostly  required  are  those  from 
six  to  ten  yards  in  length.  If  not  torn  in  one  length,  they  may  be  joined  with 
a  strong  flat  herring-bone  stitch.  The  edges  and  end  must  not  be  hemmed, 
nor  any  tapes  added.  Each  bandage  should  be  tightly  and  flatly  rolled  up, 
and  secured  with  a  strong  pin :  mark  the  length  of  each  roll  in  ink  on  the 
outside. 

Packages  of  any  such  articles  may  be  sent  by  railway,  directed  thus: — 

Society  for  Aid  to  Sick  and  Wounded, 

Care  of  the  Countess  of  Ducie, 

Charfield  Station, 

Gloucbstehshirs. 


or, 


The  Storekeeper, 

Society  fur  Aid  to  Sick  and  Wounded, 

2,  St.  Martinis  Piace, 

Trafalgar  Square, 

London.    W.  C. 

*  Oh,  I  should  like  it  of  nil  things !'  said  Marcely.  *  Thank  you  for 
asking  me ;  but  of  whom  should  I  beg  ?' 

*  I  propose,  and  you  must  correct  me  if  you  see  anything  wrong  in  my 
proposition,  that  you  canvass  the  town  of  Inverfarie,  first  calling  on 
Mrs.  Drummond,  at  Gowanfield  Cottage ;  she  has  two  nieces,  very  good 
little  girls,  either  of  whom,  I  am  sure,  will  be  only  too  glad  to  go  with 
you,  and  supply  you  with  the  names  of  persons  to  be  solicited.' 

'Those  nice  Miss  Cochranes,  who  sit  on  our  side  in  church,'  said 
Marcely.  '  I  was  longing  to  know  them ;  but  I  could  only  manage  to 
get  a  bowing  acquaintance  with  one  who  picked  up  my  Prayer-book  for 
me  the  other  Sunday.' 

*  Well,  then,  you  will  not  mind  going  to  see  them,  and  making  them 
acquainted  with  your  object.  When  you  have  collected  all  the  linen 
you  can,  come  to  me,  and  I  will  see  what  I  can  find  for  you.  And 
then  you  must  have  a  '^Bee;"  invite  all  the  young  people  you  can 
get  together  to  come  to  Renelg  for  a  long  day,  and  say  you  will  teach 
them  to  make  charpie  and  bandages,  and  see  if  they  do  not  gladly 
respond.' 

'May  T,  Mother  dear — may  I  ask  them  here?'  Marcely's  face  was 
radiiint. 


404  THE  MONTHLY  PACKKT. 

'Who  is  it  you  wish  to  ask,  my  dear IV asked  Lady  Evelyn,  a  little 
bewildered. 

/  The  young  ladies  of  Inverfarie,  Mother.  You  know  we  are  only  a 
mile  from  them ;  it  will  not  be  very  far  for  them,  and  they  will  like  to 
do  good  as  well  as  L* 

'Then  if  I  indulge  you  in  this,  there  must  be  no  further  talk  of 
wishing  to  do  more  than  you  can,'  said  Lady  Evelyn ;  and  for  the  sake 
of  this  gain,  and  of  the  pleasure  Marcely's  bright  face  gave  her,  she 
made  no  opposition  to  Mr.  Austyn's  plan,  while  laying  on  it  certain 
restrictions,  to  which  Marcely  opposed  no  word  of  remonstrance.  One 
day  only  might  she  devote  to  calls,  and  one  to  making  up  the  bandnge.**, 
&c.,  with  all  the  extraneous  aid  she  could  press  into  the  service.  After 
the  3rd  of  September,  Lady  Evelyn  assured  Mr.  Austyn  with  some 
stiffness,  friends  were  coming  from  England,  and  other  duties  would 
claim  her  daughter. 

Marcely  felt  that  she  must  make  tlie  most  of  the  short  time  allotted 
her ;  and  accordingly,  before  visiting  hours  on  the  ist  of  September,  the 
Miss  Cochranes  wore  surprised  and  pleased  to  see  the  Renelg  pony- 
carriage  drive  up  to  their  door,  and  Miss  Evelyn,  hitherto  the  object  of 
their  distant  admiration,  descend  therefrom.  She  looked  the  picture  of 
graceful  youth  and  health ;  of  careful  dressing  too,  as  they  owned  to 
one  another,  from  the  black  velvet  hat  with  its  Indian  feathers,  to  the 
preposterously  high-heeled  little  boots  peeping  from  under  the  short 
pale  blue  skirt. 

'  Oh  I  is  not  she  sweet-looking  V  said  Christine  to  Isabel.  '  Tliat  lovely 
fair  hair,  and  the  silk  net  matching  it,  and  such  a  long  delicate  throat !' 

Marcely  came  in,  shy  and  gentle.  '  Have  I  taken  a  liberty  ?  You 
must  tell  me  if  I  have.  I  am  acting  on  a  suggestion  of  Mr.  Austyn's ; 
he  said  you  would  help  me  about  the  wounded.' 

'Oh  yes;  what  is  there  that  we  can  do?  We  were  wisliing  that  we 
knew  you,'  said  Isabel  diffidently.  '  We  were  sure  you  could  put  us  in 
the  right  way.' 

'  I  don't  know ;  I  rather  look  to  your  directing  me,'  said  Marcely,  well 
pleased  at  so  ready  a  response ;  and  siie  explained  Mr.  Austyn's  ideas : 
and  Isabel  and  Christine,  who  knew  most  of  the  respectable  people  in 
Inverfarie,  gladly  undertook  to  introduce  her.  So  they  set  off,  making 
but  slow  progress  through  the  street ;  there  were  so  many  doors  to 
atop  at.  Marcely's  plan,  which  was  very  well  organized  for  one  so 
inexperienced,  was,  not  to  remain  more  than  ten  minutes  at  each  house, 
and  without  preamble  to  plunge  boldly  into  the  subject  with,  '  We 
ventured  to  come  and  ask  your  aid  for  the  wounded ;  we  are  going  to 
make  some  bandages,  <&c,'  winding  up  with  a  cordial  invitation  to  spend 
the  following  day  in  their  manufacture  at  Renelg.  She  could  not 
always  adhere  to  her  resolution,  as  in  many  instances  her  hostess,  with 
true  Highland  politeness,  branched  out  into  questions  about  the  health 
of  her  &ther  and  mother;   how  they  liked  Scotland,  and   Renelg  in 


HOW  TO  HELP  THE  WOUNDED.  405 

particular;  whether  Sir  James  found  good  sport  on  the  moors,  and 
several  other  fruitful  themes,  ending  by  producing  cake  and  shortbread, 
and  drinking  Miss  Evelyn's  health. 

However,  she  never  lost  sight  of  her  object,  and  always  returned  to  it 
aAer  any  temporary  lapse,  which  was  the  best  way  of  managing;  and 
though  they  were  not  at  all  so  enthusiastic  as  she  was,  they  all  agreed 
in  thinking  the  war  a  very  terrible  calamity,  and  in  pitying  the  poor 
soldiers,  who  had  done  nothing  to  bring  it  about,  and  yet  were  such 
sufferers  from  it ;  promising  to  look  out  their  linen,  at  whicli  talismanic 
word,  however,  more  than  one  prudent  housekeeper  began  to  look  as  if 
Miss  Evelyn  had  been  asking  for  gold. 

'  There  is  so  very  little  worn  now,'  they  said ;  '  and  what  we  have  is 
so  useful  for  ourselves,  and  the  poor  bodies,  when  they  come  to  us  with 
hurts  and  sores.' 

Marcely  hastened  to  deprecate  the  idea  of  robbing  the  poor ;  and  when 
she  assured  them  that  old  table-cloths  were  in  great  requisition,  shewing 
them  practically  what  small  pieces  would  also  be  thankfully  received, 
they  agreed  for  the  most  part  to  do  their  best,  and  to  send  their 
daughters,  scissors  in  hand,  to  lunch  at  Renelg  next  day.  As  the 
hours  went  on,   she  began   to   find   several  people  absent   from  their 

homes:  and  learning  that  Mrs.  E ^  Mrs.  C ,  and  Miss  B , 

three  notable  housekeepers,  had  gone  to  the  railway  station  to  see  some 
of  the  royalties  pass  on  their  way  to  shooting  quarters  further  north, 
she  followed  them  there,  and  arrived  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a 
grave  shy-looking  lady  in  a  mauve  veil  and  gipsy  bonnet,  a  prince 
without  the  traditional  star  on  his  breast,  and  a  sleepy  sprig  of  nobility, 
nestled  down  among  the  cushions  of  a  saloon  carriage;  after  duly  staring 
at  which  gay  spectacle,  she  was  introduced  to  those  she  had  come  to 
seek,  and  received  their  cordial  promises  of  aid. 

Marcely  next  drove  to  the  shops,  bought  a  quantity  of  shirting,  to  be 
cut  into  strips  according  to  the  printed  directions;  and  deposited  Isabel 
and  Christine,  whose  happy  tired  faces  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see,  at  their 
own  door. 

*  Good-bye,  Miss  Evelyn,  how  we  do  thank  you ;  we  were  breaking 
our  hearts  all  the  week  because  there  seemed  nothing  for  us  to  do.' 

*  I  assure  you,  you  have  been  of  great  use  to  me,'  said  Marcely,  with 
a  smile,  '  and  I  shall  quite  depend  upon  you  for  to-morrow.'  She  shook 
hands  warmly  with  them,  and  drove  on  to  the  parsonage.  The  door  was 
opened  to  her  by  the  clergyman  himself. 

He  led  her  into  his  study,  where  the  MS.  %f  the  book  lay  upon  the 
table,  and  asking  how  she  had  sped  in  her  errand,  he  unlocked  a  tall 
cupboard,  and  shewed  her  two  white  surplices,  very  fine  and  old.  I 
thought  one  of  these  would  have  been  my  shroud,'  he  said,  with  a  look 
she  had  never  seen  on  his  face  before,  it  was  so  sweet  and  strange ;  ^  but 
it  will  not  matter  in  that  day  what  it  is  that  covers  my  body,  if  I  only 
have  the  robe  of  His  Righteousness.     And  the  vestments  I  have  so  often 


406  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

worn  at  His  Altar  cannot  in  their  old  age  find  a  fitter  use  than  this  of 
binding  up  the  wounds  of  His  suffering  members.  Shall  you  mind  taking 
them,  as  you  are  in  your  pony-carriage,  Mise  Evelyn  ?  And  will  you 
come  and  see  me  sometimes,  for  I  shall  not  be  here  long,  and  there  is  a 
blessing  on  the  old  and  on  the  dead.' 

He  handed  her  out,  and  laid  the  white  garments  on  her  knee,  under 
the  scarlet-lined  tiger-skin,  and  watching  her  drive  homeward,  thought 
how  she  would  be  pursuing  her  career  of  grace  and  happy  usefulness, 
long  after  he  should  be  resting  in  the  little  sometime  Roman  Catholic 
burying-ground,  which  was  the  only  consecrated  spot  in  Inverfarie. 
*  Ah !  well,'  he  said,  '  it  seems  a  great  many  years  to  look  forward  to. 
How  glad  she  will  be  to  lie  down  at  last  I  Poor  little  pretty  thing  I  it 
seems  sad  that  she  should  ever  grow  wrinkled  and  old ;  but  He  knows 
best,  and  we  shall  all  be  made  yoang  again  there,' 

Marcely  went  home,  and  gave  a  lively  description  of  all  to  her  mother. 
'  I  have  made  acquaintance  with  half  Inverfarie ;  I  have  discovered  to 
the  thriftiest  of  housekeepers  resources  which  they  did  not  know  before 
they  possessed ;  and  I  have  seen  a  princess !'  said  she. 

*  And  you  have  tired  yourself  to  death  meanwhile,'  said  her  mother, 
taking  anxious  note  of  Marcely's  var^-ing  colour ;  *  I  think  you  try  to  run 
away  from  me,  child,  in  proportion  as  I  want  to  keep  you.'  She  drew 
the  young  girl  to  her  with  a  gesture  of  jealous  fondness. 

^  Sweet  Mother,  no ;  I  only  want  to  have  you  with  me  always,'  said 
IVfarccly,  clinging  to  her ;  '  and  I  am  not  so  tired  as  I  am  after  a  day  on 
the  moors  with  the  Frasers  and  Cholmondelys.' 

'  Ah,  they  were  here,  asking  if  you  could  join  them  at  croquet,  hours 
ago ;  I  was  so  vexed  to  be  obliged  to  say  you  could  not  come.  Two  days 
of  this  is  quite  enough ;  I  certainly  will  not  let  you  do  anything  afler 
to-morrow.' 

Marcely  sighed  gently.  *  No ;  but  in  case  all  my  young  ladies  have 
not  finished  at  once,  I  may  keep  the  things  over  till  Monday,  the  5th, 
mayn't  I  ?     But  I  will  promise  that  all  shall  be  sent  off  on  Monday.' 

'  Do  as  you  please,  dear,  about  that ;  only  I  cannot  have  you  giving  up 
your  pleasant  engagements,  and  your  own  friends,  for  more  than  these 
two  days.  On  the  3rd  your  father  wishes  you  to  go  out  riding  with 
him  as  usual.' 

On  the  2nd,  Marcely,  with  a  copy  of  the  rules  before  her,  seated 
herself  at  the  dining-room  table,  cutting  pieces  of  linen  into  squares  for 
lint  and  charpie.  One  by  one  arrived  her  guests,  each  with  a  white 
bundle  of  household  stuff  under  her  jacket ;  and  finding  them  ready  to 
do  good  service,  she  instituted  reading  aloud,  which  she  thought  better 
than  the  conversation,  now  stilted,  now  idle,  which  was  all  that  could  be 
expected  of  such  a  mixed  assemblage.  She  had  engaged  to  join  the 
family  dinner,  and  spend  the  rest  of  the  evening  like  an  idle  young  lady; 
so  with  kind  words  and  gracious  thanks,  she  dismissed  her  fellow- 
labourers  after  tea,  most  of  them  carrying  away  something  to  complete,  and 


HOW  TO  HELP  THE  WOUNDED,  407 

finding  that  Isabel  and  Christine  wished  to  wait  until  the  last  momenti 
she  invited  them  to  bring  their  work  into  her  room  while  she  dressed. 

She  preceded  them  up  a  sanding  stair  balustraded  bj  a  crimson  rope, 
to  a  small  turret  chamber,  luxuriously  furnished  with  a  writing-table 
and  reading-stand,  a  sofa,  the  smallest  possible  bed  covered  by  an  eider 
down  quilt,  and  a  low  velvet  chair  large  enough  for  both  twins  to  sit 
in.  Tall  Bohemian  vases  of  geraniums,  heliotrope,  and  late  roses, 
stood  on  the  toilette^  beside  a  strongly  bound  Bible  and  Prayer-book,  and 
a  little  volume  of  Neale's  on  the  Joys  and  Glories  of  Paradise,  which,  on 
the  plea  of  its  containing  hymns.  Lady  Evelyn,  always  capricious,  had 
suffered  her  to  retain.  There  was  also  a  large  ruby  cross  for  the  neck, 
and  a  bracelet  with  an  enamelled  Madonna  in  the  clasp,  which  she  had 
herself  given  Marcely  to  wear,  whilst  objecting  to  a  rough  cross  of  wood 
that  had  been  used  to  stand  on  the  mantel-piece,  on  which  the  girl  with 
her  own  hands  had  carved  this  sentence  from  St.  Augustine : 

*  He  appointed  a  plank  on  which  to  get  over  the  sea ;  for  none  can  get  over 
the  sea  of  this  world,  unless  he  be  borne  upon  the  Cross  of  Christ/ 

It  had  been  taken  down  and  reluctantly  put  away ;  and  now  in  its  stead 
lay  a  velvet  case,  containing  a  large  butterfly  of  gold  filagree  work,  the 
outspread  wings  sparkling  with  diamonds. 

Marcely*s  maid,  who  was  waiting  her  appearance,  came  forward  to 
say,  ^  Lady  Evelyn  sent  you  her  butterfly  to  wear  to-night,  Miss ;  sho 
wants  to  see  how  it  will  look  at  the  meeting.' 

So  Marcely  sat  down  to  have  it  put  in  her  hair.  '  Do  you  remember,' 
she  said  suddenly  to  Isabel  and  Christine,  ^  what  we  read  in  the  papers 
about  that  young  girl  at  Weissenberg  who  was  killed  after  a  day's  agony 
by  the  explosion  of  a  shell?  She  was  so  beautiful  and  young;  very 
likely  she  was  not  thinking  of  death,  yet  it  came.  Perhaps  she  had  a 
pretty  little  room  like  this,  waiting  fqr  her  to  come  to  it ;  and  perhaps 
a  mother  like  mine,  who  would  have  sufl*ered  anything  rather  than  it 
should  touch  me.  She  must  have  had  lots — '  Marcely  checked  herself 
in  the  school-girl  phrase — *  quantities  of  things  to  do,  and  she  never  lived 
to  do  them.  I  dare  say  I  am  wrong,  but  I  feel  so  full  of  life,  so  busy,  I 
cannot  help  thinking,  what  if  it  were  all  to  come  to  an  end  now,  directly? 
Mine  would  seem  such  an  incomplete  life,  but  would  it  be  so  really? 
Would  not  the  world  get  on  just  as  well  without  me?  as  it  has  to  do 
without  this  young  girl,  for  instance.' 

No  one  could  ever  tell  what  was  in  her  mind,  that  she  should  say  this. 
Everyone  who  saw  her  that  night  is  agreed  in  saying  that  she  spent  a 
happy  evening;  singing  to  her  father,  playing  ducts  with  her  mother; 
shewing  herself  disengaged  in  thought  and  action,  just  as  they  liked  to 
see  her ;  and  carefully  abstaining  from  a  word  as  to  her  day's  employment, 
because  she  knew  that  the  subject,  so  engrossing  to  her,  was  not  equally 
so  to  them.  Marcely  spent  the  early  part  of  the  following  morning  in 
arranging  the  fiower-vases  for  an  expected  dinner-party;   and  when 


408  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

this — ^rather  a  work  of  delicacy,  for  it  required  an  exertion  of  taste  to 
satisfy  her  mother's  fastidious  eye — had  heeo  accomplished,  she  went  out 
riding  with  her  father  on  a  horse  which  she  had  ridden  a  hundred  and 
fifty  times  before. 

They  had  not  gone  far  when  Sir  James  and  the  groom  stopped  to  have 
a  consultation  about  a  covey  of  birds  which  they  had  started  in  their 
way;  Marcely  rode  on  towards  the  level  crossing  of  the  new  railway. 
Just  then  a  train  came  in  sight,  and  as  her  horse  began  to  plunge,  she 
would  have  moved  aside,  but  she  saw,  or  fancied  she  saw,  that  there 
were  no  signs  of  the  gate-keeper's  being  at  hand  to  clear  the  way ;  she 
therefore  pressed  forward,  and  knocked  with  the  end  of  her  whip  against 
the  cottage  window,  and  the  man  sprang  out,  but  not  quite  in  time ;  for 
the  train  came  on,  rushing  right  through  the  shut  gates,  which  it  crushed 
and  bent,  and  so  close  to  Marcely's  horse  as  to  frighten  it  into  rearing, 
and  throwing  the  young  girl,  who  lay  with  her  head  upon  a  very  stony 
pillow,  till  her  father  and  the  groom,  whom  a  turn  of  the  road  had  kept 
from  observing  her,  came  in  sight. 

A  very  few  minutes,  and  she  was  tenderly  gathered  up,  and  taken  to 
Mr.  Austyn's  house,  as  the  nearest,  and  laid  upon  his  bed.  She  opened 
her  eyes  once,  and  said,  but  very  indistinctly,  'It — ^is — all — right — 
finished ;'  and  so  relapsed  into  unconsciousness,  which  was  not  again 
disturbed  till  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  when  she  died. 

Then  they  carried  her  to  Renelg ;  and  the  young  ladies  from  Inverfarie, 
who  one  by  one  came  with  their  finished  work,  were  taken.  Highland 
fashion,  up-stairs,  and  shewn  the  lovely  smiling  face.  The  little  hands 
had  been  bruised  by  the  fall,  and  one  sprained  at  the  wrist  was  tied  with 
a  laced  handkerchief,  and  folded  over  a  Passion-fiower,  which  had  been 
laid  upon  her  bosom  by  the  maids.  Lady  Evelyn  had  not  borne  to  look 
upon  her  since  she  was  laid  there. 

The  gold  butterfly  she  had  worn  in  her  hair  was  keeping  her  place  in 
an  open  book — the  last  book,  perhaps,  that  she  had  ever  learned  out  of. 
Isabel  and  Christine,  who  had  a  fanciful  wish  to  see  it  laid,  as  a  type  of 
resurrection,  where  the  Passion-flower  was,  looked  to  see  what  words  it 
covered,  and  read  these  stanzas  from  Dr.  Neale's  beautiful  processional 
hymn  for  All  Saints — 

^  Christ's  dear  virgins,  glorious  lilies. 

Tell  us  bow  ye  kept  unstained 
Snowiest  petals  through  the  tempest, 

Till  eternal  spring  ye  gained. 
Snowiest  still,  albeit  with  crimson, 

Some  more  precious  leaves  were  stained. 

In  the  place  where  He  was  buried, 

There  was  found  a  garden  nigh ; 
In  that  ^rden  us  He  planted, 

1  eaching  us  with  Him  to  die ; 
TLl  to  Paradise  He  moved  us. 

There  to  bloom  eternally. 


HOW  TO  KELP  THE  WOUNDED.  409 

^ Isn't  it  very  sweet  to  think  of  her  as  one  of  those?'  whispered 
Christine  to  Isabel  as  thej  slowly  made  their  way  down  the  avenue. 

^  Yes ;  and,  Christine,  if  I  had  the  composition  of  her  epitaph,  it  should 
be  after  the  pattern  of  the  early  Christian's  '^  Marcely  lives." ' 

It  was  not  till  midnight  that,  finding  she  could  not  sleep  for  tossing  to 
and  fro  on  her  pillows  in  restless  tearless  anguish,- the  mother  rose,  and 
soothed  by  the  darkness,  stole  to  what  had  been  Marcel/s  room.  There 
was  a  pale  faint  light  coming  through  the  unblinded  window,  which 
shewed  her  the  outlines  of  the  smooth  young  brow,  never  clouded  by  an 
undutiful  or  angry  thought,  and  to  herself  she  said,  ^  This  b  the  end  of 
my  trying  to  keep  Marcely  to  myself;  she  has  slipt  away  from  me,  and  I 
shall  never  see  her  again,  never.  Mr.  Austyn  says  God  took  her,  and 
that  she  is  provided  for  with  the  provisions  of  an  angel,  and  that  I  must 
not  sorrow,  because  she  is  early  crowned ;  but  I  only  feel  that  we  are 
parted  for  ever,  since  I  am  not  fit  to  go  to  her,  for  I  have  no  love ;  and 
although  I  am  not  learned  in  the  Bible,  I  have  heard  it  often  enough  to 
know  that  there  is  nothing  God  hates  so  much  as  lukewarmness.' 
*  But  Marcely  slept  on  peacefully,  undisturbed  by  Lady  Evelyn's  sobs, 
and  surrounded  by  the  piles  of  white  linen  which  she  had  taken  such 
delight  in  preparing  for  the  succour  of  the  poor  foreigners  in  their  sudden 
distress ;  while  the  pale  starry  banners  of  a  magnificent  aurora  played 
over  the  glen  and  the  dusky  birch  trees;  the  sheaves  of  com  which 
studded  the  hill,  and  the  silver  threads  of  many  a  bum  and  clear  pool, 
winding  beneath.  Lady  Evelyn  looked  out.  Were  those  the  banners  of 
the  angel  armies  that  waved  abroad  in  the  skyt  was  Marcely  amongst 
them  ?  Involuntarily  she  sank  upon  her  knees,  awed  by  the  sense  of 
God's  presence  with  her  in  the  room.  Perhaps  it  was  the  influence  of 
Marcel/s  spirit  interceding  for  her  *  through  shades  and  silent  rest,'  as 
well  as  for  the  wounded  soldiers,  whom,  it  might  be,  she  was  called  away 
to  help  more  effectively  than  she  could  do  on  earth. 

The  gate-keeper  lost  his  place;  he  would  have  done  so  even  if  no 
accident  had  followed  his  carelessness ;  to  be  found  a  moment  off  guard 
at  so  critical  a  post,  was  a  thing  that  could  not  be  passed  over ;  but  I 
have  heard  that  the  fact  of  his  dismissal  did  not  weigh  so  heavily  on  him 
as  the  death  of  Marcely  Evelyn,  which  his  neighbours,  as  well  as  his 
conscience,  were  inexorable  in  lajring  to  his  charge.  Some  young  people, 
leamed  in  the  good  little  books  of  a  certain  school,  superstitiously 
attributed  her  early  passing  away  to  the  remarkable  earnestness  with 
which  she  had  set  out  on  her  Christian  course.  ^  Good  people  alwajrs 
die,'  they  said ;  but  Mr.  Austyn  wrote  in  his  Sunday  sermon,  'And  what 
if  she  had  not  been  prepared  ?  Might  not  the  Bridegroom  have  come  all  the 
same,  and  found  her  unready  ?  Let  her  example,  therefore,  stimulate  you 
to  try  for  perfection,  and  do  not  be  afraid  of  growing  '^  good."  When 
you  are  good  you  will  have  no  cause  for  terror  of  the  King  of  Terrors- 
Death;  and  will  not  this  be  a  gain  worth  dying  for  even  as  she  diedt 
But  now,  as  a  first,  or  a  second,  or  a  third  step,  whichever  it  may  be  with 

VOL.  10.  28  PART  68. 


410       .       THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

you,  in  the  narrow  little  path  she  chose  for  herself  and  trod  so  safely  and 
found  so  short — let  me  commend  to  your  practice  the  duty  which  she 
left  tinfinished,  the  duty  of  self-denial  and  exertion  in  aid  of  the 
wounded.' 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL. 

XV.  (continued,) 
NORTH  TIROL—WORGL  TO  VIENNA.    II. 


THE  QEBIET  DER  GROSSEK  ACHE — ^WAIDRING — ERPFENDORF — ^BEARS  IN 
TIROL — THE  HOIIE  PLATTE — THE  '  CEFEN  ' — THE  PILLERSEE — S.  ADOLART 
— TRADITION  OF  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI — COUNT  HUGENOT — THE  TOW  OP 
COUNT  V.  ROTT — S.  ULRICH — FIEBERBRUNN — S.  JAKOB  IM  HAUS — HOCH- 
FILZEN — THE  WILDALPENSEE,  ITS  LEGEND — DIB  SCHREIENDEN — THE 
8TRUBTHAL — THE  SCHWARZE  KOPFE — THE  MAUTHAUS — DEFENCE  OP 
THE  8TRUB  PASS — MYTHS  OF  THE  BERCHTL — BERCHTESSPRINGEN  AND 
RETTERENNEN — THE  ALPENNUTZEN — S,  RUPERT  OF  SALZBURG,  APOSTLE 
OP  WESTERN  TIROL. 

A  STRIP  OF  SALZBURG  TERRITORY — LOFERS,  LEGEND  OF  THE  THRKB 
SISTERS — THE  SAALE — THE  KNIE  PASS — L'NKKN — ^REUT — LEGEND  OP 
THE  THREE  BROTHERS — THE  80NTAGSHORN — THE  STEIN  PASS. 

A  STRIP  OF  BAVARIAN  TERRITORY — MELLECK,  THE  BAVARIAN  LION — 
ANOTHER  MAUTHAUS — ROAD  TO  MUNICH — THE  THUMSEE — BRINE-PIPES, 
DIFFERENT  FI^OM  ROMAN  AQUEDUCTS — KARLSTEIN^^BEtCHENHALL, 
SALT-WORKS — S.  ZENO. 

IN  THE  CIRCLE  OP  SALZBURG  AOAlN-*-THE  UNTER^ERG — THE  APPROACH 
TO  SALZBURG. 

We  must  take  up  our  interruptcid  journey  to  Salzburg,  at  S.  Johann. 
We  are  not  yet  out  of  the  Gebiet  der  Grossen  Ache,  and  when  we  reach 
Waidring,  it  once  more  lures  us  to  turn  aside  in  order  to  visit  the 
Pillersee.  The  road  is  smiling  and  pleasant  a^  far  as  Erpfendorf,  in 
which  I  do  not  know  of  anything  remarkable ;  but  here  the  road  takes 
an  easterly  direction,  and  runs  through  a  dark  forest  of  pines,  called,  I 
think,  the*  Aussenwald.  The  Church  of  Waidring  is  very  interesting, 
dating  its  original  foundation  from  the  fourteenth  century ;  it  Was 
enlarged  in  the  year  1500  by  subsicription  of  the  parishionerSy  amoog 
whose  offerings  that  of  the  skin  of  a  bear  be  bad  sliot,  is  recorded  of  one, 
a  miner.*  There  is  practice  here  for  Alpine  dimbera  in  the  ascend  of 
the  Hohe  Flatten  presenting  towards  Waidring  ftti  almo£ff  perpendkukn* 

*,  ISIears  are  still  found  in  Tbol ;  seven  were  killed  in  the  coarse  of  last  year. 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  4 1 1 

-^all  crowned  by  a  high  level  plateaa  of  line  pasture ;  it  is  reached  by  a 
comparatively  easy  path  by  way  of  the  Stallen.  It  commands  a  splendid 
View,  ranging  almost  from  Munich  to  Salzburg,  and  diversified  by  thd 
Wanderings  of  the  Inn,  and  by  the  Chiemsee.  The  Pillersee  is  not  mor^ 
than  a  mile  from  Waidring,  by  a  not  very  easy  path,  called  the  Ofen,  by 
the  side  of,  though  considerably  above,  the  toiTent.  It  is  a  narrow  strip 
of  water  about  two  miles  long ;  at  its  head  is  picturesquely  perched  the 
ancient  Church  of  S.  Adolary,  whence  a  fine  view  of  the  lake  is 
obtained.  There  is  a  tradition  that  Leonardo  da  Vinci  was  once,  when 
passing  through  this  neighbourhood,  the  guest  of  the  monastery  then 
existing  at  S.  Ulrich  at  the  other  end  of  the  lake ;  and  in  gratitude  for  hid 
enjoyment  of  this  peaceful  solitude,  painted  some  frescoes  in  two  or  threes 
of  the  neighbouring  churches,  and  that  two  only — at  S.  Adolary— « 
remain ;  both  represent  the  saint,  one  in  his  martyrdom,  the  other  in  his 
beatification,  surrounded  by  flocks  whose  patron  he  is  reckoned.  TheJ 
presbytery  has  also  a  curious  stiff  old  portrait  of  a  fish,  one  of  thd 
Lachsforellen^  which  are  the  boast  of  the  Pillersee,  weighing  twenty-sii 
pounds ;  such  fine  ones  are  not  found  now-o'-days.  The  lake  waar 
stocked  with  them  by  the  monks  of  S.  Ulrich;  and  now  they  are  no 
longer  protected,  the  supply  is  fast  becoming  exhausted.*  'the  Church 
of  S.  Adolary  was  built  about  the  year  1000  by  a  certain  Count 
tlugenot  of  Juvavia,  in  Salzburg.  The  surrounding  territory  subse- 
quently passed  to  the  house  of  the  Counts  of  Rott,  an  important 
family  at  the  court  of  the  Duke  of  Bavaria.  One  bf  these,  by 
fiame  Kuno,  made  on  his  marriage  with  Elizabeth  of  Lotharingia, 
the  singular  vow  that  in  case  of  their  having  no  children  they  would 
found  a  Benedictine  abbey.  Not  many  days  later,  Kuno  v,  Rott  was 
called  to  follow  the  Empetor  Henry  IV.  in  the  field,  and  soon  aft«r  was 
killed  in  battle.  Though  her  wedded  life  had  been  so  short,  Elizabeth 
devoted  her  life  to  the  memory  of  her  lost  husband ;  and  her  first  card 
was  to  fulfil  his  vow  by  founding  a  Benedictine  abbey  on  pjtrt  of  the 
lands  which  had  been  her  dowry.  With  the  consent  of  Kuno's  father^ 
she  endowed  it  with  a  large  tract  of  country  round  the  Pillerseej  in 
l073.  It  was  at  that  time  almost  entirely  uninhabited ;  the  lake,  somewhat 
more  extended  than  at  present,  reflected  in  its  clear  green  waters  th6 
grandly  overhanging  Lofer  mountains,  the  Steinberg,  and  the  lower 
conical  peaks  of  the  Leitnerhorn,  but  it  knew  no  face  of  man.  The 
monks  soon  parcelled  their  land  out  into  convenient  holdings,  and  ihvited 
settlers ;  smiling  farms  sprang  up  all  around,  and  before  long  the  village 
of  S.  Ulrich  gathered  round  the  monastery ;  others  followed  in  process  of 
time,  but  of  them  only  S.  Jakob  im  Haus,  Fieberbrunn,  and  Hochfilzefi^ 
remain.  With  the  rest  of  the  Valley  of  the  Grossache,  they  were  united 
to  Tirol  by  Maximilian.  All  are  wildly  and  picturesquely  placed,  but 
reached  by  rugged  and  uneven  roads.  The  name  of  Fieberbrunn  is 
derived  from  a  ftpring  flowing  near  it,  and  whose  waters  cured  M^rgarctha 

*  Beda  Weber. 


412  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Maultasch  of  a  fever  in  1354.  One  pointed  out  by  t^radition  as  the  same^ 
flows  from  the  side  of  the  hill  beneath  the  church,  and  is  cherished  bj 
having  a  roofed  porch  built  over  it.  There  are  one  or  two  picturesque 
buildings  in  Fieberbrunn,  particularly  Schloss  Bosenegg,  which  in  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  was  the  seat  of  the  family  of  that  name, 
but  now  inhabited  by  the  superintendent  of  the  neighbouring  iron- 
works. 

Three  hours  more  of  mountain  climbing  leads  to  the  curious  WUd" 
cUpensee,  so-called.  It  is  not  large,  but  said  to  be  unfathomable.  Its 
waters  are  of  a  dark  colour,  and  the  dark-coloured  fish  that  inhabit  them, 
besides  being  very  difficult  to  catch,  have  so  disagreeable  a  taste  and 
colour,  that  they  are  seldom  eaten.  The  people  think  a  curse  attaches 
to  the  lake,  for  their  history  of  its  origin  is  similar  to  those  we  have 
already  found  told  of  other  lakes ;  only  here,  the  last  sin  which  filled  up 
the  measure  of  guilt  of  the  villagers  who  found  their  doom  in  it,  was 
refusing  alms  to  a  poor  man.  Before  reaching  the  lake,  several  deep 
caves  are  passed,  supposed  to  be  lateral  shafts  of  mines  exhausted  in  the 
time  of  the  Roman  occupation.  Some  eight  or  ten  miles  further  south, 
three  clear  and  turbulent  streams  are  met  gurgling  out  of  the  rock, 
.sumamed  The  Screaming  Ones,  (die  Schreienden,)  by  some  thought  to  be 
emissaries  of  the  Wildalpensee,  for  which  no  other  has  been  found ;  in 
summer  their  waters  are  found  gratefully  cold  and  fresh,  in  winter 
sufficiently  warm  to  hinder  the  freezing  of  the  Schwarzache  for  a  broad 
stretch  from  the  spot  where  they  fiow  into  it 

Proceeding  onwards  from  Waidring  on  the  Salzburg  road,  we  soon 
enter  the  Strubthal,  which  runs  through  a  narrow  gorge,  shut  in  on  the 
left  by  the  Schwarze  Kopfe,  clothed  with  pines ;  on  the  right,  by  the  bare 
steep  of  the  Steinberg.  As  you  approach  the  Mauthausy  or  cottage 
which  stands  in  lieu  of  Custom-house,*  you  seem  to  be  passing  through 
a  corridor  in  some  giant's  palace,  so  closely  do  the  natural  walls 
approach ;  till  the  remains  of  an  actual  gateway  remind  you  how  this 
is  indeed  the  entrance  passage  to  the  home  of  those  giants  of  freedom, 
who  for  so  many  centuries  fought  for  the  jewel  of  loyalty,  and  how  every 
step  of  the  strait  road  we  are  treading  is  consecrate  with  the  blood  of 
martyrs  to  patriotism.  Here,  in  1809,  fifty  Tirolese  sharp-shooters,  and 
a  handful  of  Austrian  troops,  successfully  kept  back  the  whole  carps 
d^arrnee  of  the  Bavarian  and  French  troops  for  two  whole  days.  And 
it  was  only  when  their  ammunition,  not  their  courage,  was  exhausted, 
that  they  were  forced  to  retire  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  and  see  the 
foreign  hordes  pour  in  through  the  fortress-gate  nature  had  given  them, 
and  which  they  would  still  have  defended  to  the  utmost,  had  they  been 
provided  with  powder  and  shot !  In  1805,  they  had  actually  succeeded 
under  similar  circumstances  in  driving  back  the  foe.  The  Grossachen- 
thalers  are  true  not  only  to  the  courage  but  to  the  other  traditional 
qualities  and  customs  of  their  country.  Here,  stronger  than  anywhere, 
*  The  toll-office  was  removed  hence  to  Waidring,  February,  1870, 


TBADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  413 

the  myths  of  the  Berchtl  have  a  hold  on  the  popular  mind ;  but  here  it 
is  no  longer  the  single  restless  form  identified  by  some  with  Pilate's  wife, 
by  others  with  various  appearances  of  the  pre-Christian  mythologies.*  It 
symbolizes  a  whole  rank  of  the  angelic  hosts,  who,  though  they  fell  with 
Lucifer,  yet  fell  not  of  malice,  but  because  he  who  was  a  Deceiver  from 
the  beginning  overcame  them  with  his  blandishments :  therefore  were 
they  not  driven  down  into  the  lowest  abyss,  but  suffered,  as  the  others  fell, 
to  remain  to  spend  their  exile  midway  between  heaven  and  hell,  on  the 
highest  boughs  of  lofty  pines,  or  on  the  jagged  peaks  of  the  giant  alps. 
Not  all  are  of  the  same  mould :  some  are  inclined  to  do  good  to  mortals, 
cheer  them,  and  bear  their  burdens ;  others,  envious  of  the  redemption 
vouchsafed  to  man,  vent  their  spite  in  a  thousand  provoking  ways ;  but 
both  are  to  be  won  and  propitiated  by  the  treatment  they  receive ;  scorn 
and  defiance  meet  with  ready  revenge ;  yet  have  they  it  not  in  their 
power  to  do  harm,  except  where  one  has  laid  himself  open  to  blame; 
nor  may  they  at  will  approach  the  abodes  of  men  but  at  certain  times, 
such  as  the  genial  Christmas  and  Epiphany  season,  and  the  Advent 
preparation.  The  time  when  they  are  once  more  consigned  to  their  remote 
dwelling-place  is  the  occasion  of  a  popular  game  called  the  Berchtes^ 
springeitf  in  which  all  manner  of  elfish  tricks  in  assumption  of  the 
character  of  the  Berchta  are  played  off  by  the  merry  peasants  one 
against  the  other,  together  with  much  ludicrous  mumming,  making  a 
sort  of  carnival  of  the  Epiphany.  The  government  has  interfered  of 
late  years  to  forbid  wearing  masks,  and  this  has  virtually  destroyed  the 
spoil.  All  their  games  partake  the  same  hearty  character.  That  called 
the  Retterennetiy  a  kind  of  wheel-barrow  race,  is  the  most  characteristic, 
but  it  must  be  seen  to  be  understood. 

The  return  with  the  herds  into  the  valley  from  the  higher  Alpine 
pastures  at  the  close  of  the  summer — the  Alpennutsenj  as  it  is  called — ^is 
another  occasion  of  jubilant  excitement.  The  Senners,  who  consider  it 
a  trophy  of  their  toil  to  come  home  in  a  shirt  long  guiltless  of  washing, 
wear  very  little  other  clothing ;  though  they  adorn  themselves  and  their 
kine  with  wreaths  of  fiowera,  and  with  the  leathern  braces  and  gloves, 
cow-hair  sieves,  wooden  spoons,  and  pine- fibre  slippers,  in  making 
which  they  have  consumed  every  moment  not  required  in  attention  to 
their  cattle.  The  whole  village  turns  out  to  welcome  the  beloved 
processionierts,  and  the  greeting  is  as  affectionate  as  it  is  frolicsome. 

As  the  road  begins  to  widen,  we  find  ourselves  gazing  out  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  conical  peaks  whose  western  side  we  saw  walling  in 
the  Pillersee,  a  sign  that  we  are  out  of  Tirol ;  yet  there  is  much  still  to 
connect  our  thoughts  with  it,  for  it  was  by  this  way  that  S.  Rupert 
brought  the  faith  to  Western  Tirol  from  Salzburg.  S.  Rupert  was 
abbot  of  the  Benedictine  monastery  of  S.  Peter  in  Salzburg,  and  this 
apostolate  was  a  great  occasion  of  intimacy  throughout  the  respective 
localities.      In   889,   King  Amulf  gave  the  Grossachenthal  and  the 

•  Sec  Phrt  v.,  vol.  vii.  pp.  498-500. 


414  TJiE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

J^illerthal  to  the  Prince-bishop  of  Salzburg  in  perpetuity;  and  though 
they  subsequently  became  subject  to  Bayaria,  and  even  after  theiF 
reversion  to  Tirol  under  Kaiser  Max  remained  spiritually  subject  to 
the  Bishop  of  Chiemsee,  the  jurisdiction  over  them  was  yet  finally 
restored  to  the  Arch-diocese  of  Salzburg;  the  cathedral  of  Salzburg 
is  therefore  their  metropolitan  church,  and  it  is  quite  akin  to  our  purpose 
^o  hetu*  a  few  of  their  traditions.  In  order  to  share  the  treasure  of  salt 
which  abounds  here,  in  a  neighbourly  way,  the  Bavarian  territory,  in 
defiance  of  the  natural  boundary  doctrine,  is  suffered  to  run  a  little 
promontory,  so  to  speak,  into  the  surrounding  Austrian  ocean  ;  thus  the 
road  from  Pass  Stein  to  Reichenhall  is  an  isthmus  of  Bavarian  soil,  and 
the  Bavarian  Lion,  ignobly  painted  with  a  pound  of  candles  dangling 
from  his  paw  upon  the  inn-sign,  displays  the  change  of  nationality. 

The  road  has  for  some  miles  been  rapidly  descending,  and  on  reaching 
the  bottom  of  the  valley,  we  are  brought  to  the  pretty  little  town  of 
Lofers.  Lofers  is  completely  nestled  round  by  mountains  on  every  side, 
the  lower  spurs  wooded  and  cultivated  with  a  smiling  vegetation. 
There  are  rough  and  rugged  rocks,  too,  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
caverns  which  repay  exploring.  In  one  of  these,  it  is  told,  two  female 
forms  are  to  be  met  weeping  and  wailing,  one  all  black,  and  one  habited 
in  black  and  white.  They  are  the  daughters  of  the  richest  man  in 
Lofers,  who,  when  he  died,  left  to  his  three  daughters  so  large  a  storq 
of  gold,  that  it  would  have  taken  the  longest  life  to  count  it.  'Let 
fis  measure  it  out  with  the  bushel  measure,'  said  the  eldest  sister, 
<  Agreed !'  said  the  others ;  and  accordingly  they  set  to  work  to  measure 
the  gold  in  the  bushel  measure,  pouring  out  the  contents  in  three  heaps, 
But  the  youngest  daughter  was  blind,  and  so  when  her  envious  sisters 
filled  the  measure  for  themselves  they  heaped  it  well  up,  but  when  they 
filled  it  for  her  they  turned  it  upside  down,  so  that  they  only  had  to  put 
in  what  could  be  contained  by  the  bottom  rim,  hypocritically  bidding 
her  feel  each  time  if  it  wiis  not  well  heaped  up.  Thus  they  lived  in 
riches  and  plenty,  while  she  had  scarcely  enough  to  support  life.  But 
at  their  last  hour,  the  angels  can^e  and  folded  their  wings  round  the 
injured  blind  girl,  and  carried  her  softly  to  the  realms  of  peace ;  but  the 
two  envious  sisters  must  ever  wait  for  their  release ;  while  a  fierce  dog, 
with  fiery  eyes,  guards  the  vats  in  which  lie  their  treasure,  until  some  one 
shall  set  his  vigilance  at  defiance :  nor  is  this  so  difficult  as  it  seems ;  for 
if  anyone  fixes  his  gaze  on  the  fiery  eyes  of  the  dog,  he  disarms  him,  and 
then  he  can  possess  himself  of  as  much  of  the  treasure  as  he  will,  and 
pass  out  by  the  other  side.  Still,  if  he  is  frightened  at  the  monster'^ 
appearance,  and  wavers,  the  dog  springs  on  him,  and  crushes  him  in  the 
instant ;  so  few  dare  attempt  the  feat :  and  thus  it  is,  that  while  one  of 
the  sisters  is  partly  clothed  in  white  because  some  treasure  has  been 
taken  out  of  her  vat,  the  other  is  still  all  hopelessly  black. 
.  On  we  go  again,  and  are  soon  out  of  the  fiat  meadows  round  Lofers ; 
once  more  we  enter  a  rocky  defile,  solitary  and  oppressive  but  for  the 


TRADITIONS  OP  TIROL,  415 

blithesome  Saale,  which  leaps  merrily  beside  us  over  the  great  boulders  of 
rock  that  obstruct  its  course,  and  babbles  bravely  as  it  goes,  as  if  to  shew 
that  for  all  its  running  it  is  not  out  of  breath.  Closer  grow  the  rocks, 
narrower  the  way,  and  once  more  we  pass  through  a  doorway  in  nature's 
walls ;  this  is  the  Knie  Pass,  fortified  by  the  Prince-bishop  of  Salzburg 
in  the  Thirty  Years  War.  More  bold  rock- work,  and  then  we  come 
upon  Unken,  which  is  not  unlike  Lofers,  but  that  it  is  higher  placed, 
and  more  closely  in-girt  with  mountains.  It  has,  too,  a  somewhat 
analogous  legend  to  that  of  the  three  sisters :  this  one  is  the  history 
of  three  brothers.  Do  you  see  those  three  sharp-pointed  peaks  I — Well, 
which?  there  is  such  a  lot  of  sharp-pointed  peaks.*— Why,  those  three, 
there,  that  look  so  black,  and  stand  so  stiff  and  stark  against  th^ 
sky :  those  are  the  Drei  Bru(ki\  At  Reut — a  little  Hausergruppe, 
which  you  may  or  may  not  have  noticed  across  the  river  on  your 
right  as  you  entered  the  Knie  Pass — there  once  lived  three  brothers, 
who  devoted  themselves  to  chamois  hunting  to  the  neglect  of  everything 
else.  At  least,  the  two  elder  ones  did.  The  youngest  did  not  care 
so  much  about  it,  but  his  brothers  were  always  at  him  to  mak^ 
)iim  come  with  them.  At  last,  one  Sunday,  they  over-persuaded  him, 
and  away  they  went  together  long  before  break  of  day — so  early,  that 
they  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  Wand  before  the  sun  himself. 
Suddenly,  as  they  moved  stealthily  about  st;ilking  their  game,  the  fin^ 
clear  tones  of  the  church  bell  of  Unken  pierced  through  the  air,  singing, 
'Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena!'  'It  rings  to  prayer,  brothers,'  said  the 
youngest;  'let  us  go  down.'  But  his  words  were  lost  in  the  air  like 
the  warning  of  the  holy  bell,  and  the  brothers  clomb  their  way  yet 
higher  after  the  track  of  their  game.  Presently  the  fresh  morning  air 
once  more  came  charged  with  the  sound  of  the  holy  bell.  '  Brothers,  it 
rings  to  Mass,'  said  the  Bursch  who  had  spoken  before ;  '  let  us  go  down.' 
'  The  bleating  of  the  little  Gemaen  is  better  music  than  the  Church  Mass,' 
said  his  profane  companions,  and  they  continued  to  pursue  their  sport* 
The  youngest  brother's  heart  beat  the  drum  to  the  treble  chimes  of  tb4» 
church-bell,  but  the  warning  sound  was  silent  again ;  but  that  was  poor 
comfort,  for  he  knew  the  holy  Office  had  begun,  and  now  it  was  no 
longer  time.  The  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead,  and  when  the  report 
of  his  brothers'  stutzen  resounded  through  the  mountains,  it  seemed  like 
a  fearful  voice  proclaiming  their  doom*  Another  voice  came,  it  was  the 
bell  of  Unken  Church  once  more,  not  now  sounding  out  a  quick  and 
jocund  succession  of  sounds,  but  with  its  deep  and  solemn  '  Holy  1  Holy  I 
Holy!'  proclaiming  loud  to  Heaven  and  earth  that  the  Wandlung  was 
accomplished.  'Brothers!  it  rings  the  Wandlung T  sobbed  the  terror- 
stricken  Bursch  in  wild  despair.  '  Silence,  fool !'  exclaimed  the  others ; 
'hunting  is  iiner  than  kneeling  at  Mass,  any  day!' — What  was  that! 
It  was  not  the  echo  of  the  stutzen  this  time,  for  no  game  was  near. 
Again  louder  and  louder  the  thunder  pealed,  the  angry  clouds  bore 
down  upon  thcni  like  ships  of  war  pouring  out  their  broadsides;  with 


416  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

fearful  roar  and  clatter  the  lightning  danced  its  maniac  dance  around 
them,  and  they  could  not  escape  from  the  charmed  circle.  When  the 
storm  was  spent,  and  the  blue  sky  once  more  serene,  there,  where  the 
people  of  Unken  as  they  went  in  to  Mass  bad  seen  the  three  brothers 
standing,  were  the  three  stark,  sharp-pointed,  black  peaks. 

I  thought  it  was  hard  the  youngest  brother  should  have  been  involved 
in  the  same  fate  as  his  brothers ;  but  if  he  found  favour  it  must  have 
been  in  Purgatory,  for  there  stand  the  Drei  BrUder,  all  equally  stark, 
sharp,  and  black. 

Another  peak,  interesting  to  climbers,  but  about  which  I  could  not 
find  any  legend,  is  the  Sontagshom — ^though  the  name  seems  to  suggest 
that  it  has  one — ^which  is  visited  from  Unken. 

After  Unken  the  valley  narrows  rapidly,  and  carries  us  through  the 
Stein  Pass,  another  oft-fortified  oft-contested  position :  we  pursue  our 
way  a  short  distance  through  it,  and  then  we  are  out  of  Salzburg  soil. 
But  only  for  a  little  space,  and  the  Bavarian  Lion  on  the  inn-sign  at 
MeUeck,  where  we  halt,  symbolizes  the  fact ;  as  does  another  Mauthaus, 
where  the  Austrian  and  Bavarian  customs  officers  are  content  to  abide 
peaceably  under  the  same  roof;  but  having  taken  the  precaution  to  have 
the  Austrian  seal  put  on  our  luggage,  we  have  nothing  to  trouble  them 
with,  but  a  slight  inspection  to  make  sure  the  seals  are  intact.  While 
the  postilion  is  making  his  preparations  for  the  steep  ascent  before  us, 
we  have  time  to  study  the  beautiful  mountain  prospect ;  and  indeed  this 
strip  of  Bavarian  territory  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  stretches  of  our 
route.  Then  we  start  again,  and  toil  up  the  slope  which  culminates  in 
the  great  Gebersberg  on  our  right,  having  lefl  the  poor  straggling  hamlet 
of  Schnurzelreit  some  time  befoi*e  on  our  left.  The  next  incident  is  a 
road  running  into  ours  at  a  right  angle  on  the  left ;  it  is  the  means  of 
communication  of  this  part  of  Bavaria  with  the  capital,  now  only  in  use  as 
far  as  the  railway  station  of  Traunstein.*  Further  on  is  a  pretty  little  piece 
of  water,  dignified  with  the  name  of  the  Thumsee ;  and  for  some  distance 
we  have  a  view  of  the.  pipes  for  conveying  the  brine  of  ReichenhaU  to 
be  converted  into  salt  at  Traunstein  and  Rosenheim,  about  one  hundred 
and  filly  miles,  f  There  is  something  grand  in  the  loftiness  of  these 
constructions,  and  the  manner  in  which  they  cling  to  the  rugged  rocks ; 
but  it  is  impossible  not  to  institute  invidious  comparisons  between  them 
and  the  aqueducts  Rome  would  have  built  More  in  character  with  the 
scene  and  the  locality  is  the  ruined  castle  and  alpine  church  of  Karlstein, 
under  which  we  pass,  and  again  on  the  left — for  on  the  right  is  nothing 
but  the  bold  rise  of  the  Gebersberg — ^shortly  after  rejoining  the  line  of 
the  Saale,  which  we  quitted  after  leaving  Lofers. 

*  An  uninteresting  little  town,  not  to  be  confased  with  the  mountain  called 
Traonstein  in  the  Salzkammergut,  which  we  shall  visit  later. 

t  These  were  originally  constracted  in  part  becanse  it  was  easier  to  conyey  the 
salt  in  this  form  into  the  centre  of  the  country  than  after  its  conversion,  and  partly 
on  account  of  the  facilities  afforded  by  neighbouring  forests  for  obtaining  fuel  for 
boiling  it. 


THE  WHITE  MAK,  417 

The  road  now  descends  to  Beicfaenball,  a  basy  town,  with  engineering 
works  and  furnace  chimneys,  and  gigantic  stacks  of  fagots  and  logs,  all 
belon^ng  to  the  salt-works — ^which  are  here  of  a  most  flourishing 
description,  and  amply  supplied  by  the  rich  salt-springs  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood ;  but  we  must  not  be  drawn  aside,  however  attractive  the 
exploration  might  prove.  We  are  hardly  out  of  sight  of  Reichenhall 
before  we  see  the  Monastery  of  S.  Zeno,  suppressed  by  Joseph  IL,  but 
the  building  is  well  maintained  as  a  girl's  school ;  the  church,  an  ancient 
foundation,  has  some  remarkable  early  sculptured  monuments.  Once 
more  the  road  strikes  away  from  the  line  of  the  Saale,  and  we  are  again 
in  Austrian  Salzburg,  though  it  is  more  than  an  hour  before  we  reach 
the  metropolitan  city ;  and  as  there  is  nothing  particularly  to  attract  our 
attention  in  our  immediate  surroundings,  we  can  study  the  fantastic 
outline  of  the  mysterious  ^  Wunderberg '  as  it  rises  above  Reichenhall,  or 
look  out  for  the  noble  eminence  with  castle-crowned  crest,  and  all  the 
spires  and  domes,  of  Salzburg,  round  which  the  great  Noric  Alps  seem 
to  stand  on  guard,  and  form  a  crown  of  glory. 

(To  be  conUnutd,)  B.  H.  B. 


THE  WHITE  MAN. 

A  WORK  OF  PEACE  IN  THE  TIME  OP  WAR. 

During  the  terrible  war  which  is  now  desolating  Europe,  we  hear 
frequent  mention  made  of  the  Geneva  Convention,  and  of  the  heroic  and 
self-denying  efforts  of  the  Knights  of  St.  John.  An  account  of  the 
origin  of  this  benevolent  Convention  wiU  probably  interest  our  readers 
at  this  period. 

The  bloody  day  of  the  Battle  of  Solferino,  24th  June,  1859,  was 
drawing  to  a  close.  Thousands  and  thousands  of  dead  bodies  covered 
the  wide  battle-field,  while  the  heart-rending  cries  of  agony  from  the 
wounded  rent  the  air.  The  survivors  and  the  uninjured  are  also  in  a 
terrible  position ;  for  whole  battalions  are  entirely  destitute  of  provisions, 
water  is  nowhere  to  be  had.  A  poor  T^rolese,  lying  close  to  the 
bivouac  of  some  French  Hussars,  entreats  for  a  di*ink  of  water,  but  they 
have  not  a  drop  more,  and  he  must  miserably  perish  of  thirst:  next 
morning,  alas!  he  is  found  dead,  his  lips  covered  with  foam,  and  his 
mouth  filled  with  earth.  The  silence  and  darkness  of  night  sink  down 
over  all  these  scenes  of  hon*or  and  anguish. 

And  more  dreadful  still  is  the  dawn  of  the  ensuing  day»  when  the  sun 
pours  his  fiery  beams  over  this  field  of  death  and  indescribable  wretched- 
ness. What  tortures  await  the  poor  wounded  in  this  heat!  and  no 
cooling  drink  to  refresh  them,  nothing  but  a  little  brackish  and  unwhole- 
some water  to  quench  their  thirst.    Added  to  this,  the  atmosphere  was 


418  TH5  MOinPHXiT  PACKET. 

poisoned  by  the  numbers  of  f^orpses,  wbicb  it  required  three  days  ^nd 
nigiits  fo  bury.  The  ambulance  waggons,  too,  came  very  slowly  to  tako 
the  wounded  to  Castiglione;  whence  they  were  to  be  conveyed  to  tho 
hospitals  of  Brescia,  Cremona,  Hcrgamo,  find  Milan,  to  have  their  wounds 
dressed  and  their  limbs  amputated.  It  was  a  very  long  time  before  all 
eouid  be  removed,  and  the  transport  w^as  most  tedious  and  painful.  The 
Ifiumbcr  of  wounded  was  so  much  larger  than  had  been  expected,  that 
|he  most  necessary  means  of  relief,  as  well  as  sufficient  attendnnts, 
were  wanting.  Even  when  the  poor  fellows  arrived  at  places  where 
provisions,  water,  lint,  &c.,  were  to  he  had  in  abundance,  still  a  large 
number  of  (hem  had  to  hunger  and  thirst,  because  there  were  not  hands 
enough  to  feed  them  and  bind  up  their  wounds. 

How  awful  were  the  three  days  that  followed  that  battle!  The 
wounds  of  the  wretched  victims  of  war  were  poisoned  by  the  heat  and 
dust,  and  aggravated  for  lack  of  dressing :  hundreds  died ;  and  man3% 
horrible  to  relate,  were  hastily  buried  alive  with  the  dead.  The  Lombard 
peasants  plundered  the  wounded  and  dead  in  the  most  cruel  and  ruthless 
manner.  A  French  regiment,  who  hiid  left  their  knapsacks  behind, 
that  they  might  the  easier  scale  the  heights  of  Solferino,  found  them, 
next  dny,  on  their  return,  completely  empty ;  everything  had  been  stolen 
during  the  night,  their  linen  and  uniform,  all  their  little  fortune,  and 
those  tokens  of  affection  which  recalled  their  family  and  their  country, 
given  them  by  their  mothers,  sisters,  or  betrotiied. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  scenes  of  horror  might  be  seen  the  figure  of  a 
young  man,  going  hither  and  thither  and  performing  the  office  of  the  Good 
Samaritan;  he  is  called  by  the  soldiers  *The  White  Man,'  because  he 
dressed  completely  in  white.  He  is  a  Swiss,  who  has  been  stopped 
while  on  a  pleasure  tour  by  the  war,  has  witnessed  the  battle,  and  now 
cannot  leave  the  spot  because  the  misery  around  rivets  him  to  it.  As 
he  goes  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  jug  of  water  and  some  lint  for 
several  days  after  the  battle,  he  is  everywhere  welcomed  as  a  benefactor, 
60  deficient  were  the  arrangements  for  the  care  of  the  wounded  in  the 
victorious  army  of  the  nation  which  boasts  of  being  the  most  warlike  on 
the  earth.  Our  brave  Genevese— his  name  Henri  Dunant — is  liow 
known  throughout  Europe ;  gives  himself  soul  and  body  to  his  noble 
work,  and  presses  all  he  can  lay  hold  of  into  his  service.  When  all  the 
wounded  were  removed  from  the  field  of  battle,  M.  Dunant  transferred 
his  benevolent  labours  to  Castiglione,  where,  on  the  floors  of  the  hospitals 
and  churches,  men  of  all  nations — ^French  and  Arabs,  Germans  and 
Slaves^-were  laid  side  by  side.  Oaths,  blasphemies,  and  cries,  which  defy 
description,  resounded  through  the  vaulted  roofs  of  these  sanctuaries. 

'Ah,  Sir,  how  I  suffer!'  said  one  of  these  unfortunate  men  to  M. 
Dunant;  they  abandon  us,  they  leave  us  to  perish  miserably;  and  yet 
surely  we  fought  very  well.*  Notwithstanding  the  fatigues  they  had 
suffered,  and  the  sleepless  nights  they  had  passed,  yet  rest  would  not 
vi.sit  them ;  in  their  distress  they  implored  the  help  of  a  surgeon,  or 


THE  WHITE  MAN.  ^19 

rolled  with  despair  in  conTuI&ions  which  termiaated  in  lock-jaw  and 
death.  Dunant  contrived  as  speedily  as  possible  to  get  possession  of  a 
church  to  serve  as  a  hospital ;  here  five  hundred  soldiers  ^vere  laid,  and 
one  hundred  more  on  straw  outside,  covered  with  an  awning  to  protect 
(hem  from  the  sun ;  good  women,  many  of  them  young  and  beautiful, 
lyent  from  one  to  the  other  with  pure  water,  to  quench  t|ieir  thirst  and 
wash  their  wounds.  Tlien  soup  w}is  distributed  in  large  quantities. 
Great  bales  of  lint  were  brought  in,  which  could  be  used  ad  I'lhitum. 
*  Many  recruits,'  says  M.  Dununt,  'had  been  meanwhile  made  for  the 
good  work;  an  old  naval  oflicer,  and  two  English  tourists,  who  wishing 
to  see  everything  had  come  into  the  church,  were  almost  forcibly 
retained ;  two  other  Englishmen,  on  the  contrary,  from  the  first  shewed 
(heir  desire  to  4id  us.  They  distributed  cigars  among  the  Au^trians. 
^n  Italian  abbe,  three  or  four  travellers,  a  newspaper  editor  from  PariS| 
and  some  officers  who  had  received  orders  to  remain  at  Castiglionev  lent 
their  assistance.  But  many  of  our  volunteer  helpers  left  us  in  succession, 
unable  to  endure  the  sight  of  sufferings  which  they  could  so  feebly  alleviate. 
^  young  French  tourist,  oppressed  by  the  sight  of  these  living  wrecks, 
suddenly  burst  into  tears.  A  merchant  of  Neuchatel  devoted  two  days 
to  dressing  wounds,  and  to  writing  farewell  letters  for  the  dying  to  their 
relations.  A  young  corporal  of  twenty  years  of  age,  with  a  sweet  and 
expressive  countenance,  had  received  a  ball  in  his  left  side;  his  state 
^ave  no  room  for  hope,  and  he  knew  it  himself ;  after  I  had  helped  him 
io  drink,  he  thanked  me,  and  added,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  "  Oh  Sir, 
if  you  would  only  write  to  my  father,  and  ask  him  to  console  my  mother  !*' 
I  took  the  address  of  his  parents,  and  a  few  moments  after  he  had 
ceased  to  breathe.  An  old  sergeant  who  had  several  decorations,  said 
to  me  with  deep  sadness,  with  an  air  of  conviction  and  cold  bitterness, 
'*  If  they  had  attended  to  me  sooner  I  should  have  lived,  whereas  now 
this  evening  I  shall  be  dead !"  His  prediction  was  only  too  true.  "  I 
\vill  not  die!  I  will  not  die!"  vociferated  with  ferocious  energy  a 
grenadier  of  the  guard,  who  had  been  full  of  strength  and  vigour  a  few 
days  before ;  but  who,  mortally  wounded,  and  feeling  tliat  his  moments 
were  numbered,  was  combating  this  dark  certainty :  I  speak  to  him,  h^ 
listens  to  me ;  and  this  man,  softened,  appeased,  consoled,  at  last  resigns 
himself  to  die  with  the  simplicity  and  candour  of  a  child.  Fatigue, 
want  of  food  and  rest,  morbid  excitement,  and  fear  of  dying  without 
help,  developed  even  among  the  most  intrepid  soldiers  a  nervous  sensibility 
which  gave  vent  in  groans  and  sobs.  One  of  their  dominant  thoughtf*, 
when  they  are  not  suffering  too  cruelly,  is  the  recollection  of  their 
mother,  and  the  apprehension  of  the  grief  which  she  will  experience  on 
learning  their  fate.  The  body  of  a  young  man  was  found  who  had  the 
portrait  of  an  elderly  woman,  doubtless  of  his  mother,  hung  round  hi^ 
peck ;  with  his  left  hand  he  seemed  to  be  pressing  this  miniature  to  his 
heart.  Among  the  Austrian  wounded  the  scenes  were  still  more  hearts 
rending.     One  young  man,  of  twenty,  attracts  the  attention  of  all ;  he 


420  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

is  a  prey  to  fever^  and  his  hair  is  quite  white ;  both  his  comrades  and 
himself  af&rm  that  it  changed  on  the  day  of  the  battle/ 

After  Dunant  had  established  some  order  in  the  hospitals  at  Castiglione, 
he  proceeded  to  Brescia,  where  meanwhile  the  hospital  service  was 
tolerably  well  organized,  but  where  many  comforts  and  little  luxuries 
were  wanting,  tobacco  especially,  the  smoke  of  which  is  so  beneficial  in 
overcoming  the  mephitic  odours  of  the  overcrowded  churches  and 
hospitals.  In  the  company  of  a  benevolent  merchant,  he  supplied  the 
churches  and  hospitals  with  pipes  and  tobacco.  Here  noble  men  and 
women  joined  him.  But  their  number  was  far  too  small,  and  they  had 
neither  skill  nor  experience  in  their  work.  It  is  a  fact  that  during  the 
first  week,  when  the  surgeons  shook  their  heads  and  said,  ^  Nothing  more 
can  be  done  here,'  no  more  trouble  was  taken  about  those  patients  who 
were  lefl  to  their  fate — that  is,  to  death.  Others  died  without  being  able  to 
obtain  the  letters  from  home  which  were  lying  for  them  at  the  post-office, 
the  attendants  positively  refusing  their  earnest  requests  to  fetch  them. 

The  '  white  man,'  af^er  weeks  of  benevolent  work  among  the  dying 
and  wounded,  returned  to  Geneva ;  and  three  years  after  he  published  his 
recollections  of  the  time,  under  the  title  of  ^  Un  Souvenir  de  Solferino,'  at 
first  privately  for  circulation  among  his  friends,  and  then  publicly. 
Dunant  speaks  with  great  modesty  of  his  own  work;  and  when  he  does  so 
at  all,  it  is  evidently  with  the  object  of  inducing  others  to  do  the  same. 
*  Would  it  not  be  possible,'  he  inquires,  '  to  establish  in  times  of  peace, 
associations  of  volunteers  whose  object  would  be  to  attend  to  the 
wounded  in  time  of  war,  to  help  the  army  surgeons  on  the  battle-field 
and  in  the  hospitals?'  For  this  Dunant  intreated — ^his  book  and  his 
earnest  appeal  were  not  without  efiect. 

The  ^  Societe  d'Utilit^  Publique'  of  Geneva  took  up  the  matter  on  the 
9th  of  February,  1863.  General  Dupin  became  president  of  a  committee 
for  carrying  out  this  object  On  the  11th  of  September  it  issued  an 
invitation  for  an  international  Conference,  which  met  on  the  26th  of 
October,  and  at  which  France,  England,  Itnly,  Holland,  Russia,  Sweden, 
Switzerland,  Prussia,  Austria,  Bavaria,  Hanover,  Wurtemburg,  Baden, 
Saxony,  Hesse  Darmstadt,  and  the  Knights  of  the  Order  of  S.  John, 
were  represented.  It  was  decided  to  establish  a  committee  in  each  of 
these  countries  for  the  sanitary  service  of  the  army  in  time  of  war,  the 
duty  of  which  was  to  provide  material  means  of  assistance,  and  enroll 
volunteers  to  attend  on  the  wouaded  and  support  the  official  authorities. 
The  wish  was  also  expressed  that  belligerent  powers  should  proclaim  the 
neutrality  of  all  hospitals  both  on  the  field  and  in  the  towns,  as  well  as 
of  the  sick  and  their  attendants. 

The  proposals  of  the  Conference  at  once  received  the  official  acceptance 
of  several  states,  and  the  outbreak  of  the  war  between  Denmark  and 
Germany  quickly  realized  their  beneficial  effects.  A  central  Committee 
was  formed  in  Berlin,  which  was  soon  in  complete  activity:  158  volunteer 
attendants  to  the  wounded,  40  male  and  118  female,  were  despatched  to 


THE  WHITE  MAN.  421 

the  seat  of  war,  where  they  rendered  the  most  yaluable  assistance,  and 
were  the  means  of  alleviating  much  suffering,  and  of  saving  many  lives. 
Whilst  Danant's  ideas  were  being  so  nobly  realized  on  the  battle  fields 
of  Schleswig-Holstein,  the  Swiss  Government,  at  the  request  of  the 
Geneva  Committee,  on  the  6th  of  June,  1864,  invited  all  the  civilized 
powers  to  an  international  Congress  at  Geneva.  This  sat  from  the  8th 
to  the  12th  of  August:  sixteen  states  were  represented  at  it,  but  not  the 
same  as  in  1868.  Austria  and  Bavaria,  the  German  Bund  and  the 
Papal  States,  refused  to  attend;  Great  Britain,  Saxony,  Sweden,  and  the 
United  States,  sent  representatives,  but  gave  them  no  powers  to  negociate. 
However,  the  representatives  of  the  twelve  States  of  France,  Prussia, 
Baden,  Belgium,  Denmark,  Spain,  Hesse  Darmstadt,  Italy,  Holland, 
Portugal,  Switzerland,  and  Wurtemburg,  signed  an  international 
Convention,  which  was  afterwards  ratified  by  their  respective  Govern- 
ments. Through  this  all  ambulances  and  military  hospitals  which 
contained  sick  or  wounded  were  declared  neutral,  as  well  as  all  persons 
who  were  employed  in  them,  attending  on  or  transporting  the  wounded, 
including  the  chaplains.  All  inhabitants  of  the  country  who  hasten  to 
the  help  of  the  wounded  are  to  be  respected,  and  considered  free ;  in 
every  house  in  which  a  wounded  man  is  received  and  taken  care  of,  he 
is  to  serve  as  a  protection,  so  that  its  inhabitants  are  to  be  exempt  from 
billeting  and  from  paying  war  contributions.  Wounded  and  sick  soldiers 
are  to  be  received  and  tended,  irrespective  of  the  nation  to  which  they 
belong;  those  incapacitated  for  service  are  when  convalescent  to  be 
dismissed  to  their  homes,  but  under  the  condition  that  they  are  not  to 
take  up  arms  again  during  the  continuance  of  the  war. 

Miss  Nightingale,  whose  name  is  so  well  known  since  the  Crimean 
War,  wrote  as  follows  to  M.  Dunant  on  the  subject  of  his  plan. 

Claydon,  Bucks.,  Jan.  14th,  1863. 

Miss  Nightingale  read  attentively,  and  with  nreat  interest,  the  horrible 
account  of  the  battles  written  by  Monsieur  Henri  Dunant;  she  says  it  is  only 
too  faithful  a  representation. 

She  entertains  no  doubt  iivith  regard  to  M.  Dunant's  proposal.  .  .  . 

A.  uniform  and  easily  recognized  flag  is  to  hang  over  all  hospitals  and 
ambulances,  and  a  band  round  the  arm  to  be  worn  by  every  neutral 
person  connected  with  this  service.  Both  flag  and  band  consist  of  a  red 
cross  on  a  white  ground. 

In  Germany  alone,  no  less  than  eighty^five  societies  were  formed  early 
in  1866,  in  connection  with  the  central  one  in  Berlin.  In  time  of  peace 
they  have  rendered  assistance  during  infectious  epidemics,  floods,  and 
conflagrations.  But  the  great  and  noble  work  which  they  performed 
during  the  short  and  bloody  war  of  1866  in  Germany,  and  are  now  so 
heroically  accomplishing  on  the  ghastly  battle  fields  of  France,  will  live 
for  ever  in  the  annals  of  Christian  benevolence  and  self-sacrifice. 

JijfEs  F.  Cobb. 


422  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


PALLAS  DE  VELLETEL 

(September,  1870.) 

While  sharp  throes  shake,  and  shuddering  tremors  freeze 

The  white-wnlled  city  and  her  pahices, 

Her  careless  folk  that  chatted  at  their  wine 

Beside  the  fountains  that  no  longer  shine. 

Who  watch  the  hours  slide  by  them,  and  the  suns. 

Before  their  doom  is  roared  by  German  guns; 

Meseems  again  within  the  Louvre  I  stand, 

Where  marble  Pallas  lifts  her  warning  hand. 

And  hear  the  words  those  parted  lips  would  speak, 

As  hear  we  must,  were  not  our  ears  too  weak. 

Have  T  not  warned  Jrou  ?  so  she  seems  to  say, 
Have  J  fiot  pleaded  plain  as  marble  may? 
So  have  I  apoken,  since  in  Grecian  land 
The  dream  my  poet  dreamt,  the  truth  he  scanned^ 
Lay  visible  in  marble,  to  the  ken 
Of  each  beholder  in  a  world  of  men. 
But  who  of  all  that  saw  me,  cared  to  stay 
But  for  one  hour  to  learn  what  I  would  say, 
I^or  quit  me  for  some  slight  nymph  carved  afresh. 
Whose  message  was  not  to  the  soul,  but  flesh? 
Lo,  I  have  spoken,  and  ye  would  not  hear : 
And  therefore  now,  behold,  the  end  draws  near : 
My  end,  perchance:  and  so  my  voice  I  lift 
Once  more  in  face  of  woe  that  comeih  swift, 
For  ye  may  find  me  shattered  on  the  floor, 
When  once  the  Prussian  guns  have  ceased  to  roar. 

I  hid  you  leave  your  lust  of  henpen  gold. 

Of  silkeh  robt^s,  soft  beds,  and  lands  untold 

To  grasp  the  iwbler  glory  and  the  ease 

Of  men  who  dare  be  great  with  none  of  these. 

I  bid  you  yield  the  things  of  low  desire, 

To  spurn  the  baser  life  and  choose  the  higher ; 

I  bid  you  vanquish  all  that  drags  you  down, 

To  barter  human  lifi^  for  tinsel  Crown  ; 

I  bid  you,  as  I  bade  old  Greece  and  Rome, 

Be  strong  for  truth  and  fatherland  and  home ; 

I  bid  you  seek  to  stand  in  harmony 

With  that  High  Will  that  moulds  all  things  that  be; 

And  when  your  time  shall  come,  I  bid  you  die. 

Without  complaint,  or  tears,  or  vain  reply ; 

But  on  this  matter  sufely  ye  should  know 

Mofe  truth  than  Pagan  Pallas.     Be  it  so. 

Yet  though  I  fall,  and  though  ye  fall  with  me, 
Know  that  the  coming  years  shall  surely  see 


HINTS  ON  KEADIKa.  428 

The  working  of  that  wisdom  plainly  shewn, 

Whereof  I  am  the  marble  type  alone. 

For  through  all  time  it  works,  and  all  event ; 

Though  Faris  fall  like  Rome,  and  thrones  be  rent, 

And  armies  clash,  and  human  fibres  bleed, 

And  earth  turn  hell  through  harsh  and  bloody  deed ; 

Yet  in  the  far-oif  future,  silver-pale 

Glimmers  a  dawn  whose  promise  shall  not  fail, 

When  men  forget  their  own  in  others*  bliss. 

Nor  envy  happier  folk  for  joys  they  miss, 

Nor  sell  men's  souls  for  greed  and  think  no  shamey 

Nor  count  men's  lives  of  lesser  worth  than  fame. 

Thereto  One  works  through  dread  and  strange  behest, 

That  men  may  learn  His  Wisdom — which  is  best. 

Mart  Bbamston. 


HINTS   ON  READING. 

Another  of  Miss  Sewell's  wise  and  well-considered  boAks,  Thoughts  for  the  A<je, 
(Longmans,')  will,  we  are  sure,  be  valued  by  mnny  who  want  ^ruidance  in  the 
numerous  questions  of  right  and  wrong  that  come  before  every  thoughtful  person  in 
these  days. 

Mr.  Macmillnn's  Sunday  Library  continues  its  useful  course.  Miss  Keary's 
Nations  Around  is  an  adminible  compilation — full  of  picturesque  interest  of  the  most 
recent  discoveries  respecting?  the  history  of  the  ancient  Ejjyptians,  Phoenicians, 
Syrians,  Assyrians,  and  Persians,  so  far  as  they  came  in  contact  with  the  Israelites. 
The  portion  that  treats  of  the  siege  of  Jerusalem  is  specially  vivid  and  interesting. 
And  this  volume  has  been  followed  by  St.  Anse/in,  by  the  Rev.  R.  W.  Church — one 
of  the  most  interesting  biographies  we  have  ever  read,  filling  those  mediseval  time^ 
with  life  and  individuality. 

The  Rev.  J.  \V.  Blunt*s  account  of  The  English  BiUe,  (Rivingtons,)  is  well  worth 
Atudy,  now  that  the  minds  of  the  uninstrncted  may  he  in  danger  of  being  unsettled 
as  to  the  importance  of  the  criticisms  on  our  translation  about  to  be  made  by  the 
Revision  Committee. 

Lady  Barker's  Station  Life  in  New  Zealand  is  not  only  delightfully  animated  and 
amusing,  but  shews  the  great  means  for  good  that  lie  in  the  hands  of  a  right-minded 
lady,  who  refuses  to  acquiesce  in  the  public  opinion  that  decides  that  exertions  for 
the  benefit  of  any  class  are  of  *  no  use.*  Would  that  all  colonists  had  her  sense  of 
duty  I 

The  Rev.  W.  IIeygate*8  Poems  we  recommend  to  those  who  love  fo  animate  theif 
history  with  poetry ;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  NeviKs  volume,  to  those  who  love  a  collection 
of  tender  and  thoughtful  religious  poetry. 

The  speciality  of  the  choice  little  volume  of  poetical  remains  of  the  Rev.  S. 
Ricknrds,  is  the  verses  upon  wild  flowers,  which  will  be  a  treasure  to  those  wha 
follow  the  pretty  fashion  of  providing  their  herbariums  with  mottoes. 

Unawares^  by  F.  M.  P.,  (Smith  and  Elder,)  is  a  charming  picture  of  French 
country  town  life,  with  a  very  noble  hero  Hud  engaging  heroine. 

Aunt  Judy  has  iHtely  had  n  capital  story  called  *  Walter  James,  or  the  Lost 
Name  Restored  ; '  and  the  main  tale,  *  Kirstin's  Adventures,'  keeps  up  its  originality 
and  interest. 

The  Churchman'8  Companion  has,  to  our  great  relief,  finished  thnt  strange 
exaggerated  story.  Omnia  Vincit  Amor^  and  begun  two  much  more  rational  ones, 
of  which  *  Slowthorpe*  promises  to  be  practical  and  excellent.  The  bent  story  it  has 
had  for  a  long  time  past  is  in  this  volume,  and  conveys  an  awful  lesson  rgainst 
ofT-hand  carelessness,  conveyed  with  a  simple  reality  of  narration  that  renders  it 
both  touching  and  terrible. 


424  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


Notices  to  Cobbespondbnts. 

No  J/5,  cem  b€  returned  unhas  the  Author's  name  and  addrese  be  written  on  it,  and 
Mtampe  be  tent  with  it, 

Contributunu  must  often  be  delayed  for  want  of  space,  but  their  writers  may  be  assured 
that  when  room  can  be  found  they  shall  appear. 

In  the  May  manber  of  *The  Monthlj  Packet,'  F.  L.  asks  where  to  find  the  line — 

*  The  light  that  never  waa  on  sea  or  shore.* 

It  is  in  Wordsworth*s  Elegiac  Stanzas,  suggested  by  a  picture  ofPeele  Castle  in  a  Storm, 
painted  by  Sir  George  Beaumont     The  verse  in  which  Hie  Une  occurs  is 

'  Ahl  then^  If  mine  had  been  the  painter's  hand. 

To  express  what  then  I  saw ;  and  add  the  gleam. 
The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land, 
The  oonsecration,  and  the  poet's  dream.* 

E.  a.  B.  begs  to  know  if  anyone  could  tell  her;  where  to  procure  the  music  of  a  hymn 
that  was  sung  by  the  sailors  on  board  a  sinking  ship.    She  forgets  the  title,  but  remembers 

that  one  line  is — 

*Ii0ne,  lone  Is  the  deep.* 

•  

— The  request  does  not  sound  like  a  very  hopeful  one.     We  hope  some  Correspondent  may 
be  able  to  answer. 

T.  L.  C. — Bits  from  a  Note  Book  are  by  the  author  of  Meditations  on  the  Collects 
and  Sketches  of  Irish  Life.  T.  L.  C.  wi/l  be  glad  to  hear  that  she  has  many  more  such 
*  hits '  m  reserve, 

mitu^Hymn  78,  Rev.  G.  H.  Smyltan;  133,  Rev.  R  W,  Kyle;  180,  Rev.  F.  A. 
Baker,  (15'65);  237,  Rev.  Sir  H.  W.  Baker;  244,  an  ancient  Latin  hymn,  translated 
by  Dr,  Neale.  Of  the  other  three  from  the  Appendix  to  Hymns  Ancient  and  Modem, 
860,  338,  875,  perhaps  som^torre^ndent  can  give  the  authors, 

A  Parish  Priest  would  be  glad  to  receive  some  hints  relative  to  the  foundation  and 
conduct  of  Bible  and  Prayer-book  dosses.  He  would  also  like  to  know  what  Tales  have 
been  found  best  adapted  for  reading  to  boys  from  twelve  to  sixteen  years  old  in  the  Night' 
schools  of  agricultural  parishes. 

B.  H.^ask  desires  her  thanks  to  A.  Swinburne  for  the  interesting  particulars  of  the 
defence  of  Schamitz,  It  is  a  plecuure  indeed  to  meet  with  the  corroborative  testimony  of 
one  forming  a  living  link  with  the  pious  and  heroic  souls,  the  long  study  of  whose  traditions 
has  already  created  for  her  an  ideal  companionship  with  them, 

J.  E.  M.—  We  believe  that  the  address  to  The  Mother  Superior,  St.,Michaers  Home, 
Shoreditch,  is  sure  to  find  her. 

The  Rev.  James  MakoUnson  begs  to  acknowledge,  with  many  tJianks,  £2  from 
Eatheles,  (Bp.  C.,)  and  5s.  from  E.  M.  Arrowsmith,  yor  St.  Luke's,  Deptford. 


John  and  Charles  Mozley,  Prbiters,  Derby. 


THE 

MONTHLY    PACKET 

OF 

EVENING    READINGS 


NOVEMBER,   1870. 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OP  DANTE. 

The  tliirty-third  Canto  opens  wilh  tlio  story  told  to  Dante  by  Connt 
Ugolino  della  Gherardesca,  of  the  lamentable  death  of  himself  and  his 
sons  at  the  hands  of  their  civil  foes.  He  was  a  Pisan  noble  of  the 
Guelfic  party,  who  in  company  with  the  Archl)ishop  Ruggieri  expelled 
his  sister's  son,  Nino  de*  Visconti,  (already  referred  to  in  the  twenty- 
second  Canto,)  from  Pisa,  and  deposed  him  from  the  judgeship  of  Gallura 
in  Sardinia.  This  he  did  not  openly,  to  avoid  the  discredit  of  such 
treachery;  but  first  made  all  the  needful  arrangements,  and  then  retired 
from  Pisa,  awaiting  Nino's  expulsion  ;  after  which  he  returned  and 
assumed  the  chief  power.  But  in  time  his  popularity  diminished,  and 
thereupon  the  Archbishop  in  his  turn  plotted  against  him,  and  persuading 
the  people  that  he  had  been  biibed  to  betray  certain  fortresses  to  the 
armies  of  Florence  and  Lucca,  attacked  the  Count's  house,  and  with  the 
assistance  of  the  Pisan  mob  and  the  noble  families  mentioned  in  line  32, 
made  him  prisoner,  with  his  two  sons,  Gaddo  and  Uguccione,  and  his 
grandsons,  Anselmuccio  and  Nino  surnamed  Brigata.  The  whole  five 
were  then  confined  in  a  tower  belonging  to  the  Gualandi,  where  the 
eagles  of  the  republic  were  kept  when  moulting ;  and  after  some  months 
were  condemned  to  death  by  a  council  held  hard  by  in  tlie  Church  of 
Saint  Sebastian,  under  the  presidency  of  the  Archbishop,  and  there 
lefl  to  perish  by  hanger.  We  are  told  that  after  eight  days  the  prison 
was  entered,  and  their  bodies  rolled  up  in  the  matting  that  covered  the 
floor,  and  buried  as  they  were,  close  to  the  Church  of  Saint  Francis. 
Their  remains  were  discovered  in  1822,  while  the  pavement  of  the  cloister 
was  being  restored,  and  again  buried  together,  beneath  a  stone  bearing 
the  name  of  Alessandro  Vonnuchi. 

It  is  not  exactly  known  whether  Ugolino  really  betrayed  the  fortresses 
Spoken  of  above:  Dante,  by  placing  him  in  the  second  region  of  the 
circle,  instead  of  the  first,  (whither  his  conduct  to  Nino  would  have 
destined  him,)  apparently  signifies  his  belief  that  he  did;  though  his 
placing  him  there  might  perhaps  be  merely  in  order  to  get  him  within 

VOL.  10.  29  PAUT  59. 


426  THE  MOISTTHLT  FACEST. 

reach  of  bin  enemy,  Ruggieri,  whose  due  plaee  bb  a  betrajtr  of  his  ally 
was  in  the  third  region,  Tolomea.  In  fact,  the  recess  in  which  Dante 
finds  the  two  seems  to  be  on  the  confines  of  Antenora  and  Tolomea, 
about  equally  removed  from  Bocca  degli  Abati  in  the  former,  and  the 
friar  Alberigo  in  the  latter.  It  is  said  also  that  Ugolino  had  murdered 
a  nephew  of  the  Archbishop's ;  and  anyhow  it  will  be  seen  that  he  was 
not  a  man  of  estimable  character,  the  compassion  and  interest  attaching 
to  his  name  being  entirely  derived  from  his  pitiable  fate.  Our  readers 
should  observe  the  contrast  which  this  description  presents  to  that  of 
Francesca  da  Rimini  in  the  fifth  Canto,  when,  in  spite  of  much  similarity, 
the  difierence  of  the  speakers'  characters  makes  itself  thoroughly  felL 
To  take  one  instance  only :  Francesca's  story  is  interrupted  by  Paolo's 
despairing  cry,  and  Dante  faints  through  excess  of  sympathy  for  her ; 
but  Ugolino,  when  he  comes  to  mention  the  extremity  of  his  hunger, 
breaks  off  abruptly,  and  plunges  his  teeth  afresh  into  his  enemy's  head, 
while  Dante's  first  thought  is  not  of  Ugolino  at  all,  but  of  the  exceeding 
wickedness  of  the  Fisans. 

The  introduction  of  Ugolinols  dream  in  lines  26-36,  blending  as  it  doesi 
with  the  others'  unconscious  cry  for  food  in  their  sleep,  is  a  most  fine  and 
artistic  conception  of  the  poet,  to  cast  a  shadow  of  the  future  over  the 
present  anxieties  of  the  captive ;  one  that  as  we  see  by  line  41  he  fully 
realizes.  Nor  can  anything  surpass  the  extreme  pathos  which  pervades 
the  next  forty  lines,  and  reaches  its  climax  in  the  pitiable  spectacle  of 
lines  70-74,  all  the  more  effective  from  the  strong  contrast  it  presents  to 
the  impotent  display  of  revenge  which  follows.  The  phrase  of  line  75  is 
ambiguous,  and  has  been  interpreted  by  some  unlucky  commentators  to 
mean  that  he  then  tried  to  relieve  his  hunger  by  €^ting  his  dead  children, 
an  explanation  which  deservedly  excites  the  anger  of  those  who  interpret 
the  line  to  mean  that  he  then  and  there  died.  For  as  the  latter  point  out, 
we  hear  nothing  of  any  such  discovery  having  been  made  when  the  tower 
was  opened  i  while  poetical  and  physiological  reasons  are  equally  conclusive 
against  it.  The  land  of  si  in  line  80  is  simply  Italy,  though  some  would 
confine  it  to  Tuscany ;  but  the  difference  is  immateriaL  SI  is  the  Italian 
for  yeSj  and  the  phrase  is  parallel  to  the  terms  langue  (T  oc  and  langue 
d'  oil,  used  formerly  to  describe  the  Proven9al  and  French  languages. 
Capraia  and  Gorgona  are  two  small  islands  near  the  mouth  of  the  Arno. 

Then  the  poets  leave  Ugolino  and  pass  on  into  the  third  region,  where 
they  find  the  spirits  lying  face  upwards,  so  that  their  very  eye-balls  are 
frozen.  Here  they  are  addressed  by  the  friar  Alberigo  de'  Manfredi  of 
Faenza,  one  of  the  order  of  Joyous  Friars  already  mentioned  in  the 
twenty-third  Canto.  He  being  at  enmity  with  some  of  his  own  kinsmen, 
feigned  a  reconciliation  with  them,  and  invited  them  to  a  magnificent 
entertainment.  The  bringing  in  of  the  fruit  for  dessert  was  his  pre* 
concerted  signal  for  the  entrance  of  assassins  to  murder  his  guests ;  and 
this  is  why  he  speaks  of  the  ^  fruit  of  the  evil  garden,'  and  adds  that  he 
has  received  a  date  for  his  fig,  that  is,  has  been  repaid  with  interest  for 


THE  DIVIKA  COMMEBIA  OF  DANTE.  42*/ 

his  crime.  The  lines  that  follow  exhibit  another  of  Dante's  ingenious 
contrivances  for  implicating  some  of  those  who  were  still  living  when  he 
wrote,  in  the  prospective  pains  of  helL  Oar  readers  will  remember  the 
mention  of  Pope  Boniface  in  the  nineteenth  Canto ;  but  this  is  a  harder 
hit  stilL  It  is  bad  enough  for  a  man  to  have  people  told  that  he  is 
expected  shortly  to  arrive  at  the  third  gulf  of  the  seventh  circle  of  the 
Inferno :  but  it  cannot  compare  with  the  suggestion  that  he  is  already 
dead,  and  his  soul  in  hell,  while  a  demon  is  walking  about  on  earth  in 
secure  possession  of  his  body.  Branca  Doria,  a  Genoese,  together  with 
(it  is  thought)  his  nephew,  murdered  his  father-in-law,  Michael  Zanche, 
in  the  hope  of  succeeding  him  in  the  governorship  of  Logodoro  in 
Sardinia,  which  has  been  already  mentioned  in  the  twenty-second  Canto. 
This  happened  in  1275,  which  explains  the  'many  years'  of  line  137. 
Dante .  further  displays  his  abhorrence  of  the  friar  by  the  additional 
insults  of  lines  149  and  154  ;  the  former  of  which  may  be  considered  not 
very  creditable  to  his  good  taste  or  indeed  his  morality,  but  which  the 
better  on  that  account  answers  its  purpose  of  blackening  the  firiar.  Then 
the  two  poets  walk  on  to  the  confines  of  the  Gindecca,  the  lowest  of  the 
regions  of  hell. 

THE  JNFERNO.— CANTO  XXXin. 

His  mouth  from  that  dread  meal  the  sinner  hasted 

To  lift,  then  wiped  it  on  the  hairs  remaining 

Unto  the  head  which  he  behind  had  wasted ; 
And  then :  *Thou  wouldst  revive  the  woe  pertaining 

To  that  despair  which  in  my  heart  doth  lower 

Even  at  the  thought,  before  the  tongue's  explaining. 
But  if  my  words  may  prove  but  seed  to  flower 

With  infamy  for  him  my  teeth  are  rending, 

Of  speech  and  tears  at  once  shalt  thou  have  dower. 
I  know  not  who  thou  art,  nor  how  descending  10 

Thou  cam'st ;  yet  thou  undoubtedly  appearest 

A  Florentine,  to  me  thy  speech  attending. 
Enow  then.  Count  Ugolino's  voice  thou  hearest : 

This  is  Ruggieri  the  Archbishop :  mention 

Now  will  I  make,  why  him  thou  findst  me  nearest 
How  through  effect  of  his  accurst  invention. 

Trusting  myself  to  him,  I  was  arrested 

And  after  dain,  now  needs  not  our  attention. 
But  that  thou  canst  not  know,  how  sore  infested 

With  misery  was  my  death,  from  my  narrating  20 

Learn ;  so  if  he  hath  wronged  me  shall  be  tested. 
A  slender  port  the  coop  illuminating 

That  for  my  sake  the  name  of  Famine  beareth^ 

A  prison-  jet  for  other  victims  waiting— 


428  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

With  aperture  grown  dear  mine  eyes  prepareth 
For  dawn  already,  when  the  ill  dream  I  dreamed 
That  from  the  future  off  the  covering  teareth; 

This  one,  the  master  of  the  hunt  he  seemed, 

The  wolf  and  wolf-cubs  to  the  mountain  chasing, 

Whereby  the  Fisans  see  not  Lucca ;  and  schemed  80 

Pursuit  with  dogs  keen,  eager,  well  for  racing 
Trained ;  the  Gualandi  in  the  front  before  them, 
With  the  Sismondi  and  Lanfranchi  placing. 

In  no  long  time  methought  fatigue  came  o'er  them. 
Both  sire  and  sons ;  and  soon  their  flanks  had  smarted 
With  the  sharp  fangs  that  seemed  to  me  to  gore  them. 

Then  I  awoke,  ere  twilight  had  departed, 

And  groaned  to  hear  the  children  with  me  heaving 
Sobs  in  their  sleep,  and  asking  bread.     Hard-hearted 

Indeed  art  thou,  if  not  already  grieving  40 

At  thought  of  that  my  heart  anticipated ; 
And  if  thou  grievest  not,  'tis  beyond  conceiving 

What  thou  shouldst  grieve  for.     They  with  slumber  sated 
Awoke;  and  now  approached  the  hour  of  dealing 
Our  food,  and  each  one,  dream-made  anxious,  waited. 

I  heard  the  key  then  turn  below  us,  sealing 

The  dread  tower's  exit ;  and,  for  words  had  failed, 
Looked  my  sons  in  the  face.     I  wept  not,  feeling 

So  turned  to  stone  within  me ;  but  they  wailed, 
And  one  of  them,  my  little  Anselm,  cried,  50 

Thou  lookest  so,  my  father ;  what  hath  ailed  t 

Nor  even  at  that  I  wept  nor  yet  replied 

All  day  nor  the  next  night ;  till  in  succession 
Another  sun  arisen  our  world  descried. 

But  when  a  slender  ray  had  gained  ingression 
Into  the  dolorous  cell,  and  I  perceived 
In  their  four  looks  my  very  own  expression, 

I  bit  my  hands  in  grief.     And  they  believed 
That  so  I  acted  fix)m  a  ravenous  longing 
For  food,  and  rose  and  cried  in  accents  grieved,  60 

"Father,  'twill  lighten  much  our  pain  and  wronging 
If  thou  shouldst  eat  of  us ;  take  thou  the  plunder 
Of  this  poor  flesh,  wherewith  to  thee  belonging 

Thou  clothedst  us."    Then  I  kept  my  sorrow  under, 
Not  more  to  vex  them ;  and  we  stood  tongue-tied — 
Ah  me,  hard  earth,  why  partedst  not  asunder  ? — 

That  day  and  the  next    When  the  fourth  dawn  we  spied, 
Gaddo  down  threw  him  at  my  feet,  exclaiming, 
"  Father,  hast  thou  no  help  for  me  f "  and  died 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OF  DANTE.  429 

Ev^n  as  he  lay.    And  as  thou  seest  me,  staying  70 

I  saw  the  three  fall  one  by  one  before  me 

Twixt  the  fifth  day  and  sixth.    Then  feebly  swaying 
To  grope  o'er  each  one,  now  grown  blind,  I  bore  me. 

And  three  days  called  on  them  whom  death  had  eased ; 

Then  famine  overmastering  grief  came  o'er  me.' 
This  said,  with  eyes  askance  again  he  seized 

Betwixt  his  teeth  the  wretched  skull-bone,  biting 

With  all  a  mastiff's  fury,  nnappeased. 
Ah,  Pisa,  pest  that  pleasant  country  blighting 

With  those  that  dwell  in  it,  where  si  is  spoken ;  SO 

Since  slow  thy  neighbours  are  for  thy  requiting. 
Let  Capraia  and  Grorgona  move  in  token 

Of  wrath,  and  dam  the  mouth  of  Amo's  river 

To  drown  all  souls  of  thine.    For  if  the  unbroken 
Report,  that  Ugolino  did  deliver 

Thy  castles  to  the  foe,  were  rightly  framed. 

Yet  shouldst  not  thou  have  set  his  sons  to  quiver 
On  such  a  rack.    Uguccion,  and  him  named 

Brigata,  with  the  two  above  rehearsed. 

Their  very  youth,  thou  new  Thebes,  guiltless  claimed.  90 

Then  passed  we  on  to  where  the  ice,  immersed 

In  cruel  folds  another  nation  bindetfa, 

Not  turned  upon  their  face,  but  all  reversed. 
There  tears  forbid  to  weep ;  the  grief  that  findeth 

Impediment  the  very  eye-balls  chilling. 

Inwards  for  increase  of  their  anguish  windeth. 
For  the  first  tears  in  clusters  hang  distilling 

As  it  were  crystal  vizors  on  them  placed, 

Beneath  the  eyebrows  all  the  hollow  filling. 
And  though  the  action  of  the  cold  had  chased  ^  100 

All  feeling  from  my  features,  as  if  masked 

By  some  hard  callous  skin,  methought  I  traced 
Just  then  a  breath  of  wind :  whereat  I  asked, 

*  Tell  me  whereto  this  motion,  Sire,  pertaineth ; 

Is  not  down  here  all  vapour  spent?'    Thus  tasked, 
'Ere  long  shalt  thou  be  standing,'  he  explaineth, 

*  Where  eye  itself  to  thee  shall  have  revealed 
The  cause  wherefrom  this  blast  upon  us  raineth.' 

*  O  souls  so  cruel,  that  for  you  is  sealed 

The  doom  of  the  lowest  gulf,'  so  crying  prayed  me  110 

One  of  the  sad  ones  of  the  crust  congealed ; 
'lift  from  my  sight  the  hardened  vail,  and  aid  me 

To  vent  the  sorrow  through  my  heart  extending, 

A  little  ere  the  frost  again  invade  me.' 


480  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Then  I,  'If  thou  wouldst  have  me  succour  lending, 
Say  who  thou  wast :  and  if  thou  art  deceived, 
Down  to  the  lowest  ice  be  my  descending.' 

*  I  am  Alberic  the  friar/  he  said,  relieved, 

*  He  of  the  fruit  of  the  evil  garden's  growing, 

Who  for  my  fig  a  date  have  here  received.'  120 

'  Oh,  art  thou  also  dead  ?'  I  asked,  shewing 

Surprise ;  but  he  said,  '  How  my  body  fareth 

In  the  upper  world  no  means  have  I  of  knowing. 
Such  privilege  this  Tolomea  beareth. 

That  ofttimes  spirits  hither  fall,  ere  later 

To  grant  them  quittance  Atropos  prepareth. 
And  that  thou  mayst  with  willingness  the  greater 

Pluck  from  my  face  the  tears  upon  it  glassed, 

Enow  that  whene'er  a  soul  becomes  the  traitor 
That  I  became,  her  body  is  embraced  180 

Straight  by  a  demon,  who  thereafter  guideth 

Its  course  until  its  span  of  life  be  passed. 
She  ruining  down  into  this  cistern  glideth  :— 

Nor  yet  perchance  seems  one  of  breath  deprived. 

Whose  shade  in  winter  here  behind  me  bideth. 
Him  thou  shouldst  know,  if  hither  late  arrived. 

Sir  Branca  Doria ;  and  many  years  are  flying 

Fast,  since  this  prison  was  for  him  contrived.' 

*  Methinks,'  I  said,  '  to  mock  me  thou  art  trying ; 

For  Branca  Doria  hath  not  yet  expired,  140 

But  eats,  drinks,  sleeps,  and  clothes  himself.'    Replying, 

*  Nay,  Michael  Zanche  had  not  yet  acquired 

Above  in  the  evil  talons'  gulf  his  station. 

Where  the  stiff  pitch  to  boiling  heat  is  fired, 
When  this  man,  with  another,  his  relation, 

Copartner  with  him  in  his  treacherous  dealing, 

Yielded  his  body  to  a  fiend's  dictation. 
But  reach  me  hither  now  thy  hand,  unsealing 

Mine  eyes,  I  pray  thee.'    But  I  left  them  closed ; 

'Twas  courtesy  to  him  to  be  unfeeling.  150 

Ah,  citizens  of  G^noa,  men  disposed 

To  no  good  custom,  full  of  all  demerit,        * 

Wherefore  not  purged  from  earth  ?    For  here  disclosed 
Together  with  Romagna's  vilest  spirit 

Was  one  of  you,  who  for  his  guilt  accrued 

Gocytus'  bath  in  soul  doth  now  inherit. 
While  yet  with  life  his  body  seems  endued. 

(7b  be  continued,') 


i 


431 


MUSPIGS  OVER  THE  CHRISTIAN  YEAR 
AND  LYRA  INNOCENTIUML 

ALL  SAINTS. 

Th£  inflaences  of  the  season  blend  with  the  spirit  of  these  stanzas,  so  that 
we  always  expect  All  Saints  to  be  a  quiet  grey  day  of  leaves  in  autumn 
beauty,  not  yet  fallen. 

*  Each  flower  and  tree,  its  duty  done, 

Reposing  in  decay  serene,  ' 

like  weary  men  when  age  is  won.' 

Here  and  there  a  golden  or  crimson  leaf  detaching  itsdf  and  sofUy  floating 
down,  without  the  rude  blasts  that  seem  to  be  waiting 

*  Till  the  last  flower  of  autumn  shed 
The  funeral  odours  on  her  dying  bed/ 

It  is,  as  it  were,  a  token  of  what  St.  John  beheld — ^the  four  strong  winds 
of  heayen  held  by  the  angels  from  hurting  the  earth  or  the  sea  or  the 
trees,  till  the  full  number  of  the  servants  of  God  were  sealed  in  their 
foreheads. 

So  would  Sodom  have  been  spared  if  ten  righteous  had  been  therein ; 
so  the  fire  and  brimstone  were  withheld  while  Lot  lingered ;  so  Rahab's 
house  was  marked  with  the  crimson  line ;  so  the  angel  with  the  ink-horn 
marked  those  who  should  be  spared  in  guilty  Jerusalem ;  so  not  a  hair 
of  a  Christian's  head  perished  in  the  last  deadly  siege.  Little  do  proud 
rulers  guess  the  true  safeguards  of  their  empires,  nor  why  the  judgement 
does  not  fall  on  them. 

*  As  bloodhounds  hush  their  bayins  wild 
To  wanton  with  some  fearless  child ; 
So  Famine  waits,  and  War  with  greedy  eyes, 
Till  some  repenting  heart  be  ready  for  the  skies.^ 

So  it  is  not  by  their  own  power  of  strength  that  the  cities  of  earth  stand, 
but  by  the  secret  prayers  of  the  saints. 

The  Lyra  has  two  poems.  One  is  best  commented  on  by  a  little  saying 
of  the  author,  recollected  by  L.  H. :  ^  I  do  like  these  heaps  of  leaves ;  they 
remind  me  of  how  I  used  to  run  among  them  and  heap  them  up  when  I 
was  a  little  boy.'  There  must  be  a  great  deal  of  Fairford  in  this  little 
poem,  between  the  autumn  leaves,  and  the  church  windows,  and  the 
craving  that  all  children  feel  to  catch  upon  themselves  the  coloured 
radiance  of  some  pictured  Bsant  illuminated  by  the  sunshine.  And  there 
is  all  the  man  himself  in  the  under-current  of  thought,  that  no  one  need 
ever  find  the  services  in  even  an  almost  empty  church  cold  or  dead,  since 
the  '  great  cloud  of  witnesses '  are  present. 


432  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

^  The  saints  are  there,  the  living  dead, 

The  mourners  glad  and  strong, 
The  sacred  floor  their  quiet  bed^ 
Their  beams  from  every  window  shed. 

Their  voice  in  every  song.* 

And  if  the  church  windows  remind  him  of  these,  the  coloured  brightness 
that  streams  through  them  is  to  him  the  example — ^the  likeness  in  the 
which  he  would  seek  to  grow — the  individual  character  irradiated  bj  the 
Sun  of  Righteousness. 

The  other  All  Saints  poem  rose  out  of  an  account  of  the  ecstacj  of 
the  little  boj  who  some  time  later  became  the  subject  of  the  verses  called 
^Orphanhood/  The  first  time  he  was  out  on  a  fine  night,  he  kepi 
clapping  his  hands  and  crying,  ^  More  stars !'  and  the  childish  exulting 
shout  led  to  this  deep  meditation.  First,  to  the  analogy  with  the  twinkling 
lights  of  earth,  which  may  be  lighting  the  shepherd  on  the  heath,  the  busy 
street,  the  couch  of  suffering,  the  home  of  joy ;  but  still 

'  If  pure  the  joy  and  patient  be  the  woe, 
llcaven^s  breath  is  there,  we  know ; 
And  surely  of  yon  lamps  on  high  we  deem 
As  of  pure  worlds  whereon  the  floods  of  mercy  stream.* 

Those  orbs  lead  us  to  the  thought  of  other  stars — the  stars  who  are  the 
true  children  of  Abraham,  and  turn  many  to  righteousness. 

*  Stars  out  of  sight,  souls  for  whom  love  prepares 
A  portion  and  a  meed 
In  the  supernal  heavens  for  evermore. 
When  sun  and  moon  are  o*er.^ 

So,  as  ^  more  and  more  stars '  seem  to  break  on  the  gazer's  eye,  so  are 
there  really  ever  more  and  more  saints  above  to  be  perceived  by  the 
wistful  eye  of  faith  and  love.    To  know  of  them, 

^  All  holy  humble  gleams  I  bid  thee  seek. 
Dim  lingering  here  below ; 
So  shall  the  Almighty  give  a  tongue  to  speak, 
A  heart  to  read  and  know 
Of  saints  at  home  robed  and  in  glory  crowned  ;* 

while  even  in  the  morning,  the  dews  that  have  fallen  by  night,  sparkling 
in  the  sun,  may  remind  us  of  midnight  heaven's  pure  field. 

Again,  to  our  childish  eyes,  as  to  the  childhood  of  the  world,  the  stars 
seem  to  be  gathered  into  fantastic  shapes  and  constellations,  or  else  as  a 
great  scattered  flock ; 

*•  But  of  a  central  glory  sages  sing, 
Whence  all  may  be  discerned  in  clear  harmonious  ring.' 

I  think  this  must  have  meant  the  Pythagorean  theoiy  of  universal 
harmony  and  regularity,  for  it  came  before  the  idea  was  much  spread 


MUSINGK3  OVEB  THB  CHBISTIAN  YEAB.  433 

abroad  that  one  of  the  Pleiads  is  indeed  the  central  glory  around  which 
all  the  apparently  confused  stars  have  their  courses  in  due  r^ularity. 
The  similitude  is  to  the  seeming  irregularity,  and  utter  unlikeness  to  our 
dreams  of  the  ways  of  saints ;  while,  however,  faith  knows  now,  and  we 
shall  one  day  see, 

'  The  orb  whence  all  and  each, 
By  golden  threads  of  order  and  high  grace, 
Are  pendant  evermore,  all  beauteous,  all  in  place.' 

Then  again  the  Milky  Way — 

*•  Yon  hazy  arch 
SpaDning  the  vault  on  high, 
By  planets  traversed  in  majestic  march, 
Seeming  to  earth's  dull  eye 
A  breath  of  misty  light.' 

But  even  as  that  is  resolved  into  thousands  of  separate  stars,  each 
perfect  in  itself,  so  is  it  with  the  great  cloud  of  witnesses  upon  the 
glorious  shore.  Each  one.  He  Who  ^  telleth  the  number  of  the  stars,  and 
calleth  them  all  by  their  names,'  knows  likewise  by  name,  and  the  most 
unknown  of  souls  may  be  shining  as  brightly,  praying  as  strongly,  as 
those  whose  great  names  shine  on  us  like  the  mighty  single  stars  of  our 
heavens. 

What  an  amplification  of '  the  saints  above  are  stars  in  heaven !'    No 

wonder  that  when  the  stars  brought  such  musings,  the  poet  playfully 

wrote  twenty  years  earlier : 

*  I  dearer  prize 
The  pure  keen  starlight  with  its  thousand  eyes, 
Like  heavenly  seutinels  around  us  thrown, 
Lest  we  forget  that  we  are  not  alone. 
Watching  us  by  their  own  unearthly  light 
To  shew,  how  high  above,  our  deeds  are  stul  in  sight.' 


GUNPOWDER  TREASON. 

In  the  first  edition  of  The  Christian  Year,  there  were  no  State  holidays. 
Afterwards  the  four  poems  were  added;  and  among  them  that  which 
belonged  to  that  strange  national  holiday,  which  by  commemorating  the 
escape  of  the  Parliament  and  the  landing  of  William  of  Orange  together, 
was  wont,  as  Mr.  Keble  has  been  heard  to  say,  to  begin  by  calling  treason 
a  vice,  and  to  end  by  calling  it  a  virtue. 

However,  his  verses  have  little  enough  to  do  with  either  James  or 
William :  they  are  a  meditation  upon  the  Church  of  Rome,  perfectly  true 
as  well  as  beautiful,  and  what — except  the  one  line  that  he  found  was 
misunderstood — ^he  adhered  to  all  his  life,  though  whether  he  would  have 
written  the  poem  in  his  latter  days,  is  quite  another  thing,  as  indeed  he 
gave  up  the  keeping  of  the  day  itself  long  before  it  was  dropped  firom  the 
Prayer  Book. 


434  TBE  MONTHLT  PACKET* 

The  idea  id  ih6  same  as  in  St.  Simon  and  St  Jade,  of  the  Chnrdi 
etanding  mourning  by  the  Cross,  and  then  passing  on,  journeying  west* 
ward,  and  bearing  the  cross  of  sorrow  on  her  brow.  For  surely  it  must 
be  a  sorrow  to  her  to  see  tender  hearts  spend  upon  saint  or  angel  the  love 
and  devotion  that  should  go  higher.  Nor  can  there  be  the  least  doubt 
that  many  do  so,  though  observe  this  is  not  saying  either  that  all  honour 
and  reverent  greeting  to  the  saints  should  be  omitted,  nor  that  all 
Roman  Catholics  necessarily  exceed  in  their  devotion  to  them.  Again, 
the  persecutions  unto  the  death  in  the  cause  of  Catholicity  are,  beyond  all 
doubt,  a  sin  and  error.  And  surely  the  whole  body  yearns  and  grieves 
over  those  who  doubt,  and  if  they  be  patient  and  love  on,  will  in  time 
heal  them  and  stablish  them.    For  the  Church's 

*  Grentle  teaching  sweetly  blends 

With  the  clear  light  of  truth ; 
The  aerial  gleam  that  fiincy  lends 
To  solemn  thoughts  in  youth.' 

The  lines  are  a  most  happy  exposition  of  the  peculiar  manner  in  which 
true  Church  teaching  satisfies  at  once  the  faith  and  the  imagination. 
The  next  verse  does  not  disavow  the  possibility  of  some  purifying  change 
passing  over  the  departed  spirit,  though  it  speaks  of  the  relief  from  the 
necessity  of  believing  in  the  systematized  purgatory  which  Rome  has 
impressed. 

And  then  comes  the  verse  whose  meaning  Mr.  Keble  meant  to  be, '  There 
present  in  the  heart,  not  only  in  the  hands,  the  Eternal  Priest  will  His 
true  Self  impart,'  but  which  was  understood  and  used  as  an  argument 
against  the  Real  Presence.  He  had  preached  and  written  one  way ;  but 
it  was  a  true  case  of  '  a  verse  may  catch  him  who  a  sermon  fiies ;'  the 
verse  was  familiar  to  hundreds  who  perhaps  had  never  even  heard  of  his 
book  on  '  Eucharistic  Adoration,'  and  it  told  more  than  the  whole  weight 
of  argument  He  had  been  used  to  consider  The  Christian  Year  as  a 
work  completed  and  done  with  at  a  certain  stage  of  life,  and  which  must 
stand  (as  he  viewed  it)  with  all  its  faults  on  its  head ;  and  what  with  his 
reluctance  to  discuss  it,  his  exceeding  humility,  and  his  familiarity  with 
real  books  of  divinity,  he  probably  had  no  idea  what  a  theological 
authority  it  had  become,  till  it  was  forced  upon  him  by  the  public 
quotation  of  the  verse.  The  alteration  had  been  talked  of  before ;  but, 
as  an  authors  know,  it  is  needful  to  be  very  alert  to  catch  a  new  edition 
at  the  right  moment  for  making  a  correction,  and  thus  it  was  not 
accomplished  until  the  first  which  followed  upon  his  death. 

'  The  more  really,  because  spiritually,  present,'  is  the  thought  intended 

to  be  conveyed ;  and  valuing  the  reception  in  both  kinds,  as  did  this  true 

son  of  the  English  Church,  he  did  indeed  strive  to  guard  all  who  looked 

to  him  for  counsel  from  deeming  that  our  Mother's  ^  genial  wing '  was  but 

*  error's  soothing  blind.'    There  are  some  now  who  take  offence  at  the 
lino-.. 

*  Speak  gently  of  our  sister^s/ofi,* 


HYMN-POEMS  ON  KOTABLB  TEXTS.  435 

written  88  it  was  at  the  time  when  scarcely  even  the  most  Catholic- 
minded  English  Churchman  could  speak  of  Rome  otherwise  than 
abusively.  But  there  is  no  reasonable  doubt  that  a  fall  there  was.  The 
fifteenth  century  was  a  terrible  age  of  falling,  and  the  Reformation  was 
the  consequence  of  that  falL  Whether  we  rose  again  in  it  exactly  as 
our  self-complacency  used  to  suppose,  is  another  question ;  but  there  is  no 
doubt  that  both  Churches  have  need  of  ^  patient  love '  to  draw  tliem  nearer 
day  by  day,  and  make  them  both  prove  the  sorer  way  of  unity. 

(QmcludecL) 


HYMN-POEMS  ON  NOTABLE  TE:^S. 

BY  THE  BEV.   B.  J.   STONE,  B.A. 

AUTHOR  Olf  *LTBJl  VmBUUlC.* 

No.  XI.— THE  *  ATHLETES  OF  THE  UNIVEBSE. 

'Deetitnte,  afflicted,  tonnented:  of  whom  the  world  was  not  worthy.'— J7e&r6w«, 
xi  87,  88. 

{Tune^  S.  Columba.) 

Thbib  names  are  names  of  kings 

Of  heavenly  linoi 
The  bliss  of  earthly  things 

Who  did  resign. 

Chieftains  they  were,  who  warred 

With  sword  and  shield ; 
Victors  for  God  the  Lord 

On  foughten  field. 

Sad  were  their  days  on  earth, 

Mid  hate  and  scorn ; 
A  life  of  pleasure's  dearth, 

A  death  forlorn. 

Yet  blest  that  end  in  woe. 

And  those  sad  days ; 
Only  man's  blame  below — 

Above,  God's  praise  I 

A  city  of  great  name 

Was  built  for  them. 
Of  glorious  golden  fame — 

Jerusalem. 

*  A  term  applied  by  8.  Chiysoftem  to  the  Apostles. 


436  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Redeemed  with  preciouB  Blood 
From  death  and  sin, 

Sons  of  the  Triune  God, 
Thej  entered  in. 

So  did  the  life  of  pain 

In  glory  close ; 
Lord  Grod,  may  we  attain 

Their  grand  repose ! 

Amen. 


•  GLORIFIED  SAINTS. 

With  heart  and  voice  I  strove  to  praise, 

Within  the  sculptured  fane ; 
The  summer  sun  was  streaming  through 

Each  richly  coloured  pane ; 

Where  martyr  forms  were  shadowed  forth, 
With  cross  and  sword  in  hand, 

As  prone  to  suffer  or  to  fight, 
A  bold  and  glorious  band. 

Each  holy  face  was  shining  with 

A  pure  and  varied  light ; 
The  glory  seemed  to  stream  around, 

Entrancing  heart  and  sight. 

Befiected  on  the  wall  beyond, 

Cast  on  the  ground  below. 
The  chancel  vast  was  lighted  up 

With  one  celestial  glow. 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  Thou  hast  shewn 

My  soul  in  one  brief  hour 
The  mystery  that  I  vainly  strove 

To  solve  by  reason's  power : 

For  oft  when  I  had  mused  upon 

The  faces  loved  the  best, 
And  hoped  that  I  should  know  them  still 

In  realms  of  joy  and  rest, 

I  trembled  at  the  thought  that  those 
Who  had  no  beauty  here, 


CAMEOS  FROM  ENGLISH  HISTORY.  437 

AGgbt  be  transformed  in  that  bright  land, 
More  beauteonsy  yet  less  dear ; 

But  now  I  see  how  forms  of  earth, 

That  here  seem  pale  and  worn, 
May  shine  with  glory  not  their  own 

At  Besarrection  dawn. 

The  features  that  we  loved  of  yore, 

We  still  shall  gladly  trace ; 
The  same — though  changed  and  glorified. 

By  God's  transforming  grace. 

S.  H.  P. 


CAMEOS  FROM  ENGLISH  HISTORY. 

CAMEO  cm. 

BELL  THE  GAT. 
1466-U82. 

Each  state  and  princely  family  in  Europe  seems  always  to  have  had  a 
strange  tendency  to  repeat  the  adventures  of  another.  If  France  had 
a  minor  prince  beset  with  ambitious  uncles,  England  and  Portugal  soon 
fell  into  the  same  condition;  if  one  prince  perished  by  a  mysterious 
death  in  a  dungeon  in  Scotland,  another  soon  was  lost  in  like  manner  in 
Brittany;  and  the  three  royal  brethren,  Edward,  George,  and  Richard 
Plantagenet,  had  a  certain  resemblance  to  the  younger  trio  in  the  north, 
James,  Alexander,  and  John  Stewart. 

James  III.  had  not,  however,  the  strength,  valour,  or  talent  of  Edward, 
but  only  resembled  him  in  his  indolent  love  of  pleasure,  and  in  a 
selfishness  that  when  aroused  was  reckless  and  cruel.  Nature  had  given 
him  the  refined  tastes  of  his  poet  grandfather  James  I.,  but  without  his 
personal  courage  or  strength  of  will,  and  education  had  only  cultivated 
his  surface  accomplishments  without  deepening  his  character.  He  was 
eight  years  old  when  his  father  was  killed,  thirteen  when  his  mother 
died ;  and  a  few  months  later,  his  admirable  cousin  and  best  guardian, 
Bishop  Kennedy,  reared  in  the  school  of  James  I.,  likewise  expired ;  so 
that  the  royal  boy  was  left  to  be  the  sport  of  faction. 

The  Boyd  fiimily  took  possession  of  him  first,  Sir  Alexander  Boyd 
having  been  his  instructor  in  chivalrous  exercises.  With  the  aid  of  a 
league  of  nobles,  they  carried  him  off  from  Linlithgow  to  Edinburgh, 
and  caused  him  to  declare  before  his  Parliament  that  he  had  gone 
with  his  own  free  will — as  was  probably  true.  Old  Lord  Boyd,  Sir 
Alexander's  brother,  helped  himself  to  a  good  many  estates,  and  caused 


4S3  THIS  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

his  eldest  son  to  be  created  Earl  of  Arran,  married  to  the  King's  sister 
Mary,  and  sent  to  bring  home  Margaret,  daughter  of  King  Christiem  of 
Denmark,  to  be  the  wife  of  the  King. 

But  no  sooner  had  Arran  arrived  with  the  bride,  a  girl  of  seventeen, 
than  his  young  wife  whispered  to  him  that  the  Hamiltons  had  gained 
the  ear  of  the  King,  and  that  the  destruction  of  the  Bojds  was  resolved 
upon. 

Arran  immediately  took  her  on  board  a  Danish  ship,  and  fled  with  her 
in  safety ;  his  father  tried  to  stand  his  ground  by  the  help  of  the  friends 
who  had  leagued  with  him,  but  they  all  fell  away,  and  he  was  forced 
to  escape  into  England,  while  his  brother  Alexander  was  taken  and  put 
to  death  for  his  abduction  of  the  King  four  years  before.  Moreover, 
James*s  remonstrances  caused  the  King  of  Denmark  to  send  his  sister 
Mary  home,  probably  on  the  plea  that  she  had  been  contracted  to 
Lord  Hamilton  in  her  infancy  by  her  father,  for  her  marriage  with 
Boyd  was  declared  null ;  and  she  carried  her  royal  blood  into  the  house 
of  Hamilton,  who  for  four  generations  stood  in  the  position  of  heirs 
presumptive  to  the  throne  whenever  the  reigning  sovereign  had  no  child. 

Hamilton  ruled,  but  left  the  King  to  occupy  himself  with  studies  and 
sports,  that  in  their  place  would  have  been  elegant,  but  which  James's 
exaggerated  love  for  them  rendered  mischievous.  Poetry,  music,  dancing, 
and  dress,  were  pursuits  that  were  thought  to  indicate  a  trifling  and 
frivolous  mind,  though  with  them  were  coupled  the  severer  study  of 
mathematics  and  its  practical  branches,  architecture  and  astronomy. 
The  beautiful  and  fantastic  buildings,  with  which  James  decorated 
Stirling  CasUe,  prove  that  the  former  of  these  he  studied  to  some 
purpose ;  but  the  chief  professor  of  the  science,  one  Robert  Cochrane, 
whom  the  proud  nobility  called  a  mason,  obtained  an  ascendancy  over 
him  which  had  most  fatal  consequences,  certainly  to  himself,  and  perhaps 
to  others. 

As  to  astronomy,  no  one  knew  the  limits  between  this  and  the  more 
occult  iBcience  of  astrology.  The  conjunctions  of  the  stars  were  fully 
believed  to  predict  the  adventures  of  those  bom  under  them,  and  no  one 
hesitated  to  study  them;  and  chemistry  was  at  the  same  time  making 
progress  under  Uie  vain  title  of  alchemy,  bringing  too  often  with  it 
the  pursuit  of  magic  and  sorcery.  Everyone  believed  in  the  reality  of 
these,  while  they  condemned  them  as  unlawful ;  and  at  this  very  time^ 
Maximilian  of  Austria,  the  cleverest  if  not  the  wisest  youth  of  the  day, 
was  studying  all  of  these  as  regular  parts  of  his  education,  and  believing 
his  career  influenced  by  them.  It  is  the  fisishion  to  consider  that 
accusations  of  sorcery  were  both  fUse  in  themselves,  and  only  got  up  by 
way  of  an  engine  of  destruction  against  an  innocent  enemy ;  bat  no  one 
can  really  enter  into  the  examination  of  the  history  of  those  times, 
without  seeing  that  both  the  practisers  believed  in  the  effects  of  what 
they  were  doing,  and  that  their  accusers  were  actually  alarmed. 

Whether  evil  spirits  were  really  called  or  answered  the  call  is  aiMtlier 


CAMEOS  FROM  SNQXaSH  BISTORT.  439 

questiony  and  one  that  is  complicated  by  the  modem  achieveuiento  of 
meamerism  and  BpiritiialisnK 

At  any  rate,  James  III.,  who  np  to  his  twenty-fiAh  year  had  lived  oa 
good  terms  with  his  younger  brothers,  Alexander  Duke  of  Albany,  and 
John  Duke  of  Mar,  suddenly  became  alarmed  on  hearing  from  an 
astrologer  that  *  a  lion  was  to  be  strangled  by  his  own  whelps  i*  and  at 
the  same  time  an  old  woman  informed  him,  on  the  authority  of  her 
familiar  spirit,  that  the  Duke  of  Mar  had  been  making  inquiries  of 
another  spirit,  which  had  told  him  that  the  King  should  die  by  the  hand 
of  his  nearest  kindred. 

Albany  and  Mar  were  both  men  of  fiercer  stronger  mould  than  James. 
Alexander  especially  is  described  as  wise  and  manly,  tall  and  broad- 
shouldered,  '  well  proportioned  in  all  his  members,  and  especially  in  his 
face,  when  he  pleased  to  shew  himself  to  his  unfriends.'  John,  too,  was 
said  to  be  comely,  to  know  nothing  but  nobility,  and  to  delight  in 
hunting,  hawking,  and  horsemanship ;  and  both  were  viewed  with  greater 
favour  by  the  warlike  nation  than  the  King^  whom  they  considered  to 
love  playing  on  instruments  better  than  defending  the  Border ;  though, 
after  all,  there  was  no  one  to  defend  it  against,  since  Edward  and  James 
were  in  profound  peace ;  and  treaties  of  marriage  were  constantly  going 
on — the  little  Duke  of  Bothsay  was  to  be  wedded  to  the  still  younger 
Cecily  Plantagenet ;  Albany  was  proposed  for  Margaret,  the  widow  of 
Burgundy ;  and  his  sister  Margaret  for  Clarence  first,  and  on  that  prince's 
death,  for  that  universal  suitor.  Lord  Rivers.  An  invitation,  moreover, 
was  sent  to  James  to  visit  JEkiward  on  the  way  to  the  shrine  of  his  patron 
saint,  at  Amiens,  whither  he  had  vowed  a  pilgrimage ;  but  finding  thia 
impossible,  he  sent  the  saint  a  gold  medal  by  way  of  compensation. 

He  was  hindered  from  going  by  the  discovery  of  treason  on  the  part  of 
both  his  brothers.  Albany,  the  Warden  of  the  Marches,  had  done  many 
deeds  of  violence,  and  was  in  correspondence  with  both  the  Kings  of 
France  and  England,  with  a  view  to  dethroning  his  brother ;  and  Mar, 
who  could  have  been  little  more  than  twenty,  was  curiously  dallying 
with  sorcerers  to  learn  the  result. 

Both  were  arrested :  Albany  was  shut  up  in  Edinburgh  Castle,  Mar 
in  Cragmillar  some  six  miles  off;  and  shortly  after,  the  latter  was  found 
dead  in  a  bath  filled  with  his  blood. 

Most  regarded  his  death  as  a  murder  perpetrated  under  the  influence 
of  Cochrane,  adding  that  like  Clarence,  he  had  been  allowed  to  choose  the 
mode  of  dying,  and  had  made  the  classical  choice  of  an  end  like  Seneca's^ 
Another  more  probable  account,  was  that  the  alarm  of  his  arrest  threw 
him  in  a  delirious  fever,  that  a  vein  was  opened  in  his  temple  and 
another  in  his  arm,  and  that  these  burst  out  bleeding  again  when 
in  the  bath,  and  thus  caused  his  death.  Albany's  friends  became 
much  alarmed;  and  in  one  of  two  small  wine  barrels,  which  were 
sent  to  him  in  the  castle,  was  enclosed  a  letter,  a  dagger,  and  a  coil  of 
rope)  while  the  other  contained  some  excellent  wine.    The  Duke  invited 


440  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

the  captain  of  the  castle  to  sup  with  him  thereon ;  he  came  with  three 
attendants,  and  the  liquor  and  heat  of  the  fire  were  so  potent  as  to  make 
aU  four  so  drowsy  that  with  little  difficulty  all  were  killed  by  the  Duke 
and  his  chamberlain,  who  then  unlocked  the  door,  got  out  on  the  wails, 
and  prepared  to  let  themselves  down  by  the  rope.  The  chamberlain 
went  first,  but  the  rope  was  too  short,  and  he  fell  and  broke  his  leg. 
•Albany  then  fetched  the  sheets  from  his  bed,  which  enabled  him  to 
descend  in  safety.  He  took  his  companion  on  his  back  to  a  hiding-place, 
and  himself  made  his  way  to  his  strong  castle  of  Dunbar,  which  he  stored 
with  stout  defenders,  and  then  hurried  to  France  to  ask  assistance  from 
Louis  XL  This,  however,  he  could  not  obtain ;  but  the  castle  stood  a 
siege  of  some  months,  the  artillery  on  both  sides  doing  great  execution. 
One  ball  firom  the  ramparts  is  stated  to  have  killed  three  knights  at 
once.  When  at  last  it  surrendered  to  the  Chancellor  Evandale,  he  found 
that  most  of  the  defenders  had  escaped  by  sea  to  England. 

Albany  was  summoned  at  the  market-cross  of  Dunbar,  and  also  at 
Edinburgh,  to  appear  and  answer  for  his  treason,  but  James  would  not 
declare  his  lands  forfeited,  although  he  resumed  the  earldom  of  Mar, 
and  most  unwisely  granted  it  to  his  favourite  Cochrane. 

Just  at  this  time,  Edward  IV.  became  intensely  provoked  both  with 
France  and  Scotland.  His  daughter  Elizabeth  was  twelve  years  old, 
the  age  at  which  she  was  to  have  been  sent  for  to  marry  the  young 
Dauphin  Charles,  but  Louis  shewed  no  symptoms  of  desiring  her 
presence,  neither  did  James  of  Scotland  request  the  fulfilment  of  the 
contract  between  her  sister  Cecily  and  his  young  heir.  The  sense  that 
Louis  was  too  cunning  for  him,  and  some  perception  that  he  had  cut 
a  ridiculous  figure  at  Pecquigny,  no  doubt  made  him  uneasy ;  though  he 
regularly  received  the  politely  termed  tribute  from  France,  he  discon- 
tinued that  pension  which  he  had  himself  been  pajring  under  the  title 
of  Lady  Cecily's  portion  to  Scotland,  and  loudly  accused  James  IlL  of 
treachery  and  breach  of  promises. 

James,  a  good  deal  amazed,  prepared  to  take  up  arms,  being  further 
inflamed  by  a  Scottish  priest  named  Ireland,  who  had  been  educated  at 
the  Sorbonne,  and  was  sent  over  by  Louis  for  the  express  purpose  of 
influencing  the  King,  and  keeping  the  nursery  of  the  archers  of  his  guard 
in  a  wholesome  state  of  enmity  with  England.  James's  wisest  counsellors 
were  much  averse  to  any  war  with  England,  but  they  were  overruled ; 
and  Spence,  the  good  Bishop  of  Aberdeen,  is  said  to  have  died  of  vexation 
in  consequence.  But  to  the  fierce  nobility  a  war  with  England  was  the 
only  satisfactory  state  of  afikirs.  The  difierence  was  that  then  they 
could  make  raids  across  the  Border  in  the  way  of  duty  instead  of  only 
in  the  way  of  pleasure.  So  Archibald  Douglas,  the  young  Earl  of 
Angus,  head  of  the  younger  branch  of  Douglases  called  the  Red,  was  soon 
over  the  Border,  devastating  Northumberland,  burning  Bamborough,  and 
driving  off  whole  herds  of  prisoners  and  cattle. 

Edward,  wroth  in  his  turn,  appointed  his  brother  Richard  of  Glocester 


CAMEOS  FROM  ENGLISH  HISTORY.  44 1 

Hentenant-general  of  the  north  to  chastise  the  Scots,  and  sent  for  Albany 
to  France.  There  the  Duke  had  obtained  no  help  from  Louis,  and  had. 
only  succeeded  in  espousing  Anne  de  la  Tour,  daughter  of  the  Count  of 
Auvergne,  having  declared  himself  separated  from  his  Scottish  wife  oit 
the  ground  of  consanguinity.  He  was  very  glad  to  comply  with  tho 
invitation  of  Edward,  who  liot  only  took  up  his  cause  vehemently,  but 
promised  to  set  him  on  the  throne  of  Scotland,  on  the  plea  of  James 
III.  being  said  to  be  of  doubtful  legitimacy.  Considenng  the  well-known 
scandals  prevalent  respecting  Edward's  o^vn  birth,  it  is  remarkable  how 
he  thus  enforced  an  evil  lesson  against  himself  and  his  heirs. 

Albany  willingly  accepted  the  proposal,  and  bound  himself  by  a  secret 
engagement  to  render  Scotland  feudatory  to  England,  to  do  homage  to 
Edward,  to  follow  him  in  war,  and  break  the  league  with  France ;  also 
to  many  the  Lady  Cecily  if  he  could  '  raak  himself  clear  free  with  other 
women  according  to  the  laws  of  the  Christian  Church,'  a  prudent 
reservation  under  the  circumstances ;  and  the  bond  by  which  he  engaged 
to  do  all  this  he  signed  not  as  Duke  of  Albany,  but  as  Alexander  R. 
the  King  of  Scotland ;  and  then  set  off  to  join  the  Duke  of  Glocester, 
who  stood  in  such  a  curiously  similar  position  to  himself— each  with  one 
brother  mysteriously  dead  in  prison,  and  the  other  reigning  by  a  right  it 
was  possible  to  question.  The  Earl  of  Angus,  Lord  Gray,  and  other 
Scottish  nobles,  were  secretly  in  the  same  league,  chiefly  out  of  impatience 
of  James's  unwarlike  nature ;  but  though  tliey  had  privately  agreed  to 
support  Albany,  they  could  not  for  very  shame  unite  themselves  to  tho 
Southron  foe  :  so  Glocester  and  Albany,  with  an  English  ai*my,  laid  siege 
to  Berwick,  but  without  effect;  and  they  proceeded  into  the  county, 
burning  and  destroying  all  the  villages. 

Meanwhile,  the  estates  of  the  realm  published  a  proclamation  against 
*  the  Reiver  Edward,  styling  himself  King  of  England,'  and  summoned  the 
whole  strength  of  the  country  to  meet  on  the  Borough  Muir  near 
Edinburgh,  the  grand  muster-place  of  the  kingdom.  *  Authentic  men, 
well  horsed,  and  stuffed  with  money,'  were  sent  out,  as  say  the  Acts,  to 
collect  the  troops,  beginning  with  the  most  distant ;  and  a  very  considerable 
array  was  colle<*.ted,  including  Angus,  Gray,  and  the  rest  of  Albany's 
friends.  The  King  took  the  command,  and  the  whole  body,  fifty  thousand 
in  number,  set  forth  across  the  Lammermuir  hills,  and  encamped  around 
(he  town  of  Lauder,  upon  the  river  Leader. 

The  King  had  brought  with  him  his  favourite,  Robert  Cochrane,  the 
architect — the  mason,  as  the  Scottish  nobles  called  him — the  Earl  of  Mar, 
as  he  called  himself.  James  had  given  him  the  command  of  the  artiller}', 
and  he  was  displaying  splendours  very  offensive  to  the  rude  and  homely  but 
intensely  proud  feudal  nobility.  His  tent  was  lined  with  silk,  with  gilt 
chains  to  fasten  it ;  and  he  had  a  body-guard  of  three  hundred  retainers, 
sumptuously  arrayed,  and  carrying  light  battle-axes :  and  the  King  was 
giving  equal  offence  by  carrying  with  him  his  other  favourites — Rogers,  a 
notable  musical  composer,  whose  pupils  were  long  after  highly  esteemed^ 

VOL.    10.  30  PART  59. 


44i  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

bu^  wkom  the  fierce  lords  termed  a  fiddler ;  Torpiclien,  a  fencing  master  ; 
and  several  more,  of  citizen  extraction  but  elegant  accompliAhment 

The  Scots  could  not  endure  the  presence  of  this  little  court  oi 
fk^ourites  so  contemptible  in  their  eyes,  and  in  the  grey  of  morning  the 
noblemen  came  togetiier  in  the  little  old  Church  of  Lauder  to  consult 
what  was  to  be  done.  Honest  but  turbulent  subjects,  as  well  as  the 
aecret  partizans  of  Albany,  alike  seem  to  have  been  present,  and  all 
agreed  that  Cochrane  must  be  seized  and  got  rid  of;  but  the  difficulty 
was  how,  since  he  was  a  brave  strong  man,  and  always  well  guarded. 
As  all  sat  doubtful,  Lord  Gray  could  not  help  observing  that  they  were 
like  the  council  of  mice,  who  agreed  that  a  bell  should  be  hung  round 
the  cat's  neck  to  warn  them  of  her  approach,  but  could  find  no  one  of 
their  number  to  undertake  that  office. 

'  Heed  it  not,  I'll  bell  the  cat,'  cried  Archibald  Earl  of  Angus,  who 
held  the  traditional  faith  that  the  King  was  born  to  be  the  slave  of  the 
Douglas. 

As  the  words  left  his  lips  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door ;  and  there 
stood  Cochrane,  in  a  black  velvet  suit,  a  gold  chain  round  his  neck,  and 
another  chain  supporting  a  gold  tipped  hunting-horn  with  a  beryl 
hanging  to  it,  and  with  a  riding-whip  in  his  hand,  the  handle  encrusted 
with  jewels. 

At  once  Angus  stepped  up  to  him.  *It  becomes  thee  not  to  wear 
this,  but  a  halter,'  he  cried,  snatciiing  the  chain. 

*  Ay,  and  the  horn,'  said  Sir  Robert  Douglas  of  Lochleven,  wrenching 
it  away ;  *  he  has  been  too  long  a  hunter  of  mischief.' 

'  My  Lords,  is  this  jest  or  earnest?'  asked  Cochrane. 

His  answer  was  the  being  seized  and  bound,  while  the  lords  hurried 
off  to  the  King's  tent,  and  savagely  seized  all  his  other  friends.  He 
could  only  save  one  youth  of  seventeen,  Alexander  Ramsey  of  Balmain ; 
the  rest  were  hurried  away  to  the  bridge  of  Lauder,  and  there  ruthlessly 
hung.  Cochrane,  as  Gaveston  had  done  before  him,  only  asked  to  die 
by  a  silken  rope,  offering  one  of  those  of  his  eoetly  tent.  Warwick 
had  scornfully  granted  the  request ;  but  the  more  barbarous  Scot  only 
saw  in  it  a  suggestion  for  adding  bitterness  to  death,  and  took  pains  to 
procure  a  hair  tether,  instead  of  the  ordinary  hempen  rope. 

After  this  horrible  proceeding,  the  Lords  marched  back  to  Edinburgh, 
taking  the  poor  King  with  them,  and  shutting  him  up  in  the  Castle ;  and 
leaving  Berwick  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  English,  who  never  lost  it 
again.  The  army  dispersed ;  and  Glocester  and  Albany  advanced  to 
Edinburgh,  where  they  demanded  the  liberation  of  the  King. 

*  My  Lord,'  said  the  Chancellor  Evandale  to  Albany,  '  we  will  grant 
your  desires;  but  as  to  that  man  who  is  with  yon,  we  know  him  not.' 

It  was  plain  that  Angus  had  promised  more  than  he  could  perform, 
and  that  the  Scottish  nation  had  no  mind  either  for  King  Alexander 
lY.  or  for  allegiance  to  England.  So  Albany  could  only  profess  to 
have  come  t6  recover  bis  position  in  the  country ;  and  going  up  to  the 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  443 

CSifltle,  he  reconciled  himself  to  his  brother,  so  entirely  as  it  seemed, 
that  they  came  down  riding  upon  the  same  horse. 

Richard  of  Glocester,  seeing  probably  that  the  presence  of  an  Knglish 
army  only  h-ritated  the  Scots,  made  the  best  sounding  terms  of  peace 
he  could  with  James,  and  marched  away,  leaving  a  whole  complication 
of  intrigues  with  Albany,  wKich  at  length  became  known,  and  so  excited 
the  indignation  of  the  more  honest  Scots,  that  Albany  was  at  length 
obliged  to  retire  to  England,  leaving  his  own  splendid  Castle  of  Dunbar 
in  the  hands  of  an  Enghsh  garrison.  Well  might  he  again  be  pro- 
claimed an  outlaw,  while  James  proceeded  to  besiege  the  castle. 

Albany,  obtaining  no  aid  in  England,  returned  with  the  old  banished 
Earl  of  Douglas,  of  the  Black  or  elder  line,  and  tried  to  collect  his 
retainers,  and  again  assert  his  preposterous  claims.  But  they  were  met 
by  some  of  the  King's  troops,  and  defeated;  Douglas  was  taken,  and  died 
tn  captivity,  while  Albany  fled  to  England  and  afterwards  France,  where 
he  married  a  fourth  lady,  had  one  son,  and  was  killed  by  an  accidental 
blow  in  a  tournament,  just  about  the  time  that  his  more  successful 
compeer,  Richard  of  Giocester,  had  reached  the  height  of  his  short-lived 
eareer. 

{To  be  contiHuetL) 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE; 

OR, 

UNDER  WODE,   UNDER  RODE. 

•    CHAPTER  X.   (conftnwerf.) 

Clement,  in  a  severe  mood,  followed  Felix  down -stairs;  but  some 
wonderful  spirit  of  frolic  was  on  all  the  young  people  that  night — a 
reaction  perhaps  from  the  melancholy  that  had  so  long  necessarily 
reigned  in  that  house,  for  though  the  fun  was  less  loud  it  was  quite  aa 
merry :  a  course  of  riddles  was  going  on ;  and  Clement,  who  really  was 
Hsed  to  a  great  deal  of  mirth  among  the  staff  of  St.  Matthew's,  absolutely 
unbent)  and  gloried  in  shewing  that  even  more  conundrums  were 
known  there  than  by  the  house  of  Harewood.  He  was  not  strong  in 
guessing  them;  but  then  Will  Harewood  made  such  undaunted  and 
extraordinary  shots  at  everything  proposed,  that  the  spirit  of  repailee 
was  fairly  awakened,  and  Cherry's  bright  delicate  wit  began  to  play,  so 
that  no  one  knew  how  to  believe  in  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  still  less 
that  this  was  the  same  house  that  grave  Wilmet  had  left  that  morning. 

*  Poor  dear  little  Cheriy !'  said  Felix  to  Mr.  Audley,  after  helping  her 
up-stairs,  'she  is  quite  spent  with  laughing;  indeed,  my  jaws  lu^he,  and 
she  is  ready  to  cry,  as  if  it  had  been  unfeeling.' 


444  THS  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

^  Don't  let  her  fancy  that  We  certainlj  were  surprised  into  it 
to-night;  but  I  only  wish  for  her  sake — ^for  all  your  si^es — ^that  you 
could  keep  the  house  merrier.' 

Felix  sighed.  He  too  felt  as  if  he  had  been  betrayed  into  unbecoming 
levity ;  and  though  he  would  not  dispute,  his  heart  had  only  become  the 
heavier.  However,  he  did  not  forget ;  and  "^hen  Cherry  again  breathed 
a  little  sigh  as  to  what  Wilmet  would  think  of  their  first  day,  he  stoutly 
averred  that  there  was  no  use  in  drooping,  and  no  harm  in  livelinessi  and 
that  no  one  had  ever  been  so  full  of  joyousness  as  their  father. 

She  owned  it.     *  But — ' 

And  that  but  meant  the  effects  of  the  three  years  that  she  had  spent  as 
the  companion  of  her  mother's  mournful  widowhood,  and  of  the  cares  of 
life  on  her  elder  brother  and  sister. 

It  was  true,  as  Mr.  Audley^said,  that  the  associations  of  the  rooms 
were  not  good  for  hor  spirits  in  her  many  lonely  hours  and  confined  life ; 
and  this  reconciled  Felix  more  than  anything  else  to  the  proposed  change. 
He  was  keeping  his  promise  to  Wilmet  of  not  seeking  a  house  till  her 
return,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fraggatt,  whose  minds  had  been  much 
relieved  by  hearing  that  the  lodger  would  consult  the  proprietieSj^ 
communicated  to  him  their  own  scheme  of  taking  up  their  residence 
at  a  village  named  Marshlands,  about  three  miles  from  Bexley,  where 
they  already  spent  gi*eat  part  of  the  summer  in  a  pleasant  cottage  and 
garden  which  they  had  bought  and  adorned.  Mr.  Froggatt  would  drive 
in  to  attend  to  the  business  every  day,  but  the  charge  of  the  house  was 
the  difficulty,  as  they  did  not  wish  to  let  the  rooms;  and  they  now 
proposed  that  the  young  Underwoods  should  inhabit  them  rent-free, 
merely  keeping  a  bed-room  and  the  little  parlour  behind  the  shop  for  Mr. 
Froggatt,  and  providing  firing  in  them.  With  much  more  diffidence, 
at  his  wife's  earnest  suggestion,  the  kindly  modest  old  man  asked  whether 
Miss  Underwood  would  object  to  his  coming  in  to  take  a  piece  of  bread 
and  cheese  when  he  was  there  in  the  middle  of  the  day. 

It  was  an  excellent  ofier,  and  Felix  had  no  hesitation  in  gratefully 
closing  with  it,  even  without  consulting  Wilmet.  Her  reply  shewed  that 
a  great  weight  was  taken  off  her  mind ;  and  she  was  only  longing  to  be  at 
home  again,  contriving  for  the  move,  which  was  to  take  place  at  Lady 
Bay.  She  was  burning  to  study  the  new  rooms ;  nevertheless,  as  by  kind 
Marilda's  contrivance,  she  was  taking  lessons  in  German  every  day  from 
a  superior  Fraulein  who  had  once  been  her  cousin's  governess,  and  was 
further  allowed  to  inspect  the  working  of  a  good  school,  her  stay  was 
extended,  by  Miss  Pearson's  entreaty,  a  full  fortnight  beyond  what  had 
been  intended.  Nor  had  anything  gone  wrong  in  her  absence.  Even 
the  overlooking  of  the  boys'  linen,  which  she  had  believed  impossible 
without  her,  was  safely  carried  on  by  Cherry,  and  all  were  sent  off  in 
sound  condition.  No  catastrophe  occurred;  and  the  continual  occupation 
and  responsibility  drove  away  all  the  low  spirits  that  so  often  had  tried 
the  home-keeping  girl.     She  did  enjoy  those  tete-a-tete  evenings,  when 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  445 

Felix  opened  to  her  more  than  he  had  ever  done  before ;  and  yet  it  was 
an  immense  relief  to  have  the  day  fixed  for  Wilmet's  return,  and  how 
much  more  to  have  her  walking  into  the  room  with  all  the  children 
clinging  about  her  in  incoherent  ecstasy,  which  had  not  subsided  enough 
for  much  comprehension  when  Felix  came  joyously  in.  ^Hurrah, 
Wilmet  I    Mr.  Froggatt  sent  me  home  a  couple  of  hours  before  time !'    ' 

'  How  very  good !  I  met  him  in  the  street  just  now.  Really,  he  is 
the  kindest  old  gentleman  in  the  world !' 

^  I  believe  you  dazzled  him,  Mettie ;  he  says  he  did  not  know  you  till 
you  spoke  to  him,  and  if  he  had  realized  what  a  beautiflil  and  majestic 
young  lady  you  were,  he  should  hardly  have  ventured  to  propose  your 
taking  up  your  abode  under  his  humble  roof.' 

^  That  must  be  the  effect  of  living  with  Alda,'  said  Wilmet  merrily  ; 
^  but  oh  I  I  am  glad  to  be  at  home  again  I' 

^And  I  never  was  so  glad  of  anything  in  my  life,'  said  Geraldine 
eagerly. 

'I  am  longidg  to  go  over  the  house,  and  know  what  to  do  about 
furniture,'  continued  Wilmet. 

*  There !  now  W.  W.  is  herself  again !'  said  Felix. 

'  Mrs.  Froggatt  came  and  called  on  me,'  said  Geraldine.  '  She  talked 
of  leaving  us  the  larger  things  that  will  not  go  into  the  cottage.' 

'  Which  is  well,'  said  Felix ;  *  for  how  much  of  ours  will  survive  the 
shock  of  removing  is  doubtful.' 

^AU  the  things  that  came  from  Yale  Leston  are  quite  solid,'  said 
Wilmet,  bristling  up. 

*  That  carpet  is  solid  dam,'  said  Felix.  *  We  tried  one  evening,  and 
found  that  though  the  pattern  of  rose  leaves  is  a  tradition,  no  one  younger 
than  Clem  could  remember  having  seen  either  design  or  colour.' 

^You  should  not  laugh  at  it,  Felix,'  said  WUmet,  a  little  hurt;  for 
indeed  her  mother's  needle  and  her  own  were  too  well  acquainted  with 
that  carpet  for  her  to  like  to  hear  it  contemned. 

Felix  and  Cherxy  both  felt  somewhat  called  to  order,  as  if  their  mistress 
had  come  home  again;  and  Cherry  was  the  first  to  break  silence  by 
inquiring  after  Wilmet's  studies  at  Brighton. 

'  Oh  yes,'  said  Wilmet,  '  I  do  hope  I  am  improved.  That  was  all 
Marilda's  kindness.  She  quite  understood  how  I  missed  everybody  and 
everything ;  and  at  last  one  day,  when  I  was  wishing  I  could  pronounce 
German  like  Alda,  and  that  Alda  had  time  to  give  me  some  lessons — ' 

^  Alda  hasn't  time  ?' 

'  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  useful  she  is !  She  writes  all  the  notes. 
Marilda  devised  getting  this  Fraulein,  such  a  good-natured  woman,  and 
when  she  heard  what  I  wanted,  she  got  leave  for  me  to  come  every  day 
to  study  the  working  of  the  school.  I  do  believe  I  shall  teach  much 
better  now,  if  only  I  were  not  so  ignorant.  I  never  had  any  notion 
before  how  little  I  knew !' 

However,  Wilmet's  value  had  really  risen  so  much  in  consequence  of 


446  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

• 

these  instnictions,  that  Miss  Pearson  arranged  that  she  should  Is^  the 
French  for  German  foundations,  and  prepare  the  scholars,  and  should 
receive  half  a  sovereign  a  half  year  from  each  girl,  being  the  moiely  of 
the  'extra.'  Moreover,  the  head- teacher  talked  of  retiring,  and  her 
succeaston  was  promised  to  Wilmet — a  brilliant  prospect,  that  the  sight  of 
Alda's  grandeur  did  not  make  her  contemn. 

Wilmet's  anxious  mind  was  weU  satisfied  by  her  inspection  of  the  new 
quarters,  which,  among  other  conveniences,  had  that  of  shortening  bj  ten 
minutes  her  walk  to  schooL  The  family  apartments  were  all  up-stairs, 
the  space  below  being  entirely  taken  up  by  the  business,  and  the  kitchens 
were  under  ground.  The  chief  sitting-room  upstairs  was  unfortunately 
towards  the  street,  and  had  a  northern  aspect ;  it  was  a  apacious  room, 
with  three  large  windows  filled  with  boxes  of  flowers,  and  contained  a 
big  table  and  two  sofas,  which,  with  the  carpet  and  curtains,  would 
remain  well  covered  up.  -Folding-doors  led  into  a  smaller  room,  with  a 
south  window  towards  the  little  garden,  and  where  Mrs.  Froggatt 
.generally  sat,  and  which  had  been  used  for  the  dining-room.  There 
were  two  bed-rooms  besides  on  the  same  floor,  one  of  which  would 
remain  untouched  for  Mr.  Froggatt ;  and  above  these,  there  was  a  large 
nursery,  and  more  rooms  than  had  been  ever  furnished.  Rent,  rates, 
taxes,  and  repairs,  all  off  her  mind  I  Wilmet  felt  as  if  prosperity  were 
setting  in ;  and  she  was  the  first  to  make  the  audacious  statement  that 
they  need  not  part  with  Martha,  and  indeed  that  the  house  could  not  be 
kept  in  order,  nor  dinners  cooked  fit  for  Mr.  Froggatt,  by  Sibby  single- 
handed.  And  Cherry,  with  much  effort,  made  up  her  mind  that  they 
were  like  a  family  of  caterpillars  moving  their  cobweb  tent ;  Angela, 
seeing  such  an  establishment  of  young  tortoise-shells,  in  their  polished 
black,  under  their  family  web,  had  asked  ^  Which  was  their  brother 
Felix?*  and  the  name  Avas  adopted. 

So  a  time  of  much  business  and  excitement  set  in ;  and  the  lengthening 
spring  evenings  were  no  sinecure  to  Wilmet,  as  the  flitting  day 
approached,  being  rather  hurried  on  by  the  old  bookseller,  who  wanted 
to  be  at  Marshlands  in  time  to  admire  his  hyacinths  and  sow  his  annuals. 
Mr.  Audiey  would  take  rooms  at  the  Fortinbras  Arms  for  the  remainder 
of  his  stay  at  Bexley ;  and  indeed,  there  was  a  good  deal  to  break  the  old 
habit  of  constantly  depending  on  him,  for  his  brother's  young  wife  was 
slowly  dying  in  London,  and  the  whole  family  seemed  instinctively  to 
turn  to  him  for  comfort  and  advice,  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  be  con- 
tinually going  backwards  and  forwards. 

On  the  24th  of  March,  when  he  came  down  by  an  afternoon  train,  he 

found  the  house  door  open,  the  steps  scattered  with  straw;  and  af\;er 

looking  in  and  seeing  his  own  parlour  intact,  and  with  a  cheerful  fire, 

he  pursued  his  way  up-stairs,  and  there  found  the  sitting-room  bare, 

except  for  a  sort  of  island  consisting  of  the  sofa,  on  which  Geraldine  lay, 

rolled  in  cloaks  and  shawls,  trying  to  amuse  the  twins  by  a  feeble 

attempt  to  sing 

*  Weel  may  the  boatie  row,' 


THE  I^ILLAJRS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  447 

while  making  paper  boats  for  Stella  to  dr«^  bj  strings  upon  the  smooth 

boards. 

'  £h,  Cherry,  are  you  the  Last  Man,  or  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer?' 
^Tbe  last  of  the  catterpillars,'  said  Cherry,  smiling,  but  with  effort. 

'  Do  you  see  Stella's  fleet— just  thirteen  V 

*  Making  omens,  foolish  child  !'  but  though  Stella  was  eagerly  pointing 
and  explaining,  *  Tat  TeUa's  boat— tat  Tedo's — tat  brother's — tat  Angel,' 
and  so  on,  the  word  foolish  was  not  directed  to  the  little  one,  but  to  the 
grey  eyes  heavy  with  unshed  tears,  that  rested  wistfully  upon  a  wreck 
that  had  caught  upon  a  nail,  and  lay  rent  and  rugged. 

'  Pray  don't  look  which  it  is,'  said  she. 
^  Certainly  not ;  I  hate  auguries.' 

*  Do  you  think  there  is  nothing  in  themi' 

*  I  think  there  is  nothing  in  this  room  but  what  ought  to  be  in  mine. 
Do  you  expect  me  to  stand  discussing  superstition  in  this  horrible  raw 
emptiness  I     Here,'  picking  up  Theodore,  ^  I'll  come  baok  for  you.' 

^  Oh  no,  thank  you,  let  me  get  down  by  myself;  he  cannot  be  left  alone 
in  a  room.' 

'  Come,  Stella,  and  take  care  of  him.' 

^That's  worse;  she  .leads  him  into  mischief.  We  are  fox,  goose,  and 
cabbage.  Please  give  me  my  crutch ;  Wilmet  put  it  out  of  reach  because 
she  said  I  was  destroying  myself.' 

'  You  are  tired  to  death.' 

^  Oh  no ;  but  one  can't  sit  «till  when  so  much  is  going  on.  Oh,  how 
delicious !'  as  after  an  interval  she  arrived,  and  found  Mr.  Audley 
winding  up  a  musical-box,  which  Theodore  was  greeting  with  its  own 
tunes,  and  Stella  with  a  danoe  and  chant  of  ^  Sing  box — sing  box ;'  and 
then  the  two  sat  listening  to  the  long  cycle  of  tunes  which  would  hold 
Theodore  entranced  for  any  length  of  time. 

After  a  short  inquiry  and  a  reply  as  to  the  sister-in-law's  state,  and  a 
few  words  on  the  progress  of  the  flitting,  there  was  a  silence  while  Mr. 
Audley  read  the  letters  that  had  come  for  him  in  his  absence,  and 
Cherry's  face  became  more  and  more  pensive.  At  last,  when  Mr.  Audley 
laid  down  his  letters,  and  leant  against  the  chimney-piece,  she  ventured 
to  sijy,  *  Is  it  wrong  f ' 

^Is  what  wrong?'  said  the  Curate,  who  bad  quite  forgotten  tho 
subject. 

*  To  care  about  omens.' 

'That  depends.  To  accept  them  is  sometimes  necessary;  to  look  out 
for  them  is  generally  foolish  and  often  wrong.' 

'  Sometimes  necessary  ?'  said  Cherry  eagerly. 

'Sometimes  experience  seems  to  shew  that  in  good  Providence  a 
merciful  preparation  is  sent  not  so  much  to  lead  to  anticipations,  as  to 
bring  the  mind  into  keeping  with  what  is  coming,  and,  as  it  werei 
attune  it.' 

'  So  that  little  things  may  be  constantly  types  of  great  future  ones?' 


448  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

*  My  dear  Cherry,  I  said  7iot  constantly.' 

^  Just  let  me  tell  you.  Sibby  says  that  the  very  day  we  all  came  into 
this  poor  old  house,  just  as  the  omnibus  stopped,  there  was  the  knell 
ringing  over-head,  and  a  funeral  coming  up  the  street.  She  knew  it  was 
a  token,  and  burst  out  crying ;  and  dear  Mamma,  who  you  know  never 
shed  tears,  turned  as  white  as  a  corpse,  as  if  she  was  struck  to  the 
heart.' 

*  And  your  father  f* 

^Oh !  Sibby  said  he  just  stood  in  the  door-way,  lifted  his  hat  as  the 
funeral  passed,  and  then  well-nigh  carried  Mamma,  with  the  baby  (that 
was  Fulbert)  in  her  arms,  over  the  threshold,  and  smiled  at  her,  saying, 
*^Well,  Mother,  what  better  than  to  have  found  our  home  till  death!" 
So  you  see  he  did  believe  in  it.' 

^I  see  he  wanted  to  cheer  her  spirits,  not  by  saying  ^^stuflT  and 
nonsense,"  but  reminding  her  that  there  are  worse  things  than  death. 
Have  you  an  omen  on  your  mind,  Cherry?  Have  it  out;  don't  let  it 
sink  in.' 

^  Only  please  don't  laugh  at  me.  Indeed,  it  was  not  my  own  doing,  bat 
Stella's  fancy  to  have  a  boat  for  each  of  us,  when  she  was  launching 
them ;  and  I  could  not  help  recollecting  how  we  are  all  starting  out  and 
away  from  our  first  home.' 

*"  Stella's  was  not  a  very  perilous  ocean.' 

'  That  was  a  comfort  at  first ;  and  Stella  tried  to  draw  all  the  thirteen 
lines  together,  but  they  tangled,  and  one  thread  broke,  and  that  b^at  was 
left  behind ;  and  one  poor  crooked  ill-made  thing  fell  over,  and  was 
left  at  home  because  hindering  all  the  rest,  and  even  Stella  knew  that 
was  me ;  and — '  her  voice  quivered,  '  one  was  caught  on  a  nail,  and  torn 
into  a  wreck !  Now,  can  I  help  thinking,  though  you'll  just  call  them 
newspaper- boats,  dragged  by  a  baby  on  a  dry  dusty  floor  f 

^  Watched  by  a  weary  fanciful  damsel,'  said  Mr.  Audley,  sitting  down 
by  her,  ^  who  does  not  know  a  bit  more  than  she  did  before,  that  all  are 
launching  on  a  sea,  and  if  it  »  a  rougher  one,  there's  a  better  Guiding 
Star  than  Stella  Eudora  to  lead  them,  and  they  have  compasses  of  their 
own — ily,  and  a  Pilot.  And  if  there  are  times  when  He  seems  to 
be  asleep  in  the  ship — why,  even  the  owner  of  the  unseaworthy  boat  left 
at  home  can  shew  the  Light,  and  pray  on  till  the  others  are  roused  to 
awaken  Him.' 

*  I  wish  there  had  not  been  that  wreck,'  she  sighed. 

*  What  seems  a  wreck  need  not  be  really  one,'  said  Mr.  Audley.  *  It 
may  bo  the  very  way  of  returning  to  the  right  course.  And  by-and-by 
we  shall  see  our  Master  standing  on  the  shore  in  the  morning  liglit' 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  sound  at  the  door — Felix  had  accompanied 
Cherry's  chair,  to  bring  her  and  Theodore  to  the  new  home.  There  was 
too  much  haste  for  the  wistful  last  looks  she  intended :  she  was  deposited 
in  the  chair  with  Theodore  on  her  knee,  Stella  trotting  after,  with  Felix 
and  Mr.  Audley,  who  was  coming  to  sec  the  inauguration.     St.  Oswald's 


THE  FILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  449 

Buildings  were  left  behind,  and  she  was  drawn  up  to  the  green  private 
door,  beside  the  shop  window ;  Wilmet  hurried  down  and  took  Theodore 
from  her ;  Felix  helped  her  out,  and  up  the  narrow  steep  stair-case,  which 
certainly  was  not  a  gain,  but  when  landed  in  the  drawing-room,  the  space 
seemed  to  her  magnificent  And  their  own  furniture,  the  two  or  three 
cherished  poii;raits  brought  from  Yale  Leston,  their  father^s  chair,  their 
mother's  sofa,  the  silk  patchwork  table-cover  that  had  been  the  girls' 
birth-daj  present  to  Mamma,  the  book-case  with  Papa's  precious  books, 
made  it  seem  home-like. 

'The  mantel-piece  is  just  the  samel'  cried  Cherry  delighted,  as  she 
recognized  aU  the  old  ornaments. 

The  next  moment  her  delight  was  great  at  the  flower-stands,  which 
Mr.  Froggatt  had  kindly  left  full  of  primulas,  squills,  and  crocuses ;  and 
when  she  looked  out  from  the  back  room  into  the  little  garden,  where 
Mr.  Froggatt's  horticultural  tastes  had  long  found  their  sole  occupation, 
and  saw  turf,  green  laurels,  and  bunches  of  snowdrops  and  crocuses,  she 
forgot  all  Stella's  launch  I 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  CHORAL  FESTIVAL. 

*  And  with  ornameiits  and  banners, 
As  becomes  gintale  good  manners, 
We  made  the  loveliest  Tay  room  upon  Shannon  shore.' 

TTiackeray. 

*  Of  course,  after  thisy  said  Lady  Price, '  Miss  Underwood  did  not  expect 
to  be  visited.' 

Otherwise  the  gain  was  great  The  amusement  of  looking  out  of 
window  into  the  High  Street  was  alone  a  perpetual  feast  to  the  little 
ones,  and  saved  Geraldine  worlds  of  anxiety ;  and  the  garden  where 
they  could  be  turned  out  to  play  was  prized  as  it  only  could  be  by  those 
who  had  never  had  any  outlet  before.  It  was  a  pleasant  little  long 
narrow  nook,  between  the  printing*house  on  the  west,  and  such  another 
garden  on  the  east,  a  like  slip,  with  a  wall  masked  by  ivy  and  lilacs,  and 
overshadowed  by  a  horse-chestnut  meeting  it  on  the  south.  It  was  not 
smoky,  and  was  quite  quiet,  save  for  the  drone  and  stamp  of  the  press ; 
there  was  grass,  a  gum-cistus  and  some  flower-beds  in  the  centre,  and 
a  gravel  walk  all  round,  bordered  by  narrow  edgings  of  flowers,  and 
with  fruit  trees  against  the  printing-house  wall,  and  a  Banksia  and 
Westeria  against  that  of  the  house.  Mr.  Froggatt  was  quite  touched  at 
the  reverence  with  which  Angela  and  Stella  regarded  even  the  daisies 
that  had  eluded  his  perpetual  spud ;  and  when  he  found  out  the  delight 
it  was  to  Cherry  to  live  with  flowers  for  the  Orst  time  in  her  life,  he 
seldom  failed  to  send  her  a  bunch  of  violets  or  some  other  spring  beauty 


450  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Be  soon  *as  he  arnml  ia  the  morning,  and  kept  the  windows  oonstantlj 
supplied  witli  plants. 

The  old  bookseller  was  at  first  very  much  afraid  of  his  new  inmntes. 
To  Felix  he  was  osed,  bat  he  looked  on  the  sisters  as  ladies,  and  to 
ladies  'except  <m  business  terms  he  was  much  less  accustomed  than  to 
genlllemen.  Besides,  being  a  thorough  gentleman  himself  at  heart,  he 
had  so  much  delicacy  as  to  be  afraid  of  hurting  their  feelings  by  seeming 
at  home  in  his  lown  house ;  and  he  avoided  being  there  at  luncheon  for 
a  whole  week,  until  one  afternoon  Felix  ran  up  to  say  that  he  was  sure 
Mr.  Fi'oggatt  had  a  cold,  and  would  be  glad  if  a  cup  of  tea  appeared  in 
his  parlour.  Gratitude  brought  him  in  to  face  the  enemy ;  and  after  he 
had  been  kept  «t  heme  for  a  day  or  two  by  the  cold,  his  wife's  injunctions 
and  Felix's  entreaties  brought  him  in  to  the  dinner. 

It  happened  to  he  one  of  Wilmet's  favourite  economical  -stews ;  but 
these  were  always  popular  in  the  family,  though  chiefly  composed  of 
eoraps,  pet-liquor,  rice,  and  vegetables ;  and  both  for  its  excellence  and 
prudence  it  commanded  Mr.  Froggatt's  unqualified  approbation.  All 
that  distressed  his  kind  heart  was  to  see  no  liquor  but  water,  except 
Cherry's  thimbleful  of  port ;  he  could  not  enjoy  his  glass  of  porter,  and 
shook  his  head — perhaps  not  without  reason — when  he  found  that  his 
young  assistant's  diet  was  on  no  more  generous  scale,  and  was  not 
satisfied  by  Felix's  laughing  argument  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  mare 
than  perfectly  healthy  and  strong.  *  False  economy,'  said  the  old  man 
in  private ;  but  Felix  was  not  to  be  persuaded  into  what  he  believed  to 
be  an  unnecessary  drain  on  the  family  finances,  and  was  still  more 
stout  against  the  hint  that  if  Redstone  discovered  this  prudential 
abstinence,  it  might  make  him  '  disagreeable.'  Felix  bad  gone  his  way 
regardless  of  far  too  many  sneers  for  poverty  and  so-called  meanness,  to 
make  any  concession  on  their  account,  though  the  veiled  jealousy  and 
guarded  insolence  of  that  smart  ^gent'  the  foremnn,  had  been  for  the 
last  three  years  the  greatest  thorn  in  his  side.  And  at  least  he  made 
this  advance,  that  the  errand-boy  cleaned  the  shoes ! 

Geraldine,  though  shy  at  first  from  the  utter  secluflion  in  which  ahe 
had  lived,  put  forth  a  pretty  bashful  graciousness  that  perfectly  enchanted 
Mr.  Froggatt,  who  was  besides  much  touched  by  her  patient  helplessness, 
lie  became  something  between  her  grandfather  and  her  knight,  loading 
her  with  fiowers,  giving  her  the  run  of  the  circulating  library,  and 
•wlienever  it  was  fine  enough,  taking  her  for  a  mile  or  two  in  his  low 
busket-carriage  either  before  or  after  his  day's  business  iii  the  shop,  it 
was  not  exactly  like  being  with  her  only  other  friend,  Mr.  Audley ;  biit 
he  was  a  thoroughly  kind,  polite,  and  by  no  means  unlettered  old  man-; 
and  Geraldine  enjoyed  and  was  grateful,  while  the  childran  were  his 
darlings,  and  were  encouraged  to  take  all  manner  of  liberties  with  him. 

Among  the  advantages  of  the  change  was  the  having  Felix  always  at 
.hand ;  and  tliough  she  really  did  not  see  him  oftener  in  the  course  of  the 
ivy  than  at  St.  Oswald's  Buildings,  still  the  knowing  him  to  be  within 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  451 

reach  gave  great  oonteniment  to  Cherry.  T]ie  <mly  disadvantage  was 
that  he  lost  his  four  daily  walks  to  and  fro,  and  hardly  ever  had 
sufficient  fresh  air  and  exercifte.  He  was  indeed  on  his  feet  for  the  most 
of  the  day,  but  not  exerting  his  muscles;  and  all  taste  for  the  active 
sports  in  which  his  kind  old  master  begged  hiaa  to  join  seemed  to  have 
passed  away  from  him  when  care  icdl  upon  him.  He  tried  not  to  hold 
his  head  above  the  young  men  of  his  adopted  rank,  many  of  whom  had 
been  his  school-fellows ;  but  except  with  the  members  of  the  choir  and 
choral  society,  he  had  no  common  ground,  and  there  were  none  with 
whom  he  could  form  a  friendship.  Thus  he  never  had  any  real  relaxa- 
tion, except  music,  and  his  Sunday  walks,  besides  his  evenings  with  his 
sisters  and  of  play  with  the  children.  It  was  not  a  natural  life  for  a 
youth,  but  it  seemed  to  suit  with  his  nature;  for  though  not  given  tX} 
outbursts  of  animal  spirits,  he  was  always  full  Of  a  certain  strong  and 
supporting  cheerfulness. 

Indeed,  though  tliey  did  not  like  to  own  it  to  themselves,  4he  young 
people  had  lefl  behind  them  much  of  the  mournfulness  of  the  widowed 
household,  which  had  borne  down  their  youthful  spirits;  and  though  the 
three  elders  could  never  be  as  tliose  who  had  grown  up  without  care  or 
grief,  yot  their  sunshine  could  beam  forth  once  more,  and  helped  them 
through  the  parting  with  their  best  friend.  For  Mr.  Audley's  sister-in- 
law  died  in  the  beginning  of  June,  and  his  father  entreated  him  to  go 
abroad  with  his  brother,  so  that  he  was  hurried  away  directly  after 
midsummer,  after  having  left  his  books  in  Felix's  charge,  and  provided 
for  his  reception  of  the  dividends  in  his  absence. 

His  sucxsessor  was  a  quiet  amiable  young  Mr.  Bisset,  not  at  all 
disinclined  to  cultivate  Felix  as  a  link  with  the  tradesfolk ;  only  he  had 
brought  with  him  a  mother,  a  very  nice,  prim,  gentle-mannered,  black- 
eyed  lady,  who  viewed  all  damsels  of  small  means  as  perilous  to  her  son. 
Had  she  been  aware  that  Bexley  contained  anything  so  white  and 
carnation,  so  blue-eyed  and  straight-featured,  so  stately,  and  so  penniless, 
as  Wilmet  Underwood,  he  would  never  have  taken  the  Curacy.  She 
was  a  kind  woman,  who  would  have  taken  infinite  pains  to  serve  the 
orphan  girls ;  and  she  often  called  oi>  them  ;  but  when  the  Rector's  wife 
had  told  her  that  such  a  set  had  been  made  at  Mr.  Audley  that  he  could 
-bear  it  no  longer,  it  was  hot  a  natural  instinct  to  cherish  her  son's 
•bashfulness. 

That  autumn  Wilmet  came  home  elevated  by  the  news  that  the  head 
teacher  was  going  to  retire  at  Christmas,  and  that  she  was  to  be  promoted 
to  her  place  of  forty  pounds  a  year.  Her  successor  was  coming 
immediately  to  be  trained,  being  in  fact  the  daughter  of  Miss  Pearson's 
sister,  who  had  married  an  officer  in  the  army.  She  had  been  dead 
about  three  years,  and  the  girl  had  been  living  in  London  with  her  father, 
now  on  half  pay,  and  had  attended  a  day-school,  until  he  married  again, 
and  finding  liis  means  inadequate  to  his  expenses,  and  his  wife  and 
daughter  by  no  means  comfortable  together,  he  suddenly  flitted  to  Jersey 


452  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

to  retrench,  and  made  over  his  daughter  of  seventeen  to  her  aunts  to  be 
prepared  for  governess-ship. 

This  was  the  account  Miss  Pearson  and  Miss  Maria  gave  to  Wilmet, 
and  Wilmet  repeated  to  Geraldine,  who  watched  with  some  interest  for 
the  first  report  of  the  new-comer. 

'  She  is  rather  a  nice  looking  little  thing/  was  the  first  report,  '  but  I 
don't  know  whether  we  shall  get  on  together.' 

The  next  was,  '  Miss  Maria  has  been  begging  me  to  try  to  draw  her 
out  They  tfre  quite  distressed  about  her,  she  is  so  stiff  and  cold  in  her 
ways  with  them,  and  they  think  she  cries  in  her  own  room.' 

*  Poor  thing,  how  forlorn  she  must  be  1    Cannot  you  comfort  her,  Mettief ' 
'  She  will  have  nothing  to  say  to  me  I     She  is  civil  and  dry,  just  as  she 

is  to  them.' 

'  I  think  she  can  talk,'  said  Angela. 

*  How  do  you  know  anything  about  it,  little  one  ?'  said  Wilmet. 

^I  heard  her  talking  away  to  Lizzie  Bruce  in  the  arbour  at  dinner 
time.    Her  face  looked  quite  different  then  from  what  it  does  in  school.' 

'  Then  I  hope  she  is  settling  down  to  be  happier,'  said  Wilmet  thought- 
fully ;  but  having  watched  Angela  out  of  hearing,  she  added,  '  Not  that 
I  think  Lizzie  Bruce  a  good  friend ;  she  is  rather  a  weak  girl,  and  is 
flattered  by  Carry  Price  making  a  distinction  between  her  and  some  of 
the  others. 

^  When  is  Carry  Price  ever  going  to  leave  school?' 

'  When  she  can  play  Mendelssohn  well  enough  to  satisfy  Mr.  Bevan. 
I  wonder  Lady  Price  does  keep  her  on  here ;  but  in  the  meantime  we 
can  only  make  the  best  of  her.' 

Which  was  as  severe  as  anything  Wilmet  ever  said. 

A  day  or  two  later,  Wilmet  and  Angela  came  in  from  school,  eager, 
indignant,  and  victorious. 

'  You  did  manage  it  well !'  the  younger  was  saying.  '  I  was  so  glad 
you  saw  yourself. — Just  fancy.  Cherry,  there  were  Carry  Price  and 
Lizzie  Bruce  turning  out  all  the  most  secret  corners  of  Miss  Knevett's 
work-box,  laugliing  at  them,  and  asking  horrid  impertinent  questions, 
and  she  was  almost  crying.' 

*  And  you  fetched  Wilmet?' 

She  was  sitting  out  in  the  garden,  shewing  some  of  the  little  ones  how 
to  do  their  crochet — it  was  the  play-time  after  dinner — and  I  just  went 
to  her  and  whispered  in  her  ear,  so  she  strolled  quietly  by  the  window.' 

^  Yes,'  added  Wilmet,  '  and  before  I  came  to  it,  Edith  was  saying  to 
Jane  Martin,  on  purpose  for  me  to  hear,  that  she  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  if  Miss  Underwood  would  look  into  the  school-room.  So 
Angel  was  not  getting  into  a  scrape.* 

'  I  should  not  have  minded  if  I  had,'  said  Angel ;  '  it  was  such  a  shame, 
and  she  looks  such  a  dear — * 

*  There  she  was,'  said  Wilmet,  '  her  fingers  shaking,  and  her  eyes  full 
of  tears,  trying  to  do  some  work,  while  Carry  Price  went  on  in  her 


THE  FILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  453 

scoffing  voice,  laughing  over  all  the  little  treasures  and  jewels,  and  asking 
who  gave  them  to  her,  and  what  thej  cost.  All  I  could  do  was  to  put 
my  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  say  I  saw  she  did  not  like  it ;  and  then 
Lizzie  Bruce  looked  ashamed,  but  Miss  Price  bristled  up,  and  declared 
that  she  had  unlocked  the  box  herself.  Then  the  poor  child  burst  out 
that  she  had  only  said  she  would  shew  her  Maltese  cross ;  she  had  never 
asked  them  to  turn  everything  out,  and  meddle  with  it ;  and  Carry  tossed 
her  head,  just  like  my  Lady,  and  said,  *'  Oh,  very  well,  they  did  not  want 
to  see  her  trumpery,  since  she  was  so  cross  about  it  I  suppose  you 
mean  to  shew  the  things  one  by  one  to  the  little  girls  I  A  fine  exhibition  1" 
She  cried  out,  "  £xhibit !  I  don't  mean  to  exhibit  at  all,  I  only  shewed  it 
to  you  as  my  friend!"  Whereupon  Carry  Price  flounced  off  with  "As 
if  I  were  going  to  make  a  friend  of  an  under-teacher !"  and  she  went 
into  a  tremendous  fit  of  crying,  like  what  yon  used  to  have,  Cherry, 
except  that  it  was  more  passionate.' 

'  I'm  sure  I  never  had  anything  like  that  to  cry  for.  What  did  you 
do  with  hert     How  lucky  she  had  you  I' 

*  Why,  when  she  went  on  sobbing,  "I'll  not  stay  here,"  "I  won't  be 
insulted,"  "  I'll  tell  my  aunts,"  my  great  object  was  to  get  her  up-stairs, 
and  to  silence  her,  for  I  was  sure  Miss  Pearson  would  dislike  nothing  so 
much  as  having  a  regular  complaint  from  her  about  Can*y ;  and  besides 
that,  all  the  girls,  who  pity  her  now,  would  be  turned  against  her,  and 
think  her  a  mischief-maker.  I  did  get  her  up  at  last,  and  oh  dear !  what 
a  scene  we  had!  Poor  thing,  I  suppose  she  has  been  a  spoilt  child, 
going  to  a  lady's  fashionable  institute,  as  she  calls  it,  where  she  was  a 
great  girl,  and  rather  looked  up  to,  for  the  indulgences  she  got  from  her 
father — very  proud,  too,  of  being  a  major's  daughter.  Then  came  the 
step-mother ;  what  things  she  said  about  her,  to  be  sure  I  No  end  of 
misery,  and  disputes — whose  fault,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know ;  then  a  crisis 
of  debts.  She  says  it  was  all  Mrs.  Knevett's  extravagance;  but  Miss 
Pearson  told  me  before  that  she  thought  it  had  been  going  on  a  long 
time ;  and  at  last,  when  the  father  and  his  wife  and  her  child  go  off  to 
Jersey,  this  poor  girl  is  turned  over  to  the  aunts  she  never  saw  since  her 
mother  died,  twelve  years  ago. 

'I  dare  say  it  is  the  best  thing  for  her?' 

'If  she  can  only  think  so;  but  she  fancies  the  being  a  teacher  the 
most  horrid  thing  in  the  world.' 

'Oh,  Wilmet!'  interrupted  Angela;  'why,  you  like  teaching:  and 
Bobin  means  to  be  a  real  governess ;  and  so  do  I,  if  I  am  not  a  Sister  1' 

'  Me  too,'  called  out  Stella. 

'But  you  see  this  unlucky  girl  can't  understand  that  teaching  may  be 
a  real  way  of  doing  good ;  she  fancies  it  a  degradation.  She  says  she 
and  her  friends  at  her  institute  hated  and  despised  the  teachers,  and 
played  all  manner  of  tricks  upon  them.' 

'  How  foolish  the  teachers  must  have  been  1' 

'She  did  say  something  about  their  being  low  and  mean.     She  did 


454  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

ma  the  favour  t»  my  not  like  me,  and  thafc  she  was  quite  shocked  to  find 
I  was  ooe  o£  tkas  dreadful  race.  It  was  quite  amazing  to  her  when  i 
toUi  her  how  Robina's  dear  Miss  Lyveson  keeps  school  without  necessity, 
oniy  to  be.  usefal.  You  maj  imagine  what  it  is  to  her  to  be  plunged  all 
on  a  sudden  into  this  unhappy  classw  She  began  by  trying  to  take  her 
old  place  as  an  officer's  daughter,  and  to  consort  with  the  girls ;  but  I 
think  if  she  and  Carry  Price  were  left  to  one  another,  she  would  very 
soon  sink  as  low  as  any  of  tbe  poor  hounded  teachers  she  desmbes.' 
'  She  must  be  very  silly  and  conceited/ 

*  No,  I  think  she  is  sensible,  and  loving  too  at  the  bottom,'  said  Wilmet, 
'  only  everyone  is  strange  here :  J  think  she  will  understand  better  soon ; 
and  in  the  meantime,  she  has  quite  forgiven  me  for  being  a  teacher. 
She  clung  about  me,  and  called  me  all  soits  of  pretty  names — her  only 
friend,  and  so  forth.' 

'  Perhaps  she  can  forgive  you  for  being  a  teacher,  in  consideration  of 
your  being  a  twin,'  said  Cherry. 

'There,  Cherry,  you  understand  her  better  already  than  I  d6!  Y\\ 
bring  l>er  to  you,  I  have  not  time  for  such  a  friendship.' 

'  Poor  thing !  I  should  like  to  try  to  comfort  her,  if  she  is  stran^re  and 
dreary ;  but  I  think  she  must  be  rather  a  goose.     What's  her  namet' 

^  Alice ;  but  in  school  Miss  Pearson  is  very  particular  about  having  her 
called  Miss  Knevett  We  have  exchanged  Christian  names  in  private, 
of  course.' 

•You  horrid  old  prosy  thing  of  four  IPs,'  said  Geraldine.  *  You  ar* 
Bitting  up  there,  you  great  fair  creature  you,  for  the  poor  child  to  worship 
and  adore,  and  not  reciprocating  a  bit!' 

•Of  course,'  said  Wilmet,  'if  she  ciin't  be  happy  without  being  petted, 
I  must  pet  her,  and  let  her  be  nonsensical  about  me ;  but  I  think  it  is  all 
great  stuff»  and  that  you  will  suit  her  much  better  than  I  ever  shalL' 

•Do  you  never  mean  to  have  a  friend,  Mettie?' 

•  Oh  no,  I  haven't  time ;  besides,  I've  got  Alda.' 

Geraldine  had,  however,  many  dreams  about  the  charms  of  friendship. 
She  read  of  it  in  the  books  thai  Felix  selected  for  her ;  and  Robina  had 
a  vehement  affection  for  a  school-fellow,  whose  hair  and  whose  carte  she 
treasured,  and  to  whom  she  would  have  written  daily  during  the  holidays 
but  for  the  cost  of  stamps.  The  equality  and  freedom  of  the  letters  she 
received  always  made  Cherry  long  for  the  like.  Since  Edgar  had  lef^ 
her,  she  had  never  been  on  those  equal  terms  with  anyone ;  Wilmet  was 
more  like  mother  or  aunt  than  sister ;  and  though  Felix  had  a  certain  air 
of  confidence  and  ease  when  with  her,  and  made  her  his  chief  play- 
fellow, he  could  not  meet  all  her  tastes  or  all  her  needs ;  and  there  was 
a  sort  of  craving  within  her  for  intimacy  with  a  creature  of  her  owu 
species. 

And  though  Wilmet's  description  of  Alice  Knevett  did  not  sound 
particularly  wise,  Cherry,  in  her  humility,  deemed  her  the  more  secure 
of  being  on  her  own  level,  not  so  sensible  and  intolerant  of  little  dreamsi 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THB  HOUSE.  45& 

fiincies,  and  delasions^  as  those  two  sensible  people,  the'  twin,  sisters;  So 
she  watched  impatiently  for  the  introduction  ;  and  at  last  Wilmet  said; 
'  Well,  she  is  coming  to  tea  to-morrow  evening.  Lhtle  ridiculous  chit, 
she  bridled  and  doubted^  but  as  you  were  an  invalid,  she  supposed  she 
might,  only  it  was  not  what  she  had  been  used  to,  and  Papa  '^  might 
object." ' 

'  What?  To  the  shop  ?  Well,  I  really  think  she  had  better  not  come  I 
I'll  have  nobody  here  that  thinks  it  a  favour,  and  looks  down  on  Felix.' 

'  My  deal*,  if  she  contrives  to  look  down  on  Felix  after  she  has  seen 
him,  she  will  deserve  anything  you  please.  Just  noW|  I  believe  the 
foolishness  is  in  her  school  and  not  in  herself.' 

Nevertheless,  Geraldine's  eagerness  underwent  a  great  revulsion* 
Instead  of  looking  forward  to  the  visit,  she  expected  it  with  dread,  and 
dislike  to  the  pert,  conceited,  flippant  Londoner,  who  despised  her  noble 
brother,  and  aspired  to  the  notice  of  Carry  Price.  Her  nervous  shrinking 
from  strangers — the  effect  of  her  secluded  life — increased  on  her  every 
momeift  of  that  dull  wet  afternoon ;  her  feet  grew  cold,  her  cheeks  hot, 
and  she  could  hardly  find  temper  or  patience  for  the  many  appeals  of 
Bernard  and  Stella  for  her  attention. 

Her  foolish  little  heart  was  palpitating  as  if  a  house-breaker  were 
entering  instead  of  Wilmet,  conducting  a  duinty  cloud  of  fresh  lilac 
muslin,  out  of  which  appeared  a  shining  brown  head,  and  a  smiling 
sparkling  face,  with  so  much  life  and  play  about  the  mouth  and  eyes  that 
there  was  no  studying  their  form  or  colour,  and  it  was  only  after  a  certain 
effort  that  it  could  be  realized  that  Alice  Knevett  was  a  glowing  brunette, 
with  a  saucy  little  nose,  retrousse  though  very  pretty,  a  tiny  mouth  full 
of  small  pearls,  and  eyes  of  black  diamond. 

In  spite  of  her  gracious  manner,  and  evident  consciousness  of  her  own 
condescension,  the  winsomeness  of  the  dancing  eyes  fascinated  Cherry 
at  once.  Indeed,  the  simplicity  and  transparency  of  her  little  dignities 
disarmed  all  displeasure,  they  were  so  childish ;  and  they  vanished  in  a 
moment  in  a  game  at  play  with  Bernard  and  Stella.  When  W^ilmet 
brought  out  Geraldine's  portfolio,  her  admiration  was  enthusiastic  if  not 
critical. 

A  sketch  of  Wilmet  and  Alda  enchanted  her;  she  had  never  seen 
anything  so  lovely  or  so  well  done. 

'No,  no,'  said  Cherry,  rather  shocked,  'you  must  have  seen  the  Boyal 
Academy.' 

'  Oh,  but  I  am  sure  this  ought  to  be  in  the  Royal  Academy ;  I  never 
saw  anything  there  that  I  liked  half  so  much.     How  clever  you  must  be  I' 

Cherry  could  not  but  laugh  at  the  extravagant  compliment.  'My 
brother  Edgar  draws  much  better  than  that,'  she  said,  producing  a  capital 
water-colour  of  a  group  of  Flemish  market  women. 

'I  shall  always  like  yours  best.     Oh !  and  what  is  this?' 

'  I  did  not  know  it  was  there,'  said  Cherry,  colouring,  and  trying  to 
take  it  away. 


456  THE  MONTHLY  FAGEST. 

*  Oh,  let  me  look.  What  I  Is  it  a  storm,  or  a  regatta,  or  fishing  boats  T 
What  is  that  odd  light?  What  is  written  under  ?  '*  The  waves  of  this 
troublesome  world."    Whj,  that  is  in  the  Bible,  is  not  it?' 

*  Thirteen  boats,  Cherty,'  said  Wilmet ;  *is  that  a  device  of  your  own  ?* 
^  What,  not  copied !     Oh  dear  1     I  wish  I  was  so  clever ! ' 

^  It  is  the  sea  of  this  life,  isn't  it  ?'  said  Angela,  coming  up.  '  Is  it 
ourselves,  Cherry,  all  making  for  the  golden  light  of  Heaven,  and  the 
star  of  faith  guiding  them?' 

^She  reads  it  like  a  book,'  exclaimed  Alice.  'And  those  two  close 
together — that  means  love,  I  suppose!' 

'Love  and  help,  the  weak  and  the  strong,'  said  Geraldine,  in  her 
earnest  dreamy  voice. 

*  Do  pray  make  a  picture  of  my  boat  on  a  nice  smooth  sea  of  light ; 
I  don't  like  rocks  and  breakers,  such  as  you  have  done  there.' 

'  There  always  must  be  a  last  long  wave,'  said  Cherry. 

*  Oh,  but  don't  let  us  think  about  horrid  things.  I  like  the  summer 
sea.     Aren't  there  some  verses — 

'*  Youth  at  the  prow,  and  pleasure  at  the  helm." ' 

*  That  would  not  be  a  pleasant  augury,'  said  Cherry.  *  Do  you  know 
what  this  is  meant  for,  bad  as  it  is  ?     Longfellow's  verses — * 

'The  phantom  host  that  beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague?  How  can 
you  draw  such  things  ?' 

*  So  I  say,'  observed  Wilmet. 

*  They  come  and  haunt  me,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  must' 

*  Who  is  this  kneeling  on  the  wall  ?  He  looks  like  a  knight  watching 
his  armour.' 

*  So  he  is,'  said  Cherry. 

'  But  there  is  nothing  about  him  in  the  poem.  Did  you  make  him  for 
yourself?' 

*  Why,  he  is  Ferdinand  Travis !'  exclaimed  Wilmet. 

*  What,  is  it  a  real  man  ?'    I  thought  it  was  somebody  in  a  story.' 

'I  seel'  said  Angela  quietly.  '  He  is  watching  his  armour  the  night 
before  he  was  baptized.' 

For  the  child  had  never  forgotten  the  adult  baptism,  though  she  had 
been  little  more  than  four  years  old  at  the  time ;  but  she  was  one  of  those 
little  ones  to  whom  allegory  seems  a  natural  element,  with  which  they 
have  more  affinity  than  with  the  material  world. 

However,  the  mention  of  Ferdinand  Travis  led  to  the  history  of  the  fire 
at  the  hotel,  and  of  his  recovery ;  Alice  declared  that  '  everything  nice ' 
seemed  to  happen  at  Bexley,  and  was  laughed  at  for  her  peculiar  ideas 
of  niceness ;  but  there  was  something  in  the  feminine  prattle  that  was 
wonderfully  new  and  charming  to  Geraldine,  while  on  the  other  hand, 
the  visitor  was  conscious  of  n  stimulus  and  charm  that  she  bad  never 
previously  experienced ;  and  the  eager  tongues  never  flagged  till  Felix 
came  in.     He  had  evidently  taken  pains  with  his  toilette,  in  honour  of 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  457 

the  UDUflual  erent;  and  the  measured  grave  politeness  of  his  manners 
renewed  Alice's  scared  pnnctilious  dignity  of  demeanour,  ^nd  entire 
consciousness  that  she  was  a  major's  daughter  and  he  a  bookseller. 

But  it  was  the  time  of  the  Indian  mutiny,  and  Felix  had  brought  in 
the  most  recent  accounts  of  the  siege  of  Delhi ;  and  Alice  put  on  an  air 
capable^  as  one  connected  with  India  and  the  army,  but  she  soon  found 
out  the  deficiency  of  her  geography,  and  was  grateful  for  the  full  clear 
explanations,  while  her  amour-propre  was  gratified  by  finding  that  her 
fiimiHarity  with  a  few  Indian  terms  was  Taluable.  Before  the  end  of  the 
evening  all  were  at  ease,  and  she  was  singing  with  Felix  and  Wilmet 
at  the  old  piano. 

No  sooner  had  the  door  shut  on  her  when  the  maid  came  to  fetch  her, 
tiian  a  storm  fell  on  Wilmet. 

'  So  that's  what  you  call  rather  nice-looking !' 

'  Well,  she  is  under-sized  and  very  brown,  but  I  did  think  you  would 
have  allowed  thai  she  was  rather  pretty.' 

'Rather!'  exclaimed  Cherry  indignantly. 

^  That's  what  it  is  to  be  a  handsome  woman  ! '  said  Felix. 

'  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  think  her  anything  remai'kable  ? '  said 
Wilmet. 

^  Say  no  more,  my  dear  W.  W.'  laughed  Felix.  '  I  never  understood 
before  why  negroes  don't  admire  white  people.' 

*  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,'  said  Wilmet, 
betaking  herself  to  her  darning  with  great  good  humour.  '  Alice  Knevett 
is  prettier  than  I  thought  she  was  when  she  was  all  tears  and  airs ;  but 
I  can't  see  any  remarkable  beauty  to  rave  about.' 

'  ^  No,  you  can't,'  said  Geraldine  merrily.  ^  You  look  much  too  high 
over  her  head,  but  you  see  I  don't ;  and  such  a  little  sparkling  diamond 
beetle  is  a  real  treat  to.  me,' 

And  Geraldine  often  enjoyed  the  treat. 

Tn  a  very  short  time  the  green  door  and  steep  stairs  were  a»  familiar 
to  Alice  as  to  the  Underwoods  themselves ;  for  her  aunts  were  thankful 
to  have  her  happy  and  safe,  and  she  was  rapturously  fond  of  Geraldine, 
refiecting  and  responding  to  most  of  her  sentiments.  Most  of  the 
Underwoods  had  the  faculty  of  imprinting  themselves  upon  the  characters 
of  their  friends,  by  taking  it  for  granted  that  they  felt  alike ;  and  Alice 
Knevett  had  not  spent  six  weeks  at  Bexley  before  she  had  come  to  think 
it  incredible  that  she  had  thought  either  teaching  or  the  Underwoods 
beneath  her.  She  was  taking  pains  to  do  her  work  well,  and  enjoying 
it,  and  was  being  moulded  into  a  capital  subordinate  to  Wilmet ;  while 
with  Geraldine  she  read  and  talked  over  her  books,  obtained  illustrations 
for  the  poetry  she  wrote  out  in  her  album,  and  brought  in  a  wholesome 
air  of  chatter,  which  made  Cherry  much  more  girl-like  than  she  had 
ever  been  before.  It  was  an  importation  of  something  external,  some- 
thing lively  and  interesting,  which  was  very  refreshing  to  all ;  and  even 
FeliXy  in   his   grave    politeness    and   attention    to   his  sister's  friend, 

VOL,   10.  31  PAUT  59. 


458  THE  MOKTHLT  FACSJCT. 

manifested  that  so  far  from  being  in  bis  way,  as  they  had  feared,  be 
found  her  a  very  agreeable  element  when  she  j(Hned  the  home  party  or 
the  Sunday  walk. 

Indeed,  there  was  a  certain  tendency  to  expansion  about  the  life  of 
the  young  people ;  the  pinch  of  poverty  was  less  griping  than  previously^ 
and  their  natural  spirits  rose.  In  January  Lanoe  was  allowed  to  bring 
his  friend  Harewood  to  a  concert  of  the  choral  society;  and  on  the 
following  evening  Alice  Knevett  came  to  tea,  and  there  were  a  series  of 
wonderful  charades,  chiefly  got  up  by  Clement  and  Robina,  and  of  comic 
songs  by  Lance  and  Bill  Harewood — ^all  with  such  success,  that  Alice 
declared  that  she  had  never  seen  anything  so  delightful  in  all  her 
experience  of  London  Christmases ! 

The  young  people  really  seemed  to  have  recovered  elasticity  enough  that 
year,  to  think  of  modest  treats  and  holidays  as  they  had  never  ventured  to 
do  since  that  memorable  sixteenth  birth-day  of  Felix's.  Here  was  his 
twenty-first  not  very  far  off;  and  when  it  was  announced  that  this 
identical.  3rd  of  July  had  been  fixed  on  for  a  grand  choral  meeting  at 
the  Cathedral,  at  which  the  choir  of  Bexley  was  to  assist;  there  was 
such  a  spirit  of  enterprise  abroad  in  the  family,  that  Geraldine  suggested 
that  Wilmet  might  take  Robina  to  see  the  Cathedral  and  hear  Lance. 

*  Lance  will  be  just  what  will  not  be  heard,'  said  Felix.  '  They  will 
not  shew  off  their  solos ;  but  the  Kobin  ought  to  have  the  pleasure  if 
possible ;  and  as  I  go  in  two  capacities,  press  and  clioir,  I  hope  we  can 
manage  it  for  her.' 

He  came  in  full  early  for  the  evening.  *  All  right,'  he  said.  *  Two 
tickets  are  come  for  the  Pursuivant,  and  Mr.  Froggatt  says  he  would 
not  go  at  any  price ;  and  besides,  each  of  the  choir  may  take  a  friend- 
so  that's  three.' 

*  Am  I  to  be  reporter  or  friend  ?'  asked  Wilmet. 

'  Reporter,  I  think,  for  you  will  have  to  do  audience.' 
'Nay,  Cherry  ought  to  be  the  gentleman  connected  with  the  press,' 
said  Wilmet,  for  in  fact  Geraldine  did  sometimes  do  copying  and 
correcting  work  for  her  brother;  ^and  indeed,  I  do  not  see  why  she 
should  not.  We  could  go  home  directly  after  morning  service,  and  leave 
you  there.' 

'  Oh  no,  impossible,'  said  Geraldine,  *•  it  would  never  do ;  it  would  only 
spoil  everybody's  pleasure,  and  be  too  much  for  me.' 

*  I  think  you  are  wise,'  said  Felix ;  and  somehow  it  struck  her  with 
a  prick  that  he  had  rather  the  proposal  had  not  been  made.  ^  There  is 
sure  to  be  a  great  crush,  and  I  may  be  obliged  to  be  with  the  choir.' 

'  I  am  quite  able  to  take  care  of  her,  I  can  always  lift  her,'  said  Wilmet, 
surprised. 

'I  would  not  go  on  any  account,'  protested  Cherry.  ^I  should  be 
like  the  old  woman  in  that  Servian  proverb,  who  paid  five  dollars  to  go 
to  the  fair,  and  would  have  paid  ten  to  be  safe  at  home  again.' 

^  There  might  be  no  getting  a  bench  fit  for  you  to  sit  npon/  added 


J 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  459 

Felix,  who,  as  a  gentleman  of  the  press,  was  not  devoid  of  experience. 
^  I  could  not  be  easy  about  you,  my  dear ;  it  is  much  safer  not.' 

'Perhaps  so,'  owned  Wilmet,  disappointed;  'but  Angel  is  too  little  for 
such  a  long  day,  and  Cherry  is  so  much  stronger,  that  I  thought — ' 

*  Oh,  but  could  not  Alice  Knevett  go  V  put  in  Cherry. 

'A  very  good  suggestion,'  said  Felix.  'She  hardly  ever  has  any 
amusements.     Well  thought  of,  White-Heart!' 

I  believe  he  thought  of  it  from  the  first,  felt  Geraldine,  and  angry  with 
herself  that  this  conviction  gave  a  prick  like  the  point  of  a  needle.  She 
threw  her  energies  into  the  scheme,  and  was  begging  Wilmet  to  go  and 
make  the  proposal,  when  there  was  a  sudden  peal  of  the  bell,  a  headlong 
trampling  rush,  a  dash  open  of  the  door — ^Theodore  began  to  hum  the 
anthem  '  How  beautiful,'  the  other  three  small  ones  hailed  ^  Lance '  at 
the  top  of  their  voices,  and  his  arms  were  round  the'  neck  of  the  first 
sister  who  came  in  his  way. 

'  What,  Lance !  how  came  you  here  V 

'  Our  organ  is  tuning  up  its  pipes — man  comes  to-morrow — Prayers 
in  the  Lady  Chapel  and  not  choral,  and  it's  a  holiday  at  school,  so  I  got 
off  by  the  5.20,  and  need  not  go  back  till  the  6.10  to-morrow.  We  are 
practising  our  throats  out  to  lead  you  all  on  the  3rd.  You  know  you 
are  coming,  the  whole  kit  of  you.' 

^Do  we?'  said  Wilmet.  'It  is  only  for  the  last  ten  minutes  that  we 
have  known  that  any  of  us  were  coming.' 

'  All  right ;  that's  what  I'm  come  about     Robins  mnst  be  got  home/ 

'  She  will  be  come.     She  comes  on  the  1st.' 

'  That's  right ;  then  there's  to  be  a  great  spread  in  the  Bishop's  Meads 
between  services.  Everybody  sends  provisions,  and  asks  their  friends ; 
but  Cherry  is  to  go  and  rest  at  the  Harewoods'.  The  governor  will  get 
her  in  through  the  library  into  the  north  transept  as  quiet  as  a  lamb,  no 
squash  at  all.  It  is  only  along  the  cloister — a  hop,  step,  and  jump;  and 
Miles  has  promised  me  the  snuggest  little  seat  for  her.  Then  the  Hare- 
wood  sofa — ' 

'  It  is  too  much,  Lance,'  began  Cherry.     '  Mrs.  Harewood — ' 

*  Don't  be  absurd ;  she  wishes  it  with  all  her  heart.  '  She  won't  want 
a  ticket  if  Mr.  Harewood  smuggles  her  in,  but  I  can  get  as  many  as 
you  want.  How  many — Wilmet,  Cherry,  Robin,  Angel,  and  Miss 
Knevett.     She'll  coma,  won't  she  ?' 

*  We  were  thinking  of  going  to  ask  her.' 

*  I'll  do  it ;  I've  brought  my  own  ticket  for  a  friend  for  her ;  here  it 
is,  with  L.  O.  U.  in  the  corner.  I'll  run  down  with  it  before  anyone 
else  cuts  in.' 

'  Hold  hard,'  said  Felix ;  '  we  shall  not  get  her  if  you  set  about  it  in 
that  wild  way  I ' 

'  Oh,  but  I'll  promise  Wilmet  shall  take  her  in  tow,  and  if  anything 
will  pacify  the  old  girb  that  will.' 

*  You  had  better  let  me  come  with  you/  said  Wilmet 


460  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

^  Look  sharp,  then.  Is  it  a  practising  night  ?  Yes,  that's  well ;  Miles 
is  in  a  state  of  mind  at  the  short  notice,  and  has  crammed  me  choke 
full  of  messages,  he  says  it  will  save  his  coming  down;  come  along, 
then,  W.  W.,  and  soft-sawder  the  venerable  aunts.' 

No  more  of  this  operation  was  necessary  than  the  assurance  that 
Miss  Underwood  was  going,  and  that  Mrs.  Hare  wood  woald  be  a  sort  of 
chaperon.  Alice  Knevett  was  happy  and  grateful;  and  if  anything 
were  wanting  to  the  universal  enthusiasm  of  anticipation,  it  was  supplied 
by  Lance.  The  boy,  with  his  musical  talent,  thorough  trustworthiness, 
and  frank  joyous  manners,  was  a  favourite  with  the  organist,  and  was 
well  versed  in  the  programme ;  and  his  eagerness,  and  fullness  of  detail, 
was  enough  to  infect  everyone.  Geraldine  thought  it  was  a  great  proof 
of  his  unspoilableness,  that  he  took  quite  as  ibuch  pleasure  in  brining 
them  to  these  services,  where  he  would  be  but  a  unit  in  the  hundreds, 
as  if  it  had  been  one  of  the  anthems,  of  which  everyone  said,  '  Have 
you  heard  little  Underwood?'  In  the  charm  of  the  general  welcome  and 
congratulation  on  Lance's  arrangement,  Geraldine  had  quite  forgotten 
both  her  alarms  and  her  tiny  pang  of  surprise  at  not  having  been 
Felix's  prime  thought.  Lance,  by  dint  of  a  judicious  mixture  of 
hectoring  and  coaxing,  obtained  leave  for  Angela  to  be  of  the  party, 
though  against  Wilmet's  judgement;  and  Bernard  and  Stella  were  to 
spend  the  day  with  Mrs.  Froggatt,  which  they  regarded  as  an  expedition 
quite  as  magnificent  as  that  to  St.  Mary's  Minster. 

Mr.  Froggatt  was  almost  as  eager  about  this  pleasure  for  'his  young 
people,'  as  he  called  them,  "as  they  could  be.  He  came  in  early  to  drive 
Geraldine  to  the  station,  and  he  looked  with  grandfatherly  complacency 
at  the  four  sisters,  who  had  ventured  on  the  extravagance  of  white 
piqu^  and  black  ribbons,  and  in  their  dainty  freshness  looked  as  well- 
dressed  as  any  lady  in  the  land. 

He  entertained  Cherry  all  the  way  with  his  admiration  of  Wilmet's 
beauty  and  industry,  and  when  arrived  at  the  station,  waited  there  with 
her  till  first  the  three  girls  came  up  with  Alice  Knevett,  white  with  pink 
ribbons,  and  then  the  choir  arrived,  marching  with  the  banner  with  the 
rood  of  St.  Oswald  before  them,  each  with  a  blue  satin  bow  in  his  button- 
hole, and  the  bag  with  his  surplice  under  his  arm,  the  organist,  the  school- 
master, and  the  two  curates,  bringing  up  the  rear.  Mr.  Bevan,  my  Lady, 
and  Miss  Price,  whirled  up  in  the  carriage,  the  omnibuses  discharged 
the  friends  of  the  choir,  and  two  waggon  loads  of  musical  talent  from 
the  villages  came  lumbering  and  cheering  in  I  The  very  train  roared 
and  shrieked  in  with  a  sound  of  cheering  from  its  vertebras,  and  banners 
were  projecting  from  the  windows,  amid  nodding  heads  and  waving 
handkerchiefs  of  all  colours;  the  porters  ran  about  distracted;  and 
Geraldine  began  to  be  alarmed,  and  to  think  of  the  old  woman  of  Servia, 
but  behold,  Felix  had  her  on  one  side,  Mr.  Froggatt  on  the  other,  a  solid 
guard  held  open  a  door,  and  protected  her  from  the  rush,  and  before  she 
well  knew  what  they  were  doing  with  her,  she  was  lying  on  the  seat  of 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  461 

the  cirriage,  with  her  siflters  and  Alice  all  in  a  row ;  the  recently  crowded 
platform  was  empty  of  all  but  a  stray  porter,  the  station  master,  and  Mr. 
Froggatt  kissing  his  hand,  and  promising  to  come  and  fetch  her  on  her 
return. 

The  train  seemed  hardly  to  have  attained  its  full  speed  before  it 
slackened  again,  and  another  merry  load  was  disposed  of  within  its  jointff. 
Another  start,  another  arrival ;  and  before  the  motion  was  over,  a  ^ash 
of  sunny  looks  had  glanced  before  the  sisters'  eyes.  There  was  Lance^ 
perfectly  radiant,  under  his  square  trencher  cap— hair,  eyes,  cheeks,  blue 
bow,  boots,  and  all,  seeming  to  sparkle  with  delight  as  he  snatched  open 
the  door.  *  Hurrah  I  there  they  are.  Give  her  out  to  me,  Wilmet !'  (as 
if  she  had  been  a  parcel.) 

*  Stay,  wait  for  Felix.    You  can't — ' 

Felix  rushed  up  from  his  colleagues  of  the  choir,  and  Geraldine  was 
set  on  her  foot  and  crutch.  ^  Come  along  I  I've  got  Ball's  chair  for  you, 
and  Bill  Harewood  is  sitting  in  it  for  fear  anyone  should  bone  it. 
Where's  your  ticket  ? ' 

^ Lance,  take  care!  Don't  take  her  faster  than  she  can  go  I'  as  he 
whisked  her  over  the  platform ;  and  Wilmet  was  impeded  by  the  seeking 
for  Alice's  parasol  and  Angela's  cloak.  They  were  quite  out  of  sight 
when  Lance  had  dragged  Cherry  through  the  crowd  at  the  door,  and 
brought  her  to  the  wheeled  chair  just  in  time  to  find  Bill  Harewood 
glaring  out  of  it  like  the  red  planet  Mars,  and  asseverating  that  he  was 
the  lame  young  lady  it  was  hired  for. 

In  went  Geraldine,  imploring  to  wait  for  Wilmet,  but  all  in  vain ;  off 
went  the  chair,  owner  and  escort  alike  in  haste,  and  she  was  swept  along, 
with  Lance  and  Will  with  a  hand  holding  either  side  of  the  chair> 
imparting  breathless  scraps  of  information,  and  exchanging  remarks: 
^ There  goes  the  Archdeacon.'  'The  Thorpe  choir  is  not  come,  and 
Miles  is  mad  about  it.'  '  That's  the  Town  Hall.'  'There's  where  Jack 
licked  a  cad  for  bullying.'  '  There's  a  cannon  ball  of  Oliver  Cromwell's 
eticking  out  of  that  wall.'  '  That's  the  only  shop  fit  to  get  ginger-beer 
at!'  'That  old  horse  in  that  cab  was  in  the  Crimea.'  'We  come  last 
In  the  procession,  and  if  you  see  a  fellow  like  a  sheep  in  spectacles,  that's 
Shapcote.'  '  Hurrah !  what  a  stunning  lot !  where  is  it  from  V  '  Bem* 
bury  f  My  eyes,  if  that  big  fellow  doesn*t  mean  to  bawl  us  all  down. 
Down  that  way — that's  the  palace.  Whose  carriage  is  it  stopping  there  f 
Now,  here's  the  Close.' 

'  Is  that  the  Cathedral  f    Oh ! ' 

'You  may  well  say  sol  No,  not  that  way.  And  on  rattled  poor 
amased  Geraldine  through  an  archway,  under  some  lime  trees,  round  a 
comer,  round  another  corner,  to  another  arched  door- way,  with  big  doors 

ttudded  with  nails,  with  a  little  door  for  use  cut  out  of  one  of  the  big  ones. 

'You  must  get  out  here,'  said  Lance,  'we  are  close  by;'    and  he 

helped  her  out,  and  paid  and  thanked  the  man  with  the  chair.     '  Here's 

oar  domain,'  he  continued,  as  he  introduced  Cherry  through  the  open 


462  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

door-way  into  a  small  flagged  court,  with  two  houses,  grey  and  old- 
fashioned,  forming  one  side,  and  on  the  other  an  equally  old  long  low 
building  with  narrow  latticed  arched  windows.  Opposite  to  the  entrance 
was  a  handsome  buttressed  Gothic  looking  edifice,  behind  which  rose 
the  gable  of  the  north  transept  of  the  Cathedral,  beautiful  with  a  rose 
window,  and  further  back,  far  far  above,  the  noble  tower. 

Already  everything  was  very  wonderful  to  Geraldine.  'That's  our 
kennel,'  said  Lance,  pointing  to  the  low  buildings  to  the  right.  '  School's 
behind ;  but  we  boarder^  are  put  up  in  one  of  the  old  monks'  dormitories, 
along  between  court  and  cloister.' 

'  Is  it  really  ?'  exclaimed  Geraldine. 
'    *  So  my  father  says,'  said  Will.     *  Here's  our  door.'    Another  stone- 
arched  passage,  almost  dark,  with  doors  opening  on  either  side,  seemed 
common  to  both  houses ;  and  Will  was  inviting  them  to  enter,  but  Lance 
held  back.     '  No  time,'  he  said ;  '  better  call  your  father.' 

*  The  others,'  sighed  Geraldine. 
i    *  Bother  the  others !     That's  right ;  here  he  is  1* 

'  Hollo,  Father  I '  cried  Will ;  <  we've  got  Cherry.' 

*By  which  unceremonious  designation  I  imagine  you  to  mean  to 
introduce  Miss  Underwood,'  said  a  figure,  appearing  from  beneath  the 
archway,  in  trencher  cap,  surplice,  and  hood,  with  white  hair,  and  a  sort 
of  precision  and  blandness,  that  did  not  at  all  agree  with  Cherry's 
preconceived  notions  of  the  Harewood  household.  '  I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you.  My  ladies,  as  usual,  are  unready.  Will  you  have  a  glass  of 
wine?  No? — What  do  you  say,  Lancelot? — Very  well,  we  will  take  you 
in  at  once.  You  will  not  object  to  waiting  there,  and  this  is  the  quiet 
time. — Boys,  you  ought  to  be  with  the  choir.' 

\  *  Oceans  of  time.  Dad,'  coolly  answered  Will ;  '  none  of  the  fellows  up 
there  are  under  weigh.' 

Mr.  Harewood  offered  his  arm,  but  perceived  that  Cherry  preferred 
Lance  and  her  crutch;  advancing  to  the  door  opposite  that  by  which 
they  had  entered,  he  unlocked  it,  and  Geraldine  found  herself  passing 
through  a  beauteous  old  lofly  chamber,  with  a  groined  Tudor  roof,  all 
fans,  and  pendants,  and  shields;  tall  windows  stained  with  armorial 
bearings,  parchment  charters  and  blazoned  genealogies  against  the  walls, 
and  screens  upon  screens  loaded  with  tomes  of  all  ages,  writing-tables  and 
chairs  here  and  there,  and  glass- topped  tables  containing  illuminations 
and  seals.     '  Here  is  ray  paradise,'  said  the  librarian,  smiling. 

*I  think  it  must  be,'  said  Geraldine,  with  a  long  breath  of  wonder 
and  admiration. 

'Ah!  would  you  not  like  to  have  a  good  look,  Cherry?'  said  Lance. 
*  That's  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion's  seal  in  there.' 

'Don't  begin  about  it — don't  set  him  on,'  whispered  Willie,  with  a 
sign  of  his  head  towards  his  father,  who  was  fitting  the  key  into  the 
opposite  door,  '  or  we  shall  all  stay  here  for  the  rest  of  the  day.' 

This  low  door  open,  Mr.  Harewood  and  the  boys  bared  their  heads 


THB  PILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  463 

«8  they  entered,  and  Geraldine  felt  the  strange  solemn  sensation  of 
finding  herself  in  a  building  of  vast  height  and  majesty,  fall  of  a 
wonderful  stillness,  as  though  the  confusion  of  sounds  she  had  been  in  so 
recently  were  far  far  off. 

'Where  now,  Lancelot?'  asked  Mr.  Harewood,  in  a  hushed  voice; 
*  do  you  want  me  any  further?' 

'No,  thank  you,  Sir;  I'll  just  take  her  across  the  choir  to  Mr.  Miles, 
and  then  join  the  rest  of  us  at  the  vestry.' 

'Grood-bye  for  the  present,  then,'  said  Mr.  Harewood  kindly.  'You 
are  in  safe  hands.  Your  brother  comes  round  everyone.  /  could  not 
do  this.' 

Through  the  side*screen,  into  the  grandly  beautiful  choir,  arching 
high  above,  with  stall-work  and  graceful  canopies  below,  and  rich  glass 
casting  down  beams  of  coloured  light — all  for  '  glory  and  for  beauty,' 
thought  Greraldine. 

'You  must  not  stop;  you  must  look  when  you  are  settled.  That's  my 
side,'  pointing  to  one  of  the  choristers'  desks.  '  It  will  be  only  we  that 
sing  in  here ;  the  congregation  is  in  the  nave — a  perfect  sea  of  chairs. 
I'll  come  for  you  when  it  is  over.     Here  is  Mr.  Miles.     My  sister,  Sir.' 

A  pale  gentleman  in  spectacles,  with  a  surplice  and  beautiful  blue  hood, 
was  here  addressed.  He  too  greeted  Geraldine,  very  shyly  but  kindly, 
and  she  found  herself  expected  to  ascend  some  alarming  looking  stone 
steps.  The  organ  was  on  the  choir-screen,  and  to  the  organist's  little 
private  gallery  was  she  to  ascend.  It  was  a  difficult  matter,  and  she 
had  in  her  trepidation  despairingly  recognized  the  difference  between 
Lance's  good  will  and  Felix's  practised  strength;  but  at  last  she  was 
landed  in  an  admirable  little  cushioned  nook,  hidden  by  two  tall 
painted  carved  canopies — exactly  over  the  Dean's  head,  her  brother 
told  her — and  where,  as  she  sat  sideways,  she  could  see  through  the 
quatrefoils  into  the  choir  on  the  right  hand,  and  the  nave  on  the 
left  '  Delightful  I  Oh,  thank  you ;  how  kind  I  If  I  am  only  not 
keeping  anyone  out.' 

'  No,'  said  Lance,  smiling,  and  whispering  lower  than  ever,  '  he  has 
no  one  belonging  to  him.  He  hates  women.  Never  a  petticoat  was 
here  before  in  his  reign.     '  Have  you  a  book?' 

'They  are  robing,  Underwood,'  said  the  misogynist  in  the  organ- 
loft;  and  Lance  hurried  away,  leaving  Geraldine  alone,  palpitating  a 
good  deal,  but  almost  enjoying  the  solitude,  in  the  vast  structure, 
where  the  sanctity  of  a  thousand  years  of  worship  seemed  to  fill  the 
very  air,  as  she  gazed  at  the  white  vaultings  and  bosses  carved  with 
emblems  above,  at  the  vista  of  clustered  columns  terminating  in  the 
great  jewelled  west  window,  or  at  the  crown-like  loveliness  that 
encompassed  the  sanctuary.  All  was  still,  except  a  deep  low  tone  of 
the  organ  now  and  then.  Mr.  Miles  looked  in  after  the  first,  to  hope 
she  did  not  /eel  them  uncomfortably,  and  to  assure  her  that  though 
she  was  too  near  his  organ,  she  need  not  fear  its  putting  forth  its 


464  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET* 

full  powers;  it  was  to  be  kept  in  subordination,  and  only  guide  tha 
voices.  This  was  great  attention  from  a  woman-hater,  and  Geraldine 
ventured  to  reiterate  her  thanks ;  at  which  he  smiled,  and  said,  ^  When 
one  has  such  a  boj  as  your  brother,  there  is  pleasure  in  doing 
anything  he  wishes.     You  are  musical?' 

*  I  never  was  able  to  learn  to  play.' 

'But  you  can  read  music?' 

'  Oh  yes,'  for  she  had  often  copied  it. 

So  he  brought  her  whole  sheets  of  music,  and  put  her  in  the  way 
of  following  and  understanding,  perceiving,  as  he  went,  that  she  was 
full  of  intelligence  and  perception. 

When  he  went  back  to  his  post,  a  few  groups,  looking  very  smally 
were  creeping  in  by  transept  doors — by  favour,  like  herself;  then  a 
little  white  figure  flitted  across  to  the  desks,  opened  and  marked  the 
books,  took  up  something,  and  disappeared;  and  in  another  moment 
Lance,  in  his  broad  white  folds,  was  at  her  side.  'Here's  the  music. 
Oh,  you  have  it!  I've  seen  Fee,'  he  whispered;  'they  are  at  Mr& 
Harewood's,  all  right,'  and  he  was  gone. 

Here  she  sat,  her  attention  divided  between  the  sacred  impressions 
of  the  place,  its  exceeding  beauty,  and  the  advance  of  the  multitude 
into  the  nave,  as  the  doors  wei*e  open,  and  they  surged  up  the  space 
left  in  the  central  aisle,  and  occupied  the  ranks  of  chairs  prepared 
for  them.  Then  came  a  long  pause ;  she  scanned  each  row  in  search 
of  her  sisters,  and  only  was  confused  by  the  host  of  heads;  felt  lost 
and  lonely,  and  turned  her  eyes  and  mind  to  the  silent  grandeur  to 
the  east,  rather  than  the  throng  to  the  west. 

At  last  there  came  the  sweet  floating  sound  of  the  chant,  growing 
in  power  like  the  ocean  swell  as  it  approached,  and  the  first  bright 
banner  appeared  beneath  the  lofty  pointed  archway;  and  the  double 
white  file  came  flowing  on  like  a  snowy  glacier,  the  chant  becoming 
clear  and  high  as  the  singers  of  each  parish  marched  along  to  their 
places,  each  ranked  under  a  bright  banner  with  the  symbol  of  their 
church's  dedication.  St.  Oswald*s  rood  helped  Geraldine  to  make  out 
that  of  Bexley  better  than  their  faces,  though  she  did  make  out  her 
eldest  brother's  fair  face,  and  trace  him  to  his  seat  The  cathedral 
singers  came  last,  and  that  kenspeckle  red  head  of  Will  Harewood's 
directed  her  to  the  less  conspicuous  locks  belonging  to  Lance,  whose 
own  clear  thrush-like  note  she  could  catch  as  he  passed  beneath  the 
screen.  Then  came  the  long  train  of  parish  clergy,  the  canons,  the 
Dean,  and  lastly  the  Bishop,  the  sight  of  whom  recalled  so  much. 

The  unsurpliced  contribution  had  meantime  been  ushered  in  by  the 
side  doors,  and  filled  seats  in  the  rear  of  the  others,  so  as  to  add 
their  voices  without  marring  the  general  effect — ^the  perfection  of  which 
Geraldine  enjoyed~-of  the  white-robed  multitude  that  seemed  to  fill  the 
whole  chancel. 

The  sight  seemed  to  inspire  her  whole  soul  with  a  strange  yearning 


THB  FHIiABS  OF  THB  BX>USE.  465 

joj,  to  tlioiigh  she  were  beholding  a  &int  earthly  reflte  of  the  great 
▼isions  of  the  Beloved  Disciple ;  aod  far  more  was  it  so  at  the  sound, 
i¥hich  realized  in  a  measure  the  words,  '  As  the  voice  of  mighty  waters, 
and  as  the  voice  of  thunder/ 

These  were  the  very  words  that  had  been  selected  for  the  Second 
Lesson,  and  the  First  consisted  of  those  verses  in  which  we  hear  of 
David's  commencement  of  the  continual  chant  of  psalms  at  the  sanctuaryi 
and  both,  unwonted  as  they  were,  gave  a  wonderful  thrill  to  the 
audience,  as  though  opening  to  them  a  new  comprehension  of  their 
office  as  singers  of  the  sanctuary. 

There  is  no  need  to  dwell  on  the  wonderful  and  touching  exhilaration 
derived  from  the  harmony  of  vast  numbers  with  one  voice  attuned  to 
praise.  It  is  a  sensation  which  is  so  nearly  a  foretaste  of  etemityi 
that  participation  alone  can  give  the  most  distant  perception  thereof. 
To  the  entirely  unprepared  and  highly  sensitive  Geraldine  it  was  most 
overpowering,  all  the  more  because  she  was  entirely  out  of  sight,  and 
without  power  of  taking  part  by  either  gesture  or  posture^she  was 
passive,  and  had  no  vent  for  her  emotion* 

Lance,  who  made  his  way  to  her  round  through  the  transept  the 
moment  he  had  disrobed,  found  her  pale,  panting,  tearful,  and 
trembling,  with  burning  cheeks,  so  that  his  exultation  turned  to 
alarm.  'Are  you  done  up,  Cherry?  It  is  too  hot  up  here  I  Til  try 
to  find  Felix  or  Wihnet,  which?' 

^  Neither  I  I  am  quite  well,  only---0  Lance,  I  did  not  know  anything 
oould  be  so  heavenly.  There  seemed  to  be  the  sweeping  of  angels' 
wings  all  round  and  over  me,  and  Papa's  voice  quite  dear.' 

*  I  know,'  said  Lance ;  '  it  always  does  come  in  that  Te  Deum.' 

The  sister  and  brother  were  silent,  not  yet  able  for  the  critical 
discussion  of  single  points ;  only,  as  he  pot  his  arm  round  her  to  help 
her  to  rise,  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  '  O  Lance,  it  is  a  great  thing  to  be 
one  of  them  I  Thank  you.  I  think  this  is  the  greatest  day  of  all  my 
life.' 

The  getting  her  down,  what  with  Lance's  inexperience  and  want  of 
height  and  strength,  was  anxious  work ;  and  just  as  it  had  been  safely 
accomplished,  the  rest  of  their  party  were  seen  roaming  the  aisle  in 
distress  and  perplexity.  Geraldine  was  very  glad  of  Felix's  substantial 
arm,  but  she  had  rather  he  had  omitted  that  rebuke  for  venture* 
someness  in  dealing  with  her,  which  would  have  affronted  Fulbert, 
but  never  seemed  to  trouble  Lance,  who  was  only  triumphant  in  his 
success ;  and  her  perfect  contentment  charmed  away  the  vexation  which 
really  arose  from  a  slight  sense  of  having  neglected  her. 

The  others  had  been  perfectly  happy  in  their  several  ways,  and 
made  eager  comments  on  their  way  to  the  house  of  Harewood,  whither 
Lance  piloted  them— this  time  by  the  front  way,  through  the  garden^ 
which  lay  behind  the  close— -entering,  in  spite  of  the  mannerly  demurs 
of  the  elder  ones,  through  the  open  door,  into  a  hall  whence  a  voice 


466  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

of  hearty  greeting  at  once  issued.  *  Here  you  are  at  last ;  and  how's 
the  poor  darling  your  sister  ?  not  over-tired  ?  * 

And  Cherry,  before  she  was  aware,  found  herself  kissed,  and  almost 
snatched  away  from  Felix,  to  be  deposited  on  a  sofa;  and  while  the 
like  kisses  were  Ibestowed  on  the  two  little  girls,  and  hospitable  offers 
showered  on  all,  she  was  amused  by  perceiving  that  good  Mrs. 
Harewood  was  endowed  with  exactly  the  same  grotesque  order  of 
ugliness  as  her  son  William;  but  she  was  even  more  engaging,  from 
an  indescribably  droll  mixture  of  heedlessness,  blundering,  and  tender 
motherliness. 

^  There  now,  you'll  just  leave  her  to  me,  the  poor  dear ;  and  Lance 
will  take  you  down  to  the  Mead,  and  find  Papa  and  the  girls  for 
you.' 

*  Oh,  thank  you,  I  could  not  think  of  your  staying.    Now  pray — ' 
*Now  prays'  were  to  no  purpose;   Mrs.  Harewood  professed  only 

to  want  an  excuse  for  staying  at  home — she  did  not  want  to  be  done 
up  with  running  after  her  girls  to  the  four  ends  of  the  Mead,  when 
it  was  a  long  step  for  her  to  begin  with.     Off  with  them. 

So  when  Wilroet  was  satisfied  that  Geraldine  was  comfortable,  the 
five  moved  off — Felix  and  Alice,  Angel  in  Wilmet's  hand,  and  Lance's 
and  Bobina's  tongues  wagging  so  fast  that  the  wonder  was  how  either 
caught  a  word  of  what  the  other  was  saying. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Harewood,  tossing  her  bonnet  and  gloves  aside,  in 
perfect  indifference  to  the  exposure  of  the  curious  structure  of  red 
and  grey  hair  she  thus  revealed,  lavished  meats  and  drinks  upon  her 
guest,  waiting  on  her  with  such  kindness,  that  in  spite  of  all  weariness 
and  craving  for  quiet  after  these  deep  and  wonderful  impressions,  it 
was  impossible  not  to  enjoy  that  warmth  of  heart.  There  was  exactly 
the  tender  motherliness  that  even  Wilmet  and  Sister  Constance  could 
not  give. 

It  was  charming  to  hear  how  fond  Mrs.  Harewood  was  of  Lance, 
and  how  the  having  such  a  companion  had  made  it  possible  to  keep 
her  Willie  at  the  Cathedral  school,  where  the  mixture  of  lads  was 
great,  but  the  master  first-rate.  He  thought  highly  of  the  promise  of 
both ;  *  but  to  tell  the  truth,'  said  Mrs.  Harewood,  as  she  sat  and 
fanned  herself  with  her  husband's  trencher  cap,  looking  more  than 
ever  like  a  frog  in  a  strawberry  bed,  *  though  my  Willie  is  the 
cleverest  boy  in  the  school,  little  good  his  cleverness  would  have 
done  him,  and  he  would  have  been  harum-scarum  Bill  more  than  ever,  if 
it  were  not  for  Lance.  So  say  his  father  and  brother  Jack;  so  that 
they  will  not  be  for  his  going  to  a  public  school  unless  Lance  were 
sure  of  it  too.' 

*  Will  not  they  be  able  to  stay  on  here  ? ' 

Mrs.  Harewood  explained  that  the  year  that  the  barristers- 
choristers  she  meant — were  sixteen,  when  their  voices  were  usually 
unserviceable,   they,  together  with   those  of  like  age  in  the  6chool» 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  467 

were  subjected  to  an  examination,  and  the  foremost  scholar  obtained 
an  exhibition,  in  virtue  of  which  he  could  remain  free  of  expense  for 
anotlier  two  years,  and  then  could  try  for  one  of  the  school  scholar- 
ships at  one  of  the  colleges  at  Cambridge.  Those  who  failed,  either 
bad  to  pay  like  the  ordinary  school-boys,  or  left  the  school. 

Dear  Mrs.  Harewood  was  a  perfect  Malaprop,  and  puzzled  Geraldine 
by  continually  calling  it  the  rural  meeting,  and  other  like  slips, 
uncommonly  comical  in  a  well-educated  woman  with  the  words  she 
knew  best. 

All  this,  and  a  great  deal  more — about  the  shy  woman-hating 
organist,  and  the  unluckiness  of  the  dissenter — no,  precentor — having 
a  sick  wife,  and  the  legal  difficulties  that  prevented  building  a  better 
house  for  the  boarders  than  the  queer  long  room  where  they  lodged, 
between  the  cloister  and  the  Bailey — the  proper  name  of  the  little 
court  by  which  Geraldine  had  come — was  poured  out ;  and  kind  as  it 
was,  there  was  a  certain  sense  of  having  been  talked  to  death. 

A  whole  flood  of  Harewoods,  Underwoods,  and  untold  numbers 
besides,  swept  into  the  room  as  the  bell  began  to  ring  for  Evensong. 
Most  sincere  were  Cherry's  entreaties  that  she  might  bo  left  alone. 
She  could  not  go  back  to  her  coign  of  advantage,  Mt  had  been  too 
beautiful  for  her  to  bear  more,'  she  said ;  and  she  severally  declined 
offers  of  compa^xionship  from  three  female  Harewoods  and  two  sisters, 
telling  Wilmet  at  last  that  all  she  wanted  was  to  be  still  and  alone. 

Alone  she  was,  but  not  still,  for  there  was  nothing  to  hinder  the 
magnificent  volume  of  sound  that  surged  around  the  Cathedral  from 
coming  to  her;  and  she  could  trace  the  service  all  along — in  chant, 
pealing  mighty  Amens,  with  the  hush  between,  in  anthem,  and  in 
jubilant  hymn.  She  was  more  calmly  happy  than  in  the  oppressive 
grandeur  of  the  morning,  as  she  lay  there,  in  the  cool  drawing-room, 
with  the  open  window  veiled  by  loose  sprays  of  untrimmed  roses,  and 
sacred  prints  looking  down  from  the  walls. 

The  solitude  lasted  rather  too  long,  when  she  had  heard  the  hum 
and  buzz  of  the  host  pouring  out  of  the  Cathedral,  and  still  no  one 
came.  They  were  to  go  home  by  the  5.10  train,  and  every  time 
she  counted  the  chimes  she  became  more  alarmed  lest  they  should  be 
too  late.  Minutes  dragged  on.  Five  I  It  was  five !  Was  she 
forgotten  ?  Should  she  be  only  missed  and  remembered  at  the  station, 
too  late?  Tired,  nervous,  unused  to  oblivion,  she  found  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  was  too  sorrowful  and  angry  with  her  own  impatience  even 
to  think  of  the  old  woman  of  Servia.  Hark!  a  trampling?  Had 
they  remembered  her  ?    But  oh,  it  would  be  late  for  the  train ! 

In  burst  Lance,  in  his  cap  and  little  short  quaint  black  gown. 

*  O  Laifce,  I  shall  be  too  late !' 

*  You  don't  go  by  this  train.' 

*0h  dear  I  oh  dear!  Mr.  Froggatt  was  to  meet  me;'  and  the  tears 
started  from  her  eyes.    *  How  could  Felix  forget?' 


468  THS  MONTHLT  PACKST. 

'  Never  mind,  there's  sore  to  be  a  flj  or  something/ 

*  YeSy  but  Mr.  Froggatl  waiting  T 

*  Never  mind/  repeated  Lanee,  ^  'tis  a  fine  evening  to  air  the  old  boss.' 
'Don't,  Lance;   you  none  of  you  have  any  proper  regard  for  Mr. 

Froggatt;'  which,  as  far  as  Lance  was  concerned,  was  unjust,  and 
it  was  well  for  Cherry  that  it  was  not  addressed  to  either  of  the 
brothers  who  better  deserved  it. 

What  Lance  did  was  to  execute  one  of  his  peculiar  summersault^ 
and  then,  making  up  a  dismal  face,  to  say,  'Alas!  I  commiserate  the 
venerable  citizen  disappointed  of  the  pleasure  of  driving  my  lady 
Geraldine  home  from  the  wash  as  well  as  hisself.' 

She  was  past  even  appreciating  the  bathos.  'It  is  no  laughing 
matter,'  she  said;  'it  is  so  uncivil  when  he  is  so  kind.  I  can't 
imagine  what  Felix  is  thinking  of  V 

'Croquet,'  said  Lance  briefly;  then,  seeing  the  flushed,  quiverings 
mortified  face,  he  added,  'Wilmet  has  not  forgotten  you  one  bit, 
Cherry;  but  Alice  Knevett  and  Robin  did  so  want  to  see  the  fun  in 
the  mead — there's  running  in  sacks,  and  all  sorts  of  games— »that 
there's  no  getting  anyone  away ;  and  the  Ws  are  in  charge,  and  can't 
leave  them  to  their  own  devices,  so  she  said  perhaps  you  would  be 
more  rested  by  lying  still  than  rattling  home.' 

'  Oh,  I  dare  say  Wilmet  is  as  sorry  as  anybody,'  said  Cherry  rather 
querulously,  for  the  needle  point  was  pricking  her  again. 

'  And  as  to  your  dear  old  Froggy,'  continued  Lance,  '  she  says  he  told 
her  he  did  not  in  the  least  expect  you  back  by  this  train,  and  if  yoa 
did  not  come  by  it,  he'll  stay  in  town  for  the  8. 50.' 

'How  very  good  of  him  I'  said  Cherry,  beginning  to  be  consoled. 
'And  Felix  at  croquet!' 

'Alice  is  teaching  him.  You  never  did  see  such  a  joke  as  old 
Blunderbore  screwing  up  his  eyes  at  the  balls,  and  making  at  them 
with  his  mallet  like  a  sledge-hammer.  He  and  Alice  and  Robin  and 
that  Bisset  curate,  are  playing  against  Bill,  two  of  the  girls,  and 
Shapcote — Bexley  against  Minsterham;  and  little  Bobbie's  a  real 
out-and-outer.    She'll  make  her  side  win  by  sheer  cool  generalship.' 

'  And  poor  little  Angel  f '    The  needle  point  was  a  pang  now. 

'  Oh,  Angel  is  happier  than  ever  she  was  in  her  life.  The  Bishop's 
daughter  has  a  turn  for  little  kids,  and  has  got  all  the  small  ones 
together  in  the  pleached  alley,  playing  at  all  manner  of  things.' 

'Run  back.  Lance,  to  the  fun.  I  shall  do  very  well,'  said  poor 
Geraldine. 

'I  should  think  so,  when  I  get  you  so  often!'  scornfully  ejaculated 
Lancelot,  drawing  a  dilapidated  brioche  from  under  the  sofa,  and 
squatting  on  it,  with  his  dancing  eyes  close  to  her  sad  ones. 

An  effusion  of  spirits  prompted  her  to  lay  her  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
kiss  him  6n  each  cheek,  and  cry,  '  O  Lance,  you  are  the  very  sweetest 
boy!' 


THB  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  46d 

'Sweetest  treble,  you  mean/  said  Lance  qnaintlj;  4f  yon  had  only 
heard  me !  You  should  see  how  the  old  ladies  in  the  stalls  peep  and 
whisper,  and  how  Bill  Harewood  opens  his  mouth  rather  wider  than 
it  will  go,  and  they  think  it  is  he/ 

'  Not  for  fun,  Lance  ?' 

'Well,  I  believe  all  their  jaws  are  hung  on  looser  than  other  people's. 
But  I  say,  ain*t  you  dying  of  thirst  ?' 

'  Perhaps  Mrs.  Harewood  will  give  us  some  tea  when  she  comes  in.* 

*  If  you  trust  to  that — ' 

'  O  Lance  V  she  cried,  alarmed  at  seeing  him  coolly  ring  the  bell. 

'Bless  you,  she's  forgotten  all  about  you  and  tea  and  everything! 
They  are  drinking  it  by  the  gallon  in  the  tents ;  and  by-and-bye  she'll 
roll  in,  ready  to  cry  that  youVe  had  none,  and  mad  with  herself  and 
me  for  giving  you  none;  and  the  fire  will  be  out,  and  the  kettle  will 
boil  about  ten  minutes  afler  you  are  off  by  the  train.  We'll  have 
some  this  minute.' 

'But,  Lance—' 

'  But,  Cherry,  ain't  I  a  walking  Sahara  with  roaring  at  the  tip-top  of 
my  voice  to  lead  the  clod-hoppers?  How  they  did  bellow!  I  owe 
it  as  a  duty  to  the  Chapter  to  wet  my  whistle.'  * 

'One  comfort  is,  nobody  knows  year  coolness.  Nobody  comes  for 
all  your  ringing.' 

'Reason  good!  Every  living  soul  in  the  house  is  in  the  Bishop's 
meadow,  barring  the  old  cat ;  I  seen  'em  with  their  cap-strings  fiying. 
But  that's  nothing.  I  know  where  Mother  Harewood  keeps  her  tea 
and  sugar ;'  and  he  pounced  on  a  tea-caddy  of  Indian  aspect. 

'  Lance,  if  you  did  that  to  Mettie — * 

'Exactly  so.  I  don't;'  and  he  ran  out  of  the  room,  while  Cherry 
sat  up  on  her  sofa,  her  petulance  quite  banished  between  amusement 
and  desperation  at  such  proceedings  in  a  strange  house.  He  came 
back  presently,  with  two  cups,  saucers,  and  plates,  apparently  picked 
up  at  hap-hazard,  as  no  two  were  alike.  '  My  dear  Lance,  where  have 
you  been  ?' 

'  In  the  kitchen.  Such  a  jolly  arched  old  hole.  Bill  and  I  have 
done  no  end  of  Welsh  rabbits  there.  Once,  when  we  were  melting 
some  lead.  Bill  let  it  drop  into  the  pudding,  and  the  Pater  got 
it  at  dinner,  and  said  it  was  the  heaviest  morsel  he  ever  had  to 
digest.' 

'  But  wasn't  it  poison  ?* 

'I  suppose  not,  for  you  see  he  isn't  dead.  Another  time,  when  we 
were  melting  glue,  we  upset  a  whole  lot  of  fat,  and  the  chimney 
caught  fire;  and  wasn't  that  a  go?  Bill  got  a  pistol  out  of  Jack's 
room,  and  fired  it  up  the  chimney  to  bring  the  soot  down ;  and  down 
it  came  with  a  vengeance!  He  was  regularly  singed^  and  I  do  think 
the  place  would  have  been  burnt  if  it  had  not  been  too  old !  All  the 
Shapcotes  ran  out  into  the  court,  hallooing  Fire }  and  the  ^gine  eamCf 


470  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

but  there  was  nothing  for  it  to  do.  Oh,  the  face  Wilmet  would  make 
to  see  that  kitchen.     Kettle's  biling — I  must  run.' 

He  came  back  with  an  enormous  metal  tea-pot  in  one  hand,  and  a 
boiling  kettle  in  the  other,  a  cloud  of  vapour  about  his  head. 

'  You  appear  in  a  cloud,  like  a  Greek  divinity,'  said  Cherry, 
beginning  to  enter  into  the  humour  of  the  thing. 

'Bringing  nectar  and  ambrosia,'  said  Lance,  depositing  the  kettle 
amid  the  furbelows  of  paper  in  the  grate,  and  proceeding  to  brew  the 
tea.  '  Excuse  the  small  trifles  of  milk  and  cream ;  and  as  to  bread, 
I  can't  find  it,  but  here  are  the  cakes  you  had  for  luncheon,  shunted 
off  into  the  passage  window.  Sugar,  Cherry?  Fingera  were  made 
before  tongs.     Now  I  call  this  jolly.' 

'I  only  hope  this  isn't  a  great  liberty.' 

'  If  you  fired  off  a  cannon  under  Mrs.  Harewood's  nose,  she  would 
not  call  it  a  liberty.' 

'  So  it  appears.    But  Mr.  Harewood  does  not  look — like  that.' 

'  Oh,  he's  well  broken  in.  He  is  the  pink  of  orderliness  in  his  own 
study  and  the  library,  but  as  long  as  no  one  meddles  there,  he  minds 
nothing.  It  just  keeps  him  alive ;  but  I  believe  the  Shapcotes  think 
this  house  a  mild  lunatic  Itsylum.' 

*  Who  are  the  Shapcotes?' 

'He's  registrar.  They  live  in  the  other  half  of  this  place — the  old- 
infirmary,  Mr.  Harewood  calls  it.  Such  a  contrast !  He  is  a 
tremendous  old  Turk  in  his  house,  and  she  is  a  little  mincing  woman  ^ 
and  they've  made  Gus — he's  one  of  us,  you  know — a  horrid  sneak, 
and  think  it's  all  my  bad  company  and  Bill's. — By-the-by,  *  Cherry, 
Gus  Shapcote  asked  me  if  my  senior  wasn't  spoony  about — * 

'I  hope  you  told  him  to  mind  his  own  business!'  cried  Geraldine, 
with  a  great  start  of  indignation. 

'I  told  him  he  was  a  sheep,'  said  Lance.  'But,  I  say.  Cherry,  I 
want  to  know  what  you  think  of  it.' 

^ Think  ?    I'm  not  so  ready  to  think  nonsense!' 

'  Well,  when  the  old  giant  was  getting  some  tea  for  Tier,  I  saw  two 
ladies  look  at  one  another  and  wink.' 

*  Abominably  ill-mannered,'  she  cried,  growing  ruddier  than  the 
cherry. 

'But  had  you  any  notion  of  it?' 

'Impossible!'  she  said  breathlessly.  'He  is  only  kind  and  civil  to 
her,  as  he  is  to  everybody.     Think  how  young  he  is !' 

'  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  old  Blunderbore  much  younger  than 
Methuselah.  Twenty-one!  Isn't  it  about  the  age  one  does  such 
things  ? ' 

'  Not  when  one  has  twelve  brothers  and  sisters  on  one's  back,' 
sighed  Geraldine.  'Poor  Felix!  No,  there  can't  be  anything  in  it. 
Don't  let  us  think  of  foolish  nonsense  this  wonderful  day.  What  a 
glorious  hymn  that  was !' 


THE  PIIaLABS  of  THE  HOUSE.  471 

Lance  laid  his  head  lovingly  on  the  sofa-cushion,  and  discussed  the 
enjoyment  of  the  day  with  his  skilled  appreciation  of  music.  Greraldine's 
receptive  power  was  not  inferior  to  his  own,  though  she  had  none  of  that 
of  expression,  nor  of  the  science  in  which  he  was  trained.  He  was 
like  another  being  from  the  merry  rattle  he  was  at  other  times;  and 
she  had  more  glimpses  than  she  ever  had  before  of  the  high  nature 
and  deep  enthusiasm  that  were  growing  in  him. 

'  Hark !  there's  somebody  coming,'  she  cried,  starting. 

^  Let  him  come.  Oh,  it  is  the  Pater. — Here  is  some  capital  tea,  Mr. 
Harewood.     Have  some  ?    I'll  get  a  cup.' 

^  You  are  taking  care  of  your  sister.  That  is  right.  A  good  colonist 
you  would  make. — Gome  in,  Lee,'  said  Mr.  Harewood,  who,  to  Cherry's 
increased  consternation,  was  followed  by  another  clergyman.  *  We  are 
better  off  than  I  dared  to  expect,  thanks  to  this  young  gentleman. 
Miss  Geraldine  Underwood — Mr.  Lee. — ^You  knew  her  father,  I  think.' 

*  Not  poor  Underwood  of  Bexley  ?  Indeed !  I  knew  him.  I  always 
wished  I  could  have  seen  more  of  him,'  said  Mr.  Lee,  coming  up  and 
heartily  shaking  hands  with  Cherry,  and  asking  whether  she  was  staying 
there,  &c. 

Meantime  Lance  had  fetched  a  blue  china  soup-plate,  a  white  cup 
and  pink  spotted  saucer;  another  plate  labelled  'Nursery,'  and  a 
coffee-cup  and  saucer,  one  brown  and  the  other  blue;  and  as  tidily 
as  if  he  had  been  lady  of  the  house  or  parlour-maid,  presented  his 
provisions,  Mr.  Harewood  accepting  with  a  certain  quiet  amusement. 
His  remarkable  trim  neatness  of  appearance,  and  old-school  precision 
of  manner,  made  his  quiet  humorous  acquiescence*  in  the  wild  ways 
of  his  household  all  the  more  droll.  After  a  little  clerical  talk,  that 
reminded  Cherry  of  the  old  times  when  she  used  to  lie  on  her  couch, 
supposed  not  to  understand,  but  dreamily  taking  in  much  more  than 
anyone  knew — it  appeared  that  Mr.  Lee  wanted  to  see  something  in 
the  Library,  and  Mr.  Harewood  asked  her  whether  she  would  like  to 
come  and  see  Coeur  de  Lion's  seal. 

She  was  fully  rested,  and  greatly  pleased.  Lance's  arm  was  quite 
sufficient  for  her  now,  and  she  studied  the  Cathedral  and  its  precincts 
in  a  super-excellent  manner.  Mr.  Harewood,  who  had  spent  almost 
his  whole  life  under  its  shadow,  and  knew  the  history  of  almost  every 
stone  or  quarry  of  glass,  was  the  best  of  lionizers,  and  gave  her  much 
attention  when  he  perceived  how  intelligent  and  appreciative  she  was. 
He  shewed  her  the  plan  of  the  old  conventual  buildings,  and  she 
began  to  unravel  the  labyrinth  through  which  she  had  been  hurried. 
The  Close  and  Deanery  were  modernized,  but  he  valued  the  quaint  old 
corner  where  he  lived  for  its  genuine  age.  The  old  house  now  divided 
between  him  and  Mr.  Shapcote  had  been  the  infirmary;  and  the  long 
narrow  building  opposite,  between  the  Bailey  and  the  Cloister,  had  becD 
the  lodgings  either  of  lay-brothers  or  servants.  There  being  few 
boarders  at  the  Cathedral  school,  they  had  always  been  lodged  in  the 


4  72  THB  MOSTTHLT  PACKET. 

long  narrow  room,  with  the  seoond  master  in  a  little  eloeet  ihoi  off 
from  them.  Cherry  was  favomrecl  with  a  glance  at  Lance's  little 
eoraer,  with  the  old-fashioned  blade  oak  bed-stead,  soiid  but  vneteady 
table  and  stool,  the  eqnally  old  press,  and  the  book-case  he  had 
made  himself  with  boards  begged  from  his  friend  the  carpenter.  A 
photograph  and  drawing  or  two,  and  a  bat,  completed  the  plenishing. 
She  thonght  it  very  uncomfortable,  but  Lance  called  it  his  castle ;  and 
Mr.  Harewood,  pointing  to  the  washing  apparatus,  related  that  in  his 
day  the  cock  in  the  Bailey  was  the  only  provision  for  soch  purposes. 
The  boys  were  safely  locked  in  at  eight  every  night,  when  the  curfew 
rang,  and  the  Bailey  door  was  shut,  there  being  no  other  access  to  their 
rooms,  except  by  the  Cathedral,  through  the  Library,  and  the  private  door 
that  led  into  the  passage  common  to  the  Harewoods  and  Shapcotes. 

The  loveliness  of  the  Cloister,  the  noble  vault  of  the  Chapter-hoese, 
the  various  beauties  and  wonders  of  the  Cathedral,  and  lastly  tJie 
curiosities  of  the  Library — ^where  Mr.  Harewood  enthroned  her  in  his 
own  chair,  unlocked  the  cases,  brought  her  the  treasures,  and  tamed 
over  the  illuminated  manuscripts  for  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  princess-  ■■ 
made  Geraldine  forget  time,  weariness,  and  anxiety,  until,  as  the 
summer  sun  was  at  last  taking  leave,  a  voice  called  at  the  window, 
^  Here  she  is  I  I  thought  Papa  would  have  her  here !'  and  the  freckled 
fi^e  of  a  Miss  Harewood  was  seen  peering  in. 

There  the  truants  were,  eager,  hurried,  afraid  for  the  train,  full  of 
compunction  for  the  long  abandonment:  Alice,  most  apologetic;  Wiimety 
most  quiet ;  Felix,  most  attentive ;  Bobina,  still  ecstatic ;  and  Angela, 
tired  out — there  they  all  were.  It  was  all  one  hasty  scramble  to  the 
crowded  station,  and  then  one  merry  discussion  and  comparison  of 
notes  all  the  way  home;  Geraldine  maintaining  that  she  had  enjoyed 
herself  the  most  of  all ;  and  Alice  inei'ednloas  of  the  pleasure  of  sitting 
in  a  musty  old  library  with  an  old  gentiemaa  of  at  least  sixty;  while 
Felix  was  so  much  delighted  to  find  that  she  had  been  so  happy,  that 
he  almost  believed  that  the  delay  had  been  solely  out  of  oonsideration 
for  her. 

Mr.  Froggatt  was  safe  at  the  station  in  his  basket,  full  of  delight 
at  the  enjoyment  of  his  young  peofde,  and  of  anecdotes  of  Bernard 
and  SteUa;  and  Geraldine  found  herself  safely  deposited  at  home,  but 
with  one  last  private  apology  from  Wilmet  as  she  was  putting  her  to 
bed.  'I  did  not  know  how  to  help  it,'  she  said;  'Alice  was  so  wild 
with  delight,  that  I  could  not  get  her  away;  and  Felix  was  enjoying 
his  holiday  so  thoroughly,  I  knew  that  you  would  be  sorry  it  should 
be  shortened.' 

*  Indeed  I  am  very  glad  you  stayed.  It  would  be  too  bad  to  encumber 
you.' 

'I  wanted  to  come  and  see  afler  you,  but  I  had  promised  Miss 
Pearson  not  to  lose  sight  of  Alice.  And  then  Lance  offered  to  take 
^are  of  you.' 


BYGONES.  473 

"^O  Wilmet,  I  never  half  knew  what  a  dear  boy  Lanoe  is!  What 
boy  would  have  come,  when  all  that  was  going  on,  to  stay  with  a 
lame  cross  thing  like  me?  And  how  nice  for  him  to  have  such  kind 
friends  as  the  Harewoods  i ' 

^They  seem  very  fond  of  him,'  said  Wilmet;  ^fout  I  wish  he  had 
taken  up  with  the  Shapcotes.  I  never  saw  such  a  house.  It  is 
enoagh  to  ruin  all  sense  of  order!  But  they  were  very  kind  to  us; 
and  if  you  were  well  off,  it  was  all  right  I  never  saw  Felix  look 
60  like  bis  bright  old  self  as  to-day ;  and  it  is  his  birth-day,  after  all.' 

So  Wilmet  was  innocent  of  all  suspicions — wise  experienced  Wilmet  I 

That  was  enough  to  make  Cherry  forget   that  little  thorn  of  jealousy., 

especially  as  things  subsided  into  their  usual  course,  and  she  had  no 

more  food  for  conjecture. 

Clobe  coutinued.) 


BYGONES. 

BY  A.  MILUKOFF, 

^TBAMSLATEI)  FROM  THB  BUSS  BT  H.  C.  BOMANOFF.) 

CHAPTER  in. 
THE  SCHOOL  OF   THE   THEEE   BISHOPS. 

Mr  home  education  began  when  I  was  in  my  seventh  year,  and  my 
first — and  I  must  add  my  best — teacher  was  my  mother.  It  was,  as  I 
remember,  one  day  in  a  warm  bright  September,  when  she  took  me  to 
the  parish  church,  and  had  a  special  service  sung  to  SS.  Cosmo  and 
Damian,  as  the  patrons  of  learning  and  science. 

On  our  return  home  we  drank  tea,*  and  immediately  afterwards  we 
isat  down  to  the  primer,  which  my  father  had  bought  the  day  before, 
together  with  a  bone  pointer,  which  gi-eatly  resembled  the  implement 
called  a  lyre  that  ladies  use  for  making  watch-chains.  Although  my 
mother's  method  was  completely  patriarchal,  with  its  old-fashioned  Az 
and  boukifjitd  and  pitza^  instead  of  t^  and  B^  V  and  /,  with  its  double 
and  treble  syllables,  I  managed  to  get  through  this  terrible  and  senseless 
mess  without  dropping  one  tear  on  the  pages  of  my  book.  The 
barbarous  style  of  instruction  was  redeemed  by  what  was  more  valuable 
than  any  pedagogical  method — by  the  patience  and  sweetness  of  my 
teacher. 

When  I  could  read  pretty  fluently  the  stories  at  the  end  of  my  spelling 

*  t.  e.  had  breakfast.     Religious  Bussians  like  to  go  to  church  before  eating  oc 
drinking  anything.    {J^raxkB,^ 

VOL.  10.  32  PART  ^, 


474  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

book,  about  cleanly  little  girls  and  diligent  little  boys,  good  fi&iries  and 
wicked  magicians,  my  mother  bonght  me  another  book,  which  served  aM 
my  principal  guide  to  knowledge  for  the  whole  of  the  succeeding  year. 
It  was  csJled,  *A  Hundred-and-four  Sacred  Stories' — a  large  volume 
with  engravings.  It  contained  narratives  of  the  principal  events  in  the 
Old  and  New  Testaments,  simply  and  clearly  expressed ;  and  each 
episode  was  followed  by  reflections,  and  a  few  questions,  intended  to  draw 
the  attention  to  the  principal  thread  of  the  narrative.  The  meditationa 
I  used  to  read  only  once  through,  and  that  not  very  willingly;  and  I 
suspect  that  my  mother  did  not  particularly  enjoy  them  either.  In  a 
year's  time  I  had  learnt  by  heart  the  whole  volume,  and  scarcely  saw 
any  other  books. 

This  reading  interested  me  almost  more  than  the  nursery  tales  of  my 
nurse,  or  the  anecdotes  of  the  inexhaustible  Bitka.  I  loved  to  sit  down 
to  my  green  book,  and  the  very  learning  it  by  rote  gave  me  scarcely  any 
trouble  whatever,  particularly  as  my  mother  learned  the  stories  with  me, 
and  we  oflen  used  to  try  who  would  learn  a  lesson  the  fastest.  Many  of 
the  Sacred  Stories  touched  me  deeply  with  their  poetical  veracity.  The 
history  of  Joseph,  and  the  judgement  of  Christ  before  Pilate,  were  among 
my  gp*eatest  favourites.  1  myself  seemed  to  live  the  moment  over  when 
the  blood-stained  '  coat  of  many  colours '  was  brought  to  the  aged 
patriarch,  or  when  the  enraged  mob,  at  the  sight  of  the  mild  Sufferer, 
cried  *  Crucify  Him  I '  The  pictures,  representing  the  weeping  Jacob, 
and  the  Saviour  in  His  crown  of  thorns,  imprinted  themselves  for  ever 
on  my  childish  memory ;  in  the  course  of  my  life  many  a  book  interested 
roe  as  strongly,  but  not  one  called  forth  such  warm  feelings  as  the  old 
Bible  story  book. 

My  mother  added  another  item  to  my  studies  in  the  course  of  time. 
Luke  Lukitch  made  me  a  present  of  a  large  lithographic  sheet,  mounted 
on  card-board ;  on  which,  each  in  a  little  medallion  surrounded  by  a 
wreath  of  laurel,  were  the  portraits. of  all  the  monarchs  of  Russia,  iVom 
Rurik  to  Alexander  I. ;  and  under  each  figure  the  name  of  the  monarch, 
and  the  year  in  which  he  began  to  reign,  were  printed.  By  means  of 
this  picture  my  mother  and  I  learned  the  names  and  dates  of  all  the 
Dukes,  Tzars,  and  Emperors;  and  in  a  short  time,  without  knowing 
anything  of  their  lives  and  their  deeds,  I  could  repeat  them  all  in  due 
order,  merely  by  bringing  to  mind  the  fantastic  physiognomy  of  etch — 
Rurik  in  his  chivalrous  helmet,  with  an  axe  in  his  hand ;  Dmitry  of  the 
Don,  with  his  sword  raised  above  his  head  ;  Ivan  the  Terrible,  in  a 
pelerine  and  a  peaked  crown;  and  Peter  the  Great,  in  uniform  with 
enormous  facings  on  the  breast.  This  original  course  of  chronology 
Served  me  a  good  turn  subsequently,  as  a  rough  frame  for  my  study  of 
Russian  history. 

But  contemporary  history  interested  me  still  more.  If  my  father's 
attention  was  but  little  occupied  with  such  reports  and  news  as  did 
not    concern    Moscow    or    his    own    immediate    affairs ;    my    mother^ 


BTGONES.  475 

notwithstanding  her  household  duties,  loved  to  know  and  to  follow  aH 
that  was  going  on  in  the  world-*4hat  is  to  say,  all  that  the  ^  Moscow 
Inteiligence,'  which  she  vsed  to  borrow  two  or  three  times  a  month  from 
an  acquaintance,  rouchsafed  to  dironicle.  As  soon  as  she  got  a  bundle 
of  new  numbers,  ahe  devoted  every  spare  moment  to  their  perusal* 
and  generally  communicated  such  news  to  me  as  most  interested  herselE 
What  particularly  occupied  her  mind  was  the  struggle  for  independence 
in  Greece  that  was  going  on  at  the  time  I  am  now  speaking  of,  and 
through  which  I  got  my  first  idea  of  politics.  My  mother  felt  so  warm, 
I  may  even  say  so  passionate,  a  sympathy  for  this  far-away  land,  that 
each  success  of  the  Greeks  delighted  her  as  though  it  had  been  that  of 
her  own  children ;  and  each  mishap  of  theirs  grieved  her  like  a  family 
misfortune.  Many  a  time  have  I  seen  tears  in  her  oyes  while  she  was 
reading  sorrowful  news  of  her  favourites.  When  at  last  the  news 
arrived  that  their  independence  was  established,  she  went  to  church  on 
purpose  to  return  thanks  in  consequence. 

Although  I  had  not  the  slightest  nodon  of  the  country  in  question, 
and  formed  my  ideas  of  the  Greeks  themselves  merely  by  the  swarthy 
faces  that  I  had  seen  occasionally  in  certain  tobacco  shops,*  still,  from 
the  infiuence  of  my  mother  I  also  felt  a  lively  interest  in  the  Greek 
struggle;  my  imagination  was  strongly  excited  by  the  history  of  the 
siege  ci  Missalonghi,  the  cutting  down  of  the  olive  grove  by  Ibrahim 
Pasha,  the  massacre  on  the  island  of  Ipeara,  and  the  blowing  op  of  the 
Turkish  vessels  by  fire-ships.  The  names  of  Kolokotroni,  Botzaris, 
Bobelini,  and  others,  became  familiar  and  for  ever  and  ever  dear  to  me, 
like  those  of  near  relatives ;  and  often  when  I  lay  awake  in  bed  I  used 
to  think  that  if  this  war  continued  until  I  grew  up,  I  would  follow  the 
example  of  the  English  friends  of  Greece  that  the  newspapers  spoke  of, 
and  go  to  fight  the  hated  Turks,  the  persecutors  of  the  people  I  loved  so. 
1  liked  to  dream  how  we  would  conquer  the  blood-thirsty  Ibrahim,  carry 
off  loads  of  treasures  from  him,  and  divide  it  all  among  the  Greeks,  to 
buy  clothing  and  arms  with.  I  become,  aid-de-camp  to  Caraskaki,  and 
return  home  to  my  mother  in  Greek  costume  with  a  dagger  at  my  belt. 
These  childish  fantasies  passed  almost  as  soon  as  formed,  but  my  love  for 
Greeoe  and  interest  in  her  welfare  remained  for  ever  in  my  heart. 

A  year  and  a  half  after  I  had  begun  to  learn  reading,  I  was  placed  in 
the  Sdiool  of  the  '  Three  Bishops.'  At  first  I  went  on  certain  terms  to 
the  teacher  of  the  Russian  language,  and  afterwards  was  admitted  on  the 
li^t  of  scholars,  and  with  them  attended  all  the  classes.  I  went  every  day 
to  (his  school,  with  a  satchel  over  my  shoulder,  in  which  lay  my  luncheon 
and  dinner  on  one  side  and  my  copy  and  other  books  on  the  other.  My 
teacher,  Petre  Matv^itch,  was  a  tall  roundHsrhouIdered  old  man,  with  a 
cataract  on  one  eye — gloomy  and  quick-tempered.  During  the  earlier 
hours  of  study  he  used  to  wear  a  coloured  dressing-gown,  and  afterwards 

*  One  of  the  larf^est  firms  in  Moscow  for  the  preparation  and  sale  of  tobacco 
belongs  to  a  Greek*— Bostoajoglo.  (7ran«.) 


476-  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

appeared  in  his  undress  uniform ;  *  he  fdways  kept  in  his  mouth  a  long- 
china  chibouk,  which  he  smoked  very  slowly,  dispersing  the  awlWat 
possible  quantity  of  smoke,  and  even  when  there  were  no  longer  any 
ashes  in  it  be  still  puffed  at  it.  Being  a  private  pupil,  I  used  to  be 
dragged  from  class  to  class  with  him,  and  while  he  was  engaged  I  used 
to  write  copies,  and  learn  by  heart  billions  and  trillions.  At  last  I  was 
admitted  into  the  first  class,  and  learned  what  the  others  did.  The  rules 
of  our  school  belonged  to  the  'good  old  times.*  Each  class  had  one 
elder  pupil  over  it,  who  was  dignified  by  the  title  of  Censor,  and  whose 
duty  it  was  to  look  afler  the  conduct  of  the  boys^  particularly  to  keep 
them  quiet  during  the  time  that  Petre  M^tv^itch  went  to  take  his  nap  in 
his  room.  Besides  the  Censor,  each  form  bad  an  Auditor,  who  heard 
the  lessons  of  his  subordinates  before  the  arriyal  of  the  teachers. 

As  soon  as  the  school- room  door  began  to  squeak,  and  the  ungainly 
form  of  the  master  appeared,  we  all  jumped  actively  from  our  places^ 
and  the  Censor  began  to  gabble  a  prayer  as  fast  as  he  could,  and  then 
presented  a  report  to  the  master,  as  to  who  had  made  a  noise  or 
otherwise  behaved  ill.  Correction  was  administered  on  the  spot, 
instantaneously;  the  offenders  were  made  to  go  down  on  their  knees, 
or  'fed  with  salmon,'  i.e,  received  slaps  on  the  palms  of  their  hands 
with  an  oaken  ruler ;  and  occasionally  were  treated  to  '  birch-pap.'  On  < 
the  conclusion  of  this  enlivening  overture,  Fetre  Matveitch  looked  over 
the  Auditor's  list,  made  one  or  two  selections  from  it  by  way  of  proving 
its  accuracy,  and  again  began  his  corrections  on  such  whose  marks  were 
below  par.  At  the  end  of  the  lesson  he  marked  with  his  nail  what  we 
were  to  prepare  and  what  to  omit  for  the  next  day;  and  the  Censor 
again  gabbled  over  the  concluding  prayer  till  he  was  out  of  breath. 
Such  was  the  method  of  the  pedagogues  of  the  '  Three  Bishops,' — whom 
we  used  to  call  the  *  three  martyrisers.'  f 

Petre  Matveitch  particularly  liked  to  place  us  on  our  knees  round  his 
desk,  which  he  dignified  by  the  term  of  pulpit ;  every  day  some  few 
wretches  passed  their  time  tiiere,  but  it  frequently  happened  that  not  one 
boy  remained  on  the  forms,  and  the  whole  class,  with  their  books  in  their 
hands,  knelt  in  groups  around  the  terrible  pedagogue,  who  with  his  own 
knees  crossed,  remained  immoveable  on  his  elevated  seat,  like  the  statue 
of  Mcmnon.  At  the  end  of  such  a  lesson,  if  our  teacher  happened  to  be 
in  a  particularly  bad  humour,  he  would  select  two  or  three  victims  from 
the  kneeling  crowd,  and  pack  them  off  to  '  the  scaffold,'  as  we  called  a 
certain  form  at  the  end  of  the  room.  This  caused  all  the  pupils  towards 
the  end  of  the  class  to  cross  themselves  on  the  sly  behind  their  books ; 
or  '  guess  their  fate,'  by  shutting  their  eyes  and  endeavouring  to  make 
the  ends  of  their  forefingers  meet,  after  a  quick  movement  outwards  of 

*  Teachers  in  educational  establishments  belonging  to  Government  wear  uniform, 
as  do  all  persons  who  serve  the  Emperor. 

t  A  childish  play  of  words  on  the  original  Rnss,  arising  fh)m  the  similarity  of  the 
final  syllables,  *  Sviatitily  * — *  montchidly/ 


BYGONES.  477 

the  arms — if  the  ends  did  not  meet,  fate  decided  that  they  were  to  be 
flogged ;  if  they  did,  the  Intter  cup  would  pass  by  them.  Once  Petre 
Matveitch  observed  that  one  of  the  rogues  kneeling  before  him,  with 
closed  eyes  and  outspread  arms,  was  about  to  guess  his  fate ;  but  at  the 
very  moment  that  the  fingers  met,  he  bent  towards  him  unseen,  and 
screamed  in  his  very  ear,  '  Guess  or  not,  you  foolish  doll !  though  they 
met  a  hundred  times,  still  I'll  flog  you  I '  And  he  immediately  proceeded 
to  prove  to  the  unfortunate  lad  the  futility  of  all  such  searchings  into  the 
mysterious  future. 

All  the  branches  of  our  education  were  acquired  by  drumming ;  i.  e. 
by  learning  by  rote,  word  for  word,  our  given  tasks.  We  were  not 
allowed  to  pass  over  one  syllable  in  our  books — like  the  Jews  in  the 
letter  of  Holy  Scripture.  To  repeat  anything  in  our  own  words  was 
strictly  forbidden,  on  the  grounds  that  the  books  were  written  by  persons 
who  were  infinitely  wiser  and  more  learned  than  we  stupid  school-boys. 
£ven  if  the  first  boy,  (when  repeating,  to  perfection,  his  lesson,)  ventured 
to  misplace  one  or  two  words,  without  altering  the  sense,  he  was  sure 
to  get  bad  marks.  ^  I'll  give  it  to  you,  you  foolish  doll ! '  cried  Petre 
Matveitch,  '  for  daring  to  alter  the  words  of  the  book !  Say  it  as  it 
is  written/  Thus  we  frequently  learned  by  rote  the  most  absurd 
misprints,  not  daring  to  correct  them,  for  fear  of  punishment. 

Thanks  to  this  most  rational  method,  a  gi*eat  'scandal'  occurred 
once  upon  a  time  in  our  school.  The  City  Head  *  bad  occasion  td 
visit  '  the  Three  Bishops '  about  some  alteration  in  tlie  building.  He 
came  into  the  fifst  class  room,  where  Petre  Matveitch  was  at  that 
time  engaged.  I  do  not  exactly  remember  whether  our  grand  guest 
was  invited  to  examine  us,  or  whether  lie  did  it  of  his  own  accord, 
but  he  preferred  one  question  to  us  from  each  subject  that  we  learned. 
He  began  with  the  Catechism,  which  in  the  first  class  we  were  taught 
by  a  layman  and  not  by  a  Priest.  *  What  do  you  mean  by  the  word 
God  ? '  asked  the  Head.  He  received  no  answer,  because  the  question 
was  not  put  in  the  form  we  were  accustomed  to.  Had  he  said 
'  What  is  God  ? '  each  of  us  would  have  replied  in  the  words  of  our 
book — *GrOD  is  a  Spirit;  and  those,*  &c.  Then  followed  Russian 
grammar;  we  were  requested  to  inform  the  Head  how  many  letters 
there  were  in  the  Russian  alphabet.  This  was  a  great  puzzle  to 
us,  for  we  had  never  happened  to  count  them.  Tiie  examination 
concluded  with  arithmetic:  the  visitor  called  up  one  boy,  and  desired 
him  to  calculate  how  many  scholars  there  were  in  each  class  and  in 
the  whole  school.  This  we  could  not  manage  for  the  life  of  us,  for 
all  our  attention  was  taken  up  with  fractions  and  decimals,  and  we 
had  no  time  to  think  of  practical  calculations,  f  After  this  brilliant 
examination  our  visitor   left   the   room.     We  expected    fully  to  get   a 

♦  A  civil  dignitary,  selected  from  the  merchant  class  in  towns,  and  from  among 
the  peasants  in  villages.    (Trans.J 

1 1,  e.  Mental  arithmetic.    {Dans.^ 


478  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

good  flogging  all  round,  but  to  onr  astoDisbmeot  It  all  ended  im 
Petre  Matveitch's  spitting  with  great  energy,  and  pronouncing  the 
words  ^  Stnpid  Doll  1 '  immediatelj  after  the  Head  had  passed  through 
the  door.  As  the  exclamation  was  in  tlie  singular  number,  we  did 
not  take  the  epithet  to  ourselves. 

I  formed  a  friendship  in  the  school  of  the  Three  Bishops  with  a 
certain  Kolia  Sokoloff,  whosct  father  was  head-steward  to  the  Prince 

U .     He  was  two  years  older  than   I,  but  we  took  to  each  othet 

from  the  similarity  of  our  habits  and  attainments.  Of  all  the  boys 
in  our  class  he  was  remarkable  for  his  fine  character,  though  he  waa 
terribly  spoiled.  He  learned  ill  from  carelessness,  and  was  always  in 
mischief,  not  so  much  from  the  enjoyment  of  fun  as  from  the  love  of 
shewing  off  before  his  companions.  The  last  at  lessons,  Kolia  waa 
first  in  everything  else ;  he  skated  splendidly,  imitated  the  cry  of  a 
quail  to  perfection,  drew  spirited  caricatures  of  the  teachers  on  the 
black  board,  and  imitated  them  from  the  pulpit.  Of  course  thetse 
agreeable  talents  were  infinitely  more  appreciated  than  the  utmost 
diligence  and  distinction  in  learning;  and  we  were  all  very  fond  of 
him,  except  our  Censor,  whom  he  did  not  spare  in  his  dramatical 
representations.  This  boy  became  my  authority,  and  my  intimacy 
with  him  did  me  much  harm  subsequently. 

Kolia  lived  with  his  father  in  the  princely  mansion  of  his  patron, 
whom  r  remember  perfectly,  as  well  as  the  house.  He  belonged  to 
the  old  class  of  Moscow  grandees,  who  gradually  died  out  under  the 
flow  of  a  new  style  of  living  and  thinking,  like  the  'Last  of  the 
Mohicans'  in  America;  and  would  that  a  Cooper  of  their  own  could 
be  found  to  describe  them  ! 

The  U ^'s  house  struck  me  with   its  richness  and  luxury :   the 

spacious  saloons,  with  their  satin  damask  hangings,  their  marble 
fire-places  and  gilded  furniture,  their  pictures  and  statues,  seemed  to 
me  like  the  enchanted  halls  of  a  fairy  tale.  In  an  upper  story  a 
gallery  led  to  the  aviary,  where  on  perches,  or  in  rings  suspended 
to  the  ceiling,  sat  grey  parrots,  white  cockatoos,  and  other  foreign 
birds;  while  in  cages  might  be  seen  gold  and  silver  pheasants,  long- 
beaked  pelicans,  and  green  love-birds.  Another  gallery  opened  into 
the  winter  garden,  witli  beds  of  aromatic  flowers,  paths  bordered  by 
exotic  plants,  the  whole  surrounded  by  espaliers  of  wild  vines.  In 
the  centre,  with  a  basin  beneath  it,  played  a  large  fountain.  When 
in  after  days   I  read  'Rouslan  and   Ludmilla,'*  the  remembrance  of 

Prince    U *s    conservatory — particularly    when    the    snow-covered 

ground  outside  could  be  seen  through  its  frost-crystallized  window 
panes— always  came  into  my  head  at  the  description  of  the  enchanted 
gardens  of  Black  Death.  From  hence  was  a  private  entrance  to  the 
Prince's  private  theatre,  where  I  for  the  first  lime  in  my  life 
witnessed  a  theatrical  performance. 

•  A  romantic  poem  by  Poushkiu.     {Trans.) 


BYGONES.  479 

'  I  shall  never  forget  that  evening.  It  was  during  Christmas  time : 
Kolia  came  to  our  house  in  the  morning,  and  with  mj  futiier*s 
permission  carried  me  off  with  him  to  spend  a  whole  day  and  night 
in  the  grand  house.  The  Prince  gave  a  splendid  dinner-party  that  day, 
and  in  the  evening  there  was  to  be  a  performance.  At  dusk  the  street 
and  neighbouring  alleys  became  crowded  with  equipages.  In  the 
enormous  kitchens,  the  cooks,  like  white  phantoms,  hovered  around  the 
bright  stew-pans  and  saucepans;  and  in  the  apartments  innumerable 
footmea  in  livery  hurried  to  and  fro  with  their  divers  preparations.  In 
the  vast  dining-room,  where  we  peeped  in  while  dinner  was  going  on, 
t)ie  conversation  of  the  guests  almost  drowned  the  sounds  of  the 
orchestra,  and  in  the  light  of  countless  lustres,  chandeliers,  and 
girandoles,  shone  every  description  of  gold-and-silver-broidered  uniform, 
and  heads  and  necks  sparkling  with  diamonds.  Kolia's  father  was  in 
high  bustle,  and  we  scarcely  saw  him  at  all ;  but  in  the  evening  he  took 
us  to  the  theatre,  and  placed  us  under  the  charge  of  some  ladies. 

It  was  already  lighted  up.  I  was  struck  dumb  with  the  as  yet  unseen, 
to  me,  picture  before  me.  The  spacious  saloon,  with  its  countless  lights, 
surrounded  by  a  treble  row  of  boxes ;  the  pit  filled  with  arm-chairs ;  and 
all  ending  with  a  beautiful  painting,  representing  a  landscape,  which  I 
did  not  suspect  to  be  a  curtain — all  delighted  me.  In  the  middle  row, 
immediately  opposite  the  painted  wall,  was  a  l^rge  box  draped  witli 
green  velvet,  and  surmounted  by  the  Prince's  coat-of-arms.  In  a  short 
time  the  boxes  became  filled  with  elegantly-dressed  ladies,  and  the  arm- 
chairs disappeared  beneath  a  mass  of  uniforms  and  plain  clothes,  but 
the  Prince's  box  remained  empty.  At  last  the  deadened  murmur  of 
suppressed  voices  suddenly  became  silent,  the  gentlemen  stood  up  and 
turned  towards  the  green  box,  when  the  Prince,  a  little  grey-haired  old 
man  in  private  clothes  but  with  a  star  on  his  breast,  entered  it.  Several 
gentlemen  and  ladies  were  with  him,  of  whom  one  of  the  latter  was,  as  I 
was  told,  the  professional  danseuse  who  managed  the  Prince's  corps  de 
hailet.  As  soon  as  the  host  and  his  guests  had  taken  their  seats,  the 
orchestra  struck  up,  and  the  curtain,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  began  to 
risel  They  gave  *  Zephyr  and  Flora,'  a  ballet;  and  now  for  the  first 
time  I  beheld  the  scene  of  a  theatre,  covered  with  dancing  figures  in 
very  airy  costume,  moving  amid  foliage  and  fiowers.  I  was  not  aware 
that  the  whole  personale  of  the  company,  the  musicians  in  the  orchestra, 
the  danseurs  and  danaeuseSj  were  the  Prince's  serfs  !  It  never  entered 
my  head  that  this  hospitable  nobleman  made  such  use  of  his  living 
property ;  I  only  saw  that  hundreds  of  eyes  followed  with  delight  the 
graceful  movements  of  the  dancers,  and  applauded  loudly  at  the 
appearance  of  Flora.  When  the  curtain  dropped,  the  artiste  was  called 
into  the  Prince's  box,  where  she  listened  to  something  her  possessor  ^nid 
to  her  with  great  attention,  and  then  kissed  his  hand.  This  appeared  to 
me  very  strange  and  improper. 

*  She  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself ! '  I  exclaimed  to  Kolia. 


480  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'But  if  she  did  not  kiss  bis  hand,  perhaps  she  would  get  a  whipping/ 
reasoned  he. 
.  '  A  big  girl  like  that  ?  and  such  a  beautiful  creature  I  *" 

*  Why,  she's  only  a  serf- wench.' 

This  disgusted  me ;  and  the  magnificent  Prince  and  the  splendid 
theatre  all  at  once  lost  their  charms  for  me. 

Another  time  I  saw  the  departure  of  Prince  U to  his  estate  of 

Archangelskoe,  near  Moscow.  Preparations  were  commenced  a  week 
beforehand — carriages  were  got  out,  and  various  things  packed  up.  The 
transmigration  did  not  take  place  at  one  time ;  for  seyeral  days,  loads  of 
luggage  on  country  carts  slowly  leflt  the  Prince's  court-yard;  then  a 
detachment  of  the  household,  consisting  of  laundresses  and  floor-polishers, 
the  Prince's  own  kitchen,  with  its  utensils  and  eook^ ;  then  followed  the 
birds  and  monkeys,  the  Prince's  wardrobe,  part  of  the  library,  and  the 
musicians  with  their  instruments  and  musical  notes.  At  last  eame  the 
day  of  departure,  and  for  the  Prince  and  other  inmates  of  his  mansion  at 
least  ten  carriages  were  prepared.  A  crowd  of  persons  accompanied 
them  on  their  journey^  and  a  still  greater  one  assembled  at  the  gates,  and 
watched  the  long  line  of  equipages  as  they  disappeared  behind  a  cloud  of 
dust  down  the  distant  street.  A  death-like  silence  reigned  in  the  great 
house,  and  it  seemed  to  have  fallen  asleep,  with  its  closely  shut  gates  anil 
white-washed  windows. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  the  last  gasp  of  the  old  grandeur  that  remained 
from  Catherine  the  Second's  time.  Long  had  it  held  out;  but  little  by  little, 
undermined  in  its  strongest  holds,  it  fell  a  ruin  beneatli  the  influence  of 
new  ideas.  Biches,  wantonly  thrown  into  the  hands  of  the  favourites  of 
fortune,  were  as  wantonly  thrown  away  by  them  :  now  they  passed  to  a 
monastery,  now  to  the  gaming-table,  now  evaporated  in  some  unheard- 
of  speculation,  now  in  a  heedless  frolic.  The  last  scions  of  such  nobility 
lived  in  a  truly  melancholy  period,  for  them  ;  one  may  almost  say  that 
they  were  present  at  their  own  funerals.  The  saplings  overgrew  the 
ancient  giants  of  the  forest  before  their  very  eyes.  From  every  lecture- 
room  in  the  universities,  in  every  new  verse  of  Poushkine's,  might  be 
heard  their  unalterable  sentence.  Like  those  of  the  grave-digger's  spade 
sounded  the  blows  of  the  auctioneer's  hammer,  when  it  transferred  to 
the  hands  of  rich  shop-keepers  and  contractors  the  family  palaces  with 
their  gilded  furniture  and  treasures  of  art,  collected  from  eveiy  corner  of 
Europe.  What  must  have  been  the  feelings  of  the  owners  when  they 
passed  by  their  houses — where  in  better  days  the  tables  groaned  beneath 
the  weight  of  the  silver  services,  and  where  the  serf-musicians  aided 
digestion  by  their  performances — and  saw  the  laconic  superscrip- 
tion above  the  door-way,  *  Hospital  for  Workmen,'  *  Government 
Gymnasium,'  *  Committee  for  the  Supervision  of  Beggars,'  Ac' 

But  the  brilliant  extravagance  of  the  grandees  gave  way  to  the  coarse 
profuseness  of  the  merchant  class,  into  whose  hands  many  of  the 
mansions  of  the  Moscow  nobility  had  fallen;  and  their  way  of  making 


BYGONES.  481 

away  with  money  was  as  rapid  in  its  effects  as  the  former  one.    At  the 

time  that  Prince  U was  entertaining  the  aristocracy  of  Moscow  with 

his  dinners  and  serf- theatres,  K ^  a  well-known  manufacturer,  was 

astonishing  commercial  Moscow  with  his  unheard-of  talents  for  throwing 
away  millions.  The  father  of  this  prodigal  son  was  the  very  patriarch 
of  all  the  Harpagons  of  the  city.  It  was  whispered  that  he  hegan  his 
career  as  a  seller  of  leather  mufflers,  then  estahlished  a  manufactory, 
speculated  fortunately,  and  in  a  few  years  of  patience  and  parsimonious- 
ness  he  accumulated  upwards  often  millions  of  roubles.  His  miserliness 
became  proverbial :  among  other  anecdotes  of  him,  it  used  to  be  related 
that  he  had  a  window  made  in  the  lower  story  of  his  house  immediately 
opposite  a  street  lamp,  in  order  that  he  might  thereby  save  candles. 
Every  night  he  walked  about  the  yard,  barking,  to  deceive  the 
neighbours  and  passers-by  into  the  belief  that  he  kept  a  dog,  and  thus 
to  save  himself  the  expense  of  buying  and  feeding  one !  He  brought 
this  art  to  such  a  pitch  of  perfection,  that  he  deceived  the  dogs 
themselves.  But  during  the  whole  course  of  his  long  commercial  career 
K  was  never  known  to  pay  his  creditor  in  full,  but  always  contrived 
to  squeeze  a  grivna,*  or  at  any  rate  a  kopecka  f  out  of  him,  under  one 
pretence  or  another. 

At  the  death  of  this  singular  character,  his  enormous  property  passed 
to  his  only  son,  who  had  only  just  attained  his  majority.  The  entire 
education  of  this  young  man  consisted  in  reading,  writing,  and  calculation 
on  the  countcrs4  He  was  never  allowed  to  leave  the  house,  nor  to  form 
any  acquaintance  ;  pleasure  and  recreation  were  out  of  the  question.  It 
was  said  that  his  father  on  one  occasion  beat  him  unmercifully,  and 
subsequently  kept  him  confined  in  an  out-house  on  bread  and  water,  for 
presuming  to  go  to  the  theatre  with  one  of  the  foremen.  And  then,  one 
flne  day,  this  persecuted  and  unfortunate  youth,  completely  unacquainted 
as  he  was  with  life  and  with  his  fellow-men,  found  himself  in  the  full 
possession  of  twenty  or  thirty  millions  of  roubles.  Of  course  it  came  to 
pass  what  was  to  be  expected :  he  was  drawn  into  a  whirlpool  of 
improvised  friends,  of  actors  and  actresses,  and  chorus-singing  gypsies — 
horses  and  races  appeared  on  the  scene  too  ;  and  in  three  years  time  the 
^  Moscow  Intelligence '  announced  to  the  world  the  melancholy  news  that 
the  merchant  K  ,  in  consequence  of  his  inability  to  pay  the  guild-tax, 
had  written  himself  in  as  burgher.  This  I  can  remember  as  being  one 
of  the  most  exciting  scandals  ever  heard  in  the  scandal-loving  class  of 
Moscow  merchants. 

The  manufacturer,  however,  who  employed  my  father,  contributed  to 
the  list  of  scandals  a  fact,  which  if  less   tragical  was  scarcely  less 

*  Ten  kopeckas.  f  Equal  to  one-third  of  a  penny. 

{  An  article  to  be  seen  in  everj  shop  in  Bussia,  and  without  which  it  wonld  seem 
the  merchant  and  his  assistants  are  incapable  of  calculating  at  all.  It  consists  of  a 
wooden  frame,  with  strong  wires  stretching  from  side  to  side,  on  each  of  which  are 
Strang  ten  wooden  or  bone  beads. 


AS%  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

characteiiitic.  He  was  by  no  means  a  dull  fellow,  but  careless  and 
uneducated ;  his  father's  affairs  were  in  a  flourishing  state  when  he  came 
into  possession  of  them,  but  he  had  not  the  tact  to  keep  it  up.  One 
could  hardly  call  him  extravagant,  though  it  is  true  that  he  was  a  great 
lover  of  fine  horses  and  public  amusements ;  but  he  had  no  disreputable 
acquaintances,  did  not  give  ruinous  parties,  nor  go  the  way  by  which 
K  lost  his  millions.  But  for  ail  that,  his  affairs  went  wrong;  and  I 
often  heard  my  father  tell  my  mother  about  the  unflourishing  state  of  the 
factory,  and  I  had  sense  enough  even  then  to  gpiess  that  our  employer 
was  in  danger  of  misfortune.  In  due  time  the  catastrophe  came,  and 
astonished  all  the  merchants  in  Moscow  by  its  originality. 

It  was  in  the  winter ;  his  name's*day  was  approaching,  and  he 
intended  to  give  a  grand  feast ;  notwithstanding  the  representations  of 
my  father  respecting  the  low  state  of  the  finances,  he  made  preparations 
for  a  magnificent  dinner,  bought  sterleds  *  of  an  arshine  in  length,  cases 
of  costly  wines,  and  rare  fruits.  His  relatives  were  not  present,  and  only 
his  creditors  were  invited,  their  number  by  far  surpassing  that  of  his 
kindred.  To  the  less  important  of  these  he  sent  notes  of  invitation ;  but 
to  the  grandees  he  went  himself,  to  beg  the  honour  of  their  company. 
For  this  purpose  he  bought  an  elegant  new  carriage;  and  in  it,  drawn  by 
a  pair  of  fine  black  horses,  the  Amphytrion  tore  all  over  Moscow,  inviting 
his  creditors  to  an  humble  repast. 

The  day  arrived,  and  at  the  appointed  hour  the  guests  began  to 
assemble,  amongst  them  being  several  of  the  brightest  stars  of  Moscow 
comiperce.  The  dinner  was  a  splendid  affair;  the  luxurious  dishes, 
prepared  under  the  direction  of  the  head  cook  of  the  English  club,  and 
the  exquisite  wines,  better  than  which  could  not  be  procured  in  the 
city,  served  to  put  the  guests  into  the  best  of  humours ;  the  sterleds  and 
strawberries  did  their  duty,  and  the  guests  began  to  regard  their  regaler 
not  as  a  debtor  but  as  a  host,  and  lauded  to  the  skies  with  one  voice  liis 
hospitality  and  liberality.  But  the  end  of  the  banquet  an*ives ;  the  hobt 
quite  unexpectedly  rises  from  the  table,  falls  on  his  knees  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  and  prostrating  himself  with  his  forehead  on  the  floor  before 
his  astonished  guests,  addressed  them  a  speech  to  the  following  effect. 

'  My  respected  and  respectable  guests  and  creditors  1  I  thank  you 
from  the  fullness  of  my  heart  that  you  have  not  despised  my  humble  in  re. 
I  entertained  you  according  to  our  old  Russian  saying,  **•  What  I  am  ricli 
in  I  am  delighted  to  offer,"  but  my  affairs  do  not  allow  of  my  regaling 
you  as  my  heart  would  fain  dictate.  For  the  last  few  years  God  has  not 
been  pleased  to  bless  my  labours  in  the  factory  with  success,  as  you  may 
see  by  the  books  which  I  shall  have  the  honour  to  offer  for  your 
inspection  immediately.  In  the  present  state  of  my  affairs  it  is  utterly 
impossible  for  me  to  satisfy  the  demands  of  my  creditors  as  they  would 
wish ;  and  therefore,  bending  to  a  cruel  and  inexorable  fate,  and  to  a 

*  A  deliciouB  fish  of  the  sturgeon  species,  but  smaller  and  more  delicate ;  it  is  vciy 
expensive  in  the  capitals. 


BYGONES.  483 

necessity  which  it  breaks  my  heart  to  confess,  I  am  compelled  io  offer 
yoQ  twenty-five  kopeckas  in  the  rouble.  Remember,  my  much  respected 
creditors,  that  we  are  all  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord ;  be  merciful,  then,  to 
me,  and  do  not  ruin  me  now,  nor  refuse  me  your  confidence  hereafter  V 

It  may  well  be  imagined  that  on  hearing  such  an  unexpected  and 
pathetic  speech,  the  physiognomies  of  the  guests  became  considerably 
longer;  and  when  the  orator  finished  his  address,  with  another  prostration 
before  his  hearers,  an  animated  murmur  of  voices  arose. 

*  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  T '  they  asked  one  of  another.  *  Why 
should  we  be  soiled  with  soot  merely  because  he  wants  to  fly  through  the 
chimney  ?  If  we  encourage  such  persons  we  must  give  up  business 
altogether !  If  he  proves  in  the  right  by  his  books,  why  did  he  not  set 
to  work  to  bring  his  afiairs  into  order  ?  But  there  is  a  debtor^s  prison 
at  the  Iversky  Gates — let  him  remember  that  I  Why  should  we  ruin 
ourselves  for  him  ?  We  also  have  creditors.  We  are  not  chips  of 
unfeeling  wood.    We  pay  our  debts,  we  do.    Let  him  go  to  prison ! ' 

Notwithstanding  these  threats,  many  voices  were  raised  in  favour  of 
the  hospitable  host,  (doubtless  from  the  efiects  of  the  Lucullus-like 
banquet,)  and  soon  they  became  louder  than  the  others. 

*  Well,  what  then  T '  said  they.  *  Is  it  the  first  time  that  such  things 
have  happened  in  Moscow  T  It  is  nothing  new.  Twenty-five  kopeckas 
in  the  rouble  is  no  such  terrible  bankruptcy.  We  knew  the  man  for 
more  than  one  year ;  and  he  cannot  be  accused  of  extravagance  or 
idleness ;  ''accidents  will  happen  in  the  best-regulated  families.'*  Others 
come  to  mishap  by  their  own  imprudence.  If  he  were  a  scoundrel  he 
would  not  submit  his  fate  to  his  creditors ;  but  here  he  acts  like  a  true 
Christian — ^invites  us  to  his  house,  regales  us  to  the  best  of  his  power, 
and  even  prostrates  himself  before  us  !  Surely  we  should  not  repay  his 
hospitality  with  cruelty,  and  beat  down  the  fallen  man  1  Let  us  see  his 
books,  and  finish  the  business  with  God's  blessing.  One  can  see  that 
the  man  has  a  soul  to  boast  of;  and  when  he  gets  all  right  again,  he  will 
doubtless  settle  his  old  accounts,  and  not  forget  our  kindness.  Well  1 
Shall  we  forgive  him  or  not  ?' 

'  Forgive  him !  forgive  him  I'  shouted  the  other  voices  in  the  saloon. 

The  guests  riused  their  still  kneeling  debtor,  gave  him  a  sound 
scolding  and  then  a  good  kissing,  called  for  more  champagne,  and  at 
last  began  to  toss  him,  and  to  sing  '  Many  Tears '  in  his  honour.  In 
this  manner,  thanks  to  a  cleverly-conceived  trick,  the  commercial  crisis 
of  our  bankrupt  concluded  with  a  merely  family  arrangement,  and  he 
continued  his  business  with  the  credit  and  trust  that  he  enjoyed  before, 
though  the  history  of  his  feast  reached  the  farthest  comers  of  Moscow. 

Soon  after  this  we  removed  to  the  parish  of  SS.  Peter  and  Paul,  and 
took  up  our  abode  at  the  house  of  a  priest,  with  whom  we  were 
acquainted,  and  who  subsequently  had  great  infiuence  in  my  career. 

Apart  from  the  absurdities  of  the  noble  and  merchant  classes,  I  had 
occasion  just  about  this  time  to  notice  another  species  of  eccentricity,  the 


484  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

like  of  which  is  nowhere  to  be  found  but  in  Mother  Moscow.  I  allude 
to  a  certain  Colonel  Domojiroff.  My  father  and  I  were  walking  out, 
when  all  at  once,  in  a  belfry  close  by,  a  clanging  of  the  bells,  unusual  at 
that  hour  of  the  day,  was  heard. 

'  His  Eminence  is  coming  ! '  said  my  father ;  and  added  immediately, 
*  To  be  sure  he  is  !  here  comes  Domojiroff/ 

I  turned,  and  beheld  on  a  shaky  town-droschky,  half  sitting  and  half 
standing,  a  little  fat  gentleman,  in  a  military  surtout  with  red  facings,  and 
a  three-cornered  hat,  beneath  which  a  pig-tail  tied  with  a  ribbon  was 
visible.  Following  him  at  a  little  distance  came  an  old-fashioned 
carriage  on  high  springs,  through  the  closed  windows  of  which  might 
be  seen  a  white  monk's  hood  and  veil,*  and  a  hand  giving  the  blessing. 

Domojiroff  used  to  be  called  the  Ecclesiastical  Colonel.  He  was  an 
officer  of  the  period  of  the  Emperor  Paul,  who,  having  nothing  to  do  on 
retiring  from  the  service,  instead  of  turning  his  attention  to  pigeon- 
fancying,  selected  as  his  especial  profession  the  task  of  accompanying  the 
Metropolitan  whenever  he  went  to  any  of  the  churches  in  the  city.  I 
cannot  say  whether  he  did  so  with  the  consent  of  the  Metropolitan,  or 
whether  simply  nobody  cared  to  forbid  his  enjoying  this  harmlessly-pious 
recreation;  but  certainly  he  formed,  as  it  were,  an  official  addition  to  the 
suite  of  His  Eminence,  when  he  performed  Divine  Service  anywhere. 
On  arriving  at  the  church,  he  sprang  from  his  droschky,  cleared  the 
way  on  the  church  steps,  pushing  the  people  about,  and  occupied  himself 
during  the  Service  by  sticking  tapers  before  the  pictures,  trimming  the 
lamps,  and  making  himself  as  busy  and  officious  as  the  fly  in  the 
ploughed  field.     He  was  one  of  the  Moscow  celebrities. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  therefore,  that  the  hiring  of  a  lodging  by 
Domojiroff,  just  opposite  to  ours  in  S.  Saviour's,  some  four  or  five 
months  before  we  left,  caused  an  immense  deal  -of  talk  in  our  neighbour- 
hood. I  often  saw  him  at  the  window,  where  he  would  sit  for  hours 
and  hours,  with  an  immense  pair  of  spectacles  on  his  nose,  reading  from 
^  large  volume.  On  such  days  as  the  Metropolitan  intended  to  perform 
Divine  Service  anywhere,  he  used  to  leave  home  at  a  very  early  hour, 
and  repair  on  his  self-imposed  and  gratuitous  labour ;  thanks  to  this 
neighbour,  we  could  always  ascertain  when  and  where  His  Eminence 
was  going  to  officiate,  what  new  Church  or  Altar  was  to  be  consecrated, 
and  what  new  Bishop  ordained.  But  Domojiroff  did  not  remain  long  in 
our  neighbourhood ;  it  turned  out  that  the  Colonel  had  the  privilege  of 
free  quarters  in  the  city  of  Moscow,  in  consideration  of  his  services  to 
the  Metropolitan  ;  and  this  is  how  it  used  to  be  : — 

When  be  hired  the  lodging  opposite  us,  he  did  not  give  the  landlord 
any  rent  in  advance,  but  assured  him  that  his  word  of  honour  was  of 
more  weight  than  all  the  contracts  in  the  world ;  and  so  far  he  kept  it 
sacredly,  by  moving  into  his  new  home  on  the  day  appointed.     In  a 

*  The  ordinary  costume  of  the  Metropolitan,  in  distinction  from  that  of  Bishops, 
who  wear  a  black  hood  and  veil. 


BYGONES.  485 

montirs  time,  when  the  landlord  asked  him  for  the  rent,*  he  said  that 
he  was  unable  to  pay  just  then.  When  the  second  and  third  months 
came  round — the  same  history!  The  landlord,  out  of  patience,  after 
many  requests,  threats,  and  complaints,  at  last  applied  to  the  police. 

*  What  is  it  that  you  want  ? '  they  asked  him. 

*  The  rent,  to  be  sure  !  * 

*  What !  from  Domojiroff  ?  * 

*  Yes,  of  course.     Is  he  to  live  gratis  ? ' 

*  Gratis,  everywhere^'  was  the  answer;  *  everybody  knows  that.  Ask 
whom  you  will  of  his  former  landlords,  they  will  all  tell  you  that  he 
never  pays.    Don*t  you  know  that  ?  ' 

*  But  why  ?  what  reason  is  there  t ' 

*  It  always  has  been  so.  Why,  he  is  the  Ecclesiastical  Colonel !  he 
accompanies  the  Metropolitan  wherever  he  goes  !  As  you  please,  of 
course ;  but  it  is  of  no  use,  you  will  only  lose  time  and  gain  nothing.' 

*  What  shall  I  do  then  ? ' 

'  If  you  wish  for  advice,  we  can  help  you  in  that  way  with  pleasure. 
Hunt  out  a  convenient  lodging  for  him,  pay  for  a  month  in  advance 
yourself,  and  then  politely  request  him  to  leave  your  house  and  take  up 
]ii9  abode  in  the  new  lodging.  Or — this  is  what  you  had  better  do, 
(only  you  must  express  your  acknowledgments  to  us  in  a  becoming 
manner, f)  we  will  take  it  on  ourselves  to  remove  him^  We  have  an 
affair  with  a  very  proud  and  tiresome  lodging-house  keeper — we  will 
place  the  Colonel  with  him  ;  and  it  is  a  nice  lodging  too.  But  don't  you 
dream  of  getting  your  money  from  Domojiroff;  it  will  be  of  no  use,  you 
will  never  get  a  single  grosch.' } 

So  the  landlord  prudently  listened  to  this  advice,  and  without  thinking 
any  more  about  his  rent,  politely  requested  his  lodger  to  clear  his  rooms; 
he  shewed  the  requisite  amount  of  gratitude  to  the  police,  and  in  due 
time  the  Colonel  was  placed  in  the  house  of  a  certain  merchant  with 
whom  the  police  had  long  been  on  bad  terms  in  consequence  of  his 
obstinate  forgetfulness  of  the  birth-day  of  the  magistrate,  and  his  never 
paying  him  visits  at  Christmas  and  Easter.  It  was  the  intention  of  the 
police  to  keep  Domojiroff  there  until  the  proud  landlord  should  ask 
pardon  for  his  offences;  and  their  laudable  efforts  were  crowned  with 
such  brilliant  success,  that  the  ecclesiastical  Colonel  was  afterwards 
made  use  of  as  a  means  of  bringing  stubborn  proprietors  of  lodging- 
houses  to  their  senses  with  regard  to  affairs  with  the  police.  For  many 
succeeding  years  Domojiroff  thus  lived  at  the  expense  of  the  Moscovians; 
his  removes  were  always  made  on  the  account  of  the  landlord  whom  he 
was  leaving,  and  to  whom  he  stuck  obstinately  until  a  farewell  dinner 
was  given  in  his  honour,  or  a  suitable  present  made  to  him  as  a  souvenir* 

(7b  be  continued.) 

^— — ^— ^— ^■— ^— ^— ^— ^■^^^^^■-■^^■— — ^^^—  ■■'  ■     -^— ^-^»^^— — — — i^ 

*  The  rent  of  houses  and  lodgings,  and  wages  or  salaries  in  general,  are  usnally 
paid  monthly  in  Rossia.    There  are  no  such  things  as  quarter  days. 

1 1.  e.  Make  the  police  a  present.  {Trans,)  %  Half  a  kopecka. 


486  THE  MOHTHLT  PACKET. 


NUNITS  COURT. 

CHAPTER  V. 

'  Each  emaloiis  his  brother  to  befriend,^-  * 

Such  have  no  ear 
For  controversial  triflings  and  debate, 
Nought  that  responds  to  party  strife.* 

Soon  after  John's  return  to  Oxford,  James  Giles  went  to  London.  BIr« 
Yardley  had  suggested  that  he  should  be  placed  at  a  training  college 
for  schoolmasters ;  and  having  volunteered  to  defray  part  of  the  expense 
his  education  would  entail,  John  readily  assented  to  the  proposal ;  and 
James,  of  course,  was  delighted.  He  had  been  pursuing  bis  father's  trade,  • 
which  was  that  of  a  carpenter;  reading  with  Dr.  Murray  two  hours 
weekly,  and  spending  the  rest  of  his  leisure  in  studying  music  He  was 
content ;  yet  he  hailed  the  prospect  of  rising  higher  in  those  things  which 
his  mind  and  soul  loved,  even  while  his  affectionate  nature  shrank  at  the 
idea  of  a  separation  from  his  kind  friends.  Dr.  Murray  and  Agnes  met 
him  at  the  station  on  the  day  of  his  departure,  and  waited  to  see  him  off. 

^  Good-bye,  James,  may  God  bless  yon  I'  said  the  Doctor,  as  the  train 
was  just  starting ;  ^  learn  all  you  can,  and  make  haste  1>ack,  for  we  shall 
want  you.' 

The  Doctor's  words  seemed  prophetical ;  for  the  want  was  felt  keenly 
before  James  had  been  absent  a  month.  It  had  been  part  of  Dr. 
Murray's  plan,  in  bringing  Nunn's  Court  into  order,  to  find  employment 
for  all  the  boys  and  girls  who  were  too  old  for  school.  The  latter,  with 
one  or  two  exceptions,  were  placed  out  as  domestic  servants:  some  of 
the  boys,  too,  were  sent  quite  away,  and  the  others  had  daily  work 
procured  for  them  in  the  town,  and  returned  at  night  to  their  homes  in  the 
Court ;  and  these  had  always  been  a  sonrce  of  trouble  during  the  winter 
months  to  all  interested  in  Nunn's  Court ;  until  James  Giles  had  taken 
them  in  hand,  and  commenced,  at  John's  suggestion,  a  sort  of  night- 
8<^hool  for  them ;  which  had  succeeded  so  far  as  to  keep  them  out  of 
mischief.  He  did  not  aim  so  much  at  teaching,  as  affording  them 
wholesome  amusement.  He  was  a  good  reader;  and  moreover  his 
muAical  talent  furnished  him  with  ample  material  for  the  undertaking, 
while  it  elevated  him  in  the  boys'  estimation.  But  the  summer  was 
ended,  the  cricket  season  over ;  winter  had  set  in,  and  James  was  gone ! 
There  was  no  resource  left,  but  to  grumble  at  the  unusual  severity  of 
the  weather  and  the  deamess  of  provisions,  in  the  long  winter  evenings 
as  tlkey  clustered  together  in  the  Court;  and  in  addition  to  their  own 
recognized  grievances,  they  had  others  brought  to  their  notice  by  two 
young  men,  who  had  been  absent,  and  at  work,  during  the  summer,  and 
had  returned  with  the  intention  of  idling  away  all  the  winter  monthn, 
and  bringing  with  them   all   the  slang  terms,  collected  during  their 


[ 


KtTKN^S  COUR*.  48? 

absence,  and  asing  them  as  means  for  engendering  a  spirit  of  discontent 
and  irreyerence.  Priest-ridden  I  Lovers  of  the  loaves  and  fishes!  are 
grand-sounding  terms  when  first  they  fall  on  the  ears  of  ignorance ;  and 
although  they  who  gave  utterance  to  them  were  equally  ignorant  of  their 
real  meaning,  yet  by  decking  them  in  the  glowing  colours  of  eloquence 
which  good  memories  furnished,  they  attracted  undue  admiration  and 
respect  from  their  hearers. 

The  schoolmistress  had  to  complain  of  the  irregular  attendance  of  the 
children.  Mrs.  Treville  was  obliged  to  remark  on  the  untidy  appearance 
the  Court  had  begun  to  assume;  and  Dr.  Murray  found  the  congregation 
at*  the  chapel  gradually  lessening.  But  ponder  as  they  might  on  the 
matter,  no  cause  for  such  retrogradation  seemed  to  manifest  itself;  until 
one  evening,  just  before  Christmas,  when  Mr.  Yardley,  who  had  been 
fiommoned  there  in  haste,  to  baptize  a  dying  infant,  stumbled  over  a 
child  who  was  making  mud  pies  in  the  centre  of  the  Court.  He  stopped 
to  ask  if  the  child  was  hurt,  and  then,  noticing  its  occupation,  told  her 
to  run  and  tell  her  mother  he  wished  to  speak  to  her.  The  child  obeyed ; 
but  returned,  however,  accompanied  by  her  father,  who  asked  the  Vicar 
in  no  respectful  tone  what  he  wanted.  Mr.  Yardley  answered  that  he 
merely  wished  to  say  that  in  consideration  of  the  amount  of  trouble  and 
expense  which  it  had  cost  Mr.  Treville  to  drain  and  'clean  the  Court  for 
the  comfort  and  health  of  its  inhabitants,  the  least  they  could  do  was  to 
prevent  their  children  having  untidy  sports  in  the  midst  of  it 

*  Look  you  here,  Mr.  Yardley  1'  said  the  man,  who  was  in  a  somewhat 
excited  state,  *  we  have  been  priest-ridden  quite  long  enough !  Our  homes 
is  our  homes,  seeing  we  be  Englishmen,  and  well  not  stand  no  more  inter- 
ference !     See  here !'  he  continued,  and  opened  one  of  the  cottage  doors. 

Within  stood  a  number  of  men  and  boys,  attentively  listening  to  an 
address  from  one  of  their  comrades,  and  presenting  to  Mr.  Yardley 's  eye  aii 
embodiment  of  physical  and  muscular  strength — those  great  gifts  which 
the  Enemy  of  souls  so  steadily  assails  on  account  of  their  very  greatness. 

Nature's  gifts  command  respect;  and  something  akin  to  this  idea 
passed  through  Mr.  Yardley's  mind,  and  perhaps  betrayed  itself  in  his 
mann^;  or  perhaps  that  individual  respect  for  the  'powers  that  be,^ 
"which  is  innate  in  the  true  English  heart,  was  the  incentive  that  drew 
every  hand  to  its  forehead  as  the  Vicar  presented  himself.  One  glance 
sufficed  to  shew  that  the  speaker  held  in  his  hand  an  open  Bible. 

'  You  do  well,'  said  Mr.  Yardley, '  to  read  together  in  this  manner :'  yet, 
as  he  uttered  the  commendation,  a  vague  fear  possessed  liim  that  it  was  not 
well.     '  Let  us  pray  together  I'  he  said,  advancing  into  the  midst  of  them. 

When  he  rose  from  his  knees,  he  wished  them  good  night  and  departed, 
with  the  conviction  that  something  was  wrong.  Acting  upon  his  wife's 
advice,  he  made  Mrs.  Treville  and  Dr.  Murray  acquainted  with  what 
he  had  seen  and  heard ;  although  he  felt  compelled  to  admit  that  if  it 
had  not  been  for  the  threatening  manner  of  the  reproved  father,  he 
should  have  suspected  nothing. 


488  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

The  Doctor  opined  that  some  arbitrary  measai^e  would  be  best  to 
preserve  the  cleanliness  of  the  Court ;  and  Mrs.  Treville  decided,  that 
as  her  grandson  held  himself  responsible  for  the  rents,  that  being  the 
onlj  condition  on  which  the  management  of  the  Court  had  been  ceded 
to  him,  the  unruly  tenants  should  have  notice  to  quit.  Dr.  Murray 
acquiesced,  and  accordingly  accompanied  her  that  ailernoon  to  the  Court, 
for  the  purpose  of  inquiring  into  the  matter;  but  they  found  all  the 
objectionable  litters  and  mud  gone,  and  no  disorder  apparent  anjrwhere. 
The  school-room,  too,  was  tolerably  well  filled.  Agnes  and  the  Vicar's 
eldest  daughter  were  helping  in  it  that  afternoon,  and  both  observed  that 
they  had  heard  no  complaint. 

*  Yardley's  was  a  word  in  season,  then,  let  us  trust,'  said  the  Doctor, 
as  they  returned  home. 

A  few  days  afterwards  two  of  the  men  were  apprehended  for  being 
drunk  and  disorderly  in  the  town ;  and  two  others,  who  were  labourers 
on  one  of  the  Tydville  Manor  farms,  were  dismissed  for  insolent 
behaviour,  and  their  wives  and  children  reduced  to  great  distress  in 
consequence. 

John  Treville  had  arranged  to  spend  the  Christmas  vacation  with  the 
Mortimers ;  but  he  wrote  word  to  his  grandmother  that  there  was  to  be 
no  lack  of  roast  beef  and  plum  pudding  in  the  Court.  He  knew  nothing 
of  the  existing  troubles,  for  Mrs.  Treville  had  purposely  avoided  telling 
him  of  them,  flattering  herself  that  they  would  disappear  in  time :  but 
Christmas  morn  came  in  cold  and  white;  and  the  tiny  red  berries  on 
the  tufts  of  holly  which  decked  some  of  the  cottage  windows,  alone  wore 
the  hue  of  brightness,  and  bore  witness  that  Christmas  was  there. 
Even  the  beef  and  pudding  failed  to  bring  joy  to  the  Court ;  and  those 
who  were  saddest  in  heart,  remembered  with  pain  how  heartily  the 
Christmas  carols  had  been  sung,  and  the  good  fare  enjoyed,  only  a  year 
before,  by  those  who  were  now  bringing  such  trouble  on  all  connected 
with  them,  and  who  not  only  refused  to  join  in  the  singing,  but  would 
not  taste  of  the  dinner  provided  for  them.  And  in  that  still,  cold, 
December  night,  when  the  snow  lay  thick  and  white,  some  of  the  men 
were  found  poaching  in  the  Manor  wood  by  the  game-keeper,  who,  in  the 
scuffle  which  ensued,  got  shot  through  the  leg.  When  the  news  of  their 
arrest  was  told  to  Mrs.  Treville,  she  resolved  to  send  at  once  for  her 
grandson,  saying,  ^  We  can  do  nothing  more  without  Johnny.' 

And  Johnny  came  home,  even  before  he  was  expected  to  arrive,  to 
the  infinite  relief  of  his  grandmother,  who,  in  returning  his  embrace, 
exclaimed,  '  O  Johnny,  we  have  managed  very  badly  in  your  absence  V 

He  sat  down  by  her  side  while  she  told  him  all ;  and  when  the  recital 
was  ended,  she  waited  for  him  to  speak,  for  his  face  had  not  once 
betrayed  what  was  passing  in  his  inner  self. 

After  a  few  minutes  silence,  he  said  slowly,  ^  Grandmother !  if  I  am 
plucked^  could  you  bear  it !' 

*  Bear  it,  Johnny  V 


nunn's  court.  489 

*Bear  to  know  that  my  father's  son  could  not  stand  a  University 
examination  t' 

*  But  yon  will  stand  it,  and  creditably  too,  Dr.  Murray  says.* 

*  Ah,  be  does  not  know  what  a  dunce  I  am !  and  if  I  give  up  reading 
in  the  vacation  with  Mortimer,  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of  me :  I 
cannot  expect  him  to  come  home  with  me  always.' 

*  But,  Johnny,  Mr.  Mortimer  told  me  that  he  had  no  doubt  about  the 
result  of  your  examination ;  and  however  it  may  turn  out,  your  Granny 
will  be  quite  satisfied  that  you  have  done  what  you  could.' 

The  old  lady  took  off  her  spectacles,  and  rubbed  them  in  the  pause 
which  ensued. 

John  said  at  last,  *  Any  way,  it  is  sure  to  come  right,  isn't  it,  Oranny  ? 
only,  by  some  unaccountable  means,  I  feel  seized  with  a  fit  of  the 
dumps.' 

'By  no  means  unaccountable,'  she  returned,  reaching  out  her  hand 
and  ringing  the  bell ;  *  no  kind  of  refrei>hment  have  you  had  after  your 
long  journey !     What  have  I  been  thinking  about!' 

M  think  I  will  just  run  to  the  Court  while  the  eatables  are  being 
prepared.' 

*  You  will  not  indeed,  Johnny,  until  you  have  had  some  kind  of  meaL 
You  look  both  cold  and  hungry,  and  I  should  like  to  persuade  you  to 
give  up  going  to  the  Court  until  to-morrow ;  you  will  be  rested  then, 
and  more  able  to  encounter  worries.' 

*  And  to-night  my  slumbers  would  be  disturbed  by  a  species  of  night- 
mare I  Please,  Granny,'  and  he  folded  his  hands  demurely, '  if  I  am  a  good 
boy«  and  eat  a  monster  dinner,  will  you  let  me  go  directly  ailerwards  T 

*  Well,  if  you  are  determined  to  eat  a  monster  dinner,  a  walk  perhaps 
will  be  the  best  thing. for  you.' 

No  more  was  said  about  Nunn's  Court  John  led  his  grandmother 
on  to  speak  of  other  subjects,  and  as  he  left  her,  said  gaily,  '  I  shall  be 
back  in  time  for  tea — and  tea-cakes,  eh  Granny  V 

The  fog  hung  thick  and  yellow  over  the  Court  on  that  cold  raw 
afternoon,  and  every  door  was  closed,  to  shut  out  as  much  as  possible  of 
the  ungenial  atmosphere.  A  whining  sob  caught  John's  ear,  on  his 
arrival  there;  and  looking  round,  he  discovei^ed  a  child  of  three  years 
old  sitting  on  a  door-step,  with  her  little  arms  folded  in  her  pinafore. 

^  What  are  you  doing  here,  you  small  morsel  ?'  John  said  to  her  kindly. 

*  Please,  Sir,  I's  kying,  cos  Fs  so  hungry.' 

'No  bread,  no  fire,  I  suspect,'  he  said  to  himself;  then  hearing  an 
opposite  door  open,  he  crossed  over  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Smith,  who  was 
old  Ben's  only  daughter,  and  who  had  come  out  of  her  cottage  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms. 

'A  new  baby,  isn't  it,  Mrs.  Smith?'  he  said  at  once. 

^  Yes,  Sir,'  she  answered,  uncovering  its  tiny  face. 

•Christened?' 

'  No,  Sir,  not  yet ;  he  is  but  six  weeks  old.' 

VOL.  10.  83  PART  69. 


490  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'  Then  jou  must  let  me  be  its  godfather.' 

A  smile,  a  real  genuine  smile,  sat  on  the  poor  woman's  face ;  the  first 
that  had  beamed  there  since  the  child's  birth ;  lier  husband  had  been  one 
of  the  insolent  labourers,  and  was  now  in  gaol  on  a  charge  of  poaching. 

'  What,  a  hand,  old  fellow !'  John  continued,  as  the  baby  stretched 
out  its  tiny  arm.  ^  I  wonder  if  you  and  I  will  ever  have  a  game  of 
cricket  together !  But  take  him  in,  Mrs.  Smith,  out  of  the  cold  air ;  I 
will  come  again  to-morrow  and  see  him.' 

And  going  on  to  the  next  door,  John  gave  a  loud  knock.  '  Is  Giles 
in  V  he  asked  of  the  girl  who  responded  to  his  knock. 

'  Yes,  Sir ;  Master  is  in  the  shed,  at  work.' 

*'  I  will  go  to  him  there,  then ;'  and  passing  through  the  house  into  the 
shed,  frightened  the  man  out  of  his  wits,  by  saying,  before  he  was 
perceived,  '  Giles,  will  you  give  me  some  bread  and  butter?' 

*  Sir  !'  cried  the  startled  man.  '  Law,  Sir,  I  never  thought  'twas  you ! 
I'm  right  glad  to  see  you.  Sir !     Bread  and  butter.  Sir  T' 

'  Yes,  Giles;  I  want  you  to  give  me  some;  I  will  do  as  much  for  yon 
some  day.' 

'  As  much,  Sir !  What  haven't  you  done  for  me  1  If  'twasn't  for  you. 
Sir,  I  should  have  no  bread  and  butter  this  day.' 

Being  supplied  with  what  he  required,  he  told  Giles  he  should^ come 
again  soon,  and  have  a  long  chat  with  him;  he  then  returned  to  tlie 
little  girl  on  the  door-step,  and  giving  her  the  bread  and  butter,  said, 
*  You  have  a  brother,  I  know ;  go  in  and  give  him  half.' 

The  mother  appeared,  as  the  child  entered,  and  perceiving  John, 
exclaimed,  *  I  thought  I  knew  that  voice,  Sir !  But,'  she  continued, 
reddening,  '  you  will  excuse  my  asking  you  in.  Sir ;  my  poor  husband  is 
at  home,  and  he  would  be  ashamed  to  see  you.' 

'  I  could  not  stay  now,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Perkins,'  John  replied ;  ^  but 
tell  your  husband  I  want  to  see  him,  for  I  should  like  to  make  some  fresh 
rules  for  our  cricket-club:  you  know  he  is  one  of  our  best  bowlers.' 

'  He  ain't  said  much,'  said  Mrs.  Perkins,  as  she  watched  him  leaving 
the  Court,  'still,  somehow,  he  has  put  fresh  life  into  me,  with  that 
cheery  voice  of  his!'  And  before  daylight  had  quite  vanished,  her 
husband  had  gone  with  a  suitable  apology  to  his  master,  was  received 
into  favour  again,  and  promised  work  as  soon  as  possible. 

'  So  you  go  back  to  Oxford  to-morrow,  John  !'  said  Agnes  Murray, 
a  fortnight  afterwards.  They  had  met  at  the  school-room,  and  were 
returning  together.  John  sighed;  and  Agnes  looked  up  at  him 
unobserved ;  she  noted  then  that  just  a  shadow  of  care  betrayed  itself 
in  the  unusual  contraction  of  his  brow. 

'  How  much  has  been  effected  since  you  came  home,  John !  are  you 
not  glad  ?' 

*  Glad,  Agnes !'  he  replied ;  '  indeed  I  am,  if  only  for  my  grandmother's 
sake.' 

*  Mrs.  TreviUe  V 


nunn's  court.  491 

^  Yes,  to  me  she  looks  worn  and  altered ;  and  old  Ben,  too,  is  more 
dejected  than  I  ever  expected  to  see  him.' 

'  But  he  will  look  up  again  now  all  is  right,  and  his  son-in-law  has 
been  acquitted ;  he  will  very  quickly  see,  too,  that  you  were  right  in 
doing  nothing  to  hinder  the  case  being  tried,  since  it  has  given  Smith 
the  opportunity  of  proving  publicly  that  he  was  not  a  poacher :  other- 
wise there  would  always  have  been  some  who  doubted  his  innocence  in 
the  matter.' 

'  It  was  not  only  that,  Agnes ;  but  the  case  could  only  have  been  stopped 
by  bribery,  and  that  would  have  compromised  too  much  principle  to  be 
thought  of  even.  Yet,  when  I  saw  the  old  man's  tears,  and  heard  his 
entreaties  that  I  would  save  his  grey  hairs  from  shame,  I  almost 
yielded.' 

*  You  are  glad  you  did  not  now  ?' 

*  And  shall  be  more  glad  by-and-by.' 

There  was  a  pause.    Agnes  repeated  to  herself, 

*  The  deeds  we  do,  the  words  we  say — 
Into  still  air  they  seem  to  float : 
We  count  them  past, 
Bat  they  shall  last ; 
In  the  dread  judgement  they 
And  we  shall  meet.' 

^  Agnes,'. he  said,  as  they  drew  near  her  home,  'you  will  see  as  much 
of  my  grandmother  as  you  can  until  I  return  at  Easter.  I  know  I  may 
trust  you  to  take  all  care  of  her.' 

*  I  will  do  my  best,'  she  answered.  '  So  you  intend  to  come  home  at 
Easter  V 

'  Yes,  and  at  every  term,  afler  this.  I  have  left  too  much  for  my 
grandmother  and  all  of  you  to  do.' 

'  Grace  would  tell  you,  if  she  were  here,  what  she  has  so  often  said, 
that  you  have  only  kept  idle  hands  out  of  mischief.' 

She  was  pleased  to  hear  him  laugh  at  this. 

'And,  John,  one  thing  I  want  to  ask  you.  Would  you  mind  very 
much  if  I  wrote  to  you  sometimes  for  Mrs.  Treville?  In  the  cold 
weather  it  oflen  pains  her  to  hold  a  pen ;  and  I  think ' — a  slight  pink 
tinted  her  cheek — *  I  could  give  you  more  details  than  Papa  would  think 
of,  or  I  know  he  would  write  instead  of  me.' 

'  Anything  to  spare  my  grandmother,'  he  returned ;  then,  looking 
straight  at  her,  said,  *  I  think  too,  Agnes,  I  should  like  to  have  a  letter 
from  you.' 

The  pink  in  her  cheeks  became  crimson,  and  she  looked  up,  to  meet 

one  of  his  brightest  and  deepest  smiles,  as  he  shook  hands  with  her,  and 

said  good-bye.    Agnes  then   entered  her  home  with  a  heart  full  of 

happiness. 

(To  be  continuecL) 


492  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


HOMBURG  DURING  THE  WAR. 

BY  AUGUSTA  FRERE. 

20th.  The  town  dressed  with  flags  for  the  King's  great  victorj,  ol 
whivh  news  came  late  last  night.  Bells  have  been  rung,  the  '  Wacht 
am  Rhein '  played,  the  Louisen-Strasse  is  brilliant  with  colonrs  waving 
from  the  balconies  along  its  far  perspective.  Happily  the  dreariness 
of  the  black  and  white  Prussian  flag  (which  our  maid  took  at  first  for  a 
signal  of  distress !)  is  relieved  in  many  cases  by  the  red  stripe  of  Hesae ; 
and  the  united  German  colours — black,  red,  and  yellow — with  Bavarian 
blue  and  white  here  and  there,  make  a  pleasant  variety.  Surely  the 
poor  prisoners  in  the  hospital  must  see  some  of  these  tokens  of  rejoicing 
from  their  windows,  and  guess  at  the  fresh  defeat  of  French  arms  1  We 
were  desired  not  to  tell  them  any  war  news  the  other  day,  as  it  would  be 
dangerously  exciting,  but  none  of  them  asked  for  any ;  and  in  such  a 
strange  crisis,  with  an  Emperor  half  dethroned,  a  Parliament  scarcely 
restrained  from  rude  conflict,  a  mob  enraged  still  more  against  their 
rulers  than  their  foe,  and  a  panic  equal  at  least  to  the  presumptuous 
security  of  three  weeks  ago — ignorance  of  what  is  passing  in  France  may 
indeed  to  a  sick  Frenchman  be  called  bliss ! 

The  trains  to  Frankfort  have  been  re-opened  for  a  week  past,  and 
there  is  now  a  general  relieved  feeling  that  the  war  has  passed  away  from 
Germany,  almost  indeed  without  having  entered  it.  We  realize  the 
blessing  all  the  more  for  a  forcible  perception  of  what  it  might  have  been, 
had  the  French  prevailed  and  the  Turcos  been  let  loose  on  us.  As  the 
Germans  say,  '  Christian  soldiers  can  be  kept  within  bounds;  but  these 
savages  know  no  restraint,  and  might  have  murdered  us  all  in  our 
beds!' 

It  is  still  rather  an  adventurous  thing  to  make  one's  way  to  Homburg. 
A  clergyman  who  was  resolved  to  do  so,  and  who  was  told  (erroneously, 
I  should  think)  that  the  Rhine  route  was  impracticable,  has  just  come 
out  vi&  Paris  and  Basle.  From  the  latter  to  Heidelberg,  he  was  allowed 
to  join  a  military  train ;  but  after  this  his  means  of  transit  were  reduced 
to  having  his  box  put  on  the  rails,  and  himself  sitting  upon  it;  and  a  few 
miles  from  Frankfort  both  were  set  down  summarily,  (as  the  '  train '  went 
no  further,)  and  he,  reversing  their  positions,  had  to  carry  his  box  the 
rest  of  the  way  ! 

Monday,  29th. — A  period  of  cold,  wet,  dismal  weather  has  suspended 
most  out-door  doings;  water-drinking  is  only  practised  by  the  sternly 
hardy  in  macintoshes,  and  the  band  has  long  ceased  to  enliven  the  process 
by  cheerful  music.  Visitors — what  there  were — are  perceptibly  thinned ; 
the  conspicuous  element  in  the  gardens  now  is  the  convalescent  in  sling 
or  bandage,  or  limping  along  with  crutch  or  friendly  arm,  in  such 


HOMBUBG  DURING  THE  WAR.  493 

precarious  gleams  of  sunshine  as  still  brighten  Homburg  in  this  end  of 
August!  Some,  alas!  have  ventured  too  far  on  their  half-recovered 
condition,  and  one  poor  young  fellow  has  died  of  a  chill  thus  taken.  His 
wound  had  been  cured,  and  his  relations  had  been  over  to  see  him, 
rejoicing  in  his  safety!  However,  a  good  many  others  (our  musical 
friend  among  them)  have  been  sent  away  pretty  sound  again ;  the  French 
to  Biberich — a  Turco,  when  the  moment  came,  could  nowhere  be  found, 
and  afterwards  he  turned  up,  having  hid  because  he  was  so  comfortable, 
and  didn't  want  to  go ! 

Very  various  are  the  destinies  of  Homburg  officers  in  this  bloody 
campaign.  The  Brautigcara  of  Miss  G (a  very  handsome  girl,  sister- 
in-law  to  one  of  our  doctors,)  has  gone  through  the  whole  untouched,  and 
writes  that  his  safety  amid  storms  of  bullets  seems  a  miracle!  Poor 
Madame,  on  the  other  hand,  a  young  and  very  attractive  wife,  had  from 
the  first  a  strong  presentiment  of  evil ;  she  turned  pale  over  the  lint 
and  bandages,  was  obliged  to  quit  the  committee,  and  soon  after  was 
summoned  to  nurse  her  husband,  who  had  been  severely  wounded  in  the 
hand.  This  was  amputated,  then  the  arm  also  had  to  be  taken  ofi^,  and 
the  two  operations  wore  out  his  strength,  and  he  sank.  Now,  the 
excellent  Hofrath  here.  Dr.  Miiller,  has  fallen  dangerously  ill.  Fever, 
from  hospital  work,  has  developed  an  already  threatening  brain  disease, 
and  this  anxiety  is  felt  as  a  public  sorrow.  Only  a  few  days  ago 
he  paid  us  a  visit,  looking  much  as  usual ;  but  he  never  gives  up,  it  is 
said,  and  has  felt  the  horrors  of  war  so  acutely,  that  mind  as  well  as 
body  are  exhausted. 

81st. — ^Twice  within  the  last  week  it  has  been  announced  that  the 
Crown  Princess  was  coming  to  Homburg,  and  twice  the  sun  has  got  up 
to  see  her,  but  retired  disappointed  behind  his  usual  screen  of  sulky 
cloud.  To-day  she  has  actually  arrived,  and  all  is  brilliant  again — blue 
sky,  glowing  sunshine,  waving  banners,  only  the  crowd  who  had  waited 
patiently  some  two  hours  for  her  train  to  come  in,  took  the  event  at  last 
with  unnatural  tranquillity,  and  we  felt  inclined  to  cheer  for  them  as  site 
drove  along  the  Louisenstrasse,  with  her  carriage  full  of  slender  fiiir 
children,  to  the  Schloss,  which  has  been  polished  up  for  the  return 
of  royalty  to  Homburg.  Her  pleasing  face  bore  some  marks  of  the 
sadness  and  anxiety  of  this  time.  She  is  come  with  the  express  intention 
of  visiting  the  hospital,  and  as  it  is  her  first  appearance  liere,  people  have 
been  speculating  a  good  deal  on  what  her  manners  and  actions  would  be. 
Of  course  we  felt  chivalrous  about  our  English-bom  Princess,  and  related 
all  we  had  heard  from  Berlin  observers  of  her  kind  hearty  ways ;  and 
once  seen,  she  seems  to  have  charmed  everybody  forthwith,  and  to  be 
accepted  with  entire  satisfaction  as  ^  thoroughly  German.' 

Sept.  drd. — Another  period  of  most  exciting  telegrams  has  followed  the 
Princess's  arrival;  successive  despatches  from  Metz,  Vitry,  Sedan,  &c, 
electrifying  us  at  intervals  all  these  three  days,  till  late  last  night  came 
the  wonderful  news  of  the  Emperor's  and  MacMahon's  surrender!     That 


494  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

peace  will  follow  is  too  natural  a  hope  not  to  be  indulged,  even  while  so' 
many  contingencies  darken  the  future;  and  our  present  is  a  scene  of 
triumph,  rejoicing,  and  congratulation.  One  heavy  cloud  mars  the 
general  brightness,  for  alas  I  Dr.  Miiller  died  just  as  the  great  news  came. 
His  state  had  been  hopeless  for  two  days,  and  it  appears  that  recovery 
from  this  attack  would  only  have  lengthened  out  a  painful  disease ;  yet 
the  blow  comes  very  awfully  and  severely  upon  those  for  and  among 
whom  he  was  working ;  and  his  personal  friends  cannot  take  their  part 
in  the  festive  demonstrations  around. 

This  morning  all  the  notabilities  of  the  town  went  up  to  the  Schloss 
with  music  and  banners.  The  Princess  came  out  on  the  balcony  and 
tried  to  speak,  but  was  too  much  affected;  and  besides,  (says  our 
landlord,  who  was,  as  an  Oberamtrichter,  in  the  front  of  the  procession,) 
the  people  would  not  stop  cheering.  The  children  also  came  out ;  and  to 
his  great  amusement,  one  little  girl  who  had  been  sent  in  from  the 
balcony  because  her  excitement  was  getting  rather  beyond  bounds, 
instantly  thrust  her  head  out  at  a  window  and  began  kissing  her  hand 
more  vehemently  than  ever !  A  Fackehug  was  organized  for  the  evening ; 
and  we  saw  the  glowing  mass  move  buoyantly  along,  while  the  band 
played  and  the  crowd  of  torch-bearers  shouted  out  the  words  of  the 
never-ceasing  '  Wacht  am  Rhein.'  On  its  return,  the  procession  halted 
in  the  Kurgarten,  which  was  prettily  illuminated  in  the  manner  common 
to  festal  nights  of  the  Homburg  season,  but  abandoned  ever  since  war 
drove  the  gay  world  away.  There  was  more  playing  and  singing  and 
cheering,  and  the  whole  population  seemed  to  keep  parading  under  the 
arches  of  lamps,  till  a  positive  refusal  of  the  weary  musicians  to  perform 
the  Wacht  any  more  that  evening,  closed  the  entertainment  a  little  before 
ten.  Nothing  could  be  quieter  than  the  streets — no  trace  of  drunkenness 
or  rude  behaviour.  I  and  a  lady  friend  had  gone,  expecting  to  meet  her 
husband ;  but  we  missed  somehow,  and  were  not  in  the  least  dismayed  by 
our  unprotected  condition. 

Saturday,  Sept.  10th. — A  week  has  gone  by  wholly  without  news, 
except  of  Napoleoit's  arrival  at  his  luxurious  prison  at  Cassel,  and  of  the 
Republic  now  ruling  in  that  stormy  Paris  he  has  left  behind — probably 
for  ever!  The  lull  succeeding  such  a  period  of  excitement  has  been 
partially  animated  by  the  presence  of  the  Princess,  who  dropped  at  once 
into  a  quiet,  domestic,  yet  stirring  life,  visiting  this  and  other  hospitals 
daily,  and  walking  with  all  her  six  children  in  the  park,  very  plainly 
dressed,  and  returning  one's  curtsey  with  pleasant  smiles  as  well  as  bows. 
She  is  eminently  practical,  looks  into  all  the  arrangements  for  the  sick, 
goes  down  to  see  how  the  soup  is  made,  and  speaks  to  every  invalid,  a 
sufficiently  exhausting  effort,  (as  one  of  her  ladies,  whom  we  know,  told 
us  after  she  had  been  through  five  hospitals  one  day  at  Frankfort  I)  but  it 
gives  so  much  pleasure,  that  doubtless  she  is  glad  to  make  it,  and  the 
poor  men  look  quite  cheered  up  after  she  has  passed,  with  some  kind 
word  for  each.     Our  Caserne  is  now  comparatively  empty,  but  the  mass 


HOMBUBG  DUBING  THE  WAB.  495 

of  wounded  in  Frankfort  is  enormous  and  terrible  to  think  of;  twenty 
extra  buildings  have  been  erected  for  their  reception,  and  the  ladies  of 
the  city,  especially  those  of  the  higher  ranks,  have  devoted  themselves  to 
nursing.  I  spent  a  day  there  lately,  seeing  a  few  of  its  sights,  and  dining 
with  a  nice  intelligent  family  of  the  upper  middle  class,  with  whom  we 
have  '  relations.'  They  occupy  a  high  flat  in  the  Hirschgrahen^  formerly 
a  ditch  between  the  old  walls  of  Frankfort,  where  deer  were  kept,  now  a 
sort  of  market  lane.  Their  salon,  with  two  or  three  rugs  on  its  clean 
unpolished  floor,  some  handsome  furniture  in  dai'k  wood  carving,  and 
several  tall  plants  with  rich  green  leaves  disposed  in  comers,  had  a 
pleasant  bower-like  aspect ;  and  between  a  sociable  meal,  flavoured  with 
politics  and  telegrams,  (as  well  as  an  excellent  compote  to  the  roast 
chicken,)  and  a  welcome  interval  of  solitude  with  sofa  and  books,  the 
hours  passed  easily  and  cheerfully  with  these  new  acquaintance ;  perhaps 
the  strong  link  of  war  sympathies  made  one  feel  more  at  home,  and  it 
certainly  loosened  my  German  tongue !  They  spoke  of  the  part  taken  by 
Frankfort  in  this  emergency,  as  generous  and  dignified ;  if  the  city  could 
not  forget  how  Prussia  had  treated  her  in  *6Q,  she  had  shewn  a  genial  and 
forgiving  spirit ;  and  the  idea  of  a  great  German  kingdom  had  reconciled 
many  to  what  otherwise  appeared  foreign  dominion.  This  view  is 
symbolized  by  the  black,  red,  and  gold  flag,  now  adopted  by  the  in- 
corporated states  in  preference  to  the  Prussian,  or  even  the  red,  black, 
and  white,  as  being  an  ancient  national  combination  of  colours,  formerly 
exhibited  in  the  lion  banner — ^black,  with  red  daws,  on  a  gold  ground. 
Even  in  Berlin  a  great  stir  was  made  the  other  day  to  substitute  this  for 
the  modem  tricolour,  on  the  statue  of  Frederick  the  Great. 

I  travelled  back  with  some  ladies,  whose  grief  about  the  war  was 
most  vivid  in  its  expression.  One  of  them  said  all  her  male  relations 
were  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  the  horror  was  too  intense — ^she  felt 
absolutely  crazed.  If  they  even  came  back — these  young  men,  whom 
she  had  known  strong  and  healthy  and  happy — ?ioro  did  they  come? 
Maimed  and  shattered,  arms  or  legs  or  eyes  destroyed ;  or  ruined  in 
constitution,  consumptive  or  rheumatic — to  die  slowly,  or  suflVr  for  life ! 
Let  those  be  enthusiastic  for  the  war  who  had  something  to  gain !  The 
two  sat  exchanging  details  of  misery  and  privation,  while  I  put  in  a 
word  or  two  of  sympathy,  and  felt  their  trials  were  almost  too  deep  for 
a  foreigner  to  assume  any  comprehension  of. 

Tuesday,  18th. — Af^er  a  long  interval,  with  no  fresh  patients  in  the 
Caserne,  late  last  night  the  bugle  sounded,  and  nearly  one  hundred  men 
arrived  from  other  refuges,  where  they  had  been  nursed  for  a  time,  but 
far  less  luxuriouely  than  here.  A  lady  at  the  Verein  to-day  gave  an 
amusing  description  of  their  delight  at  the  savoury  soups  and  meats, 
and  the  '  double  appetites '  some  of  them  displayed  I  Most  of  these  had 
been  wounded  or  invalided  near  Metz,  where  the  privations  have  at 
times  been  severe,  in  spite  of  the  wonderful  organization  which  has 
kept  an  enormous  army  supplied  so  long  on  hostile  ground. 


4&6  THE  MONTHLY  PACKKT. 

\^  Alas  I  the  news  came  a  few  days  ago  that  Fraoleiu  G 's  betrothed, 

after  escaping  all  hurt  through  so  many  dangers,  was  killed  at  the  last 
battle  near  Sedan.  One  of  the  first  shots  fired  passed  through  his  body, 
and  death  was  instantaneous — thus  far  a  comfort  to  his  family ;  but  tlie 
poor  girly  whose  own  health  is  very  fragile,  has  only  by  degrees  learnt 
the  worst — the  mere  knowledge  that  he  had  been  wounded  threw  her 
into  such  agonies  of  grief  and  tears,  that  her  relations  feared  to  tell  iier 
more.  A  week  ago  we  saw  her  at  the  Schloss,  looking  so  bri^^ht  and 
lovely !      Lieutenant   B  also   was  highly  esteemed    here,   and  a 

remarkably  handsome  young  man,  we  are  told*  They  had  been  engaged 
about  six  months. 

On  Sunday,  the  Princess,  after  the  German  service  in  the  Schloss 
Kapelle,  had  all  the  ladies  of  the  committee  collected,  and  spoke 
pleasantly  to  each,  besides  giving  a  large  chest  of  linen  to  the  fund» 
The  rooms  were  to-day  in  a  very  busy  state  when  I  entered — Madame 
von  M  and  several  others  ironing  away,  with  flushed  faces,  just  like 
laundresses,  and  chatting  all  the  time  in  that  familiar  cackle  which  it  is 
hopeless  for  a  foreigner  to  follow  !  Germans,  among  themselves,  always 
seem  to  me  to  slip  over  half  their  words — but  then,  they  say  the  same 

of  2<tf/ 

Going  into  a  music-shop  this  afternoon,  I  was  amused  to  find  the 
entire  table  spread  with  arrangements  of  the  Jfacht  am  JRhein,  in 
about  a  dozen  different  forms — single,  duet,  easy,  elaborate,  Fantaisiefied 
almost  past  recognition — ^and  all  brilliant  in  fiags  and  demonstrative 
title-pages.  Its  composer  owes  a  good  deal  to  the  circumstances,  which 
mtist  have  an  appropriate  air,  and  so  have  yielded  it  an  honour  scarcely 
deserved  by  its  intrinsic  merits.  Schick's  Library,  opposite  the  Kursaal> 
is  in  a  regular  state  of  siege  whenever  telegrams  are  known  to  have 
arrived.  It  is  there  the  placards  are  printed;  and  a  crowd  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  keep  pressing  into  the  shop,  seizing  the  papers 
under  the  very  hand  of  an  expectant  buyer,  and  wildly  throwing  down 
their  three  kreuzers^  which  here  represent  a  penny — ^at  least,  everywhere 
except  at  the  Post-ofiice,  which  ignores  all  but  the  Prussian  coinage. 
How  sincerely  do  we  wish  that  a  united  Germany  may  soon  be 
represented  by  a  united  currency  I  for  the  medley  in  circulation  here 
is  perfect  distraction  to  a  stranger.  There  are  guldens  of  every  nation-^ 
Nassau,  Bavaria,  Holland,  Austria,  (which  last  are  worth  twopence 
more,  and  their  subdivisions  make  horrible  fractions,) — besides  the 
thaler  and  its  minor  brethren ;  and  generally  speaking,  the  small  coins 
are  worn  and  dirt-ingrained  to  a  point  at  which  value  or  national 
stamp  are  whoUy  undecipherable  to  uninitiated  eyes  I  A  few  weeks 
ago,  speculators  were  trying  to  amass  gold  and  silver,  and  to  circulate 
notes  of  still  dirtier  aspect ;  but  this  difficulty  has  ceased  with  the  turns 
of  the  war. 

16th. — Our  friend  the  Hofdame  has  just  been  staying  in  the  Palace 
at  Darmstadt.    There  are  more  than  five  hundred  wounded  in  the  place. 


H0MBUR6  DURING  THE  WAR.  497 

and  Princess  Alice  visits  them  daily,  taking  the  kindest  personal  intere9t 
in  each;  so  that  when  a  bad  cold  kept  her  awaj  for  a  few  days,  the 
blank  was  quite  depressing.  The  poor  men  have  such  unlimited  con- 
fidence in  her  judgement,  that  they  always  want  her  to  advise  them 

whether  or  not  to  have  their  legs  or  arms  taken  off!     Countess  B 

also  told  us  that  her  own  younger  sister  is  working  as  a  regular  nurse 
in  one  of  the  Berlin  hospitals.  She  has  taken  the  place  of  a  trained 
one,  who  is  thereby  enabled  to  join  the  camp;  and  at  first  the  life 
seemed  very  rough,  as  she  has  to  share  a  room  with  two  other  ladies, 
to  rise  at  five  daily,  and  clean  her  lamp  and  door-handle,  and  sometimes 
the  windows,  besides  attendance  on  the  sick ;  but  she  thrives  on  the 
work  now,  and  finds  it  greatly  allay  those  anxieties  which  must  press 
heavily  where  so  many  friends  and  relations  are  in  danger ! 

These  are  our  last  days  at  Horaburg.  The  season  is  too  cold  for  a 
longer  stay  to  be  desirable ;  but  we  are  sorry  to  leave  so  many  interests 
behind  us,  and  to  see  no  end,  as  yet,  to  the  miseries  connected  with 
them.  A  long  and  sharp  trial  seems  still  to  lie  before  this  nation, 
already  sorely  afflicted,  yet  how  happy  compared  with  France  I  What 
there  may  be  the  results  of  this  terrible  campaign — whether  the  fierce 
passions  of  her  people  may  not  prove  a  rod  of  more  cruel  chastisement 
than  the  invading  army  of  her  enemy — ^we  dare  not  speculate,  but  have 
much  cause  to  fear.  It  is  a  time  of  strange  events  and  of  solemn 
thoughts.  Ajid  yet,  through  all  these  anxieties,  all  these  urgent  calls 
for  exertion  and  self-sacrifice,  the  unnatural  life  of  the  gambling-tables 
goes  on  as  usual !  In  several  of  the  bacU  they  have  been  closed,  thus,  I 
suppose,  throwing  more  of  their  frequenters  into  Horaburg ;  and  often, 
in  passing  the  open  door  of  those  gloomy  airless  saloons,  a  stifling 
sensation  has  come  over  me,  at  the  ceaseless  chink  of  the  gold,  and  the 
groups  of  eager  spectators,  day  by  day  wasting  health  and  means  and 
powers  in  this  (in  every  sense)  poisonous  atmosphere. 

At  least,  we  are  glad  to  leave  our  friends  under  no  apprehensions  of 
hostile  invasion,  such  as  were  rife  when  we  arrived  here  two  months 
ago.  We  have  -been  amused  to  learn  lately  that  at  that  time  we  were 
spoken  of  as  the  English  ladies  who  came  to  Homburg  when  everybody 
else  went  away !  And  certainly  so  peaceful  a  sojourn  in  these  agitated 
times  was  a  boon  hardly  to  be  hoped  for  then,  and  most  thankfully  to 
be  acknowledged  now.  Possibly  some  who  were  driven  from  the  place 
by  the  blast  of  war,  may  form  from  this  rough  journal  some  clearer  idea 
of  what  it  became,  thus  transformed.  Our  Homburg  must  be  a  very 
different  one  to  theirs — sad  and  stem,  not  rich  and  gay ;  yet  probably 
the  few  who  have  known  it  through  this  period  of  intensely  real  cares, 
hopes,  and  fears,  will  feel  a  iar  stronger  interest  in  its  pe-  ple^  than  the 
experience  of  an  ordinary  watering-place  season  could  have  created. 


498  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL. 

XVL 

NORTH  TIEOL— WORGL  TO  VIENNA.    HI. 


SALZBURG  (continued) ;  histobt  and  charactebistics  of  the  towk — 

MILK  DOG-CARTS— CATHEDRAL,  ITS  STYLE,  CONOREGATIOX,  ORGAN — 
MOZART;  HIS  HOUSE,  STATUE;  HIS  LAST  WORK;  MYSTERIOUS  VISITOR; 
EFFECT  OK  HIS  SPIRITS ;  HIS  OWN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  SCENE ;  MEMORY 
OF  THE  FIRST  NIGHT  OF  THE  NOZZE  DI  FIGARO;  FINAL  TOUCHES  AT 
THE  REQUIEM  SCORE  ;  PERFORMANCE  AT  HIS  FUNERAL  ;  NEAPOLITAN 
OPINION  OF  HIS  POWERS  ;  PROSE  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  LAST  REQUIEM  ; 
COUNT  ^ALLSEGG;  GOTTFRIED  WEBER*S  INVESTIGATION;  SUSSMATR's 
ADDITIONS   AND   CLEVER  FORGERY;    LATER    SUPPLEMENTS — MONUMENT 

TO  hatdn's  Brother;  cemetery  of  s.  peter — cells  of  the  early 

CHRISTIANS — cemetery  OF  8.  SEBASTIAN  ;  TOMB  OF  PARACELSUS ;  HIS 
house;  his  memory;  legend  of  HIM,  TOLD  BY  THE  OLD  HERB- 
COLLECTOR — THE  prince-bishop's  CASTLE;  THE  KEEPER'S  LEGENDS; 
MARIA-PLAIN;  THE  LIEBE  FRAU  ZUM  LINDENBAUM ;  KAISER  KARL  IN 
THE  WUNDERBEBG  ;  ANAIX>GOUS  MYTHS  OF  WILLIAM  TELL  AND  FREDRICK 
BARBAROSSA  ;  HEINRICH  HEYNE ;  DANGERS  OF  ASCENDING  THE  UNTERS- 
BERG  ;  ITS  MYSTERIOUS  RECESSES  ;  WILD  SCENERY  ;  WEIRD  INHABITANTS; 
THEIR  CHARACTKR,  OCCUPATIONS,  PRANKS,  GIFTS,  DWELLINGS,  RICHES ; 
THE  MISSION  OF  KAISER  KARL,  HIS  HALL  OF  STATE,  HIS  SLUMBER,  HIS 
AWAKING — THE  KAPUZINERBERG,  KALVARIKNBRRG,  LEGEND  OF  THE 
WEEPING  WILLOW — INFANT  FUNERAL — FRANCISCAN  DOLE  ;  PECULIARLY 
CONSTRUCTED  CHANCEL — SALZACHE  SACRED  STREAM — ^EXCURSION  TO 
BERCHTESGADEN  ;  ANOTHER  ASPECT  OF  THE  WUNDERBERG  ;  THE 
WATZMAN;  THE  KONIGSEE,  THE  EISKAPELLE ;  OUR  MAIDEN  ROWER — 
SALT-MINES — COTTAGE  HOSPITALITY — ^THE  STORY  OF  FRANZ  HOFFMAN — 
THE  EDELWEISS — MINERS  SAYING  THE  AVE — JOURNEY  TO  ISCHL — HOP — 
THE  FUSCHELSEE — S.  GILGEN  ;  NEW  COPPER  CUPOLA;  THE  '  VIERZEHN 
NOTHHELFER  ;'  LEGENDS  OF  S.  GILES — S.  WOLFGANG,  VILLAGE  AND 
LAKE,  REUARKABLE  ECHO;  THE  BLIND  MAN's  PETITION — COTTAGE 
DEVOTIONS. 

ISCHL;      IMPERIAL     VILLA  —  K  ALVA  RIENBERG  —  CHURCH;      INTERNAL 

ARRANGEMENTS  ;      INSCRIPTION THE     TRAUNTHAL EBEN8EE  —  THE 

GMUNDENSEE ^TRAUNKIRCHEN  ;     FATE    OF    THE    IMPETUOUS    LOVER — 

THE  FIECHTHAUER  WIND — AQUATIC  PROCESSION  FOR  CORPUS  CHRISTI — 
TRAUNFALL  ;  THE  CANINE  GUIDE — LAMBACH  ;  PRIMITIVE  INNKEEPERS — 
BAURA,  HOLY  TRINITY  CHURCH — LTNZ — THE  DONAUFAHRT. 

Salzburg  is  a  most  interesting  town ;  its  peculiar  history,  its  surpassingly 
beautiful  situation,  and  its  many  romantic  traditions,  give  it  an  irresistible 
claim  on  the  sympathies  of  its  visitors.  It  has  a  thriving,  stirring  aspect, 
too,  which  preserves  it  from  the  reproach  of  gloominess  attaching  to 
many  places  dear  to  the  lover  of  the  picturesque  and  the  collector  of 


TRADITIONS  OP  TIROL,  499 

traditions;  while  at  the  same  time  its  old  local  customs  have  not  been 
altogether  swept  away  bj  the  assimilating  tide  of  modem  habits :  but  it 
has  still  many  peculiarities  to  engross  one's  attention  as  one  passes  along, 
and  distract  it  from  the  monotonous  routine  to  which  we  are  now  almost 
everywhere  in  Europe  condemned. 

On  the  first  morning  of  my  visit,  I  was  awaked  early  from  my 
comfortable  rest  at  the  Goldene  Traube  by  a  loud  barking  in  every  key 
of  canine  utterance.  I  soon  found  the  sounds  proceeded  from  a  herd 
of  stout  muscular  dogs,  who  had  just  drawn  in  a  number  of  little 
carts  containing  the  morning's  milk  supply  of  Salzburg.  They  were 
unharnessed  at  the  head  of  the  bridge  just  opposite  my  window,  and 
turned  loose,  whereupon  with  loud  and  eager  vociferation  they  trooped 
over  the  bridge  to  cater  for  themselves  in  the  precincts  of  the  market- 
place, where  some  hours  later  I  observed  they  had  a  regular  rendezvous 
with  their  keepers,  by  whom  they  were  easily  reclaimed. 

Once  out  in  the  fresh  morning  air,  I  made  my  way  to  the  DotUj  an 
imposing  Italian  edifice,  just  two  hundred  years  old ;  the  congregation 
at  Mass  was  very  large.  The  exquisite  tones  of  the  organ  brought  back 
to  mind  the  story  that  had  often  charmed  me  in  childhood,  of  Mozart's 
Requiem — his  last  work — performed  there  for  himself.  I  resolved  to 
trace  out  his  memory,  and  hear  it  once  again  on  the  spot  which  boasts 
of  having  given  him  birth.  The  enterprise  was  no  difiicult  one,  for  the 
memory  of  the  great  maestro  is  held  in  high  veneration  in  his  native 
town ;  and  you  can  meet  no  one  in  the  street  who  will  not  find  it  a 
pleasure  to  direct  you  to  Mozart's  house,  in  front  of  which  a  statue 
has  been  lately  erected.  Nor  was  I  disappointed  in  my  desire  of  hearing 
the  traditions  of  the  Requiem.  In  the  beginning  of  the  year  1791, 
Mozart  was  yet  at  the  height  of  his  fame,  and  he  was  only  forty-four ; 
but  it  had  been  observed  that  the  dreamy  melancholy,  which  was  one 
of  his  characteristics,  had  assumed  a  more  decided  hold  over  him  than 
formerly :  one  day,  his  wife,  to  whom  he  was  tenderly  attached,  found 
him  a  prey  to  an  unusual  elation ;  the  change  of  symptoms  aroused 
her  attention,  but  he  seemed  withheld  by  some  strange  restraint  from 
imparting  the  ground  of  his  excitement,  though  she  observed  that  he 
was  feverishly  occupied  on  some  fresh  composition.  But  as  weeks 
passed  by,  his  sadness  gradually  returned,  and  with  redoubled  force; 
till  at  last  a  day  came — she  remarked  it  well — ^it  was  exactly  two  months 
after  the  beginning  of  this  delirium,  she  found  him  once  again  under  the 
infiuence  of  a  similar  paroxysm  of  unusual  gladness,  which  he  was  equally 
loath  to  account  for,  and  which  also  faded  away  like  the  last.  She  now 
watched  him  more  closely,  and  observed  that  the  fevered  season  of 
rejoicing  returned  once  again  at  a  shorter  interval  than  before,  and 
the  succeeding  melancholy  also  supervened  more  rapidly  than  on  the 
first  occasion. 

One  day,  when  he  was  more  than  usually  serious,  he  called  her  to 
him,  and  revealed  the  cause  that  had  so  strangely  afiected  him.     He 


500  THE  MOKTHLT  PACKST. 

said  that  on  the  first  daj  he  had  receiTed  an  nnknown  TisitOTy  taD,  pale, 
sad,  and  dressed  in  bbick,  and  of  strange  i4>pearanoe  and  manners.  A 
moment  before,  he  had  been  trying  to  seise  a  melodj  which  had  <^times 
before  floated  before  his  mind's  ear,  fnll  of  associations  with  loTed 
and  holy  ones  departed,  and  the  hope  and  promise  of  a  better  life.  And 
the  mysterious  stranger,  who  had  thns  broken  in  on  these  musings, 
came  to  propose  to  him  to  write  the  score  of  a  Reqaiem  Mass  for  a 
departed  relative.  The  maestro  had  answered  that  he  accepted  the 
commission  willingly;  and  having  promised  to  complete  it  in  two 
months  time,  the  stranger  undertook  to  come  for  it  at  the  time  specified. 
Then  he  dwelt  on  the  strangeness  of  the  coincidence  of  his  ideas 
with  the  subject  of  the  visit,  and  the  fantastic  character  of  his  visitor, 
till  he  betrayed  his  conviction  that  he  was  a  messenger  from  the  other 
world,  and  that  the  Requiem  was  for  his  own  burial. 

It  instantly  suggested  itself  to  hb  wife  that  the  proper  test  would  have 
been  to  require  the  name  and  abode  of  the  person  who  came  charged 
with  such  a  commission. 

'That  was  just  the  strange  part  of  it,'  replied  the  composer;  'though 
of  distinguished  manners,  and  princely  in  his  dealings,  as  you  shaU  see, 
nothing  could  induce  him  to  reveal  his  name.  But  that  I  might  have 
no  hesitation  in  trusting  him,  he  laid  on  the  table  before  me  the  pledge 
that  he  was  in  earnest.  Though  I  found  afterwards  the  parcel  he  left 
contained  the  splendid  sum  of  two  hundred  ducats,  I  felt  at  the  moment 
that  it  was  not  the  money  alone  that  formed  the  promised  pledge,  for  as 
he  spoke  the  afflatus  of  heavenly  melody  streamed  powerfully  over  me 
as  1  never  felt  it  before ;  and  as  soon  as  I  was  left  alone,  for  I  never 
observed  him  depart,  the  strains  with  which  I  had  had  to  grapple  seemed 
all  too  broad  and  high  for  my  weak  spirit  to  contain.  I  struggled  with 
them  day  by  day,  till  the  two  months  drawing  to  a  close  shewed  me 
how  mighty  were  the  ideas  with  which  I  was  stirred,  and  I — ^how 
powerless  to  interpret  them !     On  the  appointed  day  he  came  again,  and 

seemingly  more  weird  than  before ' 

His  wife  started,  for  she  remembered  how  she  had  watched  his  room 
that  day,  and  she  felt  persuaded  that  no  earthly  visitor  had  passed 
its  threshold;  but  she  refrained  from  interrupting  the  overwrought 
narrator. 

'I  explained  to  him,'  he  continued,  'that  I  had  been  incapable  to 
complete  my  undertaking,  but  shewed  him  that  in  the  meantime  I  had 
by  no  means  been  idle ;  but  I  offered  him  his  ducats  back,  for  I  felt  as 
if  the  capacity  had  gone  out  of  me,  and  I  told  him  I  could  proceed  no 
further  with  it  He  seemed  neither  annoyed  nor  surprised  to  find  the 
work  not  done,  but  he  would  not  listen  to  any  plea  I  advanced  for 
excusing  myself  from  going  on  with  it.  "You  will  find  your  muse 
will  come  back  to  you,"  he  said.  "  I  will  return  for  the  score  in  fcj^ 
weeks,  only  remember  that  will  be  the  last  time ;  and  here  is  the  pledge 
that  I  will  keep  my  word.*'     He  laid  on  the  table  as  he  spoke  a  sum 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  601 

double  in  amount  to  that  he  first  brought,  and  disappeared.  It  was 
true  my  muse  came  back,  and  I  went  on  with  the  work ;  but  the  thrill 
of  mingled  terror  and  joy  which  had  risen  in  my  breast  when  he  said 
"  Remember,  it  will  be  the  last  time  I"  convince  me  that  this  time  when 
he  comes  I  shall  not  see  him  in  the  flesh,  for  it  is  my  soul  that  he  came 
to  call' 

He  paused,  overcome  with  emotion;  and  his  wife  poured  in  all  the 
balm  of  her  woman'js  courage  and  sympathy.  Though  she  could  not 
alter  his  convictions,  he  continued  to  speak  with  more  self-command 
and  cheerfulness. 

^I  have  no  reason  to  be  otherwise  than  glad,'  he  said,  'for  I  have 
indeed  been  highly  favoured.  This  score,  though  I  shall  not  live  to 
complete  it,  will,  I  know,  be  a  lasting  note  of  comfort  and  triumph  to 
the  sorrowing ;  while  for  you,  for  whom  have  been  my  greatest  anxieties 
of  the  past  months,  are  provided  means  which  I  had  never  hoped 
to  see  in  our  power.  True,  I  am  Kapel-meister  to  the  Emperor,  but 
the  salary  is  measured  by  the  state  of  his  Majesty's  exchequer;  and 
-though  Joseph  II.  has  never  been  wanting  in  giving  encouragement,  it 
is  little  else  he  has  to  give. 

^Do  you  remember  that  evening/  he  continued  after  a  pause,  and 
his  eye  brightened,  'when  the  Nozze  di  Figaro  WAa  brought  out  at 
Prague— >!  think  it  was  in  1784 — Joseph  II.,  at  whose  earnest  wish  I 
had  written  the  score  for  an  adaptation  of  Beaumarchais*  comedy,  was 
as  anxious  about  its  success  as  myself.  But  Schaabaham  was  out  of 
sorts  with  her  part,  and  murdered  the  melody.  I  was  too  indignant  to 
complain  to  her ;  but  when  the  drop  fell  at  the  ei}d  of  the  first  act,  I 
flew  to  the  Imperial  box,  and  entreated  an  order  to  close  the  house. 
"I  will  do  better  than  that,"  replied  his  Majesty;  and  with  that  he 
sent  down  a  peremptory  message  to  the  artists,  to  say  that  if  I  was  not 
satisfied  with  their  execution  during  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  he 
would  have  them  marched  off  to  prison.  He  knows  how  to  make 
himself  obeyed ;  and  I  must  say,  nothing  could  be  more  perfect  than  the 
•rendering  of  the  subsequent  acts.  And  he  would  do  the  same  thing 
again  to-monrow,  I  know ;  but  the  calls  on  his  purse  are  too  serious  for 
him  to  be  able  to  patronize  art  as  he  would  wish.' 

Later,  the  playful  light  left  his  eye  a^in.  The  conviction  that  he 
had  but  a  few  days  to  prepare  for  his  last  account,  and  for  the  separation 
from  those  he  held  dear  on  earth,  returned.  The  hours  which  were  not 
spent  in  pious  conference  with  his  confessor,  or  affectionate  intercourse 
with  his  family,  were  devoted  to  working  at  his  Eequiem. 

In  proportion  as  the  appointed  day  approached  he  grew  stronger  and 
calmer,  so  that  those  around  hiui  had  almost  ceased  to  attach  any 
importance  to  his  predictions ;  but  it  was  only  that  his  well-regulated  soul 
having  made  its  peace  with  Heaven,  and  accepted  with  perfect  resignation 
the  decree  which  cut  him  off  for  a  time  from  the  ties  of  kindred,  had 
found  its  rest  in  contemplating  the  future  place  so  soon  to  be  his. 


502  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

It  was  ihe  vigil  of  the  laBt  day ;  he  was  seized  with  a  short  paroxysm 
of  feverish  excitement ;  he  called  for  the  score  of  the  Tuba  mirum  spargens 
sonuniy  and  re-wrote  it  in  the  present  form,  which  never  fails  to  thrill  all 
who  hear  it.  Afterwards  he  grew  calm  again,  and  presently  sent  once 
more  for  his  confessor.  His  wife  anxiously  looked  out,  in  the  fond  hope 
that  the  stranger  would  appear  to  claim  the  Mass  and  hreak  the  spell ; 
but  amid  the  crowds  who  came  hour  by  hour  to  inquire  after  the 
health  of  the  maestro  she  failed  to  recognize  one  who  answered  to  his 
description.  A  few  hours  later,  she  was  called  to  the  bed-side  to  receive 
her  husband's  last  sigh ;  and  that  day  week,  the  organ,  which  charmed 
me  to-day  in  the  Dom  of  Salzburg,  poured  out  for  the  first  time  at  his 
funeral  office  the  inspired  strains  of  Mozart's  Requiem. 

Such  is  the  legend :  and  if  the  Master's  command  over  his  instrument 
was  so  magical,  that  at  Naples  they  asked  him  to  take  off  his  ring  before 
they  would  believe  the  jewel  was  not  a  talisman  conveying  supernatural 
power,  it  is  not  wonderful  that  there  should  have  been  thought  to  be 
something  more  than   human  in  the  inspiration  of  his  compositions. 
The  prose  account  of  the  origin  of  the  Requiem  is,  that  it  was  actually 
written  at«the  request  of  Mozart's  patron.  Count  Wallsegg,  to  be  used 
at  a  funeral  service  for  his  wife ;  but  even  this  version  has  its  mystery. 
It  is  now  universally  acknowledged  that  Mozart  left  the  score  unfinished ; 
and  it  has  long  been  a  subject  of  dispute  whose  was  the  genius  that  could 
venture,  and  so  successfully,  to  fill  up  the  great  master's  composition; 
the  difficulty  of  the  investigation  was  increased   by  Count  WaUsegg 
having  paid  an  extra  high  premium  for  the  privilege  of  bringing  it  out 
in  his  own  name,  under  a  pledge  of  secresy  as  to  its  real  origin. 
Gottfried  Weber,  who  investigated  the  matter  with  great  care,  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  whole  Mass  had   been  sketched  out   by 
Mozai't,  and  that  some  of  the  principal  movements,  particularly  the 
Agnus  Deij  were  undoubtedly  his,  but  much  was  filled  in  by  a  pupil 
of  his,  Siissmayr  by  name.     Though  too  wild  and  unstable  to  make 
a  name  for  himself,  he  was  very  clever ;  and  besides  grappling  so  suc- 
cessfully with  the  imitation  of  his  master's  style,  he  forged  his  peculiar 
notation  so  closely,  that  those  who  first  saw  the  score  never  doubted 
but  that  it  was  aU  in  one  handwriting.     The  MS.  was,  at  the  death  of 
Count  Wallsegg,  purchased  for  the  Imperial  Library  of  Vienna,  where 
anyone  may  compare  the  notation  of  the  various  parts  for  himself.* 
Since  the  forgery  has  been  brought  to  light,  other  composers  have 
attempted  to  supply  SUssmayr's  share.     This  was  done  again  at  the 
funeral   office  of  the   Grand-Duke  of  Tuscany  in    S.   Giovanni   de* 
Fiorentini  in  Rome,  in  April,  1870,  by  Meluzzi,  with  a  perfection  of 
appreciation  of  Mozart's  style  which  astonished  all  connaisseurs  present. 

Nor  is  Mozart  the  only  composer  whose  memory  is  cherished  at 

*  For  further  detailn,  see  *W.  A.  Mozart,  von  Otto  Jahn,*  Leipzig,  1859;  and  the 
official  narrative  of  the  investigation,  by  J.  F.  Edlin  von  Mosel,  Vienna,  1889,  under 
(he  title,  'Ueber  die  Original  Partitar  des  Requiem  von  W.  A.  Moiart.' 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  503 

Salzburg.  Haydn's  brother  Michel  has  a  monument  in  the  Church  of 
S.  Feter,  where  his  skull  is  preserved.  This  collateral  reUc,  so  to 
speak,  is  treated  with  as  much  regard  as  if  it  had  belonged  to  the 
great  master  himself,  and  that,  though  he  was  not  a  native  of  Salzburg, 
but  a  Hungarian.  The  cemetery  of  S.  Peter  is  full  of  quaint  and 
curious  monuments;  close  adjoining  it  are  reached  some  cells,  and  a 
chapel  high  up  in  the  living  rock,  which  served  as  a  place  of  refuge  to 
the  Christians  during  the  inroad  of  the  Huns,  and  also  to  S.  Rupert. 

The  grave-yard  of  S.  Sebastian  boasts  of  possessing  the  tomb  of 
another  celebrity,  Theophrastus  Paracelsus,  though  we  have  already 
seen  that  Innsbruck  claims  that  he  died  with  her.  The  famous  doctor 
passed  a  great  part  of  his  life  at  Salzburg;  the  house  he  occupied  is 
still  shewn,  in  the  Linzer  Vorstadt :  the  memory  of  the  cures  he  effected 
were  long  remembered,  and  gave  rise  to  many  fantastic  tales ;  the  only 
one  I  came  across,  however,  bore  out  his  fame  probably  less  than  any 
other.  We  were  pursuing  the  long  shady  winding  walk,  which,  though 
not  the  most  direct,  is  the  pleasantest  road  for  reaching  Hellbrunn ;  the 
tangled  brake  was  richly  enameled  with  wild  orchids,  and  clusters  of 
ripe  blackberries  covered  with  a  purple  bloom  which  justified  their 
French  name  of  "wild  mulberries.  A  wrinkled  old  woman  wandered 
through  them,  so  bowed  with  age  that  she  was  often  hid  amid  the 
brambles,  filling  her  baskets  with  various  blossoms  and  roots  with 
jealous  scrutiny  of  selection.  Right  pleased  she  seemed  at  our  friendly 
curiosity  in  her  occupation,  and  ready  enough  to  tell  in  her  hardly 
intelligible  dialect  the  virtues  she  ascribed  to  each  plant.  From  the 
healing  virtues  of  plants  the  transition  was  short  to  Theophrastus 
Paracelsus.  She  had  a  good  deal  to  tell  of  him,  which  would  have 
been  interesting,  I  dare  say,  could  I  have  followed  her  dialect  with 
greater  ease.  Here  is  the  only  one  that  was  consecutive  enough  to 
transcribe. 

Among  the  various  persons  who  came  from  all  parts  of  the  world  to 
take  advantage  of  his  skill,  was  a  rich  lady,  who  came  to  Salzburg  to 
seek  the  cure  of  a  dangerous  malady  at  his  hands:  as  he  was  slower 
in  working  it  than  she  had  anticipated,  she  so  loudly  expressed  her 
dissatisfaction,  that  it  got  talked  of  in  the  city,  and  other  doctors  came 
to  offer  their  services,  and  among  them  a  Dwarf  from  the  Wunderberg ; 
(of  which  more  anon ;)  the  weird  aspect  of  the  little  doctor  tickled  the 
lady's  fancy,  and  she  accepted  his  services  in  preference  to  those  of  aU 
the  others;  Paracelsus  indignantly  declaring  that  she  would  come  to 
rue  haying  had  recourse  to  his  despicable  aid.  The  Dwarf  not  only 
undertook,  but  effected  the  cure  on  the  instant,  requiring  for  his  fee 
nothing  but  that  his  patient  should  remember  his  name  till  that  day  year : 
the  condition  was  so  easy,  that  the  lady  had  no  hesitation  in  accepting 
it ;  nor  did  she  even  trouble  herself  about  the  penalty  he  attached  to  its 
non-performance,  though  it  was  no  less  than  that  she  should  marry  him. 
The  lady's  memory,  however,  proved  more  treacherous  than  she  had 


604  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

anticipated :  long  before  the  je&r  was  out  she  had  forgotten  ihe  DwarTs 
name ;  and  then  she  remembered  indeed,  and  in  terror,  the  penalty  of  her 
forgetf Illness. 

In  her  wild  distress  she  sent  for  Paracebus,  but  he  told  her  drjly  it 
was  not  a  case  in  which  he  could  render  assistance ;  he  had  no  share 
of  the  magic  powers  the  people  ascribed  to  him,  and  by  no  ordinary 
wisdom  could  the  name  be  devised.  He  had  predicted  she  would  rue 
the  day  when  she  trusted  to  the  Dwarf,  and  now  his  words  had  come 
to  pass. 

If  Paracelsus  could  not  help  her,  no  one  ebe  could,  she  thought ;  and 
•the  lady  gradually  fell,  as  the  year  advanced  towards  its  close,  into  a 
hopeless  state  of  dejection.  And  yet  help  came  to  her  from  one  much 
less  great  and  clever  than  Paracelsus -^even  from  a  poor  old  woman 
who  went  out  gathering  medicinal  herbs  on  the  Wunderberg,  'just  as  I 
may  be  doing  here,'  my  old  friend  added  significantly,  with  the  evident 
intention  that  I  should  apply  the  subsequent  hint  concerning  almsgiving 
to  myself.  To  this  old  woman  the  rich  lady  had  often  given  charitable 
alms ;  and  with  grateful  interest  she  was  now  absorbed  with  the  thought 
of  her  benefactress's  distress.  Benefit  often  accrues  to  us  from  the  good 
we  have  done  to  others :  as  this  old  woman  was  searching  about  for  her 
plants,  and  still  thinking  only  of  the  good  lady,  she  perceived  through 
the  mask  of  tangled  briars  a  cleft  in  the  mountain  side  which  admitted 
to  a  sight  of  its  mysterious  interior.  Full  of  delight  at  the  chance  of 
seeing  what  all  mankind  have  longed  in  vain  to  see,  she  strained  forward 
to  find  a  wider  interstice  of  the  interlacing  branches,  that  she  might 
contemplate  its  wonders  more  at  ease.  Ere  she  had  succeeded  in  this, 
her  ear  caught  some  words  that  a  dwarf,  who  sat  in  the  entrance,  was 
singing  with  manifest  glee : — 

'  Hurrah  I  I've  a  right  to  be  pleased  with  my  lot, 
Since  the  lady  my  name  's  Ilahnenguckerl  ^8  forgot.'  * 

*  So  his  name's  Hahnengucker!,  is  it !'  reasoned  the  shrewd  old  woman ; 
and  without  waiting  for  so  much  as  another  look  towards  the  Wunder- 
berg, set  off  running  back  to  Salzburg  as  fast  as  her  feeble  legs  would 
carry  her.  The  lady  no  sooner  heard  the  name  of  Hahnenguckerl  than 
she  recognized  the  talisman  of  her  freedom,  and,  you  may  be  sure, 
endowed  her  humble  deliverer  with  money  enough  to  keep  her  at  ease  for 
the  rest  of  her  days. 

Salzburg's  greatest  ornament  and  glory  is  undoubtedly  the  noble  ruin 
of  her  former  Prince-Bishop's  f  Castle,  which  looks  proudly  down  from 
a  considerable  eminence,  overlooking  the  town,  like  some  majestic  bird 

*  'Juhel  bin  ich  so  froh  dass  die  Dame  nicht  weiss;  dans  ich  Hahnenguckerl 
heiss  !* 

t  The  Bishop  retains  the  title  of  Prince,  bat  has  had  no  territorial  jarisdiction  linoe 
the  legislation  of  Joseph  II. 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL,  505 

with  her  wings  Extended  for  the  defence  of  her  dependent  brood.  The 
steepness  of  the  ascent  is  the  penalty  of  the  beautj  of  its  situation ;  and 
not  being  a  good  dimber,  I  had  had  quite  enough  of  the  work  by  the 
time  I  had  reached  the  gallcried  platform.  I  stationed  myself  at  one 
of  its  windows,  to  make  out  by  a  map  the  various  eminences  around, 
while  the  rest  of  the  party  continued  to  toil  upwards,  and  make 
acquaintance  with  the  upper  apartments,  some  of  which  are  in  a 
habitable  state,  and  to  sketch  the  splendid  panorama  seen  from  the 
highest  terrace.  Presently  the  old  keeper  of  the  castle,  having  gone 
through  his  parrot-routine  of  notabilia  above  stairs  with  them,  came 
back  to  persuade  me  to  submit  to  the  same.  I  have  a  sovereign  dislike 
to  these  hackneyed  recitals,  repeated  year  afler  year  to  half-unwilling 
ears,  till  the  narrators  in  very  weariness  have  themselves  lost  not  only 
interest,  but  often  the  very  sense  of  the  stoiy.  I  assured  him  I  knew 
all  he  had  to  tell,  and  begged  him  to  leave  me  to  enjoy  the  glorious 
prospect ;  but  the  loquacious  cicerone  was  not  to  be  so  easily  shaken  off. 
I  spoke  of  enjoying  the  prospect;  did  I  know  anything^ about  the 
country  I  was  looking  at?  I  thought  I  did,  and  named  some  points 
so  accurately,  that  I  only  increased  his  desire  to  perfect  my  knowledge. 
I  submitted  to  the  evil  I  couldn't  cure  with  the  best  grace  I  could 
command,  and  had  no  reason  to  regret  the  convei'sation ;  for,  the  * 
3routine-language  of  his  daily  recital  once  laid  aside,  he  talked  to  me 
with  that  genuine  personal  interest  in  the  traditions  of  his  couiltry,  which 
I  delight  of  all  things  to  meet  with.  Finding  him  so  well  up  in 
folk-lore,  I  begged  him  to  tell  me  what  he  knew  about  the  marvels  of 
the  Untersberg — a  remarkable  isolated  mountain,  raising  its  rugged  peak 
before  us  some  six  thousand  feet  above  the  swampy  plain.  I  had 
observed  that  he,  and  indeed  all  the  people  of  the  place,  never  called 
it  by  any  other  name  than  the  Wunderberg,  and  the  old  collector  of 
herbs  in  her  story  yesterday  had  spoken  of  it  as  the  recognized  abode 
of  wonder-working  dwarfs ;  while  some  allusions  to  it  in  a  political 
pamphlet,  with  which  all  Salzburg  had  been  inundated  for  a  few  days 
previously,  entitled  Kcdaer  Karl  und  Kaiser  Napoleon^*  had  suddenly 
reminded  me  of  the  fact  that  I  was  in  the  very  presence  of  that 
mysterious  height,  concerning  which  in  childhood  my  fancy  had  been 
fired  with  the  traditions  of  Charlemagne  ever  living  there  to  keep 
guard  over  the  destinies  of  the  German  people.  I  had  often  been 
inclined  to  think  that  it  was  simply  the  bizarre  manner  of  his  burial — 
not  resting  peacefully  like  other  Christians  on  the  bosom  of  his  mother 
earth,  but  seated  as  in  life  upon  his  imperial  throne,  wearing  the  insignia 
of  his  earthly  dignity — that  had  suggested  the  myth ;  but  I  began  to  find 
it  had  a  deeper  origin  than  this,  and  that  it  was  rather  the  popular 

"*  My  visit  to  Salzburg  occarred  in  the  autumn  of  1867,  at  the  time  of  the 
Emperor  Napoleon's  visit  to  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  from  which  important 
conBeqoences  were  expected  at  the  time,  enough  to  stimulate  the  energies  of 
journalists  and  pamphleteers. 

VOL.  10.  34  PART  59. 


506  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

belief  in  his  continued  vigilance  which  had  suggested  the  fantastic 
burial.  For  this  reason  I  persistently  recalled  my  present  informant 
from  the  traditions  of  Maria- Plain,  (a  favourite  pilgrimage  near  Salzburg,) 
and  of  our  Lady  ^zum  Wunde7'bavm,*  and  all  his  other  stories,  to  fix 
him  on  this  most  important  one  of  the  Untersberg.*  He  had  plenty  to 
tell,  and  insisted  on  preparing  my  mind  for  the  wonders  of  his  tale  by 
drawing  a  fearsome  picture  of  the  inaccessibility  of  the  mysteries  within ; 
only  a  few  months  before,  he  assured  me,  he  had  seen  brought  into 
Salzburg  the  mangled  corpses  of  two  young  Bavarians  who  had  been 
dashed  to  pieces  in  the  attempt ;  and  many  a  black  cross  marked  similar 
mishaps  all  along  the  way. 

'  Then  there  is  a  way  into  its  recesses  V  I  interposed. 

'  Of  course  there  is  a  way,'  he  replied,  *  or  how  should  we  know  what 
there  is  within  ?  but  they  are  few  to  whom  it  is  given  to  follow  it  to  the 
end.  A  path  it  is,  like  a  mere  thread,  where  scarcely  a  cat  might  find 
footing;  two  hours  and  a  half  of  it  bring  you  to  a  broad  open  space, 
round  wh^h  the  mountain  peaks  rise  on  all  sides,  making  a  frightful 
abyss  of  it.  As  long  as  you  are  still  on  the  path,  the  air  around  is 
warmed  by  the  sun's  rays;  but  here,  when  you  pass  within  the 
'cauldron'  I  have  described,  the  air  is  freezing  cold.  You  descend 
more  than  a  hundred  steps  hewn  in  the  ice  and  snow,  till  you  come 
upon  a  long  narrow  corridor  leading  to  a  broad  plateau  of  ice — for  ice 
is  all  aroilnd  you  in  a  thousand  shapes ;  there  it  is  like  masses  of  rock, 
here  like  the  pillars  of  a  church,  and  all  about  you  are  mysterious  caves 
all  of  solid  ice.  It  is  worth  while  here  to  step  out  of  your  way,  and 
running  down  the  path  leading  to  Schellenberg,  to  overlook  the  panorama 
spread  out  before  you,  taking  in  even  the  beautiful  little  Konigslake  in 
the  distance.  When  you  have  had  enough  of  this,  you  may  clamber 
back  to  the  path,  and  continue  to  thread  it,  hugging  the  rock  on  one 
side,  and  if  you  are  not  inclined  to  be  dizzy,  enjoying  the  prospect  on 
the  other.     Half  an  hour  of  this — now  over  rocks  and  creeping  plants, 

*  When  or  why  the  Untersberg  came  to  be  fixed  on  as  the  site  of  the  retreat  of 
Charlemagne,  I  have  not  been  able  to  ascertain.  An  old  legend  quoted  by  Grimm 
says,  'Why  it  became  his  resting-place,  and  what  is  the  manner  of  his  occupation 
therein,  knows  no  man,  bnt  it  is  hid  in  the  secret  knowledge  of  God.*  Analogous 
myths  have  branched  off  from  this  one,  and  are  to  be  met  in  various  parts  of 
Germany.  Srruve  says  that  Nuremberg  claims  to  be  his  residence:  so  does  the 
Kutcrberg,  near  Pnderhom.  The  Odenberg  in  Hesse  has  a  similar  legend,  but 
applies  it  to  CharlcH  Quint.  An  analogous  myth  exists  in  some  parts  of  Switzerland, 
applied  to  William  Tell.  But  the  most  important  travestie  it  has  nnderp;one  is  the 
fable  which  supposes  that  Fredrick  von  Hohenstaafen  (Barbarossa)  exercises  a 
similar  oversight  over  German  affairs,  from  the  Kyfhauser  Berg—' the  rugged 
mountain,*  writes  an  admirer  of  Heyne,  *  where  that  wild  genius  Heinrich  Heine,  in 
one  of  his  rhapsodical  periods  of  blended  mediaeval  mysticism  and  pantheism,  once 
spent  a  night,  calling  on  the  mighty  Emperor  to  "  come  once  again,**  * — a  legend  which 
has  been  preferred  of  later  years  to  the  original,  by  those  who  are  jealous  of  the 
Catholic  prestige  of  Charlemagne  and  the  modern  influence  of  Austria,  becaoae  its 
hero  was  an  irreligious  leader,  and  its  site  on  more  northern  soil. 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  507 

where  many,  good  for  every  ailment,  are  found ;  now  through  thick 
growth  of  underwood — brings  you  to  the  so-called  stone  staircase,  a 
path  roughly  cut  in  the  solid  rock,  leading  to  a  rocky  valley,  out  of 
which  the  Leopoldsalp  rises.  From  this  tip  you  may  see  spread  before 
you  Berchtesgaden,  with  its  deep-green  lake ;  Reichenhall,  with  its 
f  owery  mead ;  as  well  as  the  valleys  of  Hallein,  Kuchel,  and  GoUing, 
and  the  six  lakes — the  Waginger,  the  Armstorfer,  the  Chiem,  the  Matt, 
the  Trummer,  and  the  Seekirchner.  And  if  while  you  are  lost  in  the 
contemplation  of  these  beauties  a  storm  comes  on,  nature  has  provided 
you  with  the  Loiderhohle — a  cavern,  where  you  may  be  in  safety  till  its 
fury  is  spent. 

'A  mere  thread  of  a  footpath  over  steeps  and  rocks  leads  down  to 
the  Virgin's  Well,  a  source  of  icy  water  in  a  cleft  of  tlie  mountain. 

'  The  Imperial  Hochthron  is  the  second  highest  tip  of  the  Untersberg, 
5864  feet  above  the  sea;  and  from  this,  another  hardly  discernible 
footpath  leads  through  masses  of  rock  and  glaciers  and  beds  of  snow,  to 
where  the  marble  walls  of  the  Untersberg  run  up  almost  perpendicularly, 
80  that  the  boldest  chamois-hunter  dare  not  climb  them.  Three  hours 
of  a  path,  sufficiently  full  of  labour  and  difficulty,  brings  you  to  the 
highest  point  of  all,  the  Bavarian  Hochthron,  6227  feet. 

'If  you  could  see  these  desobite  caverns,  these  steep  and  arduous 
heights,  you  would  not  be  incredulous  as  to  the  folk  that  live  in  them, 
and  whom  it  is  sometimes  given  to  us  to  see.  The  giants  and  the 
dwarfs  and  the  wild  women ;  the  weird  spirits  that  forge  the  thunder- 
bolts, and  the  witches  who  sit  at  their  lathes  turning  the  hail. 

'But  the  Bergmannlein  are  not  a  bad  folk ;  and  this  is  the  way  they 
go  to  work  when  one  to  whom  they  wish  well  is  in  difficulties :— - 
One  of  them  appears  to  him,  and  makes  as  if  he  would  buy  wine 
or  wood  of  him,  or  anything  he  may  have  to  sell,  and  then  he  says, 
"Come  with  me,  and  I  will  pay  you."  Then  he  leads  him  into  the 
bowels  of  the  mountain,  and  shews  him  wonderful  things,  and  gives  him 
wise  counsel,  and  he  pays  him  a  generous  price ;  and  the  Bergmannlein's 
(Little  Man  of  the  Mountains)  money  always  brings  luck,  and  he  who  has 
it  to  trade  with  never  falls  into  distress. 

'There  was  once  a  wedding  going  on  in  a  village  about  an  hour  from 
the  foot  of  the  Wunderberg.  At  the  evening  festival  appeared  a  dwarf 
who  was  not  one  of  the  invited  company;  but  his  manners  were  so 
polished,  and  his  air  so  dignified,  that  no  one  durst  ask  him  whence  he 
came.  He  invited  the  bride  to  dance,  and  the  bridesmaids  too ;  and  he 
danced  so  beautifully,  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look  at  him.  At  the 
supper  he  sat  down  with  the  rest,  and  accepted  what  was  offered  him 
with  grace,  but  he  ate  and  drank  sparingly ;  and  before  they  broke  up 
he  gave  some  sage  advice  to  the  new-married  couple,  charging  them  to 
live  in  harmony,  and  to  bring  up  their  family  in  Christian  love.  Then 
he  gave  them  some  pieces  of  money  of  an  unknown  coinage,  and  told 
them  to  lay  it  up  with  their  other  money,  and  so  their  store  should  nevec 


508  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

fail.  Then  he  turned  and  asked  if  there  was  anyone  there  who  would 
ferry  him  across  to  the  mountain  side  of  the  river.  One  of  the  guests^ 
judging  that  he  was  a  Bergmannchen,  and  had  plenty  of  money  to  pay, 
readily  offered  to  do  the  service ;  so  they  went  out  together.  When  they 
got  across,  thd  Dwarf  held  out  the  usual  small  sum  in  payment  of  the 
Bervice,  but  John  Ferryman  shewed  his  disappointment  by  refusing  to 
accept  it.  The  Dwarf,  instead  of  growing  angry,  explained  to  him 
that  though  the  amount  was  small,  yet  if  he  put  it  along  with  his  other 
money  he  would  never  come  to  want.  He  gave  him  also  a  bead  made 
of  the  red  marble  of  the  Wunderberg,  telling  him  if  he  wore  it  round 
his  neck  he  would  be  preserved  from  ever  being  drowned ;  which  proved 
true,  for  though  he  was  in  many  dangers  on  the  waters,  he  waa  always 
preserved  through  them  all,  when  others  went  down. 

^  There  was  a  poor  vine-grower  once  driving  his  cart,  heavily  laden 
with  the  year's  wine,  over  from  Tirol,  to  try  and  find  a  good  market  for 
it  at  Salzburg.  As  he  drove  under  the  Wunderberg,  a  Dwarf  met  him, 
and  said  la0  would  give  him  a  better  price  than  he  would  get  in  the 
town.  The  vine-grower  saw  there  was  something  weird  about  the 
purchaser,  and  said  he  had  rather  try  his  fortune  in  Salzburg.  "  How 
will  you  find  your  way  there  V  said  the  Dwarf,  with  a  laugh.  ''  Oh  I  I 
know  the  way  well  enough,"  responded  the  vine-grower,  and  on  he 
drove ;  but  as  he  went,  the  way  got  stranger  and  stranger,  and  soon  he 
•ceased  to  recognize  a  single  landmark.  Still  he  had  no  choice  but  to 
follow  the  road ;  and  so  he  did  till  nightfall,  though  when  he  met  the 
Little  Man  of  the  Mountain  he  was  not  much  more  than  an  hour  from 
-Salzburg.  When  it  got  dark,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  lie 
down  in  his  cart  and  sleep.  When  he  woke,  he  found  the  road  he  had 
last  been  treading  in  the  dask  was  a  fine  broad  newly-made  road,  and  it 
led  up  to  a  magnificent  castle  which  he  had  never  seen  before,  all  built 
of  white  marble,  and  surrounded  by  a  moat  and  strong  walls.  Our  man 
was  hungry,  and  thought  he  could  not  do  better  than  drive  up  to  the 
castle.  The  drawbridge  was  down;  but  he  had  no  sooner  crossed  it 
than  it  was  drawn  up,  and  suddenly  he  saw  a  number  of  Little  Men  of 
the  Mountain  all  about.  They  were  very  civil  to  him,  however,  and 
put  up  his  tired  horses  in  the  stable,  and  called  the  clerk  of  the  cellar 
to  come  and  attend  to  him.  This  worthy  first  set  a  good  meal  before 
him,  and  then  took  him  round  his  well-ordered  cellar,  where  he  saw 
his  own  cart-load  already  stowed  away.  He  was  far  too  frightened  to 
make  any  observation,  but  the  clerk  of  the  cellar  pointed  it  out  without 
embarrassment.  Just  then  another  dwarf,  very  well  dressed  and  very 
polite  in  manner,  came  forward,  and  said  he  would  take  him  over  the 
rest  of  the  castle.  Here  everything  was  very  magnificent,  and  kept  in 
excellent  order ;  crystal  and  gold  and  tapestry  atiomed  every  apartment ; 
but  what  struck  the  vine-grower  more  than  all  was,  that  in  the  state- 
room were  four  statues  of  giants,  of  solid  gold,  dressed  in  strong  armour, 
-and  with  weapons  in  their  hands.     But  ^ey  had  chains  on  their  limbs;. 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  509 

and  in  the  centre  of  the  vaulted  roof  was  the  effigy  of  a  Little  Man  of 
the  Mountains  holding  their  chains,  and,  as  it  were,  keeping  them 
prisoners.  This  was  explained  to  signify  how  the  greatest  rulers,  here 
typified  by  Cyrus,  Alexander,  Augustus,  and  Kaiser  Karl,  were  them- 
selves subject  to  an  invisible  power,  which,  though  men  cannot  search 
it  out,  is  yet  irresistible.  Then  another  dwarf  took  him  down  many 
hundred  steps  in  the  rock,  through  dark  subterranean  passages,  to  a  vast 
cavern,  where  a  countless  number  of  Bergmannchen  were  employed 
smelting  precious  metals  and  coining  masses  of  money,  and  immense 
tanks  stood  aU  round  filled  with  treasure.  His  leader  here  took  him 
up  to  an  old  grey-bearded  dwarf,  who  sat  in  a  comer  casting  up 
accounts,  who  immediately  counted  out  to  him  seven  dozen  bright  new 
pieces  of  gold,  which  quite  filled  out  his  pockets,  saying  at  the  same 
time,  '^  Buy  more  wine  with  this  money,  and  sell  it  for  more ;  and  all 
your  life  through  you  will  find  that  this  capital  will  never  fail  you :  but 
now  speed  on  your  way,  and  look  not  back." 

'  The  vine-grower  had  greatly  enjoyed  the  grand  sights  he  had  visited ; 
but  was  too  anxious  to  be  free,  not  to  obey  the  injunction  without 
delay.  The  other  dwarfe  led  him  up  into  the  light,  and  fed  him  again, 
put  his  horses  to,  and  accompanied  him  out  of  the  precincts  of  the  castle ; 
and  when  they  left  him,  he  found  himself  exactly  on  the  spot  where  the 
first  dwarf  met  him !  However,  he  took  care  to  avoid  looking  back,  as 
he  had  been  ordered ;  but  the  next  week  coming  that  way  again  with 
fresh  wine  bought  with  the  money  paid  him  in  the  castle,  he  sought  in 
vain  any  trace  of  the  place  or  the  road  to  it.  His  trade  never  failed  him; 
and  though  he  never  grew  over-rich,  he  had  always  enough  for  his  family, 
and  for  relieving  his  poorer  neighbours^  to  his  dying  day.' 

So  Fritz  ran  on* through  many  such  stories,  till  I  had  almost  ceased  to 
listen.  I  believe  he  wanted  to  whet  the  curiosity  he  knew  I  felt  to  hear 
about  Kaiser  Karl.     Suddenly  I  heard  him  say, 

*  Ay !  but  the  greatest  wonder  of  all  is  to  come !'  and  then  my  attention 
woke  up  fresh. 

*  The  whole  Wunderberg,'  he  proceeded,  ^  and  all  it  contains,  is  but  a 
vast  shrine  of  Kaiser  Karl. 

'Kaiser  Karl,  as  all  the  chronicles  agree,  was  a  great  and  powerful 
prince,  more  successful  in  war  than  any  other.  And  what  is  better, 
he  turned  his  conquests  to  some  account,  for  he  spread  the  light  of 
Christianity  through  all  the  west  of  Europe.  Therefore  God  has  chosen 
and  preserved  him  to  wait  for  the  fullness  of  time,  that  he  may  protect 
the  pious  flock  of  the  faithful  against  the  hordes  of  unbelievers,  and 
restore  the  honour  of  God's  Name  before  the  Day  of  Judgement. 

'  In  a  vast  hall  of  state  he  sits  in  the  centre  of  the  mountain  ;  the  walls 
are  each  one  slab  of  polished  granite,  and  the  roof  of  shining  brass ;  while 
all  round  hang  suits  of  armour  and  trophies  of  arms.  In  the  midst  of 
this  splendid  hall  is  his  golden  throne.  His  form  is  majestic  and 
imposing.     A  richly  embroidered  mantle  envelops  it.     A  round  marble 


510  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

table  is  before  him,  on  which  he  rests,  for  he  is  ever  fixed  and  immove* 
able  as  if  in  sleep.  The  crown  is  on  his  heud,  and  his  right  hand  clasps 
the  sceptre.  A  long  snow-white  beard,  interwoven  with  pearls,  flows  from 
his  face,  and  winds  round  the  table.  And  the  saying  goes,  that  when 
the  beard  shall  have  attained  the  length  to  encircle  the  table  thrice,  the 
world  will  be  drawing  near  its  end.  That  then  he  will  awake  and  arit^e, 
and  perform  the  work  for  which  God  has  elected  him. 

'  Close  round  him  stand  bishops  and  princes ;  and  against  the  walls  are 
ever  on  guard  the  noblest  knights  of  the  Empire,  with  their  shields  and 
banners.  A  death-like  stillness  reigns  through  the  place ;  only  once  in 
seven  years  the  spell  is  broken.  Then  the  two  knights  who  keep  watch 
day  and  night  before  each  of  the  four  doors  of  the  hall^  blow  their 
trumpets,  and  wake  all  the  knights  who  are  slumbering  in  every  part  of 
the  vast  palace.  They  seize  their  arms,  and  cry,  *Ms  it  time  ?^'  At  this 
Kaiser  Karl  wakes  also,  and  sends  a  page  up  to  Geiereck  (one  of  the 
steepest  peaks  of  the  Untersberg)  to  see  whether  the  crows  still  encircle 
the  mountain. 

'  Meantime,  the  Emperor's  noble  daughter  me^asures  his  beard  round  the 
circumference  of  the  table,  and  when  she  sees  it  fails  to  attain  the  third 
circuit,  the  tears  fall  from  her  eyes  upon  it,  and  weave  themselves  into  it 
as  pearls.  Then  the  page  comes  back  with  the  news  that  the  crows  still 
encircle  the  mountain :  on  which  the  Kaiser's  daughter  returns  to  her 
rocky  grot.  His  head  inclines  itself  once  more  upon  his  breast ;  and  with 
a  sigh  of  sorrow  the  whole  brilliant  assemblage  fulls  into  another  period 
of  insensibility. 

'But  when  Germany  is  in  need  and  peril,  then  Kaiser  Karl  wakes  of 
himself,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  recalls  all  his  court  to  life.  Then  he 
assembles  his  council,  and  tliey  discuss  the  condition  of  the  Empire  ;  and 
when  their  council  is  agreed,  he  sends  some  trusty  counsellor  to  whisper 
words  of  wisdom,  unseen, .into  the  consultations  of  the  Empire  in  the 
upper  world,  or  to  confound  those  of  her  enemies;  or  else  he  sends  his 
bravest  kni*{hts  to  fight  unpei*ceived  in  the  ranks  of  the  Empire.  And 
thus  he  is  ever  alive  to  every  throbbing  of  the  German  heart,  and  so  he 
will  continue  till  the  hour  of  her  greatest  need  shall  have  sounded ;  then 
the  page  shall  bring  him  back  word  that  the  crows  have  forsaken  the 
mountain  ;  then  his  daughter  shall  find  that  his  beard  reaches  three  times 
round  the  table.  At  that  she  will  kiss  him  three  times  on  the  forehead 
in  gladness ;  and  he,  full  of  might  and  majesty,  will  ascend  upon  the  earth, 
followed  by  the  countless  train  of  his  bishops,  nobles,  and  knights,  in 
battle  array.  So  they  will  go  out  to  fight  till  every  one  of  the  enemies  of 
Germany  be  slain,  though  the  earth  he  deluged  in  blood.  Then  he  will 
return  with  his  victorious  army  into  Salzburg,  which  will  not  be  able  to 
contain  the  numbers  who  will  come  from  all  parts  to  rejoice  with  him. 
Then  he  will  have  a  solemn  Office  of  thanksgiving  sung  in  the  Cathedi^aU 
and  announce  to  the  people  the  reign  of  perpetual  peace.  He  will  then 
choose  the  noblest  of  the  sons  of  Germany  to  be  his  successor,  and  having 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  511 

invested  him  with  crown,  mantle,  and  sceptre,  he  will  quietly  retire  with 
his  noble  daughter  to  visit  the  cradle  of  his  race,  to  heal  private  quarrels, 
and  cure  all  bitterness.  His  work  thus  ended,  he  will  enter  at  last  the 
realms  of  rest  and  joy. 

'  But  the  mysteries  of  the  Wunderberg  will  cease  from  that  moment 
for  ever,  though  not  till  then.' 

The  wooded  height  which  embosoms  the  town  on  the  opposite  side  of^ 
the  Salza  to  the  castle,  is  called  the  Kapuzinerberg,  because  crowned 
with  a  Capuchin  monastery,  though  quite  shut  in  by  its  belt  of  forest 
from  the  town ;  in  fact,  your  only  view  of  it  is  from  the  path  leading  to 
Hellbrunn,  already  mentioned,  whence  you  realize  its  complete  isolation. 
The  good  monks,  however,  do  not  monopolize  all  the  amenities  of  their 
situation ;  the  town  side  of  the  Kapuzinerberg  is  a  delightful  and 
favourite  resort  of  promenaders  and  tourists,  who  make  their  pic-nics 
in  the  woods.  The  habit  common  to  all  Catholic  countries,  but  which 
has  received  its  greatest  extension  I  think  in  Austria,  of  turning  any 
pleasant  height  on  the  outskirts  of  a  town  into  a  Kalvarienherffj  with 
the  Stations  of  the  Cross  in  life-sized  representations  all  the  way  up,  has 
its  boldest  development  here.  Each  subject  is  carefully  rendered  in  all 
its  details,  with  every  accessory  which  can  afford  food  for  devotion,  and 
with  sufficient  toilsome  space  between  to  allow  of  serious  meditation  on 
the  mystery  typified  by  each ;  you  may  almost  at  any  time  of  day  see 
groups  or  individuals  kneeling  before  them,  quite  undisturbed  by  any 
holiday-makers  who  may  also  be  trooping  past :  the  Entombment, 
however,  has  an  appropriately  sombre  secluded  bower  on  the  summit. 
In  some  places  (I  cannot  distinctly  remember  whether  it  was  so  here) 
over  the  group  representing  the  Flagellation,  a  weeping  willow  is 
planted ;  for  the  Tirolean  saying  is,  that  the  thongs  used  by  the  soldiers 
in  the  Passion  were  cut  from  the  willow  tree,  which,  in  grief  that  it  was 
80  used,  has  since  bowed  down  its  head  and  wept. 

As  I  came  down  from  it  I  met  a  baby's  funeral ;  little  girls  dressed  in 
white,  and  carrying  a  white  banner  and  wreaths  of  flowers,  preceded  the 
coffin,  which  was  borne  by  one  small  boy.  1  saw  it  afterwards  laid  in 
the  cemetery  chapel,  in  a  bower  of  flowers  with  tapers  burning  round, 
looking  like  a  wax  angel.  I  observed,  too,  in  Salzburg,  that  the  custom  of 
kneeling  as  the  Viaticum  is  borne  along  was  more  devoutly  observed  than 
in  any  other  place  where  I  have  been,  and  the  sentinels  presented  arms. 
Another  custom,  suppressed  in  so  many  parts  of  Catholic  Europe,  which 
I  saw  yet  in  use  in  Salzburg,  was  the  mid-day  dole  of  food  given  at  the 
gate  of  the  Franciscan  convent,  to  the  maimed,  and  halt,  and  blind.  The 
church  of  this  convent  is  one  of  the  most  noteworthy  of  Salzburg,  being 
of  very  peculiar  construction :  the  chancel  roof  is  of  equal  height  with 
that  of  the  nave,  although  the  chancel  arch  is  low ;  in  the  centre  of  the 
chancel  is  a  clustered  column,  serving  for  the  dorsal  of  the  high  altar,  from 
which  spring  in  six  diverging  compartments  the  vaulting  of  its  roof;  a 


512  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

most  striking  perspective  is  thus  obtained.  The  baldachino  is  supported 
by  columns  of  a  beautiful  pale  green  and  red  marble  of  the  country. 

The  excursions  round  Salzburg  are  exhaustless,  as  are  the  legends 
which  teem  by  every  way-side.  The  Salza,  or  Salzache,  is  thought  to 
be  the  sacred  stream  of  the  old  German  mythology, , because  flowing 
through  the  great  salt-bearing  district,  and  salt  was  its  type  of  blessing 
and  fertility.  Hence  the  traditions  of  the  salt  district  have  derived  a 
peculiar  character,  and  are  almost  exclusively  concerned  with  witches 
and  cobbolds ;  for  that  which  had  been  an  object  of  superstitious 
veneration  under  the  teaching  of  a  false  religion,  became  a  subject  of 
special  suspicion  to  the  teachers  of  the  truth. 

One  excui*sion  which  must  on  no  account  be  omitted,  is  that  to 
Berchtesgaden,  with  its  salt-mines,  and  the  Konigs-See.  The  drive, 
starting  early  on  a  September  morning,  afforded  a  view  of  the  Wunder- 
berg,  under  which  the  road  winds,  calculated  almost  to  make  one  give 
credit  to  its  weird  traditions ;  it  was  enveloped  in  fleecy  masses 
of  mist,  its  cloven  sides  peering  at  intervals  through  them;  their  red 
marble  incrustations  looking  like  flames  piercing  the  seeming  smoke ; 
again  and  again  its  rugged  towering  heights  broke  through  the  clouds, 
and  yet  again  at  every  opening  where  one  expected  a  patch  of  the  blue 
sky.  Its  lower  slopes  are  cultivated  and  smiling,  and  adorned  with 
colossal  Calvaries,  not  badly  executed,  and  kept  iu  fresh  ^and  bright 
condition.  You  have  not  forgotten  the  Untersberg,  when  the  peculiar 
outline  of  the  beautiful  Watzman  rises  before  you  in  all  the  hoary  beauty 
of  its  snow-streaked  peaks  that  has  so  endeared  it  to  the  dwellers  round 
its  base.  The  whole  road  to  Berchtesgaden,  and  the  situation  of  the 
village  itself,  is  most  romantic.  The  Konigs-See  is  about  three  miles 
further;  it  has  its  modem  name  from  a  hunting-seat  of  the  King  of 
Bavaria  on  its  banks ;  it  was  formerly  called  the  Bariholomaus  See,  from 
a  chapel  to  S.  Bartholomew,  perched  on  a  rocky  promontory  which  a 
rapid  mountain  torrent  detaches  from  the  base  of  the  Watzman.  Not 
far  from  it,  but  reached  by  a  very  diflicult  path,  is  a  strange  cave  left 
every  year  in  the  snow  of  accumulated  avalanches — how,  has  not  been 
satisfactorily  discovered.  The  people  have  a  tradition  that  a  chapel 
containing  some  sacred  relics  was  buried  by  the  snow  on  this  spot,  and 
that  it  dares  not  destroy  all  trace  of  its  holy  precincts ;  hence  they  never 
call  it  a  cave  or  vault,  but  always  the  Eis^Kapelle* 

The  little  lake  is  singularly  wild  in  its  surroundings,  and  the  name  of 
the  mountain  which  closes  its  further  end,  the  Steineme  Meer — the  stony 
ocean — can  hardly  be  heard  without  a  shudder.  There  are  only  a  few 
houses  on  its  shore,  occupied  by  vendors  of  carved  toys  made  in  the 
neighbourhood ;  and  there  is  one  modest  restaurant,  where  the  tables  were 
provided  with  those  quaint  mediaeval  ciniets,  on  which  the  oil  and  vinegar 
seem  perpetually  crossing  each  other,  and  which  a  collector  would  have 
thought  worthy  a  place  in  his  museum. 

For  our  pleasant  row  over  its  bosom,  we  had  for  our  stroke-oar  a 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIHOL.  513 

remarkably  handsome  yoiiDg  girl,  with  braided  hur,  and  the  rest  of  the 
pretty  costame  of  the  locality ;  the  other  oar  was  her  lover ;  and  a  grey- 
bearded  father,  who  did  not  conceal  the  pride  he  felt  in  his  children, 
steered.  The  women  about  here  take  a  large  share  in  the  daily  toil,  and 
suffer  «adly  in  appearance  in  consequence ;  the  young  ones  are  nearly 
always  handsome,  but  by  fifty  they  already  look  old  and  wrinkled ;  many 
too  are  disfigured  by  goitres;  yet  they  seem  unusually  contented  with 
their  lot,  and  kind  to  strangers. 

The  salt-mines  are  situated  about  half  way  between  this  and  Berchtes- 
gaden,  but  on  a  different  road  from  that  usually  employed  for  reaching  it. 
Being  more  concerned  with  the  people  than  the  natural  curiosities  of  the 
district,  I  declined  the  visit  to  the  interior  of  these ;  but  as  it  necessitates 
an  entire  change  of  costume,  took  charge  of  the  seven  or  eight  watches 
and  appendages  of  our  party,  and  wandered  forth  in  quest  of  traditions. 
I  had  some  way  to  go  before  I  found  any  habitation  at  all,  and  I 
concluded  the  numerous  workmen  at  the  mines  must  have  far  to  walk  to 
and  from  their  work. 

When  at  last  I  found  a  cottage,  I  was  so  tired  that  my  manifest  need 
of  rest  formed  a  bond  of  interest  at  once  with  a  wrinkled  and  toothless 
old  dame  who  sat  over  her  spinning-wheel  on  a  bench  before  the  door. 
I  accepted  her  proffer  of  a  seat  beside  her ;  and  my  request  of  a  saucer  of 
water  for  the  lupetto  who  accompanied  me,  brought  out  a  troop  of 
prattling  children,  and  to  my  great  relief  a  buxom  house- wife,  who  could 
speak  a  more  intelligible  lingo,  and  that  with  something  like  distinctness. 
The  dog's  thirst  satisfied,  it  became  the  spontaneous  and  resistless 
resolution  of  the  whole  party  that  mine  must  be  supplied  too,  and  had  I 
refused  the  new  milk  brought  me  in  a  wooden  bowl,  the  incipient  attempt 
at  carving  of  one  of  the  ruddy  urchins  in  attendance,  I  saw  I  should  have 
deeply  hurt  the  hospitable  household,  as  would  also  insistance  on 
payment,  though  their  feet  were  bare,  their  clothing  of  the  meanest,  their 
cottage  floor  of  earth,  and  their  whole  surroundings  of  the  scantiest;  when 
I  rose  to  leave  alter  a  long  talk,  however,  the  children  gracefully  accepted 
as  presents  some  little  objects  calculated  to  interest  them  I  had  about  me« 

It  was  unlucky  that  communication  was  so  difficult  with  the  grand-* 
dame,  for  I  felt  it  was  she  who  held  the  supply  of  which  I  was  in  search  $ 
but  as  I  was  thus  driven  to  content  myself  with  the  conversation  of  the 
daughter,  I  took  advantage  of  it  to  learn  something  about  a  subject 
which  has  always  interested  me,  the  rude  representations  of  tragio 
accidents  so  commonly  hung  up  in  Tirol  upon  the  way-side  cross. 

'Is  this  done  still t'  I  inquired,  'or  are  those  we  see  only  a  remnant  of 
the  piety  of  the  past?' 

She  did  not  seem  to  apprehend  the  distinction,  but  on  my  putting  the 
question  in  a  different  form,  assured  me  that  there  was  no  peasant  who» 
if  a  member  of  his  family  were  cut  off  by  a  sudden  accident  by  the  way, 
would  not  set  up  such  a  memorial,  that  he  might  gain  for  him  the  suffrages 
of  the  passers  by. 


514  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

I  asked  if  any  such  had  been  put  up  within  her  time,  and  if  she  could 
point  them  out. 

She  said  she  had  known  of  several ;  and  aiW  a  minute's  thought  as  to 
whether  any  of  them  lay  along  my  route,  described  a  spot  where  stood  a 
nearly  new  one.  Its  colours  were  so  fresh,  that  it  had  not  failed  to 
attract  my  eye,  and  I  had  even  observed  that  Franz  Hoffman  was  the 
name  insciibed  on  it.     So  I  begged  for  its  history. 

Franz  Hoffman,  she  told  me,  was  an  edelweiss  gatherer.  I  had 
already  made  acquaintance  with  the  edelweiss^  the  *  noble  whit« '  flowers 
growing  only  on  the  highest  Alps,  in  the  patches  where  the  snow  never 
melts ;  it  is  no  wonder  the  people  think  their  thick  downy  petals  formed 
by  fairies  out  of  the  snow  crystals,  so  delicate  and  pure  are  they,  and 
they  are  '  everlasting '  too.  The  edelweiss  affords  employment  to  three 
classes  of  industrials :  all  the  railway  and  posting  stations  within  reach 
of  the  Tirolean,  Julian,  and  Stjrrian  Alps,  are  frequented  by  aged  hawkers, 
who  bring  under  the  traveller's  notice  this  produce  of  the  daring  travels 
of  climbers ;  these  men  look  with  pride  on  the  exploits  the  search  of  it 
occasions,  and  they  are  indeed  only  second  to  those  of  the  chamois 
hunter.  Besides  the  gatherer  and  the  seller,  the  edelweiss  likewise  gives 
occupation  to  many  a  bed-ridden  cripple  and  chronic  invalid,  who  find 
cheerful  exercise  for  their  taste  and  ingenuity  in  drpng  and  arranging 
the  flowers,  sometimes  in^conj unction  with  the  peculiar  magenta-coloured 
heathers  of  the  district,  but  generally  alone  in  their  purity. 

Franz  Hoffmann  was  the  only  son  of  a  lone  widow,  and  a  cretin.  By 
his  small  glimmering  of  intelligence,  he  had  made  out  the  distress  which 
fell  on  his  mother  when  the  house-father  died ;  and  though  every  attempt 
throughout  life*to  teach  him  any  useful  occupation  had  proved  futile,  he 
now  suddenly  made  out  for  himself  that  of  climbing  to  gather  the 
edelweiss,  arranging  it  according  to  the  best  of  his  simple  fancy  in  the 
evenings,  and  taking  it  round  to  the  carriage  windows  to  sell  to  passing 
travellers.  The  trade  throve,  and  added  to  the  earnings  of  his  mother's 
toil  more  than  the  hard  labour  of  his  father  had  ever  produced.  The 
idiot  boy's  grotesque  figure  and  strange  contortions  excited  the  sympathy 
of  some  and  the  curiosity  of  others,  so  that  his  basket  was  often  emptied, 
while  others  stood  all  day  offering  their  posies  and  taking  nothing. 

Jealousy  at  his  success  led  the  rest  of  the  fraternity  into  a  sort  of  tacit 
combination  against  him,  and  a  hundred  little  stratagems  were  practised 
to  shut  him  out  from  access  to  ledges  of  the  mountain  whither  he  had 
been  wont  to  resort  for  the  precious  flower.  With  silent  determination, 
the  poor  cretin  patiently  made  his  way  to  greater  heights,  where  none 
cared  to  follow  him ;  for  the  instinct  of  affection  to  his  mother  stood  him 
in  stead  of  maturer  reason.  As  the  field  of  his  labours  was  here  all  his 
own,  and  moreover,  as  the  edelweiss  flourishes  best  at  a  greater  altitude, 
his  harvest  was  now  greatly  increased,  and  the  other  gatherers  were  often 
glad  to  purchase  from  his  stock.  Thus  encouraged,  he  was  led  to  scale 
yet  giddier  heights,  and  into  situations  in  which  only  binite  instinct  or 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  515 

his  guardian  angel  could  have  supported  him.  A  day  came,  however, 
when  both  appear  to  have  failed  him  ;  a  withered  root  to'  which  he  had 
clung  for  support  broke  under  his  grasp,  and  in  an  instant  he  was  dashed 
headlong  down  the  precipice. 

All  animosity  was  forgotten  in  this  instant  of  horror;  there  were 
plenty  of  volunteers  to  attempt  the  recovery  of  the  body — no  easy  task  ; 
when  it  was  at  length  accomplished,  life  was  extinct.  The  bag  tied 
round  his  neck,  in  which  he  was  wont  to  stow  his  flowers,  both  hands 
being  in  requisition  for  climbing,  was  loaded  with  the  dearly-bought 
spoil.  Franz  Hoffmann's  last  flowers  became  a  sort  of  relic,  and  were 
bought  up  at  a  considerable  price.  The  proceeds,  though  she  could  ill 
spare  them,  his  mother  would  spend  on  nothing  but  a  Kreuzstocklein  by 
the  way-side,  to  obtain  for  him  the  suffrages  of  the  passers-by. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  ere  the  story  was  done,  and  reminded  me  to 
take  a  hasty  leave,  that  I  might  regain  the  entrance  to  the  salt-mines  in 
time  to  see  the  cars  of  visitors  come  madly  down  the  incline.  The 
workmen  had  gathered,  meantime,  in  a  considerable  body;  I  thought 
they  were  waiting  for  their  pay  before  dispersing,  but  it  was.  not  so ;  they 
waited  till  the  Ave  chimed,  and  then  they  doffed  their  caps  and  said  the 
short  evening  prayer  together  with  hushed  voices.  I  have  never  seen 
this  beautiful  devotion  anywhere  so  reverently  fulfilled. 

It  will  be  believed  that  I  did  not  fail,  by  what  light  yet  remained,  to 
look  out  for  Franz  Hoffmann's  memorial  cross  as  we  drove  home.  The 
catastrophe  is  depicted  on  it  by  a  village  artist,  with  more  force  than 
idealism.  The  critirCs  body  on  its  downward  fall  almost  covers  the  giant 
mountain ;  the  blood  that  flows  from  his  wound  rivals  in  proportion  the 
stream  running  beneath ;  and  close  above  through  the  opening  sky  are 
seen  his  heavenly  protectors,  ever  on  the  watch  to  direct  even  the  fatal 
acx;ident  to  his  eternal  advantage.  Underneath,  a  brief  inscription  records 
his  fate,  with  the  simple  adjunct,  ^May  he  rest  in  peace  !  Traveller,  pray 
for  him  1' 

The  remainder  of  the  journey  to  Vienna  may  be  performed  by  mil  in 
nine  or  ten  hours ;  but  to  adopt  that  course  is  to  bid  adieu  to  legends  and 
poetry,  so  I  strongly  recommend  the  route  we  adopted  by  preference,  to 
the  tourist  who  cares  for  these.  We  made  our  first  stage  at  Ischl,  for 
which  carnages  may  be  hired  at  Salzburg,  primitive  enough  to  blot  out 
the  memory  of  railways.  Tlie  drive  hither,  and  various  pedestrian 
excurKions  branching  from  it,  would  afford  pleasurable  occupation  for 
many  days ;  but  it  may  also  be  done  easily  in  one.  Hof,  the  first  post, 
consists  of  only  half  a  dozen  houses  gathered  round  the  church,  the 
churchyard  of  which  is  rather  curious.  The  Fuschclsee,  along  which  the 
road  runs,  after  starting  again  hence,  is  much  less  striking  than  S. 
Wolfgangsee,  reached  an  hour  or  two  later.  The  halting-place  is  at 
S.  Gil<£en,  at  the  head  of  the  lake;  a  poor  straggling  village,  but  some 
accidents  of  travel  gave  us  occasion  to  elicit  the  singularly  kind  and 


^ 


516  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

friendly  character  of  the  people.  The  steeple  of  the  church,  newlj 
restored,  and  inaugurated  as  lately  as  S.  Giles's  Day,  blazed  forth  all  the 
glories  of  bright  copper  with  tinned  iron  flushing,  of  which  most  roofs 
are  made  in  Austria  and  Bavaria.  The  design  comprised  one  of  those 
bulbous  caps  by  which  we  trace  the  influence  of  Turkish  art,  which 
coming  through  Hungary  overspread  all  Grerman  territory  from  Augsburg 
to  Venice. 

S.  Giles,  though  an  Athenian,  is  much  honoured  in  Grermany,  where 
he  is  honoured  as  one  of  the  fourteen  J^othhelfer^*  and  particularly  in 
the  mountain  districts,  as  hb  life  in  a  mountain  cave,  his  adventures  with 
mountain  robbers,  and  the  faithful  attachment  of  his  mountain  chamois, 
which  fed  him  with  her  milk  when  all  other  means  of  subsistence  failed, 
have  identified  the  details  of  his  life  with  the  genius  of  its  people ; 
there  is  too  a  tradition  of  his  having  passed  through  Germany  on  his  way 
to  his  final  resting-place  in  France,  and  that  this  village  was  one  stage- 
of  his  journey.  Another  beautiful  legend  there  is  of  him,  typifying  the 
success  of  his  eloquence,  under  the  following  elegant  image.  A  monk  is 
said  to  have  come  to  him  to  expose  his  inability  to  accept  the  dogma  of 
the  perpetual  virginity  of  the  Blessed  Virgin ;  S.  Giles  quietly  stepped 
out  on  to  the  sandy  flat  beside  his  hut,  and  with  his  staff  traced  the 
question  three  times  upon  its  barren  surface,  and  forthwith  there  uprose 
spontaneously  a  perfect  bed  of  lilies  wherever  his  staff  had  printed  it. 
The  birth  of  Pepin  at  his  intercession,  when  requested  by  Charles  Martel, 
after  many  years  of  childless  marriage,  has  caused  his  aid  to  be  often 
sought  under  similar  circumstances. 

In  the  village  of  S.  Wolfgang,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake,  is  a 
curious  church,  well  repaying  a  visit,  built  to  enclose  the  rocky  chapel 
and  hermitage  of  tliat  saint ;  it  has  also  some  interesting  paintings  on 
paneL  A  statue  of  S.  Wolfgang,  surmounting  a  fountain,  stands  in  the 
piazza.  When  only  giving  one  day  to  the  journey  to  Ischl,  this  excursion 
has  to  be  renounced ;  and  the  only  compensation  for  it  is  to  send  the 
luggage  on  in  the  carriage  by  the  road,  and  row  across  the  lake  to  meet 
it  an  hour  further  on.  The  outline  of  the  shore  is  so  broken,  and  the 
heights  around  so  steep,  that  you  scarcely  get  a  sight  of  S.  Wolfgang ; 
and  the  scenery  assumes  a  wildness  of  character  for  which  we  were 
scarcely  prepared,  while  the  deep  waters  reflecting  the  rugged  mountain 
sides  which  almost  shut  it  in  firom  the  afternoon  light,  wore  '  that  dark 
greenish  blue  which  Francia  sometimes  gives  to  the  mantle  of  his 
Madonnas.'  Arrived  opposite  a  tiny  island  marked  with  a  cross,  and 
bearing  some  holy  name  I  now  forget,  our  boatmen  took  out  a  pistol, 
which,  had  it  been  of  less  antiquated  make,  might  have  alarmed  us  in  so 
sequestered  a  situation ;  but  they  were  only  preparing  to  astonish  us 
with  the  wonderful  echo  for  which  the  lake  is  locally  famous.  Practised 
ears  can  distinguish  fourteen  repetitions.  When  we  were  satisfied  with 
tliis  mimic  artillery,  as  well  as  with  our  own  efforts  to  elicit  the  fascinating 

*  I  tfhall  have  occasion  to  give  the  legend  of  the  Viersehn  Nothhelfer  later. 


TRADITIONS  OF  TIROL.  517 

xeverberatioiiy  an  old  boatman  rose  and  solemnly  thundered  out,  *  Heiltger 
Vater  Wolfgang  kommen  wir  glUcklich  zur&ck,  sa^^  ja  /'  and  it  required 
little  play  of  the  imagination  to  fancy  it  was  the  mighty  patron's  spirit 
which  showered  down  the  benevolent  answer,  *  Ja  !  ja  !  ja  I  ja !  ja!  •  ,  ^ 

No  one  tempted  the  echo  after  this,  and  our  men  pulled  hard  to  make 
up  for  the  time  we  had  spent  dallying  with  the  voices  of  the  mountains. 
As  we  were  taking  friendly  leave  of  our  conductors,  two  figures  were 
seen  approaching  with  imploring  gesticulations,  and  as  their  utmost 
efforts  betrayed  feebleness  and  exhaustion,  we  could  not  refuse  to  wait 
for  them.  They  were  a  blind  man  and  his  wife,  belated  on  their  return 
from  the  village  of  Strobl.  *  I  shall  never  get  him  home ;  kind  people, 
send  him  in  your  boat,'  pleaded  the  wife ;  and  we  gladly  bargained,  as  we 
thought,  for  the  return  fare  of  the  aged  couple :  both  were  profuse  with 
their  thanks.  *  What  a  blessed  chance  S.  Wolfgang  has  sent  us  I  We 
asked  him  that  there  might  happen  to  be  a  boat  at  Gschwant ;  (so  I  thus 
learnt  the  point  we  had  reached  was  named;)  and  see,  he  sent  the 
Herrschaften  hither.  God  and  S.  Wolfgang  be  thanked.'  It  was  only 
when  both  we  and  the  boat  had  proceeded  too  far  to  repair  the  error, 
that  I  discovered  the  good  wife's  abnegation :  all  she  had  asked  for  was  a 
passage  for  her  husband,  she  expected  no  more ;  and  we  saw  with  regret 
she  was  dragging  her  weary  limbs  along  the  homeward  road  alone. 

The  falling  night,  which  soon  shut  out  from  view  the  further  beauties 
of  the  way,  revealed  to  us  as  we  drove  along  two  or  three  instances  of 
the  beautiful  Tirolean  custom  of  cottage  households  gathered  by  the  light 
of  twinkling  tapers  round  the  Calvary,  or  other  sacred  image  painted  on 
its  outer  wall,  for  the  vesper  prayer. 

Ischl  is  a  pleasant  watering-place,  with  plenty  of  walks,  baths,  and 
amusements,  rendered  gay  by  the  frequent  visits  of  the  imperial  family 
to  their  villa,  and  by  the  presence  of  a  monster  hotel  which  seems  a 
palace,  on  its  giant  height,  a  speculation  of  an  Austrian  archduke ;  but 
it  affords  little  appropriate  to  the  present  collection  of  traditions.  Not- 
withstanding that  it  is  so  much  laid  out  to  afford  pleasure  to  the  heau 
monde^  it  maintains  also  a  magnificent  Calvarienberg,  occupying  a  very 
steep  but  well-pathed  ascent ;  its  stations  are  quite  artistically  painted — 
the  Entombment,  as  usual,  in  a  chapel  of  its  own.  Ischl  has  only  one 
church,  and  that  of  no  great  pretensions;  but  the  habit  common  in 
Germany  of  leaving  banners  hanging  on  their  poles  fixed  round  the 
churches,  and  the  quaint  processional  lamps  and  crosses,  always  imparts 
a  bright  and  enlivening  effect ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  dark  low  fixed 
seats  give  more  gloom  than  groupings  of  chairs,  but  the  spaces  between 
being  left  wide  for  processions,  they  do  not  interfere  so  much  with  the 
architectural  proportions  as  in  England.  The  interior  decorations  of  this 
one  are  generally  good,  and  it  has  some  meritorious  modern  paintings. 
Its  grey  spire,  which  scarcely  detaches  from  the  mountains,  suggests 
some  excuse  for  the  light  green  and  red  steeples  common  in  Tirol  and 
Bavaria,  which  strike  one  at  first  sight  as  bizarre  and  unartistic.    It 


518  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

occupies  the  site  of  an  ancient   temple ;   which  is  thus  quaintlj  and 
sympathetically  expressHjd  on  a  ublet  in  the  outer  wall — 

Jahrhumlerte  ging  hier  oben  die  Gemeinde  ins  alte  Gotteshaits, 
Jahrhanderte  erhielt  iibigen  Denkstein^  der  Yorzeit  Ehrfuixht. 

From  Ischl  a  pretty  drive  through  the  Traunthal  in  the  early  morning 
brings  you  to  the  village  of  Ebensee,  whence  a  steamer  crosses  the 
Gmunden  or  Traunsee :  at  first  it  shews  only  as  a  very  confined  sheet  of 
water,  closed  in  by  stony  heights ;  but  soon  a  gorge  is  passed,  and  then 
the  smiling  beauties  of  the  lake  with  its  nent  houses  clustering  round 
their  church  spires,  and  the  island  castle  of  Ort,  open  on  the  view  on  the 
west  side,  and  on  the  east  the  mighty  Traunstein.  Gmunden,  where  you 
are  disembarked,  is  an  old  town  full  of  picturesque  bits;  its  Calvarienberg 
is  situated  on  a  slope  of  unrivalled  natural  beauty,  overlooking  the  blue 
lake.  The  most  picturesque  village  on  the  lake  is  that  of  Traunkirchen, 
situated  on  so  steep  a  bank,  that,  till  the  present  road  was  made  by 
blasting,  it  could  only  be  reached  from  a  boat  by  steps  cut  in  the  rock. 
It  has  a  melancholy  legend  of  a  youth  who  persisted  in  pursuing  the 
maiden  of  his  love  into  a  convent  that  existed  here  in  the  middle  ages, 
whither  she  had  retired  from  the  world;  he  could  only  reach  her  by 
swimming  acro-^s  the  lake ;  she  forbade  his  repeating  the  visit,  warning  him 
of  the  anger  of  Heaven  if  he  should  persist  Her  warning  was  prophetic; 
he  did  persist,  and  he  met  a  watery  grave.  Sudden  and  severe  squalls 
are  common  on  this  lake ;  the  most  dangerous  is  called,  at  Traunkirchen, 
the  Fiechthauer  wind,  because  a  neighbouring  promontoi*y  whence  it 
seems  to  reach  is  called  Fiechthau  ;  the  tower  of  the  church  having  been 
more  than  once  blown  down  by  its  gusts,  is  now  built  up  no  higher  than 
the  rouf.  Until  the  road  I  have  mentioned  was  made,  the  only  means 
of  having  the  Corpus  Christi  procession  was  in  boats  along  the  lake. 

At  Gmunden  we  had  to  resign  ourselves  to  the  railway,  but  it  is  a  very 
mild  one,  with  only  one  tramway,  and  runs  slowly  through  beautifully 
wooded  country;  there  is  a  small  station,  called  Traunfall,  where  trains 
stop  when  there  are  visitors  for  the  Falls ;  it  consists  of  a  little  shed  in 
the  midst  of  a  forest  of  fira.  The  solitary  station-master  sent  his  little 
black  dog  with  us,  who  led  us  with  great  intelligence  down  to  the  Falls, 
a  walk  of  about  two  miles  through  the  forest,  and  remained  in  attendance 
while  we  contemplated  the  rushing  expanse  of  waters,  and  trod  the 
precarious  plank  which  passes  under  the  foaming  cataract,  and  explored 
all  the  natural  curiosities  of  the  place,  evidently  knowing  his  guerdon 
would  be  a  share  in  our  repast. 

Late  the  same  evening  we  halted  at  Lambach,  where,  deeming  the  bed- 
rooms over  the  very  noisy  junction  station  did  not  give  promise  of  rest, 
we  imprudently  decided  on  walking  into  the  town.  This  turned  out  to 
be  only  reached  by  nearly  an  hour*s  walk,  which  in  the  dark  and  on  a 
strange  road  was  not  without  some  amusing  alarms;  it  proved  a  very 
primitive  place  altogether  too,  and  it  was  not  without  difficulty  and  af\er 


i 


QUEEN  Louisa's  grave.  519 

one  or  two  fruitless  efforts  that  we  prevailed  on  an  innkeeper  to  admit  us 
to  his  poor  accommodation  at  all.  In  the  morning  we  walked  to  Baura, 
an  offdhoot  of  the  great  Benedictine  Ahhey  of  Lamhach.  1  have  already 
had  occasion  to  allude  to  the  devotion  paid  throughout  Austria  to  the 
doctrine  of  the  Holy  Trinity.  It  seems  to  culminate  here  ;  tlie  Church  of 
Bnura  is  designed  to  be  in  every  possible  way  typical  of  the  mystery.  A 
sum  of  333,333  florins  was  set  apart  for  the  building  fund,  and  the  whole 
not  being  expended,  the  remnant  was  distributed  in  alms  to  333  poor 
people.  The  ground  plan  is  triangular;  it  contains  three  altars,  three 
doors,  three  windows,  it  is  paved  with  three  different  coloured  marbles, 
and  in  fact,  this  symbolism  pervades  every  part  and  every  ornament  of 
the  building;  it  was  built  in  1727. 

At  Linz,  which  is  a  short  stage  from  Lambach,  the  same  holy  mystery 
is  again  celebrated  by  a  DreifaUi^gkeUssdule^*  of  striking  proportions, 
with  lamps  burning  round  it,  in  the  principal  street  or  market.  In  Linz 
I  observed,  too,  that  wherever  there  was  a  holy  shrine  or  image  on  any 
wall,  the  street  gas-lamps  were  arranged  so  that  the  one  which  would 
come  nearest  it  was  formed  into  a  bracket  under  it. 

But  we  are  now  quite  out  of  the  precincts  of  Tirol,  and  my  limits 

remind  me  that  the  legends  of  the  pilgrimages  round  Linz,  and   the 

traditions  picked  up  on  the  Donaufahrt  to  Vienna,  must  be  reserved  for 

another  occasion. 

(7b  ^6  continued.')  R.  H.  B. 


QUEEN  LOUISA'S  GRAVE. 

(1814  AND  1870.) 

Few  people  visit  Berlin  for  the  first  time  without  going  to  see  the 
monument  to  Queen  Louisa,  in  the  palace  gardens  at  Charlottenburg. 
A  dark  alley  of  fir-trees  leads  to  the  mausoleum,  which  is  built  of 
polished  red  granite,  after  the  design  of  the  great  architect  Schinkel. 
It  is  surrounded  by  luxuriant  shrubs  and  beds  of  bright  flowers.  Steps 
lead  up  through  the  iron  gate  to  the  interior,  where  the  subdued  light 
streams  through  the  rich  painted  glass.  Tread  we  reverently  on  the 
hallowed  ground,  under  which  an  arched  vault  contains  the  mortal 
remains  of  a  much-tried  royal  pair,  Frederic  William  the  Third,  and 
Louisa  *  the  Un  forgotten.'  Their  tombs,  side  by  side,  are  never  without 
offerings  of  flowers  and  wreaths ;  but  the  marble  efligies,  carved  by  the 
master  hand  of  Ranch,  are  their  grandest  memorial.  The  sculptor,  who 
had  known  the  Queen  living,  full  of  the  deepest  veneration  for  her 
memory,  executed  this  beautiful  figure  shortly  after  her  death. 

The  Queen  lies,  as  it  were,  slumbering  on  her  couch.     Rauch  has 

♦  Holy  Trinity  column. 


520  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Bkilfullj  blended  in  her  features  the  peace  of  the  blessed,  the  dignity  of 
her  rank,  and  the  charm  of  her  lovely  womanhood.  Her  form  10 
gracefully  draped,  her  arms  are  crossed  upon  her  breast,  and  her 
noble  head  wears  the  royal  diadem.  Tnily  she  is  here  imaged  as  she 
was  known  to  all  during  her  life-time,  and  as  she  still  lives  in  the  hearts 
of  her  people.  As  wife,  mother,  and  queen,  she  was  blameless ;  the 
brightest  jewel  of  the  crown  when  living,  and  after  her  death  the 
guardian  angel  of  her  country.  StiU  more,  she  was  the  exalted  type 
of  the  true  German  woman.  In  days  of  sorrow  and  distress,  she, 
almost  alone,  preserved  her  unshaken  faith  in  the  regeneration  of  her 
Fatherland. 

After  her  premature  death,  when  Prussia  awoke,  and  when  the 
broken-hearted  King  decided  on  war  to  throw  off  the  foreign  yoke, 
her  very  name,  under  God,  became  the  banner  round  which  all  true 
hearts  rallied,  to  conquer  or  die.  In  a  court  where  the  corruption  of 
French  morals  prevailed,  her  pure  and  happy  married  life  was  not 
without  its  influence,  there,  and  over  the  whole  nation.  She  took  the 
liveliest  interest  in  politics,  but  only  interfered  once,  when  the  honour 
and  dignity  of  Prussia  were  insulted  by  the  arrogance  of  the  First 
Napoleon.  At  that  time,  when  the  moral  feeling  of  th^  country  was 
shamefully  wounded  by  this  breach  of  the  laws  of  nations,  she  desired 
a  war  of  defence. 

We  do  not,  at  present,  give  more  of  her  eventful  life.  Hereafter  we 
shall  hope  to  do  so.  What  we  have  said  is  merely  to  link  the  events 
of  her  time  with  those  which  are  happening  before  us.  Alas!  in  our 
day,  Prussia,  or  rather  Germany,  and  France,  are  again  at  war. 

We  must  go  back  to  the  date  of  that  great  battle  of  Leipzig,  more 
than  half  a  century  ago,  four  years  afker  Louisa  had  been  caUed  to  her 
rest.  It  was  a  solemn  moment,  when  the  royal  widower,  triumphant 
as  he  was,  left  his  capital  secretly  and  silently,  to  visit  the  beloved 
grave  at  Charlottenburg.  With  teai*s  he  laid  the  laurel  crown  upon 
Louisa's  tomb.  Alone  with  his  God,  he  knelt  at  her  feet,  and  with 
mingled  feelings  of  grief  and  thankfulness,  he  strewed  flowers  over  her, 
and  placed  there  the  wreath  which  he  would  fain  have  pressed  upon  her 
living  brow,  had  she  survived  to  see  the  day  of  freedom  for  her  country. 

There  has  been  another  solemn  pilgrimage  to  Charlottenburg  in  this 
very  year.  The  tall  earnest  form  of  Frederic  William  the  Third, 
sculptured  also  by  Eauch,  has  long  since  been  placed  beside  that  of  his 
queen.  They  are  once  more  united  in  death.  The  heart  of  his  eldest 
son,  the  late  King  Frederic  William  the  Fourth,  is  laid  with  the  remiuns 
of  his  parents ;  and  now  Louisa's  second  son  William  is  King  of  Prussia. 
His  Arm  hand  grasps  the  sword,  as  defender  of  the  newly-formed 
Confederation.  Once  more,  too,  the  ambition  of  a  French  Emperor 
threatens  the  peace  of  Germany.  King  William,  like  his  father, 
returned  in  triumph  to  Berlin,  after  having  spoken  those  haughty  words 
at  Ems.    Never  had  the  venerable  white-haired  soldier  been  received 


TWO  WAB  PICTURES. 


521 


with  such  thundering  acclamations  in  the  streets  of  his  capital.     And 

now,  afler  the  decisive  hour  had  struck,  and  war  was  declared,  while 

the  sons  of  Germany  were  hastening  to  join  their  banners,  full  of 

martial  enthusiasm,  the  King,  with  his  brother  and  his  son,  visits  that 

sombre  grove  at  Charlottenburg  again.     What  words  the  King  spoke 

to  the  Crown  Prince,   as  they  stood    by  the  tomb  of  mother  and 

grandmother,  we  know  not;   nor  can  we  say  what  prayers  for  help 

and  guidance  he  addressed  to  Heaven.     How  he  invoked  his  guardian 

angel  we  cannot  tell.    But  this  we  do  know,  that  God  wi(l  bless  the 

righteous  cause,  and  that  his  fervent  prayers  for  his  house,  his  people,  and 

his  country,  will  be  heard. 

Soon  we  hope  that  son  and  grandson  will  return  to  lay  another  crown 

of  victory  at  the  feet  of  the  loved  parent;  and  tJiat,  even  more  than 

before,   Charlottenburg  will  be  the  resort  of  all  whose  heart  is  in 

sympathy  with  the  Fatherland,  and  the  fortunes  of  its  guardian  angel, 

Queen  Louisa. 

{To  be  continued,) 


TWO   WAR  PICTURES. 


BY  THE  REV.  M.  G.  WATKINS,  M.A. 


THE  FRENCH  MOTHER. 

Hb  march'd  exalting  for  the  Rhine ; 

Claspt  close,  my  tears  I  ponr'd ! 
And  Baby  Uughed  to  see  bis  plume, 
And  Henri,  capering  round  the  room, 

Rode  on  his  father^s  sword. 

A  fortnight — and  midst  Woerth's  green 
line 

Of  vineyards,  in  hot  strife, 
Where  flashing  blade  and  plunging  ball 
Mix  smoke-wrapt,  and  the  bravest  fall, 

Fell  he — my  all  I  my  life  I 

Ah,  break  not,  agonizing  heart ! 

Prone  on  my  conch  1  crush 
Out  grief  1   and  you,  dears — sad  your 

blow — 
God  keep  you  1  for  no  more  youll  know 

A  father's  care— but,  hushl 

She  stirs  I  e'en  joy  renews  the  smart ; 

My  pretty  babe,  awake. 
Laughs  as  before ;  and  '  Father,  come !' 
Cries  Henri ;  '  bid  Papa  come  home  I' 

Alas!  poor  heart!  break!  break! 

VOL.  10. 


THE  FRENCH  FATHER. 

Thb  sun  had  set  deep-dipped  in  blood 

Beyond  the  blue  Moselle ; 
On  sore-struck  men  and  heaps  of  slain. 
Hewn    brand,    torn    banner— Glory's 
reign- 
Thrice  welcome  darkness  fell. 

Then  Mercy's  Angel,  lamp-lit,  stood 

O'er  one  whose  soul  to  rest 
Had  fled,  and  who,  though  stark  and  cold, 
Still  press'd,   with  grasp   that  mock'd 
deatVs  hold, 

A  letter  to  his  breast 

These  tender  words  the  Sister  read, 

While  pity's  drops  fast  fell : 
'  His  little  girl  keeps  dear  Papa 
Much  love ;  she  tries  to  please  Mamma, 

And  learn  her  lessons  well. 

'  Good-bye  now ;  I  must  run  to  bed ; 

How  weary  shines  each  day ! 
Baby  sends  love ;  I  blow  a  kiss 
To  the  Papa  I  so  much  miss ; 

God  keep  him  safe,  I  pray !' 
85  FABT  59. 


522  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


ST.  STEPHEN'S,  CLEWER. 

Not  twenty  miDutes  walk  from  Windsor  Castle  there  is  a  Mission, 
which,  to  those  interested  in  children  and  Church  principles,  would  well 
repay  the  trouble  of  a  visit  It  is  known  by  the  name  of  St.  Stephen's 
Mission,  and  is  under  the  care  of  the  Sisters  of  Clewer. 

Daily,  at  nine  o'clock,  (with  the  exception  of  the  Saturday  holiday,) 
the  bell  may  be  heard  summoning  the  children  of  the  various  schools  to 
begin  their  morning  work.  Six  rooms  in  the  Mission-house  are  used  for 
this  purpose.  Oiie  large  school-room  and  a  class-room  for  the  elder 
children  of  the  lower  school ;  another  school-room  and  class-room  for 
the  infants.  Two  hundred  and  thirty  children  are  on  the  books  of  the 
lower  school. 

The  upper  school  is  intended  for  a  different  class — children  of  trades- 
men, or  girls  intended  for  governesses.  This  school  has  sixty-five 
children  on  the  books,  four  of  whom  live  altogether  in  the  Mission-house, 
and  are  fed  and  clothed  as  well  as  taught  free. 

There  is,  besides,  an  industrial  school,  consisting  of  six  girls,  who  are 
being  trained  for  servants ;  these  live  in  the  house,  and  are  employed  in 
house-work  part  of  the  day,  and  part  of  the  day  they  are  taught  in  the 
lower  school. 

But  this  account  of  the  family  at  St.  Stephen's  would  be  incomplete 
were  we  to  omit  to  mention  th^  babies!  two  important  little  personages, 
who  are  indirectly  very  useful.  They  are  the  pets  of  the  house,  and  they 
do  the  honours  of  the  infant  school  very  prettily  to  the  new  comers. 
One  is  an  orphan,  they  are  both  under  three  years,  and  one  has  been  at 
the  Mission  since  she  was  fifteen  months  old. 

Four  sisters,  and  eleven  workers  under  them,  undertake  all  the 
management  and  teaching  of  the  different  schools ;  all  live  in  the  house, 
and  are  under  the  Sisters'  care. 

Besides  the  schools,  the  Sisters  have  parish-work  in  the  district,  and 
in  Windsor.  Some  day  they  hope  that  St.  Stephen's  Church  will  be 
buUt.  This  will  give  them  more  room  in  the  house  for  their  schools. 
At  present  the  large  upper  school-room  is  used  for  a  chapel,  in  which 
there  is  a  weekly  Celebration,  and  daily  Evensong.  These  services  are 
open  to  all  who  like  to  come  to  them,  and  they  are  well  attended. 

The  Mission  Priest  superintends  the  religious  instruction  of  the 
children,  frequently  teaching  and  catechizing  them  himself. 

When  fit  for  service,  the  house-girls  are  sent  to  situations,  with  an 
outfit  of  clothes. 

Children  and  girls  belonging  to  the  district  often  beg  to  be  taken  into 
the  house;  and  the  Sisters  are  not  able  to  receive  them,  because  the 
Mission  is  already  so  full.  The  expense  of  clothing  and  feeding  those 
they  have  is  greater  than  their  funds  can  meet,  yet  they  cannot  bear  to 


CORRESPONDENCE.  523 

reduce  their  numbers  by  sending  any  of  tbe  children  back  to  their  homes, 
which  would  be,  in  many  cases,  sending  them  to  earn  their  living  any- 
how, as  some  of  them  come  from  some  of  the  worst  parts  of  Clewer. 
Rather  than  do  this,  the  Sisters  have  begged  from  house  to  house  for 
help  to  feed  these  poor  children ;  but  they  are  still  greatly  in  need  of 
funds,  and  would  be  thankful  for  any  help,  either  in  money,  clothes,  or 
provisions. 

Address : — 

The  Sister  in  Charge, 

St.  Stephen's  Mission, 

Clewer, 
Windsor. 

Post-office  Orders  made  payable  to  H.  Monsell. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 

TWO  HOURS  IN  STRASBURG. 

Hotel  du  Prince  Charles,  HeideU>erg, 

Sunday,  October  16tb,  1870. 
Pear  Monthly  Packet, 

If  you  and  your  readers  will  excuse  a  very  hurried  letter,  I  think  some 
details  of  a  flying  visit  to  Strosburg  may  interest  yon  and  them.  I  need  only  say,  by 
way  of  preface,  that  we  consist  of  a  party  of  four  ladies — mother,  cousin,  sister,  and 
self;  that  we  have  been  watching  for  the  time  to  return  safely  to  England,  and  that 
we  started  from  Bern  last  Friday,  with  the  prospect,  and  in  the  hope,  of  a  quiet  and 
easy  journey,  and  more  disposed  to  avoid  the  adventures  of  these  troublous  times 
than  to  seek  them.  But  the  plans  and  discussions  of  sundry  fellow-travellers  as  to 
the  feasibility  of  visiting  Strasburg  en  route,  and  the  exciting  tales  told  at  the  table- 
d^hdte  at  Basel  by  an  eye-witness  just  returned  from  thence,  stirred  up  our  own  spirit 
of  enterprise ;  and  after  divers  pros  and  cons,  consultations  with  guards  and  officials 
as  to  interruption  of  journey,  later  trains,  &c.,  the  result  was,  that  we  all  four  stood 
on  the  draughty  platform  at  Appenweich,  watching  the  one  regular  train  of  the  day 
pursuing  its  leisurely  course  towards  Heidelberg,  and  bearing,  moreover,  all  our 
luggage  with  it  I 

Forthwith  we  took  our  return  tickets  for  Kehl,  and  our  places  in  a  train  just 
starting  thither,  a  long  and  crowded  one,  families  returning,  many  employ^!  and 
semi-officials,  some  sight-seers  and  curiosity-seekers  like  ourselves.  We  did  not 
notice  much  difference  in  the  usual  aspect  of  the  broad  plains  of  the  Rhine  until  we 
approached  Kehl,  and  then  all  the  meadow-grass  was  cut  up  with  wheel-tracks,  large 
patches  seemed  cleared  as  if  by  bivouacs  or  outposts,  and  on  the  margin  of  some 
sluice  or  side-branch  of  the  river  were  piles  of  wicker  baskets  and  planks,  which  had 
evidently  been  used  for  a  floating  bridge.  Almost  before  we  were  aware  we  had 
reached  the  river,  the  train  drew  up,  and  out  poured  the  mass  of  travellers  to  seek 
conveyances  into  Strasburg,  which  lies  about  three  or  four  miles  further  on ;  the  only 
measurement  I  can  quote  is  the  inevitable  '  Stunde,'  which  the  coachman  assured  me 


524  THS  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

h  would  take  to  drire,  and  I  should  saj  the  carriage  we  were  fortunate  enough  to 
secure  went  the  usual  pace  of  fVom  three  to  four  miles  the  hour.  The  throng  upon 
the  road  was  a  truly  sad  one ;  we  met  almost  as  many  passing  out,  and  all  the  bustle 
seemed  one  of  enforced  necessity,  not  of  honest  prosperous  business.  Let  me  here 
say  that  I  know  notliing  of  military  matters,  not  even  the  technical  terms,  so  I  can 
only  describe  in  the  most  unprofessional  way,  the  many  strange  sights  that  met  our 
gaze  on  every  side.  The  first  thing  we  noticed  with  consternation  was  the  broken 
down  end  of  the  once  beautiful  railway  bridge,  which  seems  to  have  been  built  upon 
six  stone  pien,  surmounted  by  spiral  ornaments  of  cast  iron.  The  last  division 
upon  the  German  side  had  been  cut  away,  and  the  whole  ponderous  construction 
bad  toppled  down  into  the  river,  part  of  it  sticking  up  at  right  angles  with  the 
remainder  of  the  bridge,  and  looking  like  the  wreck  of  a  foundered  ship.  Then  we 
crossed  the  glorious  river,  a  fit  boundary  of  nations  indeed,  by  the  bridge  of  boats ; 
and  when  we  gained  the  Alsatian  shore,  the  signs  of  devastation  were  grievous,  and 
constantly  increasing.  All  the  mischief  done  here  was  caused,  as  we  understand  it, 
by  the  French  guns  from  the  citadel,  directed  against  a  Prussian  earth-work  we  saw 
on  our  right,  some  distance  below  the  railway  bridge  and  nearer  the  town,  which 
earth-work,  in  answer,  did  its  task  of  destruction  within  the  town,  as  we  afterwards  saw. 
At  the  guard-house,  occupied  by  Prussian  sentries,  there  was  nothing  that  had  escaped 
uninjured ;  windows  were  but  dismal  gaping  hollows,  walls  were  cracked  and  seamed, 
roofs  had  fallen  in — more,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  the  shock  of  the  ponderous 
missiles,  than  from  the  effects  of  the  tire  often  caused  by  their  explosion.  I  remember 
one  or  two  burnt  houses,  but  the  rest  seemed  literally  torn  asunder  by  main  force. 
Bent  water-pipes,  broken  balustrades,  all  the  lesser  debris,  were  the  incidents  of  this 
dismal  scene ;  and  added  to  this,  a  foggy  autumn  afternoon,  a  road  ankle  deep  in 
sticky  grey  mud,  and  a  procession  of  people  who  looked  mostly  as  ruined  as  their 
former  dwellings,  fombined  to  give  one  a  lasting  impression  of  even  the  lesser  horrors 
of  war.  Just  then,  too,  a  cart  went  by  with  two  sick  soldiers  in  it,  doubled  up  under 
their  wraps,  and  crouching  away  from  the  damp  and  dreariness ;  then  a  Prussian 
officer  came  along,  and  a  set  of  soldiers  turned  out,  all  looking  conscious  of  their 
hard-won  possession,  and  seeming  easy  as  to  the  consequences  of  the  struggle. 

For  some  little  way  we  went  through  the  remains  of  what  must  once  have  been  a 
beautiful  avenue  from  the  town  to  the  river.  Further  on,  however,  all  the  trees  had 
been  felled,  evidently  when  in  full  lea^  lest  they  should  afford  shelter  to  the 
besiegers ;  one  tall  poplar  tree  alone  standing,  and  looking  desolate  enough.  Then 
we  came  to  a  cemetery,  sadder  yet ;  we  imagine  it  conld  not  have  been  used  during 
the  siege,  being  *  extra-mural,'  but  now  it  was  filled  with  new  mounds,  and  men  were 
at  work  in  it,  trying  to  get  it  into  order,  for  it  had  been  grievously  trampled  on,  and 
in  some  places  the  shells  from  the  town  seemed  to  have  overturned  the  monuments, 
and  disturbed  the  resting-place  of  her  former  dtisens.  After  the  cemeleiy  was  an 
horticultural  garden,  and  then  an  angle  of  the  road,  and  a  sign-post,  still  standing, 
with  the  inscription,  'Boute  de  Paris  I'  Here,  too,  we  could  see  traces  of  the 
suburban  ornamentation  in  which  foreign  towns  are  generally  so  happy.  A  group 
of  shrubs  occupied  this  angle,  and  the  wire  fencing  surrounding  it  was  still  there,  all 
awry  and  out  of  gear.  And  so  the  general  ruin  increased  until  we  entered  the  town, 
over  moat  and  drawbridge,  and  through  a  gateway  riddled  with  shot ;  and  then,  for  a 
short  space,  the  walls — with  their  green  slopes  facing  the  town,  and  the  embrasures 
shewing  where  the  guns  had  played  upon  the  unhappy  district  outside—protected  the 
interior  of  the  place ;  and  we  drove  through  a  street  or  two,  and  round  comers  where 
old  hand-bilhi  and  advertisements  still  hung,  one  inviting  to  a  chei^P  ^P  ^  Pans,  and 
another  announcing  the  result  of  the  Plebiscite ! 

Our  first  quest  was  an  order  for  the  citadel,  but  we  found  wo  were  too  late  in  the 
day,  as  none  are  issued  after  three  o'clock  p.m.  The  soldiers  at  the  guard-hotise 
were  pleasant  fellows,  amused  at  our  interest  in  all  we  saw ;  they  told  us  where  to 


CORBESPONBENCE.  525 

find  tlra  wont  of  the  ruins,  and  truly  it  was  a  pitiable  sight  to  which  they  directed 
us.  The  street  immediately  below  the  citadel,  whose  gateways  and  strong  walls  we 
saw  abore  us,  seems  to  have  received  all  those  shots  which  failed  to  reach  the 
citadel  itself.  The  street  is  an  arenue  of  ruins,  not  merely  the  shells  of  houses 
destroyed  by  fire,  but  of  those  battered  to  death  by  the  cruel  blows  of  lead  and  iron. 
There  was  one  caf^  whose  wreck  was  complete:  the  pretty  iron  balustrade  still 
hung  topsy-tunry  on  its  torn  supports,  and  the  statues  on  it  drooped  head  downwards ; 
every  floor  had  fallen  in ;  half-chaned  blinds  hung  on  some  of  the  windows,  and 
between  each  window  were  still  the  painted  announcements  of  what  the  house  had 
to  oifer — *  Diner  k  la  carte  k  toute  heure  *  seemed  a  grotesque  mockery. 

Here  I  dismounted  to  search  for  relics,  and  penetrated  into  the  ruins,  not  darings 
however,  to  disturb  the  debris,  still,  it  is  said,  dangerous  and  explosive.  I  picked  up 
some  signs  of  the  home  lives  so  cruelly  laid  waste;  and  meanwhile  some  boys 
brought  bits  of  bomb  and  other  missiles  to  the  carriage,  and  also  some  really  curious 
fused  glass,  found  in  a  glass  factory  near  by ;  the  glass  seems  to  hare  been  exposed 
to  the  action  of  gunpowder,  and  to  have  been  blown  up  by  it  into  a  mass  of  molten 
bubbles — something  like  thin  pastiy  biscuits  are  blown  out  in  baking.  We  could 
but  mourn,  and  exdaim,  and  pity,  and  exclaim  again ;  and  did  I  describe  further,  it 
would  still  be  but  a  repetition  of  the  same  scene.  Even  in  the  less-injured  localities 
one  saw  holes  in  roo&  and  walls,  panes  of  glass  shattered,  chimneys  tottering^ 
ornamental  architecture  damaged.  The  statues  over  the  portico  of  the  Theatre  had 
lost  their  heads,  the  Museum  was  but  a  pierced  screen  of  unsound  stones.  The 
people  were  working  hard  to  clear  the  rubbish,  little  children  were  picking  up  charred 
bits  of  stick  and  wood,  sentinels  were  keeping  guard  at  dangerous  spots. 

At  last  we  drove  to  the  Cathedral,  hoping,  I  think,  to  find  that  the  worst  of  war*s 
mischances  had  been  spared  that  wonderful  pile.  I  suppose  one  ought  to  be  thankful 
that  so  much  has  survived,  and  that  the  architectural  damages  .can  so  soon  be 
jrepaired ;  but  alas !  the  injury  that  is  done  k  much  more  than  one  can  patiently 
accept.  The  north-west  comer  has  suffered  grievously,  and  a  Uuge  pile  of  fiillen 
stones  and  bits  of  carved  work  has  accumulated  outside  the  western  entrance ;  while 
inside  the  destruction  gives  one  positive  physical  pain.  The  organ  f^nt  has  been 
shattered,  and  some  heavy  pipes  hang  over  like  sufiering  useless  limbs ;  the  wet  has 
come  in  through  the  broken  south-western  roof;  and  as  for  the  glorious  windows, 
they  too  are  as  wounded  as  they  can  be  to  hold  together.  In  one  window  whole 
divbions  are  gone,  and  the  space  filled  in  with  canvas;  another  is  riddled  with 
pistol  shot,  that  has  torn  away  countless  little  passages,  and  left  the  intervening 
glass  intact.  A  shell  has  completely  knocked  out  one  line  of  stone  tiuceiy,  and 
carried  the  glass  with  it ;  and  other  windows  are  shaken  and  cracked  by  the  mere 
concussion.  The  old  verger  mourned  as  if  for  a  human  being,  and  gave  us  some 
bits  of  fourteenth  century  glass,  which  can  never  find  their  proper  place  again  in  the 
wondrous  tale  these  windows  have  told  for  so  long.  He  had  not  words  enough  to 
bewail  these  evil  days,  and  to  describe  the  universal  calamity;  he  himself  had 
remained  in  the  Cathedral  while  the  shots,  which  might  be  reckoned  by  hundreds,  so 
he  said,  came  echoing  in,  and  at  night  he  slept  in  a  cellar  near  by.  The  Cathedral 
was  open  again  to  the  public  and  the  inhabitants,  and  occupied,  when  we  saw  it,  by 
many  silent  worshippers,  pleading  doubtless,  as  best  they  knew  how,  out  of  full  and 
moumfal  hearts.  Poor  people  I  one  was  glad  to  leave  them  there,  though  the 
calamity  had  come  near  their  holy  and  beautiful  house  as  well  as  on  their  private 
houses. 

By  this  time  our  two  hours  had  nearly  slipped  away,  and  we  drove  to  get  some 
dinner  in  an  hotel,  once  no  doubt  made  bright  and  gay  for  pleasure-seekers,  but  now 
the  mere  dreary  machine  to  furnish  food  and  shelter.  Both  were  good,  however, 
though  our  meal  was  served  in  an  empty  echoing  room,  by  the  light  of  some 
flickering  candles,  to  the  accompaniment  of  war  tales  told  by  the  waiter,  and  the 


526  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

roll-call  of  dnim  and  trumpet  in  the  Streets.  The  present  Commander  of  Strasbmrg, 
Coant  Bismark's  nephew,  was  quartered  there,  and  we  had  to  pass  his  sentries  at 
the  entrance. 

It  was  dusk  when  we  regained  our  carriage,  and  full  time  to  leave  nnlighted 
streets  and  strange  unhealthy  odours  which  seemed  to  rise  from  all  sides.  Through 
the  ruined  city  again,  and  along  the  miry  roads,  until  at  the  bridge  we  were  bidden 
to  walk  over,  by  sentries  who  peered  well  into  the  carriage,  as  indeed  all  the  soldiers 
seemed  intent  on  doing:  it  struck  me  they  might  be  on  the  watch  for  escaping 
prisoners.  After  crossing  the  bridge,'we  were  civilly  bidden  to  go  through  a 
covered  wooden  corridor,  strewn  with  (I  think)  tannin,  and  strongly  impregnated 
with  creosote,  chloride  of  lime,  and  other  disinfectants,  by  which  simple  but  effectual 
process  the  Government  hope  to  check  the  sickness  now  raging  in  the  afflicted  city, 
and  to  keep  it  from  spreading  further.  We  certainly  felt  fresher  and  brighter  as  we 
stniggled  into  the  crowded  shed  that  serves  as  railway  Btation;  and  when  we  were 
again  en  route  for  more  peaceful  Heidelberg,  we  were  glad  both  to  have  seen  such 
scenes  for  once,  and  to  have  escaped  from  them  without  mishap.  Further  comment 
I  need  not  make.  I  have  told  a  tale  as  hurried  and  imperfect  as  our  visit,  bnt  true 
enough  as  far  as  I  can  render  it. 

Tour  faithful  friend, 

F.AG. 


RESTORATION  OF  THE  INTERIOR  OF  SALISBURY  CATHEDRAL, 
IN   MEMORY  OF  THE  LATE  BISHOP  HAMILTON. 

Dear  Mr.  Editor, 

A  year  has  now  passed  since  our  revered  Bishop  Hamilton  was  taken 
from  us :  and  the  work  of  Cathedral  Restoration  in  Salisbuiy,  which  then  took  the 
special  form  of  a  Memorial  to  him,  is  still  going  on.  Many  of  us  who  were  so  highly 
privileged  as  to  have  been  confirmed  by  him,  desire  to  present  the  pulpit  as  a  token  of 
our  love  and  respect  for  his  memory;  but  a  large  sum,  probably  £800,  will  be  required. 

Amongst  the  readers  of  The  Monthly  Packet,  many  must  have  received  from 
Bishop  Hamilton  the  rite  of  Confirmation :  will  they  not  avail  themselves  of  this 
opportunity  of  shewing  their  gratitude  for  such  a  benefit? 

Any  contributions  will  be  thankfully  received  by 

M188  Andrews, 

The  Close,  Salibbubt  ; 
or  by 

Miss  E.  Akdebson, 

SUSBRUIGTON  RSCTOBY,  HeTTESBUBT.  * 

I  remain,  dear  Mr.  Editor,  Yours  obediently, 

M.  S.  A. 


Notices  to  Correspondents. 

No  MS,  can  he  returned  unless  the  Author's  name  and  address  be  written  on  it,  and 
stamps  be  sent  with  it. 

Contributions  must  oflen  be  delayed  for  want  of  space,  hut  their  writers  may  he  assured 
that  when  room  can  be  found  they  shaU  appear. 

A.  K.^Noihing  in  ilie  way  of  Mythology  for  young  j>eople  is  equal  to  the  Rev.  G.  W, 
Cox's  Tales  of  the  Ancient  Greeks,  (^Longmans,)  which  is  scientific,  as  well  as  simpU 
and  amusing.  Miss  Millington*s  Mythology  is  cUso  very  good,  and  brings  in  many 
interesting  quotations  of  poetry. 


NOTICES  TO  CORRESPONDENTS. 


527 


A.  O.  wiU  be  much  obliged  to  anyone  who  can  tell  her  the  origin  of  the  name '  Corisande,* 
in  Mr.  DimeU*e  novels  Lothair. — AUo,  can  anyone  recommend  a  book  of  Infant  School 
Songs,  eapeciaUy  ones  which  may  he  sung  with  action,  such  as  'The  Loaf  of  Bread/ 

<  The  CarpNenter/  &c. Corisande  is  not  a  classical  name.     We  believe  it  was  one  of 

the  magnificent  natnes  invented  by  Mademoiselle  Scudery,  or  some  of  her  school^  like 
Orondate,  or  the  like.  Cora  is  Greek  for  a  maiden ;  and  we  suppose  that  Corisandre, 
who  we  believe  was  one  of  the  heroines  of  these  romances,  had  her  name  amplified  out  of 
this.    Some  of  these  were  adopted  as  Christian  names  in  France. 


E,  A.  J5.— — 


AUSTRIAN  SAILORS'  HYMN. 
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i: 


Lone,  lone  is  the  deep ; 

Dark,  starless  the  sky ; 
Wrecked,  onward  we  sweep ; 

No  human  aid  is  nigh. 

2. 

Hark  1  yainly  the  gon 
Peals,  nttering  onr  fear ;  . 

No  answer  comes,  none. 
O'er  waters  dark  and  drear. 


8. 

Hope  vanishes  fast ; 

Floods  yawn  like  the  grare ; 
Death  rides  on  the  hlast : 

O  Father,  hear  and  save ! 

4. 

Deep  hollows  the  hoom, 

Rolls  o'er  the  main, 
Rolls  on  throngh  the  gloom ; 

We  watch  for  aid  in  vain. 


5. 


Lord,  let  ns  not  die 

Here,  on  the  lone  sea : 
Lord,  pity  our  cry ; 

We  have  no  hope  bat  Thee  I 

E.  A.  H.,  and  numerous  other  Corre^mknts. 

M.  S.  P.  has  found  her  children,  when  quite  young,  take  unceasing  delight  in  hearing 
read,  over  and  over  again,  not  only  '  Agathos,'  but  *The  Roclnr  Island,*  by  Wilberforce, 
'The  Triumphs  of  the  Cross '  and  'Deeds  of  Faith,'  by  J.  M.  Neale,  and  more  simple 
and  charming  still, '  Snowball,  and  Other  Stories,'  being  very  simple  allegories,  in  nice 
language  for  chiidren,  M.  S.  P.  hepes  some  of  these,  being  all  inej^>enstve  books,  may 
meet  A.  P.'s  requirements. 

Miss  O.  E.  Marryat,  of  76,  Ecdeston  Square,  S.  TT.,  wUl  feel  very  much  obliged  if 
anyone  can  tell  her  of  a  *  Home  *  where  a  poor  woman  in  delicate  health,  who  has  seen 
better  days,  and  who  is  now  in  tgtj  reduced  circumstances,  can  be  lodged  and  boarded  on 
payment  of  a  small  sum  per  week.    Miss  Marryat  will  be  thankful  for  an  early  answer. 


1 


528  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Ff^  in  returning  thanks  fir  atmeral  coniribuHons  of  books  sent  fir  As  Library  of  St. 
Petei^s  Home,  Kilbnrn,  in  answer  to  her  appeal  in  The  Monthly  Ptcket,  would  remmd 
coniributors  of  the  great  expense  toAicA  unpaid  packages  entails  tmon  the  smaU  resowrees 
of  the  Home :  some  old  music  has  latefy  been  received,  for  tf^ticA  is.  6d.  carriage  was 

charged,  the  music  itself  being  of  no  possible  use  to  the  Home, [^Indeed,  to  this  we 

cannot  heh  addina  an  editorial  warning  to  the  weU-duposed.  T^hink  well  whether  what 
you  send  oe  worth  the  carriage,  and  really  suitable.  We  have  known  hutted  doU^  shoes 
sent  in  a  missionary  box  for  the  Cape;  and  catalogues  of  scJes,  and  hints  on  tle- 
managemmt  of  infants,  to  soldiers  in  the  Crimea,  People  thmk  such  an  appeai  enables 
them  to  di»pose  of  their  rubbish;  but  unless  die  gift  is  worth  having,  it  is  much  worse  than 
nothing^ 

Perhape  Ae  lady  who  has  htte^  been  asking  about  Infant  Hymns  might  like  the 
following  for  first  waking.  It  was  written  sixty  years  ago,  by  the  lots  Catherine  Laihf 
Macartney,  for  her  daughter. — C.  B. 

*  O  Lord,  Thou  hMt  imclofled  my  eyea, 
And  given  me  poirer  onoe  more  to  rise; 
Bleet  me  wtth  qdrtU  light  end  gay, 
Freeh  as  the  young  beglmdng  day. 

Oh,  may  the  heart  Thoa  flll'et  with  Joy 
On  Thee  its  earUeet  thoughts  employ ; 
Hay  the  yoong  morning  of  my  days 
Be  spent  for  Thee  In  choerftil  praise. 

And  when  these  Uttle  hands  get  sixe. 
And  when  this  foolish  head  grows  wise, 
Oh,  for  Thyself  employ  them  still 
To  do  Thy  work  and  lesm  Thy  will* 

E.  A.  H.  wUl  be  glad  if  any  reader  of  The  Monthly  Packet  can  inform  her  where 
may  be  found  the  lines  beginning—' 

*  No  longer  monm  forme  when  I  sm  dead, 
Than  yon  shall  hear  the  surly  BuUm  bell 
GItb  wanting  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  Tile  wwld,  with  yilest  wonns  to  dwelL* 

M.  F.  6.  will  be  much  obliged  if  any  of  the  readers  of  The  Monthly  Packet  oaii 
inform  her  where  she  can  procure  short  and  easy  stories  (not  tracts^  m  me  fVench  and 
Oerman  languages,  suitable  fir  foreign  servant  girls;  also,  if  there  is  any  publicadon  in 
Cftose  languages  similar  to  The  Band  of  Hope,  or  The  Cottager  and  Artisan,  to  be 
procured  in  Zondbn.— — Daheim  is  an  excelUnt  German  monthly  magazine,  illustrated, 
to  be  procured  through  Messrs,  Williams  and  Margate,  Henrietta  Street,  Covent  Garden^ 
The  subscriptUm  {we  believe)  is  Ss.  per  year.  Perhaps  Le  Magasin  Pittoresqne,  to  be 
obtained  through  die  same  publishers,  would  answer  the  purpose* 

Ella. — For  Smyltan,  read  Smyttan;  for  R  W.  Kyle,  read  Anon,  m  *  Foundling 
Hymns,*  1767.  I  have  not  seen  the  collection,  but  Mr,  D,  Sedgwick  has  it  7  I  do  not  know 
if  all  the  hymns  therein  are  Anonymous,  nor  what  precaution  the  editors  mtm  have  taken 
to  exclude  any  of  known  parentage, — 860  is,  I  fear,  fu^lessfy  unknown,^  Ajriend,  whose 
name  the  Hev,  C,  S,  Bere  of  Uplowman  forgets,  sent  it  through  him  for  insertion  in 
Hymns  Ancient  and  Modern.  I  wish  I  could  find  the  German  from  which  it  comes. — 
875,  Mev,  E,  CaswaH—SQS,  W,  Williams,  originally  written  in  WeUi;  translated 
either  by  himself  or  by  W,  Evans  into  English. — L.  C.  B. 

Declined  with  Moaibs.— The  Stoiy  of  Hel^ne. 

The  Sisters  of  St.  Alban's  Mission  send  very  grateful  dtanks  for  the  Bundle  of 
Clothes,  Hats,  j^,  sent  by  E.  L.  on  September  2na, 


John  and  Chailes  Hozley,  Printers,  Dertiy. 


THE 

MONTHLY    PACKET 


OF 


EVENING    READINGS 


DECEMBER^  1870. 
'WHO  GIVETH  SONGS  IN  THE  NIGHT.' 

Job,  xxxt.  10. 
A  CHRISTMAS  LAY  FOB  THB  SOBROWING. 

The  world  was  old  in  sorrow, 
And  faithful  hearts  were  few, 
When  rose  the  earnest  of  that  morrow 
Which  shall  make  all  things  new. 

For,  heaped  with  death  and  sin. 
Till  earth  conld  bear  no  more, 
The  fullness  of  the  time  brought  in 
The  Life  for  evermore. 

All  weary  with  her  woes. 
She  lay  in  deepest  night, 
When,  lo !  Heaven's  Morning  Star  arose 
To  guide  her  into  light. 

A  song  of  triumph  rends 
Heaven's  orient  gates  aside, 
For  God  in  very  deed  descends. 
With  sorrow  to  abide. 

But  those  He  came  to  save. 
No  shout  of  welcome  bring. 
Only  a  Manger  and  a  Grave 
They  offer  to  their  King. 

Oh !  brighter  sure  the  crown 
Won  by  that  heavy  Gross ; 
Oh !  nobler  sure  the  rich  renown 
Bought  by  that  bitter  loss. 

YOL.  10.  86  PART  60. 


630  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Sweeter  the  songs  that  rise 
Around  the  crystal  sea, 
Than  those  which  rent  the  morning  skies 
At  Earth's  nativity. 

No  angels'  voices  swell 
That  song  of  Jubilee ; 
None  but  the  ransomed  ones  may  UXL 
The  joy  of  liberty. 

So  chant  the  carol  still 
Of  welcome  and  release ; 
Deep  in  each  listening  heart  shall  ihriU 
Its  sweet  grave  tones  of  Peace. 

And  if  thou  canst  not  hear 
All  that  the  Angels  say, 
Because  the  din  of  earth  seems  near. 
And  Heaven  so  far  away ; 

And  if  thou  canst  not  see 
The  glory  of  the  Lord, 
Because  the  fears  that  dazzle  thee 
Seem  greater  than  His  Word ; 

Gaze  on,  until  the  light 
Break  o'er  the  lonely  plain, 
Listen,  until  thou  catch  aright 
The  thankful,  hopeful  strain. 

Only  when  clouds  refuse 
Their  sable  weight  to  bear, 
Farts  the  pale  light  in  rainbow  hues, 
And  gems  each  falHng  tear. 

The  Eastern  beacon  kind 
Shone  through  the  night-clouds  dim^ 
And  on  the  wintry  midnight  wind 
Arose  the  Angels'  hymn. 

So,  bright  o'er  shadows  past 
Shall  dawn  upon  thy  way. 
That  Mom  when  Hope  shall  meh  at  last 
In  one  long  sun-lit  Day ! 

M.G. 


631 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OF  DANTE. 

The  thirty-fourth  and  last  Canto  of  the  Inferno  opens  with  the  poets 
proceeding  along  the  surface  of  the  Giudecca,  where  Dante  finds  the 
spirits  all  wholly  immersed  within  the  ice,  so  that  conversation  with 
them  is  impossible.  Here  our  readers  may  at  length  congratulate 
themselves  on  attaining  the  end  of  the  long  catalogue  of  crimes  which 
Dante  has  selected  from  the  world's  history,  the  greater  part  of  which 
he  found  ready  to  his  hand  in  the  records  of  contemporary  Italian 
politics.  There  are  few  nations  probably  that  at  any  period  of  their 
existence  have  had  their  misdeeds,  both  public  and  private,  subjected 
to  such  thorough  scrutiny,  such  heartfelt  indignation,  as  Italy  during 
the  thirteenth  century  of  our  era  at  the  hands  of  her  greatest  poet. 
Bearing  this  in  mind,  we  may  hesitate  before  we  condemn  the  epoch 
of  the  Guelfic  and  GhibelUne  factions  as  wicked  beyond  the  average 
of  mankind,  or  boast  our  belief  in  any  superiority  of  our  own  times; 
and  yet,  so  unfailing  is  the  supply  of  criminals  which  Dante  is  able  to 
provide  for  every  circle  of  his  Inferno,  and  so  monotonous  the  explanation 
of  their  several  offences,  that  we  are  reminded  of.  Tacitus'  complaint  of 
the  similar  enforced  monotony  of  his  own  Annals,  or  the  dictum  of  a 
more  recent  writer,  which  the  Inferno  goes  far  to  justify,  that  history, 
as  popularly  understood,  is  nothing  but  a  tissue  of  murder  and  fraud 
stitched  together  with  dates.  However,  we  shall  soon  have  done  with 
the  sinners;  three  only  remain  to  be  mentioned,  Brutus,  Cassius,  and 
Judas  Iscariot.  It  may  excite  some  surprise  in  our  readers'  minds  to 
find  the  two  former  considered  worthy  of  being  compared  with  Judas. 
But  the  true,  though  perhaps  to  our  ideas  insufficient,  explanation  is, 
that  Brutus  and  Cassius  were  guilty  of  the  same  treason  to  their  master, 
who  was  the  embodiment  to  them  of  temporal  power,  that  Judas  was 
to  his,  the  supreme  spiritual  Monarch  of  the  universe.  Now  that  the 
ancient  Empire  has  disappeared,  it  is  difficult  for  us  to  conceive  the 
feelings  with  which  men  in  the  middle  ages  looked  upon  the  occupant 
of  its  throne,  as  being  as  much  God's  vicar  upon  earth  in  things 
temporal,  as  the  Pope  in  things  spiritual.  This  conception  was  carried 
back  to  the  first  foundation  of  the  Empire ;  and  the  treachery  of  Brutus 
and  Cassius  against  Julius  Caesar  is  considered  different  in  degree  rather 
than  in  kind  from  that  of  Judas  against  our  Lord. 

The  Canto  opens  with  the  first  line  of  the  Passion-tide  hymn,  Veonlla 
regiSj  used  ironically  by  Virgil  to  describe  the  slow  motion  of  Lucifer's 
wings  forward  to  meet  them.  Already,  in  the  preceding  Canto,  Dante 
had  inquired  the  cause  of  the  breeze  he  was  then  beginning  to  feel ;  and 
now  the  blast  was  so  strong,  that  he  crouches  behind  his  guide  till  close 
to  the  monster  himself.  It  has  been  calculated  that  Lucifer,  by  Dante's 
reckoning,  must  be  as  high  as  Saint  Paul's  Cathedral.  His  three  faces 
denote  the  three  then  known  continents  of  the  world,  which  contribute 


} 


532  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

a  continaous  supply  of  inhabitants  to  his  dominion;  the  bat's  wings 
symbolize  the  nocturnal  gloom  of  the  regions  over  which  he  presides. 
Then  the  poets  advance  to  the  shaggy  sides  of  the  fiend,  within  the  play 
of  his  wings ;  and  Virgil,  with  Dante  clinging  to  his  neck,  descenda 
below  the  surface  of  the  frozen  lake,  holding  on  fast  till  he  reaches  the 
centre  of  the  earth,  when  he  turns  round  and  begins  his  ascent  to 
the  southern  hemisphere.  It  is  not  to  be  wpndered  at  that  Dante, 
who  knew  merely  the  fact  of  universal  gravitation  to  the  earth's  centre, 
should  have  imagined  (what  is  precisely  the  reverse  of  the  truth)  that 
the  attracting  force  increased  as  the  centre  was  approached.  He  could 
not  know  that  strictly  speaking  there  is  no  attraction  on  a  body  at  the 
centre,  the  surrounding  masses  neutralizing  one  another's  efiect.  Hence 
he  represents  the  devil  as  jammed  inextricably  at  the  centre,  and 
overwhelms  Virgil  with  fatigue  before  twisting  himself  round  ready  for 
his  ascent  to  the  antipodes.  Our  readers  must  not  think  the  poet's 
conception  of  Lucifer's  fall  from  Heaven  as  unnecessarily  grotesque. 
At  the  worst,  he  has  only  given  too  literal  a  meaning  to  the  Apocalyptic 
vision,  which  portrays  the  great  dragon  cast  out  into  the  earth  with  his 
angels,  and  denounces  woe  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth  because  the 
devil  is  come  down  unto  them.  The  idea  of  the  ugly  worm  at  the 
earth's  core,  poisoning  the  previously  wholesome  fruit,  grotesque  as  it 
may  seem,  is  in  perfect  accord  with  the  grand  sentiment  of  lines  34-36, 
itself  one  of  the  finest  in  the  Inferno.  Then,  by  the  simple  reversal  of 
their  positions,  the  poets  pass  from  sunset  to  sunrise,  and  according  to 
Antarctic  reckoning,  the  Easter  Day  morning  dawns  when  they  begin 
their  toilsome  ascent  through  the  opening  clefl  by  Lucifer  in  his  fall. 
Lines  125,  126  refer  to  the  mountain  of  Purgatory,  the  only  land  in  the 
southern  hemisphere  (according  to  Dante's  hypothesis)  not  covered  by 
sea.  What  reports  he  founded  this  idea  upon  we  cannot  say ;  but  the 
prevalence  of  water  at  the  antipodes  may  well  have  been  known  as  a 
general  fact  from  early  times.  Then,  as  they  took  a  day  to  descend 
from  the  gate  of  hell  to  the  traitor's  circle,  so  they  take  a  day  to  ascend 
on  the  other  side,  and  on  the  Easter  Monday  morning  issue  from  the 
cave,  and  behold  the  southern  constellations  overhead,  and  dawn  just 
tinging  the  waters  of  the  eastern  horizon. 

THE  INFERNO.— CANTO  XXXfV. 

*  Foi'th  move  the  banners  of  the  king  infernal 

To  meet  us ;  therefore  look,*  my  lord  commanded, 

*  If  thou  mayst  see  them  through  the  gloom  nocturnal.* 

As,  when  our  hemisphere  in  night  is  landed, 
Or  when  mists  gather  fast  in  dense  collection, 
Seems  from  afar  a  windmill ;  so  expanded 

Before  mine  eyes  appeared  some  such  erection ; 
Then  I  withdrew  me,  for  the  wind  unveering, 
Behind  my  guide,  for  there  was  no  protection 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA  OF  liANTE.  633 

Save  him.    There  stood  we,  and  my  metre  fearing  10 

Records  it,  where  the  ghosts  were  whole  inhumed 

Transparent  through  like  twigs  in  glass  appearing. 
Some  lay  full  length ;  some  were  erect  entombed, 

Or  with  head  under ;  some  an  arch  persistent 

Of  bow,  with  faces  turned  towards  feet,  assumed. 
When  we  advancing  forward,  were  as  distant 

As  to  the  Master  seemed  aright  for  shewing 

The  creature  in  such  beauty  once  existent. 
He  made  me  stop,  and  from  before  me  going, 

'  Lo,  EHs,'  he  said,  '  the  place  where  it  is  needed  20 

Thou  arm  thyself  with  courage.'    Reader,  knowing 
How  frozen  I  then  became,  of  breath  impeded, 

I  bid  thee  ask  not :  for  I  shrink  from  giving 

Report  of  that  which  all  device  exceeded 
Of  speech.    I  died  not,  nor  remained  living; 

Think  of  thyself,  on  thy  roind*s  power  reliant, 

How  both  of  life  and  death  was  my  depriving. 
The  sovereign  of  that  realm  of  woe  defiant 

At  mid  breast  issued  from  the  icy  hollow, 

And  I  compare  my  stature  to  a  giant  30 

More  than  the  giants  to  his  limbs.     Then  follow 

In  power  of  thought  what  must  the  whole  be,  suited 

To  such  a  part.     If  he  who  there  doth  wallow 
Were  once  as  fair  as  he  is  now  imbruted, 

And  yet  his  eyebrow  'gainst  his  Maker  raised, 

Well  may  from  him  our  woe  be  all  recruited. 
O  with  what  marvel  was  I  then  amazed. 

When  I  beheld  unto  his  head  three  faces: 

One  was  in  front  with  hue  vermilion  glazed ; 
Of  the  other  two,  that  over  the  mid  spaces  40 

Of  either  shoulder  there  adjoined  their  fellow, 

And  up  converging  formed  the  high  crest's  bases, 
The  right  hand  seemed  to  me  'twixt  white  and  yellow, 

The  lefl  to  look  at  such  as  one  beholdeth 

Where  Nile  adown  his  cataracts  doth  bellow. 
He  beneath  each  two  mighty  wings  unfoldeth. 

That  fit  a  bird  so  monstrous.     Sail  of  ocean 

Ne'er  saw  I  that  thereto  proportion  holdeth. 
No  feathers  had  they ;  but  their  sort  and  notion 

Was  as  a  bat's ;  these  to  and  fro  he  waved,  50 

So  that  three  winds  received  thereat  their  motion. 
Thereby  Cocytus  all  with  ice  is  paved. 

At  six  eyes  wept  he,  and  with  teal's  descending 

And  flakes  of  bloody  foam  three  chins  he  laved. 


534  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

A  sinner  at  each  mouth  his  teeth  were  rending, 

Who  as  beneath  a  crushing  engine  fared. 

Whereby  the  three  endured  pangs  unending. 
But  that  to  hira  in  front  was  nought  compared 

To  the  fierce  clutch  whereby  full  oft  was  riven 

His  back,  of  all  its  skin  remaining  bared.  60 

*  That  soul  above,  to  whom  more  pain  is  given. 

Is  Judas/  80  b^an  my  lord's  explaining ; 

'  He  with  head  inside,  and  legs  outwards  driven. 
Of  the  other  two,  their  heads  beneath  sustaining, 

Brutus  is  he  that  from  the  black  jaw  swingeth  ; 

See  how  he  writhes,  no  word  to  utter  deigning. 
Cassius  the  other,  who  such  large  limbs  wringeth. 

But  all  is  seen,  and  night  hath  reascended. 

That  now  the  time  for  our  departure  bringeth.' 
His  neck  then  clasped  I,  as  he  recommended,  70 

And  he  the  fitting  place  and  time  selected. 

And  when  the  wings  were  far  apart  extended, 
He  clutched  the  flank  with  shaggy  hair  protected, 

Twixt  the  thick  pile  and  frozen  crust  contriving 

A  way,  and  so  from  fleece  to  fleece  directed 
His  downward  steps.     But  when  thereto  arriving 

Where  the  thigh's  pivot  on  the  haunch  is  based. 

The  Master  then  with  sore  fatigue  and  striving 
Turned  round  his  head  to  where  his  feet  were  placed. 

And  the  thick  skin  as  one  that  climbeth  clasped,  80 

And  so  the  way  to  hell  met  bought  retraced. 
'  Hold  by  me  fast,'  so  spake  he  then,  and  gasped 

Like  to  one  spent,  'for  by  such  stair  'tis  fitting 

We  part  from  so  great  evil.'     Then  he  gi*asped 
A  rocky  cleft  above,  and  raised  me  sitting. 

And  placed  me  on  the  rim  of  stone ;  then  fetched 

Unto  my  side  a  footstep  not  unwitting. 
Upwards  my  gaze  with  eyes  intent  I  stretched. 

Expecting  to  see  Lucifer  unchanged ; 

But  saw  his  legs  upheld  aloft.     How  wretched  90 

It  made  me,  from  composure  all  estranged, 

Let  the  dull  sort  of  people  think,  not  knowing 

What  was  the  point  past  which  I  then  was  ranged. 

*  Arise,'  then  said  my  lord,  '  the  time  of  going 

Is  long,  the  pathway  hard :  lo,  now  doth  waken 
The  sun  already,  in  his  fii*st  watcli  glowing.' 
Tiie  spot  we  stood  in  could  not  have  been  taken 
For  palace  hall ;  a  natural  dungeon  rather, 
Of  footing  rough  and  near  of  light  forsaken. 


THE  DIVINA  COMM£DIA  OF  BA^TTB.  535 

*  Before  I  tear  me  from  the  abjss,  mj  father/  100 

I  said,  arisen  according  to  his  warning, 

*  Allow  me  from  thy  lips  the  truth  to  gather. 
Where  is  the  ice  ?  and  whence  hath  come  his  turning 

Thus  upside  down?  and  how  in  so  short  season 

Hath  the  sun  passed  across  from  eve  to  morning  T* 
And  he  in  answer  said,  ^  Thou  jet  dost  reason 

As  if  beyond  the  centre,  where  I  wended 

To  clutch  the  guilty  worm,  fixed  for  his  treason 
In  the  world's  core.    As  long  as  I  descended 

Thou  wast  that  side ;  when  I  turned,  thou  hadst  gained       110 

The  point  whereunto  every  weight  hath  tended : 
And  now  the  hemisphere  hast  thou  attained, 

Adverse  to  that  which  the  dry  land  compriseth 

Beneath  whose  vault  was  spent  the  Man  unstained 
By  sin  in  birth  or  life.    As  now  adviseth 

My  lore,  thy  feet  are  on  the  smallest  sphere 

Which  makes  Giudecca's  other  face.    Day  riseth 
Here  when  'tis  evening  there :  and  he  whose  hair 

Served  us  for  ladder,  hath  yet  here  his  station 

Fixed  and  imprisoned  as  he  hath  been  e*er.  120 

Hither  from  heaven  he  fell  in  swift  damnation ; 

And.  earth  that  once  this  region  had  acquired, 

Veiled  herself  with  the  sea  in  trepidation, 
And  back  into  our  hemisphere  retired ; 

Perchance  to  shun  him,  that  yet  here  existent, 

Left  its  place  empty,  and  on  high  aspired.' 
A  place  there  is  from  Beelzebub  as  distant 

Below,  as  downwards  the  abyss  extendeth. 

Known  not  by  sight,  but  by  the  sound  persistent 
Of  a  small  brook  that  far  therein  descendeth  130 

Through  a  stone's  rift  that  it  hath  eaten,  winding 

Its  course  thereby,  and  little  downwards  bendcth. 
My  guide  and  I  that  hidden  pathway  finding, 

Back  to  the  world  of  day  our  voyage  essayed. 

And  for  repose  or  respite  little  minding. 
He  first,  I  second  clomb,  nor  aught  delayed. 

Till  through  an  opening  to  our  sight  was  given 

The  &ir  lights  in  the  firmament  displayed ; 
And  issuing  we  beheld  the  stars  of  heaven. 

(End  of  *  The  Inferno:) 


1 


586  THS  MONTBLT  PACKET. 


HYMN-POEMS  ON  NOTABLE  TEXTS. 

BT  THE  BEY.  a  J.  STONE,  B.A. 
▲UTH<»  or  'ltba.  nDSLnni.* 

No.  Xn.— WHAT  OF  THE  NIGHT  ? 

< Watchman,  what  of  the  night?    The  Watchman  aaid,  The  morning  cometh,  and 
also  the  night.'— JmuzA,  ud.  12. 

Watchman  on  ZiorCs  HiU^ 

Thy  vision  pierces  far^ 
Discerning  good  and  illj 

The^  signs  of  peace  and  war. 
What  of  the  night  f    Is  yonder  light 

The  mom  or  even  star  f 

It  is  the  Star  of  morn ; 

Ye  sons  of  God,  be  glad  I 
The  burdens  ye  have  borne, 

The  portion  je  have  bad, 
Cloud-like  shall  roll  from  every  soul 

Which  He  hath  not  made  sad. 

The  morning  comes,  behold 

Its  walls  and  gates  descend ! 
The  beauty  never  old. 

The  glory  without  end, 
In  one  full  blaze  of  purest  rays 

The  Twelve  Foundations  Uend ! 

All  hail  the  Day !  how  sweet 

This  Light  to  longing  eyes ! 
How  glad  the  songs  that  greet 

Creation's  groans  and  cries  1 
O  Best  and  Peace  that  never  cease, 

O  Bliss  that  never  dies ! 


Watchman  on  Zion^s  Hillj 

Thy  vision  pierces  far  J 
Discerning  good  and  illj 

The  signs  of  peace  and  war. 
What  of  the  night  f    Is  yonder  light 

The  fnom  or  even  star  f 


CHBISTMAS  EVE.  637 

It  is  the  Star  of  eve ; 

O  world,  the  doom  is  near,  « 

When  they  who  laughed  shall  grieve, 

And  they  who  mocked  shall  fear ; 
Yon  herald  light  prevents  the  night 

When  thou  shalt  disappear ! 

I^st  world !  the  darkness  grows : 

How  shalt  thou  not  be  sad, 
Who  'mid  the  Church's  woes 

Thy  dear  delight  hast  had  ? 
For  now  God's  sun  shall  rise  for  none 

Whom  He  hath  not  made  glad. 


Hear  we  the  Watchman's  cry^ 
'  Mom  comes  and  night ;'  and  pray 

To  Him,  the  Lord  most  High, 
That  He  will  make  our  way 

More  purely  bright  with  shining  light 
Unto  the  perfect  day. 

Amen. 


CHEISTMAS  EVE. 

BT  F.  HARRISON. 

FIBST  LESSON  AT  BYEN80N0. 
(ISAIAH,  LX.) 


Arise  and  shine,  for  glory  v.  I 

Is  risen  on  thee,  and  light. 
Blot  out  the  ancient  story 

Of  them  that  walked  in  night :  v.  2 

The  Gentiles  gather  round  thee,  v.  3 

The  Kings  obey  the  Star, 
Thy  daughters  now  have  found  thee,  v,  4 

Thy  sons  come  from  afar. 

And  who  are  these,  come  flying  v.  8 

Straight  onward  like  a  cloud, 
As  doves  their  home  espying, 

About  the  window  crowd? 


538  THE  MOKTHLT  PACKET. 


They  call  thy  name  the  City  v.  14 

Of  the  Holy  One,  the  Lord  ; 
He  saves  thee  with  His  pity,  v.  15 

Defends  thee  with  His  sword. 

Call  thoa  thy  walls,  Salvation,  v.  18 

Thy  gates,  the  Gates  of  Praise ; 
Thy  Sun's  illumination 

Shall  have  no  waning  rays ; 
The  sun  is  not  thy  Splendour,  v.  19 

Nor  moon  thy  lovely  Light, 
Thy  Lord,  the  Great,  the  Tender,  v.  20 

Is  Light  by  day  and  night. 

Thy  people  afe  victorious,  v.  21 

Thy  land  hath  peace  and  rest ; 
Thy  Monarch  is  the  Glorious, 

Thy  Ruler  is  the  Best ; 
Life  is  thy  flowing  river, 

Love,  joy,  on  either  shore, 
Life  flowing  on  for  ever. 

Love,  joy,  for  evermore. 

Though,  worn  with  long  endeavour,  v,  22 

Through  troubled  lands  we  roam. 
Loved  City,  thou  for  ever 

Art  promised  as  our  Home : 
As  children,  not  as  strangers, 

We  seek  thy  shining  wall ; 
Bright  City,  from  our  dangers 

Receive  and  shield  us  aU ! 


MAGNETISM  OF  THE  EARTH. 

BY  RICHARD  A.  PROCTOR,  B.A.,  F.RA.S. 

AUTHOR  OF   'OTHEB  W0BLD8  THAN  OUBS,*  &C 

Thekb  is  a  prevailing  impression  that  the  magnetic  needle  points  to  the 
North  Pule.  *  True  as  the  needle  to  the  pole '  has  become  a  proverbial 
expression,  and  our  poets  adopt  the  needle  as  the  fittest  emblem  of 
constancy.  Yet  in  reality  the  magnetic  needle  does  not  point,  in  this 
country  at  any  rate,  towards  the  Pole.  Anyone  who  possesses  a  compass 
may  readily  test  this  for  himself  by  observing  at  noon  that  the  southern 
end  of  the  needle  is  pointed  perceptibly  away  from  the  sun's  direction. 


MAGNETISM  OF  THE  EARTH,  539 

The  actual  deflection  is  about  twenty  degrees  towards  the .  west, 
corresponding  to  the  deflection  of  the  minule^hand  of  a  watch  from 
the  hour-mark  XII.,  at  three  and  one-third  minutes  before  any  hour. 
But  this  deflection  is  small  compared  with  that  which  is  observed  in 
many  parts  of  the  earth.  In  Iceland  the  needle  points  some  forty-flve 
degrees  towards  the  west.  In  Greenland  it  points  due  west.  In 
Russian- America,  again,  it  points  about  forty-flve  degrees  towards  the 
east;  and  near  Melville  Island  it  points  due  east. 

This,  however,  is  but  one  of  many  remarkable  peculiarities  which 
characterize  the  Earth's  magnetism.  I  propose  now  to  give  a  brief 
account  of  the  discoveries  which  have  been  made  during  the  last  half 
century  in  this  interesting  field  of  physical  research. 

Undoubtedly  the  discovery  of  the  directive  power  of  the  magnetized 
needle  was  made  in  very  early  ages.  Eight  hundred  years  before  the 
Christian  era,  the  Chinese  applied  this  property  to  guide  them  in  their 
journeys  over  the  wide  plains  of  Asia.  *  They  employed,'  says  Humboldt, 
*'  a  magnetic  car,  on  the  front  of  which  a  floating  needle  carried  a  small 
flgure  whose  outstretched  arm  pointed  southwards.'  How  long  these 
appliances  had  been  employed  before  the  date  of  the  record  referred  to 
by  Humboldt,  does  not  appear;  but  it  has  been  suspected  that  the 
discovery  was  one  of  old  date  even  at  that  distant  epoch. 

It  is  probable,  too,  that  at  a  very  early  period  the  Chinese  must  have 
discovered  that  the  needle  did  not  point  to  the  true  north.  We  find  that 
they  knew  this  in  the  twelfth  century,  but  we  have  no  record  of  the  date 
of  the  actual  discovery.  The  deviation  of  the  needle  from  the  north  was 
independently  detected  by  European  observers  in  the  thirteenth  century ; 
for  there  is  in  the  library  of  the  University  of  Leyden  a  manuscript  work, 
by  Peter  Adsiger,  bearing  date  1269,  in  which  the  deviation  is  clearly 
described. 

This  peculiarity  of  the  needle  is  that  which  English  seamen  commonly 
call  the  variation.  But  continental  physicists  have  named  it  the 
declination  ;  and  this  term  is  now  generally  employed  in  scientific 
researches.  I  shall  employ  this  term  henceforward  in  the  present  paper, 
so  that  the  reader  must  remember  that  the  declination  of  the  needle 
signifies  the  deviation  of  its  axis  from  the  direction  of  the  north  point 

When  the  declination  was  discovered,  it  was  commonly  supposed  that 
in  all  parts  of  the  earth  the  same  phenomenon  would  be  presented. 
The  comparatively  rough  instruments  employed  in  the  thirteenth  and 
fourteenth  centuries  did  not  sufiice  to  indicate  any  difference  between 
the  declination  in  Spain  or  Italy,  and  that  in  Fi*ance  or  England.  But 
towards  the  close  of  the  flfteenlh  century,  the  discovery  was  made  by 
Christopher  Columbus,  that  the  magnetic  needle  does  not  in  all  parts  of 
the  earth  point  in  the  same  direction.  As  the  reader  will  conceive,  this 
discovery  was  made  during  the  first  of  his  voyages  across  the  Atlantic. 
The  magnetic  needle  had  long  been  employed  to  gu'^de  the  seaman  when  out 
of  sight  of  laud;  but  in  that  bold  voyage  the  great  Genoese  sailor  looked 


540  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

to  the  needle  with  a  new  anzietj.  He  was  not  only  passing  out  of  sight 
of  land,  but  he  was  passing  bejond  the  bounds  of  known  seas.  No  guide 
was  left  him  but  the  needle  and  the  stars ;  and  it  was  above  all  things 
needful  that  these  two  guides  should  be  in  accord.  So  that  on  clear 
nights  Columbus  studied  the  behaviour  of  the  needle,  comparing  its 
indications  with  those  of  the  stars,  in  order  that  if  any  errors  should 
appear  in  the  former,  he  might  correct  them  while  there  was  yet  time. 
It  was  fortunate  for  him  and  for  his  purpose  that  this  was  done ;  for  had 
he  followed  the  indication  of  the  needle  alone,  he  would  undoubtedly 
have  been  led  astray. 

When  Columbus  sailed  from  Europe,  the  needle  was  pointing  towards 
the  east  of  north.  But  as  he  continued  his  journey  westwards,  he  found 
the  easterly  declination  of  the  needle  gradually  diminishing.  At  length, 
on  the  Idth  of  September,  1492,  he  being  then  two  hundred  leagues  to 
the  westward  of  the  Isle  of  Ferro,  he  noticed  that  the  needle  was  pointing 
due  north.  Afterwards,  as  he  continued  to  travel  westwards,  he  found 
that  the  needle  shewed  westerly  declination,  which  gradually  increased 
throughout  the  remainder  of  the  voyage. 

But  it  will  not  have  failed  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  observant 
reader  that  there  is  a  discrepancy  between  the  statement  made  in  the 
last  paragraph,  respecting  the  declination  of  the  needle  in  Europe  in  th6 
time  of  Columbus,  and  that  account  of  the  present  declination  of  the 
needle  which  was  given  in  the  first  paragraph  of  this  essay.  We  are 
thus  led  to  notice  a  peculiarity  much  more  remarkable  and  perplexing 
than  the  merely  local  differences  of  magnetic  declination.  I  refer  to  the 
changes  of  declination  taking  place  with  the  progress  of  time.  The 
magnetic  needle  pointed  to  the  east  of  north  in  all  parts  of  Europe 
in  the  time  of  Columbus :  at  the  present  time  it  points  to  the  west  of 
north. 

Who  was  the  first  to  notice  the  gradual  change  of  the  needle's 
declination,  is  not  known.  We  have,  however,  the  dates  of  those 
observations  which  led  to  the  recognition  of  the  law.  The  earliest  exact 
observation  on  record  of  the  needle's  declination  was  made  in  1580,  when 
the  magnetic  needle  was  found  to  have  in  London  an  easterly  declination 
of  11^  degrees,  and  in  Paris  an  easterly  declination  of  11^  degrees. 
The  gradual  change  which  has  taken  place  since  that  time,  is  well  worth 
following  attentively.  In  1618,  the  magnetie  needle  in  Parb  pointed 
only  8  degrees  to  the  east.  Four  years  later,  in  London  the  magnetic 
declination  was  6  degrees.  In  1634  it  had  diminished  to  4^  degrees,  and 
in  1657  the  needle  pointed  due  north  in  London.  But  in  Paris  the 
needle  still  pointed  towards  the  east  at  this  time,  and  it  was  not  until 
1663  that  the  Paris  needle  pointed  due  north.  By  this  time  the  London 
needle  was  pointing  one  degree  to  the  west  of  north,  and  with  this  start 
the  London  needle  was  still  travelling  westwards  when  the  Paris  needle 
bad  begun  to  acquire  westerly  declination.  Both  needles  travelled 
westwards,  the  London  needle  somewhat  increasing  its  lead,  insomuch 


MAGNETISM  OF  THE  EABTH.  541 

that  in  1805  it  pointed  24^  degrees  to  the  west  of  north,  while  th^ 
westerly  declination  of  the  Paris  needle  was  hut  22}  degrees. 

During  all  this  time,  be  it  noted,  both  needles  had  been  travelling 
westwards.  The  London  needle  had  completed  a  westerly  march  of  85^ 
degrees,  the  Paris  needle  one  of  34^  degrees,  since  1580.  And  thus  far 
there  was  nothing  to  shew  that  the  magnetic  compass  both  in  London 
and  in  Paris,  was  not  about  to  make  a  complete  revolution  westwards. 
But  Arago,  the  French  astronomer,  noticed  about  this  time  that  the 
westerly  motion  of  the  Paris  needle  was  flagging,  and  with  that  confidence 
which  characterized  him,  he  announced  as  early  as  1814 — at  which  timQ 
the  westerly  motion  of  the  Paris  needle  was  still  in  progress — his  opinion 
that  the  needle  would  before  long  cease  to  travel  westwards  and  commence 
its  return  journey ;  though  he  admitted  that  *  as  the  needle  had  already 
in  former  times  been  stationary  for  several  years  together,  it  would  be 
prudent  to  await  ulterior  observations  before  definitively  adopting  this 
conclusion.' 

'  In  1817,'  says  Arago,  *  I  thought  I  might  dismiss  my  reserve.  I  then 
said:  '*0n  the  10th  of  February,  1817,  at  one  hour  after  noon,  the 
magnetic  needle  pointed  22^  19  to  the  west  of  north.  This  observation, 
when  compared  with  the  results  of  the  two  preceding  years,  seems 
no  longer  to  leave  any  doubt  as  to  the  retrograde  movement  of  thQ 
magnetic  needle." ' 

But  in  London  no  retrograde  motion  had  commenced.  If  Arago's 
view  was  to  be  regarded  as  just,  then  the  two  needles  which  for  two 
centuries  and  a  half  had  been  travelling  in  the  same  direction  were  now 
travelling  in  different  directions.  The  London  observers  were  not  at 
first  prepared  to  admit  this.  '  Colonel  Beaufoy,'  says  Arago,  *  thought  at 
first  to  invalidate  my  opinion,  by  quoting  against  it  the  observations  made 
in  London  from  1817  to  1819.  But  this  skilful  observer  soon  gave  up 
his  fii*st  impression,  and  came  entirely  into  my  views,  which  have  now 
been  corroborated — he  wrote  in  1853 — by  a  retrogression  which  ha^ 
continued  for  nearly  forty  years.'  Let  me  add,  as  evidence  of  the  amount 
of  labour  which  modem  physicists  are  willing  to  give  to  such  inquiries, 
that  Arago's  opinion  '  had  been  based,'  he  tells  us,  '  on  more  than  twelvei 
thousand  observations.' 

Here,  then,  was  a  most  surprising  circumstance.  The  magnetic  needle, 
the  poet's  emblem  of  constancy,  was  swaying  to  and  fro  in  a  wide  arc» 
and  in  a  period  to  be  measured  by  hundreds  of  years.  By  what  process 
of  change  is  this  slow  oscillation  brought  about!  ^It  was  already 
sufficiently  difficult,'  Arago  justly  remarks,  *to  imagine  what  could  be 
the  kind  of  change  in  the  constitution  of  the  globe  which  could  acf 
during  one  hundred  and  fifty-three  years,  in  gradually  transferring  the 
resultant  of  the  magnetic  forces  of  the  globe  from  due  north  to  23  degrees 
west  of  north.  We  see  that  it  is  now  necessary  to  explain,  moreover, 
how  it  has  happened  that  this  gradual  change  has  ceased,  and  has  givei^ 
place  to  a  return  towards  the  preceding  state  of  the  globe.     How  is  i^ 


642  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

that  the  directive  action  of  the  globe,  which  clearlj  must  result  from  the 
action  of  molecules  of  which  the  globe  is  composed,  can  thus  be  variable^ 
while  the  number,  position,  and  temperature  of  these  molecules,  and,  as 
far  as  we  know,  all  their  other  properties,  remain  constant?' 

It  is  this  which  makes.it  so  difficult  to  theorize  respecting  the  Earth's 
magnetism.  If  the  direction  of  the  magnetic  needle  were  invariable  in 
each  region  of  the  Earth,  then  we  might  be  inclined  to  ascribe  the 
peculiarities  which  distinguish  one  region  from  another,  to  the  action  of 
masses  of  magnetic  metal  in  the  Earth's  interior,  or  to  the  influence  of 
oceans  and  continents,  mountain -ranges,  lakes,  and  the  like.  But  oceans 
end  continents  have  not  shifted  since  1580 ;  earthquakes  and  volcanoes 
maj  have  affected  to  some  small  extent  the  aspect  of  mountain-ranges 
or  the  arrangement  of  fluid  masses  beneath  the  earth's  crust  But  when 
we  consider  the  relative  minuteness  of  the  changes  which  such  forces 
as  these  can  exert,  the  suddenness  of  the  action  on  which  they  depend, 
and  other  like  circumstances  of  their  action,  it  seems  impo.^ible  to 
recognize  in  them  the  explanation  of  progressive  changes  continuing  for 
hundreds  of  years  in  succession. 

Before  passing  on  to  other  peculiarities  of  the  Earth's  magnetism,  let  us 
inquire  what  is  the  actual  distribution  of  easterly  and  westerly  declination 
over  the  surface  of  the  Earth  at  the  present  time.  The  region  in  which 
magnetic  needles  have  westerly  declination,  comprises  the  whole  of 
Europe,  except  the  extreme  north-western  parts  of  Russia;  Turkey, 
Arabia,  Africa,  the  greater  part  of  the  Indian  Ocean,  and  the  western 
parts  of  Australia ;  Greenland,  the  eastern  parts  of  Canada,  the  whole  of 
the  Atlantic  Ocean,  and  the  north-eastern  comer  of  Brazil.  It  wiU  be 
seen  that  all  the  regions  here  named  form  one  great  continuous  section  of 
the  Earth's  surface.  But  there  is  besides,  in  the  midst  of  the  remaining 
section  of  easterly  magnets,  an  oval  space  within  which  the  magnets 
point  (but  very  slightly)  towards  the  west.  This  space  includes  the 
eastern  parts  of  China,  the  Japanese  Islands,  and  Manchouria. 

Besides  turning  towards  a  certain  point  of  the  horizon,  the  magnetic 
needle  tends  to  dip  very  sensibly  at  its  northern  end.  In  the  ordinary 
adjustment  of  the  compass,  this  dip  is  not  recognized ;  but  if  a  needle  be 
carefully  poised,  so>  that  were  it  not  magnetized  it  would  remain  in  a 
horizontal  position,  then  when  magnetized  the  needle  will  take  up  an 
inclined  position.  This  peculiarity  was  first  discovered  by  Robert 
Norman  in  1576.  It  is  called  the  magnetic  inclinationy  and  is  measured 
by  the  angle  which  the  needle  makes  with  the  horizon  plane. 

Like  the  declination,  the  inclination  is  different  in  different  parts  of  the 
Earth.  In  southern  latitudes  it  is  of  course  the  southern  end  of  the 
needle  which  dips.  Hence  in  passing  from  the  northern  to  the  southern 
hemisphere,  a  line  must  be  crossed  where  there  is  no  inclination.  North 
of  this  line  the  northern  end  dips,  south  of  it  the  southern,  and  upon  the 
line  the  needle  is  horizontal.  This  line,  called  the  magnetic  equator,  or 
the  line  of  no  inclination^  does  not  coincide  with  the  terrestrial  equator, 


MAGNETISM  OF  THE  EARTH.  543 

but  forms  an  inclined  circle  which  crosses  the  equator  in  longitude  3 
degrees  west,  and  173  degrees  west,  of  Greenwich;  lying  north  of  the 
equator  to  the  east  of  Greenwich,  and  south  to  the  west. 

As  might  be  anticipated,  the  inclination  varies  from  time  to  time  as 
well  as  from  place  to  place.  In  fact,  if  we  consider  that  inclination  and 
declination  are  merely  parts  of  one  characteristic  feature  of  the  needle — 
its  position  of  rest  or  poise — we  see  that  one  cannot  change  without  the 
other. 

It  will  naturally  occur  to  the  reader  to  inquire  whether  the  inclination 
varies  in  the  same  periodic  manner  as  the  declination.  For  instance,  we 
have  seen  that  in  London  the  needle  pointed  due  north  in  1657,  and 
completed  its  westerly  excursion  in  1819 ;  and  that  in  Paris  the  needle 
pointed  due  north  in  1663,  and  completed  its  westerly  excursion  in  1814. 
Has  the  inclination  in  these  two  places  shewn  any  peculiarities  corres- 
ponding to  these  epochs  ? 

At  first  sight  it  would  seem  as  though  an  answer  must  be  returned  in 
the  negative.  The  inclination  at  Paris  has  been  continually  decreasing 
since  it  was  first  observed,  viz.  in  1671,  and  is  steadily  decreasing  at  the 
present  time.  The  inclination  in  London  has  not  been  observed  so  long, 
but  since  1786  it  has  steadily  diminished,  and  is  now  still  diminishing. 
The  actual  inclination  in  Paris  is  now  about  65  degrees,  in  London  about 
67  degrees,  so  that  (since  an  inclination  of  90  degrees  would  mean  that 
the  needle  is  pointing  vertically  downwards)  the  needle's  position  of  rest 
or  poise  is  much  nearer  the  veitical  than  the  horizontal  in  London  and 
Paris. 

But  can  we  reconcile  the  apparent  discrepancies  between  the  change  of 
inclination  and  the  change  of  declination  ?  Can  we  shew  why  or  how 
the  inclination  might  continue  to  change  in  one  direction,  while  the 
declination  was  passing  through  its  extreme  limit  of  change  towards  the 
west?  It  is  not  difiicult  to  do  so;  but  we  have  to  attend  to  some 
considerations  not  yet  dealt  with,  before  we  can  see  the  real  significance 
of  the  peculiarity. 

We  have  seen  that  there  is  a  line  along  the  Earth  where  the  needle  has 
no  inclination.  With  increase  of  distance  from  this  line  on  either  side  of 
it;  the  inclination  increases,  much  in  the  same  way  that  with  increase  of 
distance  from  the  Earth's  equator  the  apparent  elevation  of  the  visible 
pole  of  the  heavens  increases,  only  not  altogether  so  regularly.  And  just 
as  at  the  two  poles  of  the  Earth  the  pole  of  the  heavens  is  overhead,  so 
at  two  points  which  lie  nearly  as  far  as  possible  from  the  magnetic 
equator — so  as  to  correspond  very  closely  to  the  mathematical  poles  of 
that  circle — the  magnetic  needle  assumes  a  vertical  position.  These 
points  are  called  the  magnetic  inclination  poles  of  the  Earth.  One  lies 
in  about  70  degrees  north  latitude,  and  263  degrees  east  longitude.  The 
other  lies  in  an  inaccessible  part  of  the  Antarctic  Seas.  Captain  Sir  J. 
G.  Ross,  who  discovered  the  northern  magnetic  inclination  pole,  made 
the  nearest  approach  yet  effected  towards  the  southern  one^  and  he 


544  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

assifi^ed  to  it  a  position  in  75  degrees  south  latitude^  and  154  degrees 
east  longitude. 

Now  these  inclination  poles-^which  for  mj  own  part  I  should  much 
prefer  to  call  the  magnetic  poles  simplj,  only  science  bids  otherwise — are 
also  the  declination  poles,  or  nearly  so.  That  is,  if  the  direction  of  thct 
needle  considered  with  respect  to  the  horizon  could  be  noted  at  different 
places  round  one  of  these  poles,  it  would  be  found  to  be  always  in  the 
direction  of  the  pole.  But  it  is  clear  that  the  declination  of  the  magnetic 
needle  cannot  be  very  easily  noted  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  inclination 
poles ;  since  the  tendency  of  the  needle  is  to  be  nearly  upright,  and  itsi 
directive  power  with  respect  to  the  horizon  is  therefore  all  but 
evanescent. 

Now  when  we  learn  that  the  inclination  of  the  needle  in  London  or 
Paris  is  diminishing,  we  may  conclude  pretty  confidently  that  the  distance 
of  the  magnetic  inclination  pole  from  London  or  Paris  is  increasing* 
For  we  know  that  when  voyaging  towards  or  from  these  poles,  we  find 
the  inclination  increase  or  diminish  respectively,  and  so  we  come  ta 
regard  the  greatness  of  the  inclination  as  a  measure  of  the  nearness  of  the 
magnetic  inclination  pole.  But  London  and  Paris  are  not  travelling  over 
the  face  of  the  Earth  away  from  the  northern  magnetic  pole.  Most 
assuredly  the  mountain  is  not  coming  to  Mahomet.  We  conclude, 
therefore,  that  Mahomet  is  going  to  the  mountain.  Or,  in  plain  words, 
the  magnetic  inclination  pole  is  removing  farther  away  from  London  and 
Paris. 

But  in  what  way  is  this  pole  leaving  our  neighbourhood  ?  To  learn 
this  we  need  only  refer  to  the  change  of  declination.  In  1667  Uie 
magnetic  pole  was  certainly  due  north  of  London,  for  the  needle  pointed 
due  north.  It  was  as  certainly  moving  westwards,  for  the  needle  which 
before  had  been  pointing  eastward  of  north,  thenceforward  began  to  point 
westward  of  north;  and  furthermore,  the  pole  is  now,  as  we  know, 
aomewhere  near  Melville  Island,  or  far  to  the  west  of  the  longitude 
of  Greenwich. 

Since  then  this  magnetic  pole  has  been  travelling  from  a  place  due 
north  of  us  and  relatively  near,  to  a  more  westwardly  place  farther  from 
us ;  is  it  not  obvious  that  it  has  been  travelling  around  the  real  pole  of 
the  Earth  (say  near  the  Arctic  Circle)  westward  towards  its  present 
place  f 

But  in  so  travelling  it  would  reach  its  greatest  westwardly  range  after 
completing  about  a  quarter  of  a  revolution.  Its  increase  of  westwardly 
longitude  would  continue;  but  if  we  could  see  it  through  the  Earth's 
mass,  we  should  find  it  returning  to  the  northerly  direction.  That  this 
is  so  needs  no  proof,  because  it  is  obvious  that  after  a  half  revolution 
round  the  true  pole  of  the  Earth,  the  magnetic  pole  would  be  due  nortl^ 
again,  only  on  the  further  side  of  the  pole. 

The  westerly  declination,  then,  would  reach  its  greatest  amount  wheq 
the  magnetic  pole  bad  completed  about  one-fourth  of  a  revolution  round 


MAGNETISM  OF  THE  EAKTH.  545 

the  pole  of  the  Earth.  But  the  inclination  wonld  not  at  the  same  time 
have  reached  its  least  valae.  For  it  is  obvious  that  the  magnetic  pole's 
distance  from  us  would  continue  to  increase  until  half  a  revolution  had 
been  completed ;  or,  in  other  words,  until  the  magnetic  pole  was  due 
north  again,  but  on  the  farther  instead  of  the  nearer  side  of  the  true  North 
Pole. 

I  would  not  be  understood  to  assert  that  the  magnetic  pole  travels  thus 
in  an  uniform  way  around  the  true  pole  of  the  Earth ;  on  the  contrary,  I 
have  little  doubt  that  the  couree  of  the  former  pole  is  tortuous,  and  its 
motion  irregular.  But  that^  on  the  whole,  and  taking  the  outstanding 
balance  of  motion  among  all  such  deviations,  the  magnetic  pole  has  made 
its  way  through  more  than  a  fourth  of  a  revolution  around  the  North  Pole 
of  the  Earth,  I  consider  to  be  a  demonstrated  fact. 

Hitherto  we  have  been  considering  two  features  of  one  magnetic 
element,  the  directive  power  of  the  needle.  A  properly-poised  needle  in 
any  place  assumes  a  certain  definite  position,  which  determines  at  once 
the  relations  called  the  declination  and  the  inclination.  But  there  is 
another  characteristic,  of  equal,  many  think  of  greater,  importance ;  and 
that  is,  the  force  or  energy  wfth  which  the  needle  seeks  its  position  of 
rest  or  poise.  This  is  not  the  same  in  all  places ;  and  in  fact,  it  varies 
Systematically  over  the  Earth's  surface,  just  as  the  inclination  and 
declination  have  been  seen  to  vary.  It  need  hardly  be  said  that  the 
force  in  question  is  exceedingly  minute.  1£  we  attach  a  thread  to  the 
extremity  of  a  magnetized  needle  properly  poised,  and  having  allowed  the 
needle  to  assume  its  position  of  rest,  tiy  to  determine  what  force  is 
necessary  to  pull  the  north  end  away  from  its  position,  we  find  that  the 
very  minuteness  of  the  force  prevents  us  from  determining  its  amount. 
Bui  fortunately  there  is  a  very  sure  way  of  determining  the  force  with 
which  the  magnetized  needle  seeks  its  position  of  rest;  or  rather^for 
this  is  the  point  of  real  importance — there  is  a  very  sure  way  of 
comparing  the  intensity  of  the  magnetic  force  at  different  stations.  We 
have  only  to  set  the  poised  needle  in  vibration,  and  to  count  the  number 
of  vibrations  taking  place  in  a  given  time.  The  rapidity  of  vibration  is 
proportionate  to  the  intensity  of  the  force.  This  follows  from  a  well- 
known  mechanical  law.  Anyone  who  possesses  a  somewhat  powerful 
magnet  may  test  the  law  in  a  variety  of  ways.  Thus  if  he  compare  the 
number  of  vibrations  made  by  a  poised  needle  in  presence  of  this  magnet, 
when  the  latter  is  placed  at  different  distances,  he  will  recognize  the 
increase  resulting  from  the  proximity  (and  therefore  increased  action)  of 
the  disturbing  magnet.  Or  again,  if  he  hang  a  piece  of  iron  by  a  string 
and  count  tiie  vibrations  made  by  this  pendulum  under  the  action  of 
gravity  alone,  and  afterwards  when  the  magnet  is  placed  beneath  the 
swinging  iron  so  as  to  reinforce  the  action  of  gravity,  and  yet  again  when 
ihe  magnet  is  placed  above  the  swinging  iron  so  as  to  diminish  the  action 
of  gravity,  he  will  soon  become  convinced  of  the  importance  of  this  means 
of  measuring  the  intensity  of  attracting  forces. 

VOL.   10.  37  PA.RT  60. 


546  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Now  men  of  science  have  been  careful  to  apply  this  method  to 
determine  the  force  of  the  Earth's  mngnetiflm  at  a  number  of  stations. 
I  believe  that  General  Sabine,  who  accompanied  Ross  and  Puitj  in 
their  scientific  Polar  explorations,  was  the  first  to  insist  on  the 
importance  of  such  observations.  To  him  undoubtedly  we  owe  in 
large  degree  the  extension  of  the  system  of  observation  to  a  number 
of  stations  in  different  parts  of  the  British  Empire ;  and  Humboldt 
and  others  co-operating  in  other  lands,  the  means  were  soon  obtained 
of  determining  the  intensity  of  the  Earth's  action  at  a  very  large  number 
of  stations  in  the  Old  and  New  World,  and  in  both  hemispheres. 

It  results  from  these  observations  that  the  intensity — as  this  element 
of  the  needle's  action  is  called — has  its  least  value  along  a  curve  lying 
not  very  far  from  the  Earth's  equator,  but  neither  coinciding  with  it  nor 
with  the  magnetic  equator  already  considered.  The  intensity  increases 
on  either  side  of  this  line,  somewhat  as  the  inclination  does;  only 
instead  of  attaining  its  greatest  value  at  one  pole  in  either  hemisphere, 
there  are  two  magnetic  poles  in  each  hemisphere.  For  be  it  noticed 
that  we  are  directed  by  the  authorities  in  this  special  department  of 
science  to  regard  the  intensity  poles  as  the  true  magnetic  poles  of  the 
Earth,  and  the  inclination  poles  as  but  of  secondary  importance.  Of 
the  northern  magnetic  poles,  one  lies  in  Siberia,  nearly  where  the  River 
Lena  crosses  the  Arctic  Circle,  the  other  a  few  degrees  to  the  north 
of  Lake  Superior.  One  of  the  Antarctic  poles  lies  near  Adelie  Island, 
the  other  close  by  the  Antarctic  Circle,  in  about  120  degrees  west 
longitude.  To  these  relations  we  must  add  the  peculiarity,  that  '  there 
IS  a  line  of  lower  intensity  running  right  round  the  Earth  along  the 
valleys  of  the  two  great  oceans,  passing  through  Behring's  Straits,  and 
bisecting  the  Pacific  on  one  side  of  the  globe,  and  passing  out  of  the 
Arctic  Sea  by  Spitzbergen  and  down  the  Atlantic  on  the  other.' 

For  my  own  part,  as  I  have  already  hinted,  I  venture  to  demur  to 
the  arrangement  which  attaches  primary  importance  to  the  intensity 
poles  and  the  intensity  equator.  It  appears  clear  to  roe  that  the 
inclination  pole  and  the  inclination  equator  should  be  regarded  as  the 
true  magnetic  pole  and  equator  respectively.  General  Sabine,  the 
present  esteemed  and  venerable  President  of  the  Royal  Society,*  has 
urged  that  the  intensity  is  to  be  regarded  as  more  essentially  a  magnetic 
element  than  the  inclination  or  declination,  which  depend  on  the  vertical 
and  the  cardinal  points — that  is,  on  non-magnetic  relations :  and  on  this 
account  he  regards  the  intensity  equator  and  pole  as  the  true  magnetic 
equator  and  pole.  It  does  not  appear  to  me  that  this  reasoning  is 
sufficient  To  take  a  parallel  case:  suppose  the  Earth's  equator  were 
in  question.  Then  we  might  nrgue,  that  to  determine  the  place  of  the 
Earth's  equator  by  observing  when  the  poles  of  the  heavens  are  on  the 
horizon,  or  by  any  other  method  of  astronomical  observation,  is  incorrect^ 

*  A  day  or  two  after  this  was  written  I  heard  of  General  Sabine's  resignation  of 
that  office.    I  preferred,  however,  to  leave  the  passage  unchanged. 


BfAGNETISM  OF  THE  EARTH.  547 

because  such  relations  are  celestial,  not  terrestrial:  whereas  (it  might 
further  be  urged)  the  force  of  gravity  is  a  true  terrestrial  force,  and  our 
Earth's  equator  ought  therefore  to  be  determined  by  noting  where  the 
force  of  gravity  is  least,  and  the  poles  in  like  manner  by  noting  where 
the  force  of  gravity  is  greatest.  Tliis  reasoning  seems  strictly  parallel 
to  that  which  leads  to  the  adoption  of  the  magnetic  intensity  (inste'ad 
of  the  direction  of  the  needle)  as  the  true  guide  in  determining  the 
magnetic  equator  and  pole.  And  precisely  as  it  would  be  a  most 
tremendous  problem  to  determine  the  place  of  the  Earth's  equator  and 
poles  by  noting  the  variation  of  the  force  of  gravity  as  we  passed  from 
station  to  station,  while  the  results  never  could  be  quite  satis&ctory,  so 
it  is  a  very  difficult  problem  to  determine  the  place  of  the  magnetic 
intensity  equator  and  poles;  and  very  little  confidence  can  be  placed 
in  the  results  which  have  been  obtained.  For  as  we  near  the  intensity 
equator,  we  find  the  intensity  changing  more  and  more  slowly,  until  at 
last  its  diminution  is  almost  imperceptible  even  in  a  distance  of  twenty 
or  thirty  miles ;  and  similarly  near  the  poles  the  intensity  changes  very 
slowly.  But  the  inclination  changes  as  fast  when  we  are  crossing  the 
inclination  equator  as  when  we  are  at  a  distance  from  that  curve;  so 
also  as  we  cross  the  inclination  poles,  we  find  the  inclination  changing 
quite  as  fast  (for  given  distances)  as  in  other  regions.  So  that  nothing 
is  easier  than  to  determine  the  true  place  of  the  inclination  poles  and 
equator.  Besides,  we  can  conceive  that  very  slight  peculiarities  in  the 
configuration  of  a  region  as  respects  mountains  and  vallejrs,  land  and 
water,  metallic  veins  or  their  absence,  and  so  on,  would  quite  appreciably 
affect  the  intensity,  and  make  the  determination  of  the  poles  and  equator 
not  merely  difiicult  but  untrustworthy ;  whereas,  such  relations  could  by 
no  means  affect  to  the  same  extent  the  inclination  and  declination. 

In  fine,  adopting  the  magnetic  intensity  for  our  guide  seems  to  me  as 
unsound  a  plan,  as  though  one  should  insist  on  determining  when  each 
hour  is  reached  by  measuring  the  distance  of  the  end  of  a  clock's 
minute-hand  from  the  ground,  in  preference  to  noting  when  that  band  is 
vertical. 

We  have  now  considered  the  three  main  features  of  terrestrial 
magnetism — the  inclination,  the  declination,  and  the  intensity — with 
reference  to  those  broader  characteristics  wliich  relate  to  position  on 
the  Earth's  surfiice,  and  time  counted  by  years  and  centuries.  But  the 
most  interesting  features  of  the  Earth's  magnetic  action  are  those  which 
have  reference  to  minute  changes  occurring  in  shorter  periods. 

Graham  discovered  in  1722  tiiat  a  well-poised  magnetic  needle 
performs  each  day  a  minute  oscillation  about  its  mean  place.  Since  that 
time,  but  more  particularly  durin^r  the  last  sixty  years,  this  peculiarity 
has  been  very  carefully  studied.  The  laws  of  tlie  diurnal  variation  have 
been  shewn  to  be  in  a  general  sense  sufiiciently  simple,  though  their 
physical  interpretation  is  by  no  means  an  easy  matter.  The  Sun  lies 
twice  in  the  day  in  the  direction  pointed  to  by  the  magnetic  needle :  in 


548  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

the  daytime,  he  passes  somewhat  before  noon  that  pArt  6(  his  dnily 
oourse  towards  which  the  southern  end  of  the  needle  points ;  and  during 
the  nighty  he  passes  somewhat  before  midnight  that  part  of  his  nocturnal 
course  towards  which  the  northern  end  of  the  needle  points.  Now  when 
be  is  passing  these  points,  the  needle  has  its  mean  position.  And  again, 
yrlten  he  is  midway  between  those  points,  the  needle  has  its  mean 
position.  But  at  all  other  times,  the  end  of  the  needle  which  is  nearest 
to  the  Sun  is  Swayed  sliglitly  away  from  its  mean  place.  It  is  precisely 
as  though  the  Sun  had  the  power  of  attracting  the  nearest  end  of  the 
needle— to  a  slight  esttent^  it  is  true,  but  still  perceptibly.  Looking  at 
the  oscillation  in  this  way,  we  see  why  the  needle  is  four  times  in  the 
day  in  its  mean  position.  For  obviously,  When  the  Sun  is  in  the 
direction  pointed  to  by  one  end  or  the  other  of  the  needle,  (in  its  mean 
position,)  he  can  exert  no  action  to  disturb  the  needle  from  that  position ) 
and  it  is  equally  obyious,  that  when  the  Sun  is  mid-way  between  thoro 
two  parts  of  his  path,  he  attracts  one  end  of  the  needle  just  as  much  at 
he  attracts  the  other,  and  so  the  needle  remains  unchanged  in  position* 
At  all  other  times,  his  action  is  greater  on  one  end  of  the  needle  tbatt 
the  other,  and  so  disturbs  the  needle. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  Sun's  action  as  of  the  nature  of  an  attractivB 
force,  because  the  needle  behaves  as  if  the  Sun  so  acted.  But  the  reader 
will  remember,  of  course,  that  this  description  has  merely  been  employed 
to  shew  what  really  happens,  not  fvhy  it  happens.  We  do  not  know 
that  the  Sun  At^tually  attracts  the  needle,  only  that  the  end  nearest  to 
him  moves  towards  him  as  t/^  attracted. 

Then  there  is  an  annual  variation  in  the  needle's  position,  and  also  Iti 
the  energy  with  which  it  seeks  its  position  of  rest.  The  daily  oscillattbn 
is  greater  in  January  than  at  any  other  part  of  the  year^  and  is  least  in 
July }  the  intensity  of  the  magnetic  force  folk>wing  the  same  law# 

We  see,  then,  that  the  heat  of  the  Sun  is  not  the  chief  eaus^  of  ihm 
magnetic  oscillations.  This  is,  indeed,  proved  not  only  by  the  annual 
but  by  the  diurnal  variation.  For  we  have  seen  that  the  daily  variation 
depends  on  the  Sun's  position  with  respect  to  the  needle  itself,  not  to  the 
progress  of  the  day  as  regards  light  and  heat.  And  now  we  see  that 
this  is  true  of  the  yearly  change.  January,  the  coldest  month  in  the 
year,  is  that  in  which  the  needle's  oscillations  are  greatest;  in  July, 
when  the  Sun's  heat  is  greatest,  the  daily  vibrations  are  leasts  Nor  are 
we  left  in  doubt  whether  this  may  not  mean  that  cold  is  favourable  to 
the  disturbance  of  the  magnetic  needle.  For  at  Melboame  and  Cape 
Town,  and  in  other  southern  observatories,  the  same  law  holds  good, 
though  there  January  is  the  hottest  and  July  the  coldest  month  of  the 
year. 

Does  astronomy  tell  us  anything  which  knay  serve  to  account  for  this 
peculiarity  ?  It  does.  In  January  the  Sun  is  nearer  to  the  Eatth  by 
three  millions  of  miles  than  he  is  in  July.  His  magnetic  action,  like 
his  attractive  energy,  is  thus  found  to  increase  as  we  approaoh  him} 


MAGNETISM  07  TH£  EARTH.  549 

and  precisely  cis  the  Earth  when  nearest  to  the  Sun  is  forced  to  speed 
more  swiftly  on  her  orbit,  so  the  magnetic  needle,  when  brought 
by  the  Earth's  n.otion  nearest  to  the  Sun,  is  found  to  vibrate  more 
energetically. 

Then  there  is  a  monthly  period  depending  on  the  Moon's  motion  in 
her  orbit  round  the  Earth.  We  owe  to  General  Sabine  the  detection 
of  the  Moon's  influence  on  the  Earth's  magnetism.  And  though  the 
influence  is  so  slight  as  to  be  almost  imperceptible,  yet  it  may  be 
regarded  as  one  of  the  most  instructive  of  all  the  features  of  terrestrial 
magnetism;  since  it  seems  to  prove  beyond  all  possibility  of  question, 
that  the  action  of  external  orbs  on  the  magnetism  of  the  Earth  depends, 
like  gravity,  at  once  on  the  mass  and  nearness  of  those  orbs,  and  not  on 
the  heat  they  emit;  for  in  the  latter  case  the  Moon  could  exert  no 
sensible  influence. 

But  of  all  the  penodic  variations  of  the  Earth's  magnetism,  that 
which  has  a  period  of  about  ten  years  and  a  half  is  the  most  remarkable 
and  interesting.  Considered  in  itself  the  circumstance  is  striking,  that 
the  magnetic  needle  should  vibrate  with  varying  energy  in  a  period  of 
such  duration.  If  we  consider  that  a  well-poised  needle,  placed  quite 
out  of  the  range  of  the  sun's  light  and  heat,  will  vibrate  day  afler  day 
in  accordance  with  his  motion  along  his  (apparent)  diurnal  path ;  that 
these  vibrations  will  wax  and  wane  in  extent  and  energy,  as  the  Sun 
traverses  his  (apparent)  yearly  path ;  and  lastly,  that  in  a  period  ten 
times  as  long,  the  vibrations,  with  their  annual  waxings  and  wanings, 
will  pass  slowly  from  a  maximum  to  a  minimum  of  energy — we  cannot 
but  wonder  at  the  apparent  complexity  of  tlie  whole  system  of  changes. 
But  how  much  is  our  wonder  enhanced,  how  greatly  is  the  significance 
of  the  evidence  increased,  when  it  is  found  tlmt  this  ten-and-a-half-year 
period  synchronizes  with  the  Sun-spot  period — that  as  the  spots  and 
stains  on  the  Sun's  face  increase  and  diminish  in  size  and  frequency,  so 
also  the  sway  of  the  magnetic  needle  increases  and  diminishes  in  extent ! 
Into  the  evidence  on  which  this  striking  fact  depends  I  need  not  here 
enter,  as  it  is  fully  dealt  with  in  a  paper  on  the  Sun  in  The  Monthly 
Packet  for  January,  1869 ;  in  which  paper  also  the  association  between 
terrestrial  magnetism  and  auroral  displays,  and  that  existing  between 
magnetic  storms  and  solar  disturbances,  was  sufficiently  described. 

Here,  for  the  present,  I '  take  leave  of  tliis  interesting  subject, 
reminding  the  reader,  however,  that  I  have  been  able  to  touch  but 
imperfectly  on  some  of  its  most  important  branches.  Those  who  wish 
to  obtain  a  fuller  knowledge  of  the  subject,  should  study  the  masterly 
papers  by  General  Sabine  in  the  Philosophical  Transactions  and  Reports 
of  the  Btitish  Association.  They  will  find  much  that  is  interesting  and 
iostructive;  and,  unless  I  mistake,  the  value  of  such  information  will 
daily  increase,  since  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  before  long 
the  science  of  terrestrial  magnetism  will  tnke  an  even  worthier  and 
more  assured  place  than  it  yet  holds  amongst  the  demonstrative  sciences. 


550  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

In  fine,  to  quote  words  which  I  wrote  more  than  a  year  ago— *  In 
dealing  with  the  indications  of  the  magnetic  needle;  in  studying  the 
changes  which  take  place  from  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year,  and  from 
century  to  century,  in  fixed  observatories;  in  comparing  the  directive 
action  of  the  compass  in  different  localities ;  and  in  watching  the 
processes  of  change  affecting  the  general  aspect  of  the  Earth's  magnetic 
habitudes  daring  long  intervals  of  time — we  are  in  reality  dealing  with 
phenomena  of  cosmicai  importance.  We  may,  in  fact,  look  on  our 
Earth  as  an  outlying  observatory,  whence  we  are  enabled  to  watch  the 
changes  of  the  Sun's  magnetic  action,  and  to  determine  the  laws  according 
to  which  it  operates.  Viewed  in  this  light,  the  study  of  terrestrial 
magnetism  becomes  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  important  wliich 
can  occupy  the  attention  of  our  men  of  science.' 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE   HOUSE; 

OB, 

UNDER   WODE,   UNDER  RODE. 
CHAPTER  XII. 

GIANT  despair's  CASTLE. 

*  Who  haplc^se  and  eke  hopelesse  all  in  vaine, 
Did  to  him  pace  sad  battle  to  darrayne ; 
Disamid,  disgraste^  and  inwardly  dismayde, 
And  eke  so  faint  in  every  ioynt  and  vayne, 
Through  that  fraile  fonntaine  which  him  feeble  made.* 

Spenser, 

Felix's  majoritj  made  no  immediate  difference.  His  thirteenth  part 
of  his  father's  small  property  remained  with  the  rest,  at  any  rate  until 
his  guardian  should  return  from  his  travels  in  the  East;  but  in  the 
course  of  the  winter,  his  kind  old  godfather,  Admiral  Chester,  died, 
and  having  no  nearer  relation,  left  him  the  result  of  his  small  savings 
out  of  his  pay,  which  would,  the  lawyer  wrote,  amount  to  about  a 
thousand  pounds;  but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  business  to  be 
transacted,  and  it  would  be  long  before  the  sum  was  made  over  to  him. 

Wilmet  and  Geraldine  thought  it  a  perfect  fortune,  leading  to  the 
University,  and  release  from  trade ;  and  they  looked  rather  crest-fallen 
when  they  heard  that  it  only  meant  £30  per  annum  in  the  funds,  or 
£50  in  some  risky  investment.  Mr.  Froggatt's  wish  was  that  he  should 
purchase  such  a  share  in  the  business  as  would  really  give  him  standing 
there;  but  Wilmet  heard  this  with  regret;  she  did  not  like  his  thus 
binding  himself  absolutely  down  to  trade. 


) 


THE  PILLABS  OF  THS  HOUSE.  551 

'  You  are  thinking  for  Alda/  said  Felix,  smiling.  *  You  are  considering 
how  Froggatt  and  Underwood  will  sound  in  her  ears.' 

'In  mine  too,  Felix ;  I  do  not  like  it.' 

'  I  would  willingly  endure  it  to  become  Redstone's  master,'  said  Felix 
quietly, 

'Is  he  still  so  vexatious?'  asked  Geraldine;  for  not  above  once  in 
six  months  did  Felix  speak  of  any  trials  fi*om  his  companions  in 
business. 

'Not  actively  so;  but  things  might  be  better  done,  and  much  ill 
blood  saved.  I  cannot  share  W.  W.'s  peculiar  pride  in  preferring  to 
be  an  assistant  instead  of  a  partner.' 

'Then  this  is  what  you  mean  to  do  with  it?' 

'  Wait  till  it  comes,'  he  said  oracularly.  '  Seriously,  though,  I  don't 
want  to  tie  it  all  up.    Tlie  boys  may  want  a  start  in  life.' 

Neither  sister  thought  of  observing  that  the  legacy  was  to  one,  not 
to  all.  Everybody  regarded  what  belonged  to  Felix  as  common 
property ;  and  the  '  boys '  were  far  enough  into  their  teens  to  begin 
to  make  their  future  an  anxious  consideration.  Clement  was  just 
seventeen,  and  though  he  had  outgrown  his  voice,  was  lingering  on 
as  a  sort  of  adopted  child  at  St.  Matthew's,  helping  in  the  parish 
school,  and  reading  under  one  of  the  clergy  in  preparation  for  standing 
for  a  scholarship.  He  tried  for  one  in  the  autumn,  but  failed,  so  much 
to  his  surprise  and  disgust,  that  he  thought  hostility  to  St.  Matthew's 
must  be  at  the  bottom  of  his  rejection ;  and  came  home  with  somewhat 
of  his  martyr-like  complacency  at  Christmas,  meaning  to  read  so  hard 
as  to  force  his  way  in  spite  of  prejudice.  He  was  very  tall,  fair, 
and  slight;  and  his  features  were  the  more  infantine  from  a  certain 
melancholy  baby-like  gravity,  which  music  alone  dispersed.  He  really 
played  beautifully,  and  being  entrusted  with  the  organ  during  the 
schoolmaster's  Christmas  holidays,  made  practising  his  chief  recreation. 
That  Lance  would  often  follow  him  into  church  for  a  study,  and 
always  made  one  of  the  group  round  the  piano  when  Alice  Knevett 
came  to  sing  with  them,  was  a  great  grievance  to  Fulbert,  who  never 
loved  music,  and  hated  it  as  a  rival  for  Lance's  attention. 

These  two  were  generally  the  closest  companions,  and  were  alike  in 
having  more  boyishness,  restlessness,  and  enterprise,  than  their  brothers. 
This  winter  their  ambition  was  to  be  at  all  the  meets  within  five 
miles,  follow  up  the  hunt,  and  be  able  to  report  the  fox's  death  at 
the  end  of  the  day.  Indeed,  their  appetite  for  whatever  bore  the 
name  of  sport  was  as  ravenous  as  it  was  indiscriminate ;  and  their 
rapturous  communications  could  not  be  checked  by  Clement's  manifest 
contempt^  or  the  discouraging  indifference  of  the  rest — ^all  but  Robina, 
who  loved  whatever  Lance  loved,  and  was  ready  to  go  to  a  meet,  if 
Wilmet  had  not  interfered  with  a  high  hand. 

Before  long  Felix  wished  that  his  authority  over  the  male  part  of 
the  family  were  as  well  established  as  that  in  her  department. 


552  THK  MONTHLY  FACKET. 

One  hunting  day  the  two  brothers  came  in  Bplashed  up  to  the  ejes, 
recounting  how  they  had  found  a  boj  of  about  their  own  age  in  n 
ditch,  bruised  and  stunned,  but  not  seriouslj  hurt ;  how  with  consola- 
tion and  scbool-boj  surgery  they  had  cheered  him,  and  found  he  was 
Harry  Collis,  whom  they  hod  known  as  a  school- fellow  at  Bezleyi 
how  they  had  helped  him  home  to  Marshland  Hall,  and  had  been 
amazed  at  the  dreariness  and  want  of  all  home  comfort  at  the  place^ 
BO  that  they  did  not  like  to  leave  him  till  his  father  came  home;  and 
how  Captain  Collis  had  not  only  thanked  them  warmly,  but  had  asked 
them  over  to  come  and  shoot  rabbits  the  next  day. 

There  was  nothing  to  blame  them  for,  but  Felix  had  much  rather 
it  had  never  happened.  Captain  Collis  was  one  of  a  race  of  squires 
who  had  never  been  ver}'  reputable,  and  had  not  risen  greatly  above 
the  farmer.  He  had  been  in  the  army,  and  had  the  bearing  of  a 
gentleman ;  but  ever  since  his  wife's  death,  he  had  lived  an  un- 
satisfactory sort  of  life  at  the  Hall,  always  forward  in  sport,  but  not 
well  thought  of,  and  believed  to  be  a  good  deal  in  debt.  His  only 
child,  this  Harry  Collis,  had  been  sent  somewhat  fitfully  to  the  St. 
Oswald's  Grammar  School,  and  had  been  rather  a  favourite  companion 
of  Lance's ;  but  separation  had  put  an  end  to  the  intimacy,  and  this 
renewal  was  not  at  ail  to  the  taste  of  their  eldest  brother. 

'It  can't  be  helped  this  time,'  he  said,  when  he  heard  of  the 
invitation ;  '  I  suppose  you  must  go  to-morrow,  but  I  don't  fancy  the 
concern.' 

Fulbcrt's  bristles  began  to  rise,  but  Lance  chattered  gaily  on:  ^But, 
Fee,  you  never  saw  such  a  place!  Stables  for  nine  hunters.  Only 
think !  And  a  horse  entered  for  the  Derby !  We  are  to  see  him 
to-morrow.     It  is  the  joUiest  place.' 

^Nine  hunters !'  moralized  Clement;  '  they  cost  as  much  as  three  timea 
nine  orphans.' 

'And  they  are  worth  a  dozen  times  as  much  as  the  nasty  little  beggars  P 
said  Fulbert. 

On  which  Angela  put  in  the  trite  remark  that  the  orphans  had  souls. 

'  Precious  rum  ones,'  muttered  Fulbert ;  and  in  the  clamour  thus  raised, 
the  subject  dropped;  but  when  next  morning,  in  the  openness  of  his 
heart,  Lance  invited  Clement  to  go  with  them  to  share  the  untold  joys 
of  rabbit-shooting,  he  met  with  a  decisive  reply.  '  Certainly  not  I  I 
should  think  your  Dean  would  be  surprised  at  you.' 

'  Oh,  the  Dean  is  a  kind  old  chap,'  answered  lance,  off-hand ; '  whenever 
he  has  us  to  sing  at  a  party,  he  tips  us  all  round,  thanks  us,  and  tells 
us  to  enjoy  ourselves  in  the  supper-room,  like  a  gentleman  as  he  is.' 

'Do  you  know  what  this  Collis's  character  is! ' 

'  Hang  his  character  I   I  want  his  rabbits.' 

And  Lance  was  off  with  Fulbert ;  while  Clement  remained,  to  make 
Gkraldine  nnhappy  with  his  opinion  of  the  temptations  of  Marshland 
HaU,  returning  to  the  charge  when  Felix  came  in  before  dinner. 


i 


THE  PILLABS  OF  tH£  HOUSE.  553 

« Yes/  said  Felix  briefly,  *  Mr.  Fro^att  bas  beea  telling  me.  It  must 
be  stopped.' 

^Have  joa  heard  of  the  mischief  that-—' 

*  Don't  be  such  a  girl,  Tina.  I  am  going  to  do  the  thing,  and  there  is 
ao  use  in  keeping  on  about  it.' 

Felix  had  not  called  Clement  Tina  since  he  had  been  head  of  the 
family,  and  irritability  in  him  was  a  token  of  great  perplexity;  for 
indeed  his  hardest  task  always  was  the  dealing  with  Fulbert;  and  he 
was  besides  very  sorry  to  balk  the  poor  boys  of  one  of  their  few  chances 
of  manly  amusement. 

He  would  have  waited  to  utter  his  prohibition  till  the  excitement 
should  have  worked  off,  but  he  knew  that  Clement  would  never  hold 
bis  peace  through  the  narrative  of  their  adventures;  so,  as  they  had 
not  come  in  when  his  work  was  over,  he  took  Theodore  on  his  arm, 
and  retreated  to  the  little  parlour  behind  the  shop,  where  he  lay  in 
wait,  reading,  and  mechanically  whistling  tunes  to  Theodore,  till  he 
heard  the  bell,  and  went  to  open  the  door. 

The  gas  shewed  them  rosy,  merry,  glorious,  and  bespattered,  one 
waving  a  couple  of  rabbits,  and  the  other  of  pheasants,  and  trying  to 
tickle  Theodore's  cheeks  with  the  long  tails  of  the  latter,  of  course 
frightening  him  into  a  fretful  waiL 

'Take  Theodore  up-stairs,  if  you  please,  Lance,'  said  Felix,  ^and  then 
come  down ;  I  want  you.' 

'The  Captain  was  going  to  dine  at  Bowstead's,*  said  Fnlbert,  'so 
be  drove  us  in  his  dog-cart  If  the  frost  holds,  we  are  to  go  out  and 
skate  on  Monday.' 

Felix  employed  himself  in  putting  away  his  papers,  without  answering. 

'  I  had  very  good  luck,'  continued  Fulbert, '  four  out  of  six ;  wonderful 
for  BO  new  a  hand,  the  Captain  said.' 

'  Such  a  lovely  animal  you  neyer  saw,'  said  Lance,  swinging  himself 
down-etairs.  '  You  must  walk  out  and  see  it,  Fee^  for  youll  have  it  in 
the  Pursuivant  some  Saturday.' 

'  Lance,  I  am  very  sorry,'  said  Felix,  standing  upright,  with  his  back 
to  the  exhausted  grate.     '  Just  attend  to  me,  both  of  you.' 

'  Oh !'  said  Lance  hastily,  '  I  know  there's  a  lot  of  old  woman's  gossip 
about  CoUis ;  but  nobody  minds  such  stuff.  Harry  is  as  good  a  lad  as 
ever  stepped ;  and  there  was  no  harm  to  be  seen  about  the  place ;— was 
there^Ful?' 

'  The  old  Frog  has  been  croaking,'  hoarsely  muttered  Fulbert 

Boys  of  sixteen  and  fourteen  were  incapable  of  coercion  by  a 
youth  of  one-and-twenty,  and  the  only  appeal  must  be  to  conscience 
and  reason ;  so  Felix  went  on  speaking,  though  he  had  seen  from  the 
first  that  Fulbert's  antagonism  rendered  him  stolid,  deaf,  and  blind; 
and  Lancelot's  flushed  cheeks,  angry  eyes,  impatient  attempts  to  interrupt, 
and  scornful  gestures,  UAd  of  scarcely  repressed  passion. 

'  You  may  have  seen  no  harm,  I  find  no  fault ;'  (Fulbert  scowled :)- 


554  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'  but  if  I  had  known  what  I  do  now,  I  should  not  have  let  jou  go  tonlaj. 
Mj  father  would  rather  have  cut  off  his  right  hand  than  have  allowed 
you  to  begin  an  acquaintance  which  has  been  ruinous  to  almost  all  the 
young  men  who  have  been  in  that  set' 

^  But  we  are  not  young  men/  cried  Lance ;  '  it  is  only  for  the  holidays ; 
and  we  only  want  a  little  fun  with  poor  Harry,  he  is  so  lonely — and 
just  to  go  out  rabbiting  and  skating.  It  is  very  hard  we  can't  be 
let  alone  the  first  time  anything  worth  doing  has  turned  up  in  this 
abominable  slow  place.' 

'  It  is  very  hard,  Lance.  No  one  is  more  concerned  than  I ;  but  if 
this  intimacy  once  be^ns,  there  is  no  guessing  where  it  will  lead ;  and  I 
do  not  speak  without  grounds.    Listen — ' 

'  If  it  comes  from  old  Frog,  you  may  as  well  shut  up,'  said  Lance. 
'There's  been  no  peace  at  Marshlands  since  he  took  that  cottage — ^a 
regular  old  nuisance  and  mischief-maker,  spiting  the  Captain  because 
one  of  the  dogs  killed  his  old  cock,  and  bothering  Charlie  to  no  end 
about  him.' 

'I  have  heard  from  others  as  well,'  said  Felix;  and  he  briefly 
mentioned  some  facts  as  to  the  scandals  of  the  dissipated  household, 
some  of  the  imputations  under  which  Captain  Collis  lay,  and  named 
two  or  three  of  the  young  men  whose  unsatisfactory  conduct  was  ascribed 
to  his  influence. 

He  saw  that  both  lads  were  startled,  and  wound  up  with  saying,  *  There- 
fore it  is  not  without  reason  that  I  desire  that  you  do  not  go  there  again.' 

With  which  words,  he  opened  the  door,  turned  off  the  gas,  and  walked 
up-stairs,  hearing  on  the  way  a  growl  of  Fulbert's — '  That's  what  comes 
of  being  cad  to  a  stupid  brute  of  an  old  tradesman;'  and  likewise  a 
bouncing,  rolling,  and  tumbling,  and  a  very  unchorister-like  expletive, 
from  Lance ;  but  he  hurried  up,  like  the  conclave  from  the  vault  at 
Lindisfam,  only  with  a  sinking  heart,  and  looks  that  made  his  sisters 
say  how  tired  he  must  be.  The  boys  were  seen  no  more,  but  sent  word 
by  Bernard  that  they  were  wet  through,  they  should  not  dress,  but  should 
get  some  supper  in  the  kitchen,  and  go  to  bed. 

On  Sunday  Lance  had  recovered  himself  and  his  temper,  but  in  the 
evening  he  made  another  attempt  upon  Felix  in  private.  His  heart  was 
greatly  set  upon  Marshlands,  and  he  argued  that  there  was  no  evil  at  all 
in  what  they  had  been  doing,  and  entreated  Felix  to  be  content  with 
the  promise  both  were  willing  to  make,  to  take  no  share  in  anything 
doubtful — not  even  to  play  at  billiards,  or  cards — if  that  would  satisfy 
him ;  though,  said  Lance,  '  I've  played  games  upon  games  with  the 
Harewoods ;  but  we  will  promise  anything  you  please  against  playing,  or 
betting,  or — ' 

'  I  know.  Lance,  you  once  made  such  a  promise  and  kept  it.  I  trust 
you  entirely.  But  before,  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  keep  you  from  that 
sick  boy ;  now  this  would  be  mere  running  into  temptation  for  your  own 
amusement.' 


THE  PILLABS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  555 

'  Harry  is  not  much  better  off  than  Feman  was,'  said  Lancelot  wistfully. 

'Poor  fellow!  very  likely  not;  but  it  would  be  more  certain  harm 
to  yourself  than  good  to  him.  Any  way,  no  respectable  person  would 
choose  to  be  intimate  there,  or  to  let  their  boys  resort  there ;  and  it  is 
my  duty  not  to  consent.' 

*  Ful  is  in  such  an  awful  wax,'  said  Lance  disconsolately.  '  Fee,  you 
don't  know  how  hard  it  is,  you  always  were  such  a  muff.' 

'  That  is  true,'  said  Felix,  not  at  all  offended ;  '  and  I  had  my  father 
and  Edgar ;  but  indeed,  Lance,  nothing  ever  was  so  hard  to  me  to  do  as 
this.     I  cannot  say  how  sorry  I  am.' 

'You  do  really  order  me  not?'  said  Lance,  looking  straight  up  at  hinu 

'  I  do.  I  forbid  you  to  go  into  Captain  CoUis's  grounds,  or  to  do  more 
than  exchange  a  greeting  if  you  meet  him.' 

'I  will  not.  There's  my  word  and  honour  for  it,  since — since  you 
are  so  intolerably  led  by  the  nose  by  old  Frog ;'  and  Lance  flung  away, 
with  the  remains  of  his  passion  worked  up  afresh,  and  was  as  glum  as 
his  nature  allowed  the  rest  of  the  evening;  but  Felix,  though  much 
annoyed,  saw  that  the  boy  had  set  up  voluntarily  two  barriers  between 
himself  and  his  tempted  will — in  the  command  and  the  promise. 

But  the  command  that  was  a  guard  to  the  one,  was  a  goad  to  the 
other;  for  Fulbert  had  never  accepted  his  eldest  brother's  authority, 
and  could  not  brook  interference.  Still  his  school  character  was  good, 
and  there  was  a  certain  worth  about  him,  which  made  him  sometimes 
withdraw  his  resistance,  though  never  submit;  and  Felix  had  some 
hope  that  it  would  be  so  in  the  present  case,  when,  while  speeding  to 
church  in  the  dark  winter  Monday  morning,  he  overheard  Lance  say  to 
Clement,  *  I  say,  Clem,  'tis  a  jolly  stinging  frost.  If  youH  take  your 
skates  and  give  us  a  lesson,  we'll  be  off  for  the  lake  at  Centry.' 

One  of  the  Whittingtonian  curates  had  taken  the  boys  to  the  ice  in  the 
parks,  and  taught  them  so  effectively,  that  Clement  was  one  of  the  best 
skaters  in  Bexley ;  but  he  was  too  much  inclined  to  the  nayward  not 
to  reply,  '  I  have  to  practise  that  anthem  for  Wednesday.' 

'  Oh,  bother  the  practice  I' 

(Which  Felix  mentally  echoed.) 

'I  can  play  that  anthem,  if  that's  all,'  said  Lance ;  'and  I  believe  you 
know  it  perfectly  well.  Now,  Clem,  don't  be  savage ;  I  think  if  you  will 
come,  we  might  put  that  other  thing  out  of  Ful's  head.' 

'  Well,  if  you  think  it  is  to  be  of  use — ^ 

'  That's  right  I  Thank  you,'  cried  Lance.  '  And  you  won't  jaw  us  all 
the  way  ?    He  can't  stand  that,  you  know.' 

Clement  winced;  but  in  compensation  apparently  for  this  forbidden 
lecture,  he  observed,  'I  am  glad  you  at  least  take  it  properly,  Lance^ 
though  it  would  be  worse  in  you  than  in  him,  considering  your — ' 

'Bother  it!'  unceremoniously  broke  in  Lance;  and  the  words  of 
wisdom  were  silenced. 

Lance  did  his  best  to  oi^anize  his  party,  but  it  was  a  faQure ;  Fulbert 


656  TH£  MONTHLY  PACKJCT. 

8fdd  be  had  made  an  eDgagement,  and  would  not  break  it ;  he  was  not 
bound  to  toadj  old  Froggy,  nor  in  bondage  to  an j  dd  fogeys  of  a  dean 
and  chapter ;  and  he  walked  off  the  faster  for  Clement's  protest,  learing 
Lance  to  roll  on  the  floor  and  cHmb  the  balusters  backwards  to  ezhele 
his  desire  to  follow.  He  was  too  much  upset  eren  to  follow  Clement 
to  the  organ,  or  to  settle  to  the  drawing  which  Cherry  was  teaching  him, 
and  was  a  great  torment  to  himself  and  his  sisters  till  dinner-time,  when 
Clement  had  done  his  organ  and  his  Greek,  and  was  ready  for  a  rush 
for  the  ice ;  and  Eobina  went  joyously  with  them.  *  Between  two  young 
ladies,  one  can't  well  run  into  harm's  way,'  said  Lance. 

So  things  went  on  for  a  fortnight.  Fulbert  never  shuffled,  he  went 
openly  to  Marshlands  Hall ;  and  though  not  boasting  of  his  expeditions, 
did  not  treat  them  as  a  secret  Wilmet  and  Geraldine  each  tried 
persuasion,  but  were  silenced  rudely;  and  Felix,  unable  to  enforce 
his  audiority,  held  his  tongue,  but  was  very  imhappy,  both  for  the 
present  and  for  the  future.  He  did  not  believe  much  harm  was  doing 
now,  but  the  temptation  would  increase  with  every  vacation  as  the  boys 
came  nearer  to  manhood ;  and  he  seemed  to  have  lost  all  influence  and 
moral  power  over  Fulbert. 

Good  old  Mrs.  Froggatt  gave  a  small  children's  party,  to  which,  with 
many  apologies,  she  invited  the  lesser  Underwoods,  under  charge  of 
Wilmet  They  were  to  sleep  at  the  cottage,  and  Wilmet  having  offered 
to  help  in  dressing  the  Christmas  tree,  they  set  out  early  in  the  day  to 
walk,  escorted  by  the  three  brothers.  That  the  trio  did  not  return  to 
tea  did  not  alarm  Felix  and  Geraldine^  who  suspected  that  the  dislike  the 
two  elder  expressed  to  the  whole  house  of  Froggatt  had  melted  before  the 
pleasure  of  working  at  the  tree. 

The  evening  was  taken  up  in  the  discussion  of  a  letter  of  Edger'e, 
more  than  usually  discontented  with  his  employment;  and  another  of 
Alda's,  who  had  been  laid  under  orders  to  write  to  her  eldest  brother, 
and  desire  him  to  remonstrate  with  Edgar  on  his  inattention,  laeiness, 
and  pleasure-seeking.  The  anxiety  had  long  been  growing  up;  Felix 
had  come  to  write  his  difficult  letter  by  the  light  of  Geraldine's  sympathy, 
and  they  were  weighing  what  should  be  said,  when  the  door-bell  rang, 
some  sounds  puzzled  them,  and  just  as  Felix  was  getting  up  to  see  what 
was  the  matter,  Fulbert  put  his  head  in  at  the  door,  and  said  low  but 
earnestly,  '  Step  here,  Felix,  please.' 

He  thought  there  must  have  been  some  terrible  accident ;  but  when 
from  the  top  of  the  stairs  he  beheld  Clement's  aspect  under  the  gas  in 
the  passage,  and  heard  the  thick  tones  in  which  he  was  holding  forth 
according  to  instinct,  his  consternation  was  almost  greater  than  at  any 
injury.  Fulbert  looked  pale  and  astounded,  '  I  can't  get  him  up-staira,' 
he  said. 

However,  sense  enough  remained  to  Clement  to  give  effect  to  his 
eldest  brother's  stem  words,  '  Be  quiet,  and  come  up ;'  and  they  dragged 
him  etumUing  up-stairs  without  more  words. 


THE  I'lLLAKS  OF  THX  HOUSIS.  557 

'Where's  Lancet'  then  ftsked  Felix. 

*  Stayed  at  the  Froggatts'*  I  wish  he  hadn't.  He  will  walk  home 
by-and-bj.' 

*  Now,  Ful,  ran  and  tell  Cherry  that  nobody  is  hurt.  Do  not  let  her 
get  frightened.' 

Felix  spoke  resolutely,  but  he  felt  so  full  of  dismay  and  horror,  that 
he  hardly  knew  what  he  was  doing  till  Futbert  had  returned,  and 
repressing  all  poor  Clement's  broken  moralities,  they  had  deposited  him 
safely  in  bed,  and  shut  the  door  on  him.  Then  Fulbert  gazed  up  at 
Felix  with  eyes  full  of  regret  and  Consternation,  and  he  gathered  breath 
to  enter  his  own  room,  and  say,  'What  is  the  meaning  of  this  t' 

^  His  head  must  be  ridiculously  weak ;  or  there  was  some  beastly  trick. 
Nobody  else  was  the  least  queer ! ' 

'Marshlands  Hall?' 

'Well,  he  had  gone  on  at  me  so,  that  when  Lance  let  himself  be 
persuaded  into  staying  to  hang  up  the  lamps,  it  struck  me  what  a  lark 
it  would  be  to  take  Tina  across  the  Hall  lands,  and  then  tell  him 
he  had  been  on  the  enemy's  ground.  So  I  told  him  of  the  old  chantry 
that  is  turned  into  a  barn,  and  of  course  he  must  go  and  see  it,  and 
take  sketches  of  the  windows  for  his  clergy.  While  he  was  doing  it,  up 
comes  young  Jackman.  You  know  young  Jackman  at  the  Potteries— 
a  regular  clever  fellow  that  knows  everything  ? ' 

'  Yes,  I  know  him.' 

'  Well,  they  got  into  early  pointed,  and  late  pointed,  and  billets  and 
dog-tooths,  and  all  the  rest,  and  Clem  went  on  like  a  house  on  fire ;  and 
by  that  time  we  had  got  to  the  big  pond,  where  Collis  and  half-a-dozen 
more  were,  and  he  had  got  his  skates,  and  I  believe  he  did  surprise  them,^ 
they  called  it  first^-rate«' 

'  Did  he  know  where  he  was  ? ' 

'Not  at  the  beginning  of  the  skating.  I  only  wanted  to  get  him  down 
from  his  altitudes,  and  never  thought  it  would  come  to  this.  You  believe 
that,  Pelix?' 

*  Yes,  I  do»    Go  on.' 

*  It  was  fine  moonlight,  and  we  stayed  on  ever  so  long,  while  Jackman 
and  Clem  and  two  more  danced  a  quadrille  on  the  ice ;  and  when  it  was 
over  everybody  was  horridly  cold,  and  Captain  Collis  said  we  must  all 
come  in  and  have  something  hot;  and  Jackman  said  he  was  going  to 
drive  home  to  dinner  at  eight,  and  would  take  us;  but  everyone  got 
talking,  and  it  was  half-past  eight  before  we  started.  It  was  all  in  such 
a  scramble,  that  I  had  no  notion  there  was  anything  amiss  till  Clem 
began  to  talk  on  the  way  home.' 

*  What  were  they  drinking  t' 

*  Various  things— brandy  and  water  chiefly.  I  don*t  like  it,  and  had 
some  ale ;  but  I  was  playing  with  Harry's  puppies,  and  not  much 
noticing  Clem.' 

*Do  you  think  it  was  a  trick  t' 


558  THiC  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'I  can't  tell.  He  is  so  innocent,  he  would  have  no  notion  how  stiff  to 
make  it  If  anyone  meant  mischief,  it  was  Jackman ;  and  I  did  think 
once  or  twice  he  had  found  out  Tina,  and  was  playing  him  off.  On  the 
way  home,  when  I  was  trying  to  hinder  poor  Clem  from  falling  off,  he 
went  on  chaffing  so,  that  I  longed  to  jump  off,  and  lay  the  whip  about 
his  ears.' 

'  Poor  Clem !'  said  Felix,  more  grieved  and  shocked  than  angry,  and 
not  insensible  to  Fulbert's  being  even  more  appalled,  and  quite  frightened 
out  of  his  sulkiness. 

'It  is  a  bad  business,'  he  sighed.  ' It  was  all  Lance's  fault  for  letting 
himself  be  lugged  into  that  baby  party.' 

Even  this  was  a  great  admission,  and  Felix  would  not  blight  it  by  a 
word. 

*  It  is  well  the  girls  are  not  at  home,'  was  all  he  said. 

^  I  only  told  Cherry  that  Clem  wasn't  well.  I  can't  face  her ;  I  shall 
go  to  bed.    I  would  not  have  had  this  happen  for  the  world.' 

'I  shall  say  nothing  to  her,'  said  Felix  dejectedly,  turning  to  leave  the 
room  under  a  horrible  sense  of  disgrace  and  stain  on  the  whole  family ; 
but  at  the  door  he  was  caught  hold  of  by  Fulbei*t,  who  looked  up  at 
him  with  a  face  quite  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  seen  in  the  lad. 

'  Felix,  I  never  was  so  sorry  in  my  life.  I  wish  you  would  give  me  a 
good  rowing.' 

Felix  half  smiled.  *  I  could  not,'  he  said.  '  You  did  not  know  what 
you  were  doing.     Good-night' 

Fulbert  gazed  aller  him  as  he  went  down-stairs,  and  went  back>  with 
a  groan,  to  his  own  room. 

Felix  had  never  before  felt  so  hopeful  about  Fulbert;  but  still  he 
was  too  much  overset  to  talk  to  Cherry,  and  hurried  her  off  to  bed, 
soon  following  her  example,  for  he  had  not  the  heart  to  see  Lance  that 
night. 

Of  course,  the  first  hours  of  the  morning  had  to  be  spent  in  attending 
on  the  victim,  wliose  misery,  mental  and  bodily,  was  extreme,  and  was 
aggravated  by  his  engagement  to  the  organ.  Lance  could  supply  his 
place  there,  and  was  sent  off  to  do  so,  but  looking  as  subdued  and 
guilty  as  if  he  had  been  making  Fulbert's  confession  instead  of  hearing 
it,  and  stumbling  uncomfortably  over  the  explanation  that  Clement  was 
not  well,  and  that  Felix  could  not  leave  him. 

For  there  was  a  fragility  about  Clement's  long  lank  frame  that  made 
any  shock  to  it  very  severe,  and  he  was  ill  enough  to  alarm  his  happily 
inexperienced  brothers,  and  greatly  increase  Fulbert's  penitence ;  but  by 
the  time  Mr.  Froggatt  drove  the  sisters  home,  and  Wilmet  wondered 
that  she  could  not  go  out  for  a  night  without  someone  being  ill,  he  had 
arrived  at  a  state  which  she  could  be  left  to  attribute  to  Mrs.  Froggatt's 
innocent  mince-pies. 

He  burrowed  under  his  blankets,  and  feigned  sleep  and  discomfort 
bejond  speech  whenever  she  came  into  the  room,  begging  only  tiiat  the 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  559 

light  might  he  kept  out,  and  that  nohody  would  speak  to  him.  He  was 
too  utterly  miacrahle  for  anger  with  Fulbert,  but  only  shewed  a  sort,  of 
broken-hearted  forgiveness,  which  made  Fulbert  say  in  desperation  to 
Lance,  ^I  wish  you  would  just  fall  upon  roe.  I  shall  not  be  myself 
again  till  I've  been  blown  up  I' 

*  I  suppose  you  are  doing  it  for  yourself,  and  that  is  worse,'  said  Lance. 
'  And  you  know  it  was  all  your  doing,  for  going  to  that  disgusting  old 

Philistine's  tea  and  cake.' 

'  What,  you  and  Clem  wanted  me  to  lead  you  about,  like  two  dogs  in 
a  string  ?'  said  Lance. 

'  No ;  Tina  would  have  kept  the  baby-bunting  out  of  harm's  way.' 

'  More  likely  he  would  have  bored  roe  into  going.  Poor  Tina !  I 
should  almost  like  to  hear  him  bore  again  I  After  all,  you  and  he  never 
promised,  and  I  did.' 

'  I  wbh  I  had,'  said  Fulbert ;  '  I  am  awfully  afraid  they  are  getting 
hold  of  it  in  the  town.' 

'So  am  L  Mowbray  Smith  looked  me  all  over,  and  asked  me  after 
Clement,  when  I  met  him  just  now  in  the  street,  as  if  he  had  some 
malice  in  his  head.' 

'  What  did  you  tell  him  f ' 

'I  said  he  was  in  a  state  of  collapse,  and  that  serious  fears  were 
entertained  for  his  life  and  reason ;  and  then  he  warned  me  against  the 
nineteenth-century  manners,  and  I  thanked  him  and  made  a  bow,  and 
now  I  suppose  he  is  gone  to  tell  my  Lady.' 

When  Felix  was  free  in  the  evening,  he  found  Clement  dressed,  and 
sitting  over  the  fire  in  his  room — so  well  indeed,  that  he  might  have  been 
down-stairs,  but  that  he  shrank  from  everyone ;  and  that  fire  had  been 
the  fruit  of  such  persevering  battles  of  Wilmet  and  Sibby  with  the 
smoke  and  soot,  that  it  would  have  been  a  waste  of  good  labour  to  have 
deserted  it. 

*  Well,  Clem,  you  are  better  V 
'  Yes,  thank  you.' 

*  Head-aohe  gone  V 

*  Nearly,'  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

Felix  drew  an  ancient  straw-bottomed  chair  in  front  of  the  fire 
backwards,  placed  himself  nstride  on  it,  laid  his  arms  on  the  top  and 
his  forehead  on  them,  and  in  this  imposing  Mentorial  attitude  began, 
*  After  all,  Clem,  I  don't  see  that  you  need  be  so  desperately  broken- 
hearted. It  was  mere  innocence  and  ignorance.  Water-drinkers  at 
home  are  really  not  on  a  level  with  other  people.  I  always  have  to  be 
very  guarded  when  I  have  to  dine  with  the  other  reporters.' 

'  No,'  said  Clement  sadly ;  '  I  do  not  regard  the  disgrace  as  the  sin  so 
much  as  the  punishment.' 

It  was  more  sensible  than  Felix  had  expected.  He  was  conscious  of 
not  understanding  Clement,  who  always  seemed  to  him  like  a  girl,  but 
if  treated  like  one,  was  sure  to  shew  himself  in  an  unexpected  light. 


560  tmc  HONTDLT  PACKET. 

'Yon  did  not  know  where  joa  were  going?' 

'Not  at  first  I  found  oat  long  before  I  came  off  the  ice;  and  then, 
like  an  absard  fool  as  I  was,  I  thought  mjself  shewing  how  to  deal 
eourteoQslj  and  hold  one's  own  with  such  people.' 

'  You  are  getting  to  the  bottom  of  it,'  said  Felix. 

'  I  have  been  thinking  it  over  all  day/  said  Clement  mournfullj.  '  I 
see  that  such  a  fall  could  only  be  the  consequence  of  long-continued 
error.     Have  I  not  been  very  conceited  and  uncharitable  of  late,  Felix  T' 

'  Not  more  than  usual,'  said  Felix,  intending  to  speak  kindly. 

'I  see.  I  have  been  treating  my  advantages  as  if  they  were  merits, 
condemning  others,  and  lording  it  over  them.  Long  ago,  I  was  warned 
that  my  danger  was  spiritual  pride,  but  self-complacency  blinded  me.' 
And  he  hid  his  face  and  groaned. 

Felix  was  surprised.  He  could  not  thus  have  discussed  himself,  even 
with  his  father;  but  he  perceived  that  if  Clement  bad  no  one  else  to 
preach  to  he  would  preach  to  himself,  and  that  this  anatomical  examin- 
ation was  done  in  genuine  sorrow. 

'No  humility!'  continued  Clement.  'That  is  what  has  brought  me 
to  this.  If  I  had  distrusted  and  watched  myself,  I  should  have  perceived 
when  I  grew  inflated  by  their  flattery,  and  never — egregious  fool  that  I 
was — have  thought  I  was  shewing  that  one  of  our  St.  Matthew's  choir 
coold  meet  worldly  men  on  their  own  ground.' 

Felix  was  glad  that  his  posture  enabled  him  to  conceal  a  smile;  bat 
perhaps  Clement  guessed  at  it,  for  he  exclaimed,  'A  fit  consequence,  to 
have  made  myself  contemptible  to  everybody  1' 

'Come,  Clem,  that  is  too  strong.  Your  censorious  way  was  bad  for 
yourself,  and  obnoxious  to  us  all,  and  it  was  very  silly  to  go  to  that 
place  afVer  what  you  had  heard.' 

'  After  telling  Lance  it  was  unworthy  of  a  servant  of  the  saactoary/ 
moaned  Clement. 

*  Very  silly  indeed,'  continued  the  elder  brother,  *  very  wrong ;  but  as 
to  what  happened  there,  it  is  not  reasonable  to  look  at  it  as  more  than 
an  accident.  It  will  be  forgotten  in  a  week  by  all  but  Fulbert  and 
yourself,  and  you  will  most  likely  be  the  wiser  for  it  all  your  lives*  I 
never  got  on  so  well  with  Ful  before,  or  saw  him  really  sorry.' 

Clement  only  answered  by  a  disconsolate  noise;  and  Felix  was 
becoming  ,a  little  impatient,  thinking  the  penitence  over-strained,  when 
he  broke  silence  with  '  You  must  let  me  go  up  to  St  Matthew's !' 

'  Really,  Clement,  it  is  hardly  right  to  let  you  be  always  living  upon 
Mr.  Fulmort  now  your  occupation  is  ended,  and  it  would  be  braver  not 
to  run  away.' 

'I  do  not  mean  that  I*  cried  Clement  'I  will  not  stay  there,  I  would 
not  burthen  them ;  but  see  the  Vicar  I  must  I  I  will  go  third  class,  and 
walk  from  the  station.' 

'  The  fau*e  of  an  omnibus  will  not  quite  break  our  backs,'  said  Felix^ 
smiling.     '  If  this  is  needful  to  settle  your  mind,  you  had  better  go.' 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  561 

*You  do  not  know  what  this  is  to  me,'  said  Clement  earnestly;  'I 
wish  you  did.'  Then  perceiving  the  recurrence  to  his  old  propensity,  he 
sighed  pitifully  and  hung  his  head,  adding,  '  It  is  of  no  use  till  Saturday, 
the  Vicar  is  gone  to  his  sisters.' 

*  Very  well,  you  can  get  a  return  ticket  on  Saturday — ^that  is,  if  the 
organist  is  come  back.' 

^  Lance  must  play ;  I  am  not  worthy.' 

'  You  have  no  right  to  break  an  engagement  for  fancies  about  your 
own  worthiness,'  said  Felix.  ^  Rouse  yourself  up,  and  don't  exaggerate 
the  thing,  to  alarm  all  the  girls,  and  make  them  suspicious.' 

'  They  ought  to  know.  I  felt  myself  a  wicked  hypocrite  when  Wilmet 
would  come  and  read  me  the  Psalms,  and  yet  I  could  not  tell  her.  Tell 
them,  Felix;  I  cannot  bear  it  without.' 

'No,  I  shall  not.  You  have  no  right  to  grieve  and  disgust  them 
just  because  you  '^  cannot  bear  it  without."  Cannot  you  bear  up,  instead 
of  drooping  and  bemoaning  in  this  way  ?     It  is  not  manly.' 

'  Manliness  is  the  great  temptation  of  this  world.' 

'You  idiot!'  Felix  in  his  provocation  broke  out;  then  getting 
himself  in  hand  again,  'don't  you  know  the  difference  between  true 
and  false  manliness  ?' 

'  I  know  men  of  the  world  make  the  distinction,'  said  Clement ;  '  I 
am  not  meaning  any  censure,  Felix.  Circumstances  have  given  you  a 
different  standard.' 

Felix  interrupted  rather  hotly :  '  Only  my  father's.  I  have  heard  him 
say,  that  if  one  is  not  a  man  before  one  is  a  parson,  one  brings  the 
ministry  into  contempt.  The  things  the  boys  caU  you  Tina  for,  are 
not  what  make  a  good  clergyman.' 

'I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  presume  to  seek  the  priesthood  after 
this.' 

'  Stuff  and  nonsense !'  cried  Felix.  '  If  no  one  was  ordained  who  had 
ever  made  a  fool  of  himself  and  repented,  we  should  be  badly  off  for 
clergy.  You  were  conceited  and  provoking,  and  have  let  yourself  bo 
led  into  a  nasty  scrape — that's  the  long  and  short  of  the  matter ;  but  it 
is  only  hugging  your  own  self-importance  to  sit  honing  and  moaning  up 
here.     Come  down,  and  behave  like  a  reasonable  being.' 

'Let  me  stay  here  to-night,  Felix,  I  do  need  it,'  said  Clement,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes ;  '  if  I  am  alone  now,  I  think  I  can  bring  myself  to  bear 
up  outwardly  as  you  wish.' 

The  affected  tone  had  vanished,  and  Felix  rose,  and  kindly  put  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said,  '  Do,  Clem.  You  know  it  is  not  only  my 
worldliness — mere  man  of  business  as  I  am — that  bids  us  to  hide  grief 
within,  and  "  anoint  the  head  and  wash  the  face." ' 

Just  then  an  exulting  shout  rang  through  the  house,  many  feet 
scuttled  up-stairs,  knocks  hailed  upon  the  door,  and  many  voices  shouted, 
'  Mr.  Audley !  Felix,  Clem,  Mr.  Audley !' 

'  Won't  you  come,  Clem  V 

VOL.   10.  88  FAST  60. 


562        -      THK  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

^Not  to-nigbt;  I  could  not.' 

Clement  shut  the  door,  and  Felix  hastened  down  among  the  dancing 
exulting  little  ones.  'I  thought  you  were  at  Rome!'  he  said,  as  the 
hands  met  in  an  eager  grasp. 

'I  was  there  on  Christmas  Day;  hut  Dr.  White's  appointment  is 
settled,  and  he  wants  me  to  go  out  with  him  in  June.  My  hrother  is 
gone  on  to  London,  and  I  must  join  him  there  on  Saturday.' 

'  I  am  glad  it  is  to-day  instead  of  yesterday,'  said  Wilmet.  ^  We  were 
all  out  hut  Felix  and  Cherry,  and  poor  Clement  was  so  ilL' 

'  Clement  ill  ?     Is  he  better  ?' 

*•  He  will^  be  all  right  to-morrow,'  said  Felix. 

Mr.  Audley  detected  a  desire  to  elude  inquiry,  as  well  as  a  meaning 
look  between  the  two  younger  boys,  and  he  thought  care  sat  heavier  on 
the  brow  of  the  young  master  of  the  house  than  when  they  had  parted 
eighteen  months  before. 

His  travels  were  related,  his  photographs  admired,  his  lodging  arranged 
in  Mr.  Froggatt's  room,  and  after  the  general  good-night,  he  drew  his 
chair  in  to  the  fire,  and  prepared  for  a  talk  with  his  ex-ward. 

'  You  look  anxious,  Felix.     Have  things  gone  on  pretty  well  V 

*'  Pretty  fairly,  thank  you,  till  just  now,  when  there  is  rather  an  ugly 
scrape,' — ^aud  he  proceeded  to  disburthen  his  mind  of  last  night's  mis- 
adventure ;  when  it  must  be  confessed,  that  the  narrative  of  Clement's 
overweening  security  having  had  a  fall  provoked  a  smile  from  his 
guardian,  and  an  observation  that  it  might  do  him  a  great  deal  of  good. 

'Yes,'  said  Felix,  ^if  his  friends  do  not  let  him  make  much  of  his 
penitence,  and  think  it  very  fine  to  have  so  important  a  thing  to 
repent  of.' 

'I  don't  think  they  will  do  that.  You  must  not  take  Clement  as 
exactly  the  fruit  of  their  teaching.' 

'  There's  no  humbug  about  him,  at  least,'  said  Felix.  '  He  is  really 
cut  up  exceedingly.  Indeed,  all  I  have  been  doing  was  to  get  him  to 
moderate  his  dolefulness.     I  believe  he  thinks  me  a  sort  of  heathen.' 

'  Well,'  said  Mr.  Audley,  laughing,  '  you  don't  seem  to  have  taken  the 
line  of  the  model  head  of  the  family.' 

'  The  poor  boys  were  both  so  wretched,  that  one  could  not  say  a  word 
to  make  it  worse,'  said  Felix.  '  This  satisfies  me  that  Fulbert  is  all  right 
in  that  way.  He  would  not  have  been  so  shocked  if  he  had  ever  seen 
anything  like  it  before ;  but  though  he  is  very  sorry  now,  I  am  afraid  it 
will  not  cut  the  connection  with  those  CoUises.' 

'  You  do  not  find  him  easier  to  manage  V 

'  No ;  that  is  the  worst.  He  is  not  half  a  bad  boy — nay,  what  is  called 
a  well-principled  boy— only  it  is  his  principle  not  to  mind  me.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  am  donnish  with  him,  or  if  I  bullied  him  too  much  wh^i 
he  was  little ;  but  he  is  always  counter  to  me.  Then  he  is  one  of  those 
boys  who  want  an  out-of-door  life,  and  on  whom  the  being  shut  up  in  a 
town  falls  hard.     The  giving  up  sporting  is  real  privation  to  him  and  to 


THE  PIIiLAES  OF  THE  HOUSE.  563 

Lance,  and  much  the  hardest  on  him,  for  he  does  not  care  for  music  or 
drawing,  or  anything  of  that  sort.' 

*  How  old  is  he  V 
^  Just  sixteen.' 

'  Suppose  I  were  to  take  him  out  to  Australia  V 

'Fulbert!' 

'  Yes ;  I  always  intended  to  take  one  if  I  went,  but  I  waited  till  my 
return  to  see  about  it,  and  I  thought  Clement  was  of  a  more  inconvenient 
age ;  but  you  must  judge.' 

'Poor  Tina!'  said  Felix,  smiling,  *he  would  hardly  do  in  a  colony. 
He  is  heart  and  soul  a  clergyman,  and  whether  he  will  ever  be  more 
of  a  man  I  don't  know;  but  I  don't  think  he  could  rough  it  as  a 
missionary.' 

'  Is  he  going  to  get  a  scholarship  V 

^  He  has  tried  at  Corpus  and  failed.  He  is  full  yoimg,  and  I  suppose 
he  ought  to  go  to  a  tutor.  I  am  afraid  he  learnt  more  music  than  classics 
up  at  that  place.' 

*  Can  the  tutoring  be  managed  ?' 

'I  suppose  a  hundred  out  of  that  thousand  will  do  it.' 

'  Is  that  thousand  to  go  like  the  famous  birth-day  five  ?' 

'  Fire  hundred  is  to  be  put  into  the  business ;  but  the  rest  I  meant  to 
keep  in  reserve  for  such  things  as  this.' 

'If  all  are  to  be  helped  at  this  rate,  your  reserve  will  soon  come  to 
an  end.' 

'Perhaps  so;  but  I  have  always  looked  on  Clement  as  my  own 
substitute.  Indeed,  I  held  that  hope  out  to  my  father,  when  it  distressed 
him  that  I  should  give  it  up.  So  Clem  is  pretty  well  settled,  thank  you. 
Besides,  I  am  not  afraid  of  his  not  going  on  well  here ;  but  I  do  believe 
Fulbert  will  do  the  better  for  being  more  independent,  only  it  seems  to 
me  too  much  to  let  you  undertake  for  us.' 

'  They  are  all  my  charge,'  said  Mr.  Audley ;  '  and  as  I  am  leaving  you 
the  whole  burthen  of  the  rest,  and  my  poor  little  godson  is  not  likely  to 
want  such  care,  you  need  have  no  scruple.  One  of  the  SomerviUes  is 
going  out  to  a  Government  office  at  Albertstown,  and  perhaps  may  put 
me  in  the  way  of  doing  something  for  him.' 

Felix  mused  a  moment,  then  said,  '  The  only  doubt  in  my  mind  would 
be  whether,  if  it  suited  you  equally,  it  might  not  be  an  opening  for 
Edgar.' 

*  Edgar !     Surely  he  is  off  your  hands  V 

'  I  am  greatly  afraid  his  present  work  will  not  last.  He  always  hated 
it,  and  I  believe  he  always  had  some  fancy  that  he  could  persuade  Tom 
Underwood  into  making  a  gentleman  of  him  at  once,  sending  him  to  the 
University  or  the  like,  and  they  petted  and  admired  him  enough  to 
confirm  the  notion.  Mrs.  Underwood  makes  him  escort  her  to  all  her 
parties ;  and  you  know  what  a  brilliant  fellow  he  is — sure  to  be  wanted 
for  all  manner  of  diversions,  concerts,  private  theatricals,  and  what  not ; 


564  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

and  you  can  fancy  how  the  counting-house  looks  to  him  after.  Tom 
Underwood  declares  he  requires  nothing  of  him  but  what  he  would  of  his 
own  son ;  and  I  believe  it  is  true ;  but  work  is  work  with  him,  and  he 
will  not  be  trifled  with.  Here  is  a  letter  about  it,  one  of  many,  I  was 
trying  to  answer  last  night ;  only  this  affair  of  poor  Clem*s  upset  every- 
thing/ 

'  Six  brothers  are  no  sinecure,  Felix.* 

^They  are  wonderfully  little  trouble,'  said  Felix,  standing  on  their 
defence.  '  They  are  all  good  sound-hearted  boys ;  and  as  to  Lance, 
there's  no  saying  the  comfort  that  little  fellow  always  is.  He  has  that 
peculiar  pleasantness  about  him — ^like  my  father  and  Edgar — ^that  one  feels 
the  moment  he  is  in  the  house  ;  and  he  is  so  steady,  with  all  his  spirits. 
The  other  two  both  say  all  this  could  not  have  happened  with  him.' 

*  High  testimony.' 

'Yes,  as  both  are  inclined  to  look  down  on  him.  But  think  of  that 
boy's  consideration.  He  has  never  once  asked  me  for  pocket-money  since 
he  went  to  the  Cathedral.  He  gets  something  when  the  Dean  and 
Canons  have  the  boys  to  sing,  and  makes  that  cover  all  little  expenses.' 

*  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  him  V 

^  If  he  gets  the  scholarship,  a  year  and  a  half  hence,  he  will  stay  on  two 
years  free  of  expense.  Unluckily,  he  says  that  young  Hare  wood  is 
cleverer  than  he,  and  always  just  before  him ;  but  I  have  some  hope  in 
the  hare-brains  of  Master  BilL  If  he  do  not  get  it — well,  we  must  see, 
but  it  will  go  hard  if  Lance  cannot  be  kept  on  to  be  educated  properly.' 

Mr.  Audlcy  took  the  letters,  and  presently  broke  into  an  indignant 
exclamation  ;  to  which  Felix  replied, 

*The  work  is  not  good  enough  for  him,  that  is  the  fact.' 

*  If  you  are  weak  about  anyone,  Felix,  it  is  Edgar.  I  have  no  patience 
with  him.  His  work  not  good  enough,  forsooth,  considenng  what 
yours  is !' 

'  Mine  has  much  more  interest  and  variety ;  and  he  is  capable  of  much 
more  than  I  am.' 

*  Then  let  him  shew  it,  instead  of  living  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  and 
mnrmuring  at  a  few  hours  at  the  desk.' 

'I  ascribe  that  to  his  temperament,  which  certainly  has  a  good  deal  of 
the  artist ;  that  desk-work  is  peculiarly  irksome.' 

'Very  likely;  but  it  is  his  plain  duty  to  conquer  his  dislike.  No, 
Felix ;  I  wish  I  could  take  him  away  with  me,  for  I  am  afraid  he  will  be 
a  source  of  trouble.' 

'  Never !     Edgar  is  too  considerate !' 

'But  he  is  exactly  what  Australia  is  over-stocked  with  already — a 
discontented  clerk.  If  he  be  spoilt  by  luxury  here,  do  you  think  he 
would  bear  with  a  rude  colony  ?  No.  Fulbert  is  a  gruff  obstinate  boy, 
but  not  idle  and  self-indulgent;  and  I  am  not  afraid  to  undertake  him, 
but  I  should  be  of  Edgar.' 

Felix  had  flushed  up  a  good  deal,  for  his  love  for  Edgar  was  less 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  565 

paternal  and  more  sensitively  keen  than  that  for  any  of  the  others ;  but 
he  was  more  reasonable,  and  had  more  control  of  temper,  now  than  when 
Mr.  Audley  had  last  crossed  him ;  and  he  made  answer,  '  I  believe  you 
are  right,  and  that  Edgar  could  not  be  happy  in  a  colony.  Any  way, 
you  are  most  kind  to  Fulbert.  But  I  am  afraid  I  must  go  now,  or 
Theodore  will  wake.' 

'  Do  you  still  have  him  at  night?' 

*He  is  not  happy  with  anyone  else.  You  have  not  seen  him  yet?  I 
am  sure  he  is  improving!  There's  his  voice !  Good-night.*  And  Felix 
hurried  away,  leaving  Mr.  Audley  feeling  that  though  here  and  there  the 
young  pillar  of  the  house  might  mistake,  the  daily  unselfishness  of  his  life 
was  a  beautiful  thing,  and  likewise  impressed  by  his  grave  air  of  manly 
resolution  and  deliberation. 

By  the  morning,  Clement  had  recovered  his  tone,  so  as  not  to  obtrude 
his  penitence  or  to  be  much  more  subdued  in  manner  than  usual.  Mr. 
Audley  made  him  bring  his  books  to  the  dining-room  after  breakfast, 
and  the  examination  quite  exonerated  the  authorities  at  Oxford  from  any 
prejudice  except  against  inaccuracy,  and  shewed  that  a  thorough  course  of 
study  was  needful  before  he  could  even  matriculate ;  and  Clement  in  his 
present  lowliness  was  not  incredulous  of  any  deficiency  at  St.  Matthew's, 
but  was  only  meek  and  mournful. 

'  What  shall  I  do  V  he  asked.  *  Perhaps  some  school  would  take  me 
to  teach  and  study  at  the  same  time.  Or  I  might  get  an  organist's  place, 
and  read  so  that  I  might  be  ordained  as  a  literate  at  last.  It  would  come 
when  I  was  lit,  I  suppose.' 

Mr.  Audley  only  said  he  would  inquire,  and  talk  to  Felix ;  and  Clement 
pleased  him  by  answering  that  he  could  not  bear  to  be  an  expense  to 
Felix.  The  good  principle  in  the  boys  was  quite  to  be  traced,  when 
presently  after  it  was  necessary  to  put  Fulbert  to  a  severe  trial. 
On  going  to  pay  his  respects  at  the  Rectory,  Mr.  Audley  found  Mr. 
Mowbray  Smith  there,  and  after  some  preliminaries,  he  was  asked 
whether  he  knew  how  the  young  Underwoods  had  been  going  on  of  late  ; 
of  course,  though,  it  would  be  concealed  from  him :  but  it  was  night,  <&c. 
Then  Mr.  Bevan  feebly  suggested  that  he  did  not  believe  there  was  any 
truth  in  it,  and  was  sharply  silenced ;  and  Miss  Caroline  observed  that 
she  was  always  sure  that  Clement  Underwood  was  a  great  humbug ; 
whereupon,  between  the  mother,  daughter,  and  curate,  the  popular  version 
of  the  Marshlands  Hall  aflfair  was  narrated — or  rather  versions,  for  all 
were  beautifully  entangled  and  contradictory. 

Someone  had  been  in  the  street,  and  had  seen  poor  Clement's  exit  from 
young  Jackman's  dog-cart,  and  reported  indiscriminately  that  it  was 
^  young  Underwood.'  Lance  had  not  been  able  to  put  a  sufficiently  bold 
face  on  his  morning's  report  of  Clement's  indisposition  and  Felix's 
absence ;  and  this,  together  with  the  boys'  hunting  propensities,  and 
Fulbert's  visits  to  Marshlands,  had  all  been  concocted  into  a  very  serious 
accusation  of  the  whole  of  the   brothers,  including  Felix,  of  having 


566  THE  MONTHLY  PAC^T. 

entered  into  a  dangerous  friendship  with  Captain  Collis,  and  underhand 
enjoyiag  the  dissipations  of  the  Hall,  which  had  been  the  bane  of  many  a 
young  man  of  Bexley. 

There  were  different  measures  of  indignation.  Miss  Price  expected  a 
grand  series  of  denunciations — to  Mr.  Froggatt — ^to  Miss  Pearson,  *  whose 
niece  was  always  there — most  imprudent ;' — nay,  perhaps  to  the  Dean, 
and  to  the  Vicar  of  St.  M|itthew's.  The  least  excitement  she  expected, 
was  Felix  Underwood's  expulsion  from  the  choir. 

Lady  Price  merely  believed  it  all,  and  thought  the  friends  ought  to 
interfere,  and  save  the  poor  young  things  while  there  was  time  for  any^ 
of  them.  She  would  never  mention  it  so  as  to  injure  them,  but  nothing 
else  could  be  expected. 

Mr.  Mowbray  Smith  supposed  there  must  be  some  exaggeration,  but 
he  had  been  surprised  at  Lancelot's  manner,  and  he  did  not  think  Felix's 
absence  accounted  for ;  he  did  seem  steady — but —  And  there  was 
something  unnatural  in  the  way  of  life  at  Sl  Matthew's,  that  would  make 
him  never  trust  a  lad  from  thence. 

Yes ;  and  even  Mr.  Bevan  did  not  like  St.  Matthew's,  (because  it  waa 
not  slack  or  easy,)  and  he  too  could  believe  anything  of  Clement  No 
doubt  poor  Felix  found  those  great  brothers  getting  too  much  for  him. 

Mr,  Audley  was  standing  by  the  window.  He  saw  Fulbert  with 
Lance  and  little  Bernard  going  down  the  street,  and  by  one  of  the  sudden 
dashes  that  had  often  puzzled  the  Rectory,  he  flew  out  at  the  door,  and 
the  next  moment  had  his  hand  on  Fulbert's  shoulder. 

^  Fulbert,  they  have  made  a  terrible  scandal  of  this  affair  at  Marshlands 
Hall.     They  fancy  Felix  had  something  to  do  with  it.' 

*  Felix  !    I  should  like  to  punch  their  heads.' 

*  You  can  do  better.     You  can  contradict  it.' 
'  But,  Sir—' 

However,  Fulbert,  while  still  following  to  plead  with  Mr.  Audley, 
found  himself  where  he  never  recollected  to  have  been  in  his  life  before, 
among  the  cushions,  arm-chairs,  and  tables  covered  with  knick-knacks,  of 
the  Rectory  drawing-room.  Mr.  Bevan  in  an  easy-chair;  Mr.  Smith 
standing  before  the  fire ;  Lady  Price  at  work,  looking  supercilious  ;  and 
her  daughter  writing  notes  at  a  davenport. 

Mr.  Bevan  half  rose  and  held  out  his  hand,  the  others  contented 
themselves  with  a  nod,  while  the  big  stout  lad  stood  rather  like  a  great 
dog  under  the  same  circumstances,  very  angry  with  everybody,  and  chiefly 
with  Mr.  Audley — to  whom,  nevertheless,  he  trusted  for  getting  him  safe 
out  again. 

^  Fulbert,'  said  Mr.  Audley,  '  Mr.  Bevan  would  be  better  satisfied  if  he 
could  hear  what  intimacy  there  has  been  between  your  brothers  and  the 
CoUises.' 

'None  at  all,'  said  Fulbert  bluntly. 

'My  boy,'  said  the  gentle  old  Rector  deprecatingly,  ^nobody  ever 
suspected  your  eldest  brother.' 


THE  PILLARS  OF  THE  HOUSE.  567 

*  I  should  think  not ! '  exclaimed  Fulbert,  with  angry  eyes.  '  All  he 
ever  did  was  to  warn  us  against  going.  More  fools  not  to  mind 
him!' 

*  Then,'  said  my  Lady,  '  it  has  been  the  insubordination  and  wilfulness 
of  you  younger  boys,  that  has  nearly  involved  him  in  so  grave  an 
imputation.' 

^  Of  nobody's  but  mine,'  returned  Fulbert.  *  The  others  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it.' 

*  That  cannot  be  the  literal  fact,'  said  Mr.  Smith,  in  a  low  voice,  to 
Lady  Price.     '  There  were  certainly  two  of  them.' 

Fulbert  heard,  and  turning  to  the  Rector,  as  if  he  thought  everyone 
else  beneath  his  notice,  said,  *  The  long  and  short  of  it  is  this :  Lance  and 
I  picked  young  Gollis  out  of  a  ditch,  and  took  him  home.  Then  Captain 
Gollis  asked  us  rabbit-shooting.  Lance  never  went  again,  because  Felix 
did  not  choose  it.  I  did;  and  just  by  way  of  a  joke>  I  took  Clement 
there  without  his  knowing  what  place  it  was.  We  fell  in  with  them 
skating,  and  went  into  the  house,  the  day  before  yesterday.  That  is,' 
said  Fulbert,  concluding  as  he  had  begun,  'the  long  and  short  of  it. 
Whatever  happened  was  my  fault,  and  no  one  else's.' 

^A  very  honest  confession!'  said  kind  Mr.  Bevan,  pleased  to  imve 
something  to  praise. 

'  And  I  hope  it  will  act  as  a  warning,'  said  Lady  Price. 

^  But,'  said  Mr.  Smith,  partly  incited  by  Carry's  looks,  *  it  was  true 
that  you — two  of  you  were  brought  home  by  young  Jackman.' 

^  Yes,'  said  Fulbert,  growing  crimson,  '  he  drove  Clement  and  me 
home!' 

^And,'  said  Mr.  Audley,  4t  was  Clement's  great  distress  that  kept 
Felix  at  home  the  next  morning.' 

*  Tes,'  said  Fulbert,  '  there  was  nobody  else  but  me,  and  Clem  could 
hardly  bear  the  sight  of  me,  because  I  had  led  him  into  it.  We  thought 
no  one  in  the  house  would  know  it — ^and  I  don't  believe  they  do.' 

*Ah!'  said  Lady  Price,  'it  is  false  kindness  to  attempt  conceal- 
ment' 

<  From  lawful  authority  it  is,'  said  Mr.  Audley ;  *  but  in  this  case  it  was 
only  from  children  and  servants.  However,  Fulbert,  I  think  you  have 
fully  satisfied  Mr.  Bevan,  as  to  the  amount  of  intercourse  between  your 
brothers  and  Marshlands.' 

^  Entirely,'  said  Mr.  Bevan ;  '  in  fiust,  you  may  assure  your  brother  that 
I  never  believed  anything  to  his  discredit.' 

'I  shall  say  nothing  about  it,'  said  Fulbert,  not  choosing  to  see  the 
hand  held  out  to  him.  *  I  should  be  ashamed ! — ^May  I  go  now,  Sir?'  to 
Mr.  Audley ;  and  with  an  odd  sort  of  circular  bow,  he  made  his  escape ; 
and  Mr.  Audley,  having  remained  long  enough  to  ascertain  that  the 
worst  that  could  be  said  of  him  was  that  he  was  a  cub,  arid  that  it  was 
a  terrible  thing  to  see  so  many  great  hulking  lads  growing  up  under  no 
control,  took  his  leave,  and  presently  came  on  the  three  boys  again, 


668  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

consulting  at  the  ironmonger's  window  over  the  knife  on  which  Bernard 
was  to  spend  a  half-crown  that  Mrs.  Froggatt  had  given  him. 

'  Can  Lance  and  Bernard  settle  that?  I  want  you  a  moment,  FulberL 
Not  to  confront  the  Rectory  again,'  he  added,  smiling.  *It  was  a 
horrid  bore  for  you,  but  there  was  no  helping  it.' 

*I  suppose  not,'  said  Fulbert  gloomily,  as  if  he  did  not  forgive  the 
impleasant  moments. 

'  It  was  not  about  that  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,  though,'  said  Mr. 
Audley.  '  I  wanted  to  know  whether  you  have  any  plans  or  wishes  for 
the  future.' 

*IV  said  Fulbert,  looking  up  blank. 

*  Yes,  you.     You  are  growing  up,  Fulbert' 

'I  suppose  I  must  take  what  I  can  get,*  said  Fulbert,  in  the  same 
sulky  passive  voice. 

'That  may  be  a  wise  determination  ;  but  have  you  really  no  choice?' 

'  Well,  when  I  was  a  little  chap  and  knew  no  better,  I  used  to  think  I 
would  be  a  soldier  or  a  farmer — but  that's  all  nonsense ;  and  I  suppoAe  I 
must  have  some  abominable  little  clerkship,'  said  Fulbert,  with  a  certain 
steadiness  for  all  the  growl  of  his  tone. 

'  Well,  Fulbert,  have  you  a  mind  to  try  whether  the  other  side  of  the 
world  would  suit  yon  better  ? ' 

Fulbert  looked  up.     '  You  don't  mean  that  you  would  take  me  out  ?' 
^  '  Yes,  I  do,  if  you  are  inclined  to  come  and  try  for  work  at  Albertstown.' 

Fulbert,  instead  of  answering,  quickened  his  pace  to  a  walking  run, 
dashed  on,  nearly  upsetting  half  a  dozen  people,  and  was  only  checked  by 
a  collision  with  a  perambulator.  Then  he  stood  still  till  Mr.  Audley 
came  up  to  him,  and  then  again  muttered  under  his  breath,  '  Go  out  to 
Albertstown!' 

They  walked  on  a  little  way,  and  then  the  boy  said,  'Say  it  again, 
please.' 

Mr.  Audley  did  say  it  again,  in  more  detail ;  and  Fulbert  this  time 
exclaimed,  'It  is  the  very  thing !  Thank  you,  Mr.  Audley ;'  and  his  face 
clearing  into  a  frank  open  look,  he  added,  'I'll  try  to  do  my  best  there. 
I  wonder  I  never  thought  of  it  before.  I  would  have  worked  my  waj 
out  as  a  cabin-boy  if  I  had.     Where  is  Lance  ?     Does  Felix  know?' 

There  was  no  sentiment  about  Fulbert.  He  jumped  at  the  offer  as 
instinctively  as  a  young  swallow  would  prepare  to  migrate,  seemed  to 
brighten  all  over,  and  shake  off  his  dull  defiant  mood,  and  gave  no  sign 
of  feeling  about  brother  or  sister — except  that  he  said  he  believed  Felix 
would  get  on  better  without  him;  and  that  he  told  Lance  that  they 
would  have  splendid  fun  together  when  he  was  big  enough  to  come  out 
and  lide  a  buck  jumper. 

(7o  be  conii/iued,) 


J 


569 


BYGONES. 

BY  A.  MILUKOFF. 

(translated  from  the  RUaS   BY   U.   C.  ROMAMOVF.) 

CHAPTER  IV. 
MEMORABLE  BIGHTS. 

I  WAS  eight  years  old  at  the  time  of  the  Coronation  of  the  Emperor 
Nicholas,*  and  the  rejoicings  that  we  contrived  to  witness  in  honour  of 
this  solemnity  present  themselves  vividly  to  my  remembrance,  probably 
because  they  formed  a  topic  of  conversation  in  our  family  for  a  long  time 
afterwards.  My  father  was  not  fond  of  public  entertainments;  he  never 
went  to  the  theatre,  nor  to  summer  nor  winter  fetes ;  and  only  twice  or 
three  times  a  year  accompanied  us  to  the  Simiono£r,f  or  New  Maiden 
Monastery,  to  say  his  prayers,  and  to  drink  tea  in  the  open  air.  My 
mother  was  the  extreme  reverse.  I  never  saw  a  woman  who  was  so 
desperately  fond  of  every  description  of  sights.  With  all  her  cares  for 
her  children,  all  her  domestic  housewifery,  she  never  let  an  opportunity 
pass  of  going  to  a  public  promenade  in  the  city  or  its  environs,  or  of 
seeing  a  ceremony.  Our  more  than  limited  means  did  not  allow  of  our 
frequenting  the  theatres;  but  somehow  she  contrived  to  see  itnd  hear 
everything  that  made  a  particular  noise,  and  became  acquainted  with 
the  best  things  that  appeared  on  the  Moscow  stage :  she  saw  ^  The 
Mermaid  of  the  Dneipr,'  and  'The  Unseen,'  heard  Catalani  and  Sandounoff. 
As  for  cheap  and  gratuitous  sights,  she  rarely  missed  one  of  them — went 
to  see  reviews  and  the  Consecration  of  Bishops,  waited  for  whole  days 
in  the  Kreml  when  any  of  the  members  of  the  Imperial  Family  were 
at  Moscow,:):  and  went  on  foot  to  Maria's  Wood  and  Sokblniky  §  to 
witness  the  feats  of  a  strong  man  or  a  walking  race.  And  each  sight 
served  her  as  a  subject  of  narrative  and  reminiscence  for  a  long  time 
afterwards. 

When  I  turned  eight  years  old  she  began  to  take  me  with  her  to  such 
sights  and  promenades  as  I  have  before  alluded  to.  I  also  thoroughly 
enjoyed  them,  and  everything  delighted  me  equally :  the  gi'eat  religious 
processions,  with  the  Cross,  with  hundreds  of  church  banners  glittering 
with  gold  and  silver,  and  the  endless  train  of  ecclesiastics  in  canonicals 
of  various  bright  colours;  or  a  f^te  at  Novinsky,  or  on  the  frozen 
Moskva  river,  with  its  long  rows  of  booths  all  ornamented  with  flags 
and   sign-boards,  with   its   bands  of  music  and  droll  clowns ;   or  an 

*  August  22nd,  1826. 

t  An  ancient  monastery  for  monks,  situated  in  the  suburbs  of  Moscow. 

X  The  palace  is  within  the  walls  of  the  Kreml.— (TVaiv.J 

§  Favourite  resorts  in  the  environs  of  Moscow. 


570  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

illumination  in  the  Alexander  garden,  with  garlands  of  fire-flowers  on 
the  walls  of  the  Kreml,  and  glowing  shields  over  the  Iversky  Gates.  I 
was  on  the  Tverskoj  Boulevard  when  the  remains  of  the  deceased 
Emperor  Alexandre  Pavlovitch  were  brought  on  a  car,  ornamented  with 
black  feathers,  followed  by  champions  in  armour,  with  their  faces  covered 
with  their  visors.  I  remember  the  grand  entry  of  the  Emperor  Nicholas, 
with  a  long  train  of  gilt  coaches,  and  a  crowd  of  horsemen  with  orders 
on  their  breasts  and  white  plumes  of  feathers  in  their  three-cornered 
hats. 

But  the  Coronation  was  the  finest  time  of  all  I  My  mother  and  I  went 
to  church,  when  the  silver  medals  were  given  away;  we  were  in  the 
streets  when  the  heralds  rode  in  solemn  procession,  and  we  heard  their 
reading  of  the  proclamation  and  the  manifests ;  we  waited  at  the  doors 
of  the  Ambassadors'  mansions,  when  they  gave  their  balls  to  the 
Imperial  Family.  But  of  all  the  grand  doings  that  took  place  on  this 
occasion,  two  episodes  made  a  lasting  impression  on  my  memory ;  these 
were,  the  Eve  of  the  Coronation,  and  the  People's  Feast  in  the  Maiden 
Field. 

My  mother  did  all  that  lay  in  her  power  for  more  than  a  week 
previously,  to  obtain  somewhat  of  a  right  to  admission  into  the  Kreml 
on  the  day  of  the  ceremony.  Thanks  to  the  protection  of  some 
acquaintances  of  hers,  she  at  length  contrived  to  obtain  tickets  for 
places  prepared  by  the  bell-ringers  in  the  belfry*  of  Ivan  Veliki  for 
spectators.  Notwithstanding  the  strong  objections  of  my  father,  she 
announced  her  intention  of  taking  me  with  her ;  and  I,  of  course,  was  in 
great  transports.  It  was  affirmed  in  the  city,  that  on  the  eve  of  the 
Coronation  all  the  gates  of  the  Kreml  w^ould  be  shut  at  night,  and  that 
on  the  following  day  only  such  persons  as  took  some  part  iii  the 
ceremony,  and  such  as  had  obtained  tickets  of  admission  from  the  Palace 
counting-house,  would  be  allowed  to  pass  them.  It  need  not  be  said 
that,  as  we  belonged  neither  to  the  first  nor  to  the  second  category,  we 
were  obliged  to  go  to  the  Kreml  the  day  before  that  appointed  for  the 
Coronation,  and  to  pass  the  night  in  the  belfiy.  My  mother  began  to 
make  preparations  for  this  expedition  from  early  morning :  she  baked  a 
pasty  and  roasted  a  fowl,  and  tied  them  up  in  a  napkin,  together  with 
some  tea  and  sugar,  and  a  supply  of  little  cedar-nuts,  which  last  were 
intended  to  shorten  the  long  hours  of  expectation  and  delay. 

Just  before  Vespers  f  we  said  good-bye  to  my  father,  and  set  off  to 
the  place  of  our  destination,  where  we  were  to  spend  full  twenty-four 
hours.     Having  inspected  the  platforms,  between  the  Palace  and  the 

*  Attached  to  the  Cathedral  of  the  Assumption,  in  which  the  Emperors  of  Russia 
are  crowned.  In  it  is  Ivan  Veliki  the  Second,  (see  Monthly  Packet,  vol.  xxvii.  page 
606|)  so  called  firom  there  being  a  small  chapel  beneath  it,  dedicated  to  one  of  the 
sixty-one  S.  Johns  of  the  Qreco-Russian  Church.  (See  History  of  Christian  Names, 
vol.  ii.  paii^e  461.) 

- 1  '•''■  About  four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.     {Trans.) 


t 


BYGONES.  57 1 

Cathedral,  on  which  the  procession  was  to  move  the  next  daj,  we  said  a 
prayer  before  the  closed  doors  of  the  churches,  and  began  to  ascend  the 
dark  windings  of  the  stone  stair-case  in  the  belfrj,  from  which  we  were 
to  enjoy  the  siglit  of  the  procession.  Scarcely  anyone  had  arrived,  so 
that  if  we  were  not  the  very  first  comers,  we  were  among  the  first  The 
bell-ringer's  wife,  with  whom  my  mother  had  contrived  to  make 
acquaintance  beforehand,  shewed  us  into  a  room,*  where  we  were 
destined  to  pass  the  night  with  other  holders  of  tickets.  Here,  on  the 
floor,  was  a  heap  of  bass-matting,  intended  to  play  the  part  of  mattrasses 
and  pillows.  To  judge  by  the  number  of  tickets  sold,  we  had  every 
reason  to  suppose  that  we  were  doomed  to  pass  the  night  after  the 
manner  of  herrings  in  a  barrel.  Although  our  hostess  made  a  great 
point  of  assuring  us  that  the  women  and  children  only  would  sleep  in 
this  room,  and  that  a  separate  one  was  provided  for  the  gentlemen,  my 
mother  did  not  like  the  idea  of  such  a  dormitory  at  all.  She  implored 
Mrs.  Bell-ringer  to  put  her  somewhere  else,  and  after  a  very  long 
parlejring  the  hostess  consented  to  admitting  us  into  a  little  side  closet, 
which  served  as  her  own  sleeping  apartment. 

At  ease  with  regard  to  our  night's  lodging,  we  accompanied  our 
hostess  to  inspect  the  seats  that  we  were  to  occupy  the  next  day.  They 
were  in  the  middle  part  of  the  belfry,  in  the  principal  arch,  immediately 
beneath  the  bell  of  five  thousand  poods  weight,  the  iron  tongue  of 
which  would  work  incessantly  the  whole  of  the  time.  Here,  on  a  stone 
floor  surrounded  by  an  iron  railing,  were  placed  rows  of  seats,  each 
higher  than  the  other  as  in  the  gallery  of  a  theatre.  Our  places  proved 
to  be  in  the  third  row,  which  promised  us  no  very  complete  view  of  the 
procession,  not  to  speak  of  the  slight  circumstance  that  the  edge  of  the 
giant  bell  was  within  two  arshines  distance  of  our  prescribed  seats.  My 
mother  expressed  her  fears  lest  we  should  be  deafened  from  the  brazen 
monstrosity's  booming  over  our  very  ears  for  so  many  hours  together ; 
but  the  ringer's  wife  consoled  us  by  assuring  us  that  her  husband,  who 
had  rung  the  said  bell  with  his  own  hands  for  several  years,  was  not  in 
the  least  hard  of  hearing,  and  always  ran  to  her  the  instant  she  called 
him.  She  advised  us,  however,  to  avoid  closing  our  lips  during  the 
time  the  ringing  was  going  on,  but  to  sit  with  our  mouths  open ;  a  plan, 
she  said,  adopted  and  recommended  by  all  the  ringers  in  the  belfry  of 
Ivan  Veliki.  But  as  it  was  impossible  to  procure  another  place,  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  particularly  as  the  purchase  of  the  tickets  and  the 
arrangements  with  the  hostess  concerning  the  bed-room,  had  already 
cost  my  mother  very  dear. 

Evening  drew  in.  We  drank  tea  with  a  stout  rosy-cheeked  merchant's 
wife,  who  shared  the  closet  with  us.  Evening  service  had  concluded, 
and  a  solemn  silence  reigned  o'er  the  Kreml.  My  mother  and  I  seated 
ourselves  at  the  window,  which  overlooked  the  Place  des  Tzars.  It 
was  a  dear  fine  night;  beneath  our  feet  the  platforms,  bordered  by 

*  Bell-ringers  frequently  Lave  quarters  in  the  lower  part  of  the  belfry.    (Drant.J 


572  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

balustrades,  were  still  visible;  to  the  right  rose  the  Cathedral  of  the 
AsMumplion,  to  tlie  Itift  the  Church  of  the  Archangels,  and  on  their 
dark  walls,  just  seen  by  the  light  of  the  lamps  that  burned  before  the 
doors,  trembled  the  giant  forms  of  the  frescoes.  Straight  before  us  we 
had  the  principal  fa9ade  of  the  Great  Palace,  with  the  Red  Vestibule 
attached  to  it.  In  its  windows  not  one  light  was  to  be  seen,  and  the 
whole  building  appeared  empty  and  uninhabited.  I  listened  attentively; 
no  sound  from  below  reached  our  ears,  except  the  measured  tread  of 
the  soldiers  on  guard,  and  their  alternate  paroles  to  each  other  in  a 
lengthened  but  at  the  same  time  subdued  shout.  Once  only  the  sound 
of  horses'  hoofs  and  the  clattering  of  sabres  was  heard  on  the  Place,  and 
a  body  of  horsemen  shewed  themselves;  it  was,  as  we  were  afterwards 
told,  the  Governor  General  going  round  to  inspect  the  Kreml,  which  by 
this  time  was  closely  shut  on  all  sides. 

But,  while  tranquillity  reigned  below,  a  pretty  considerable  noise  and 
incessant  conversation  were  making  themselves  heard  in  the  belfry 
itself,  for,  to  believe  the  words  of  our  hostess,  upwards  of  three  hundred 
souls  had  assembled  there.  Very  few  were  destined  to  sleep  that  night ; 
barely  one-tliird  of  the  number  could  be  accommodated  on  the  bass- 
matting,  and  the  rest  would  have  either  to  lie  down  on  the  bare  floor, 
or  to  make  up  their  minds  not  to  close  their  eyes  the  whole  night,  and 
by  far  the  greater  number  chose  the  latter.  As  night  approached, 
hunger  and  idleness  had  combined  to  render  our  belfry  resemble  a 
tavern  or  a  house  for  travellers.  In  every  corner  where  a  human 
creature  could  find  place*  men  and  women  were  grouped ;  some  on  the 
window-seats,  some  at  the  table,  and  some  simply  on  the  floor,  after  the 
manner  of  the  Turks.  Various  bundles  and  parcels  of  eatables  were 
untied,  and  some  few  had  bottles  with  them.  Acquaintances  were 
formed,  merry  jests  and  hearty  laughter  ensued ;  cards  also  appeared  on 
the  scene,  and  their  presence  was  suflicient  for  disputes  and  quarrelling 
to  follow.  Urns  were  being  heated  on  the  landings  of  the  stair-case ; 
and  somebody  had  the  impudence  to  place  a  lighted  lantern  at  the  open 
door  just  before  the  very  Palace!  To  crown  all,  a  song  sung  in 
bacchanalian  style  began  to  make  itself  heard  too  distinctly. 

As  we  had  to  get  up  very  early  the  next  day,  we  took  our  supper  soon 
after  evening  service,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  in  our  closet  on  a  mattrass 
prepared  for  us  in  the  corner.  The  stout  merchant's  wife  slept 
soundly  on  the  hostess's  bed.  The  excited  conversation  of  the  card- 
players,  and  of  the  owners  of  the  bottles,  reached  our  ears  through  the 
thick  walls  in  noisy  murmurs.  However,  I  soon  fell  asleep,  notwith- 
standing my  mother's  lengthened  whisperings  with  the  hostess,  the 
subject  of  their  conference  being  their  anxiety  lest  any  unpleasantness 
might  arise  from  the  conduct  of  the  assembled  public.  Presentiment 
did  not  deceive  my  mother ;  misfortune  was  hastening  to  overwhelm  the 
joyous  assemblage  with  a  dreadful  blow.  I  was  in  my  first  sweet  sleep, 
when  I  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a  hurried  agitated  whisper  over  my 


BYGONES.  573 

very  head,  and  again  distinguished  the  voices  of  my  mother  and  Mrs. 
Bell-ringer. 

'There's  a  disaster!'  ejaculated  the  latter. 

'But  what  have  /done?'  asked  my  mother;  'we  were  both  sleeping 
quite  peacefully,  and  not  disturbing  anybody  I' 

'But  still  we  are  to  turn  out  everybody,  Matoushka!  everybody! 
Strict  orders!  What  an  awful  to-do!  The  Governor  himself  is  down- 
stairs.' 

'  What  does  he  want  here  V 

'  You  see,  he  is  prowling  about  all  over  the  Kreml ;  well,  he  heard 
someone  singing,  and  observed  that  lantern  burning  down -stairs. 
"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  he  says.  "  The  bell-ringers  have  a 
lot  of  company,"  says  the  policeman,  "to  see  the  ceremony  to-morrow." 
So  he  got  into  an  aivful  rage  directly.  "  Is  this  the  way,"  he  says,  "  to 
spend  the  Eve  of  such  a  great  Festival  as  the  Anointing  of  our  Tzar  I" 
be  says ;  "  Clear  out  the  belfry  this  instant !  don't  leave  one  living  soul  in 
it!"  and  he  sent  for  the  police-master  and  cozacks  immediately.  Oh! 
did  not  my  heart  foretell  me — ' 

'What  shall  we  do!' 

'  Really  I  don't  know.  I  should  not  wonder  if  they  turned  you  out 
also ;  they  are  hunting  in  every  corner,  those  cozacks.' 

'  Perhaps  they  won't  come  in  here.' 

'  Oh,  but  I  am  afraid  that  they  will !  They  are  routing  out  nil  the 
quarters ;  and  in  the  lower  storeys  they  poked  into  every  corner,  not  a 
chink  do  they  leave  unsearched — even  under  the  very  feather-beds  and 
mattrasses  they  looked !     01),  they'll  be  here  directly  1' 

'  Oh,  please  hide  us  somewhere !' 

'Where  on  earth  shall  I  hide  yout  I  cannot  think  of  anything 
propei'ly.  The  closet  under  the  stair-case — will  that  do  ?  How  sorry  I 
am  for  you,  Lizavetta  Ivanovna ;'  I  am  sure  I  am  ready  with  all  my 
heart  to  do  what  I  can  for  you.  What  a  dreadful  affair !  Well,  come 
along,  only  as  quietly  as  possible.  I  dare  not  light  a  candle>  so  give  me 
your  hand  and  lead  the  little  boy  yourself.' 

'  Get  up,  Sascha,'  whispered  my  mother,  bending  over  me. 

But  I  no  longer  slept ;  1  had  heard  every  word  the  terrified  whisperers 
had  uttered.  I  was  not  entirely  undressed,  and  therefore  sprang  from 
my  couch  and  was  ready  in  a  moment.  We  proceeded  on  tip-toe 
towards  a  little  door,  which  was  just  visible  at  the  other  end  of  our 
closet.  It  was  evident  that  our  hostess  did  not  wish  that  the  merchant's 
wife  or  any  of  the  other  guests  should  notice  our  flight.  They  already 
knew  that  there  was  danger:  the  lights  were  extinguished,  the  voices 
hushed,  and  only  a  deadened  murmur  might  occasionally  be  heard.  It 
was  not  so  in  the  corridor  whither  we  were  being  led — lights  were 
moving  about,  and  beneath  the  low  vaulted  roofs  echoed  the  tramp  of 
heavy  steps,  the  clanking  of  sabres  and  spurs,  and  a  mingled  chorus  of 
threatening  and  beseeching  voices.   We  turned  a  corner,  feeling  our  way 


574  THK  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

some  few  steps  further,  descended  five  or  six  stone  steps,  and  then  oor 
guide  opened  a  creaking  door. 

*•  Sit  tliere,  with  Christ's  blessing!'  she  whispered.  '  I'll  shut  jou  up;* 
and  she  closed  the  door  on  us.  We  heard  how  she  hooked  a  padlock 
into  the  door  and  turned  the  key  in  it,  while  we  remained  in  intense 
darkness. 

'  Now  mind,  Sascha !'  said  my  mother,  '  don't  you  stir.  Perhaps  they 
will  not  find  us.  Stay — let's  see  what  Ihey  have  here  in  this  closet. 
Baskets,'  she  added,  feeling  about  her ;  '  coals,  chips.  Sit  down  here  !— 
here!' 

I  felt  about  with  my  hands  and  feet,  and  came  upon  a  basket,  on  the 
cover  of  which  I  sat  down,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe.  In  the  mean- 
time the  confusion  in  the  corridor  increased  every  moment,  the  stamping 
of  boots  and  the  clanking  of  sabres  and  spurs  grew  nearer  and  nearer. 
We  could  now  distinguish  different  voices,  and  by  degrees  could  hear 
every  word  clearly  and  distinctly.  Someone  said  loudly  and  peremptoriij, 
'  Bring  a  light  I  and  in  a  minute  or  so  he  continued,  *  I  thought  so  I 
there  are  guests  here  too!  Have  the  goodness  to  get  up,  Gentlemen; 
and  nimbly,  if  you  please.     We  have  orders  to  clear  the  belfry.* 

*  Your  High  Nobility!*  said  the  other  voices  in  reply  imploringlj, 
*  indeed,  we  are  not  the  least  bit  to  blame !  as  soon  as  ever  we  came  we 
went  to  sleep  I     We  lay  down  before  Vespers.' 

'  I  have  no  time  to  listen  to  you  all,'  objected  the  first  voice,  '  I  have 
merely  directions  to  turn  you  all  out.  The  idea  of  such  disorders  I  On 
such  a  great  day  you  should  all  be  on  your  knees  praying  to  God, 
instead  of  howling  tipsy  songs.  You  may  be  thankful  that  you  escape 
so  easily.  Yon  ought  to  get  a  few  crosses  on  your  backs,*  and  a  little 
hard  labour.     Now  then,  be  off!' 

'  Please  to  shew  us  the  divine  kindness,  your  High  Nobility,*  begged 
the  voices  coaxingly ;  *  we  never  ate  or  drank  anything  at  all  here,  but 
were  praying  to  God  for  our  Father- Tzar,  and  then  each  of  us  lay  down 
to  sleep  in  the  utmost  tranquillity.  Don't  let  the  innocent  suffer  for  the 
sins  of  others !' 

'  I  can't  leave  anybody  here,  I  tell  you !  Talk  as  you  will,  it  is  all  in 
vain  ;  so  get  ready  and  make  haste !'  ' 

'  But  where  shall  we  pass  the  night,  your  Excellency  ?'  said  a  man's 
voice. 

'  Well,  it  ought  to  be  in  the  lock-up  house,  but  there's  no  time  for 
sending  you  there,  so  you  may  go  home  to  your  houses.' 

'But  how  shall  we  get  to  see  the  ceremony  to-morrow  V 

*  Probably  you  will  receive  tickets  from  Court,  and  be  brought  to 
the  Palace  in  Imperial  gilt  coaches !'  answered  the  first  voice  ironically. 
'  Such  select  company  ought  to  be  in  the  Emperor's  saloons,  and  not  in  a 
belfry!     Ceremony?     I'll  give  it  you  with  your  ceremony !     Get  along 

*  Let  it  be  remembered  that  this  was  in  the  days  when  rods  were  made  use 
of.  (7Va««.) 


BYGONES.  575 

with  you  this  instant !— Ah !  what  have  we  got  here?  Lights  I  What, 
more  company?  Ah,  this  is  the  ladies'  department. — Ladies,  Ladies, 
please  to  get  up,  or  I  must  send  the  cozacks  to  wake  you.' 

In  answer  to  these  last  words,  which  were  heard  far  more  distinctly 
than  the  preceding  talk,  a  grand  chorus  of  female  voices  rose  in  earnest 
supplication,  with  an  accompaniment  of  weeping  and  sobbing. 

'  Your  Radiancy,*  be  merciful  to  us  I  Make  us  pray  to  God  for  you ! 
for  happiness  in  this  world  and  the  next  I  Set  a  watch  of  soldiers  over 
us,  and  if  one  of  us  opens  her  mouth,  do  what  you  will  with  us.' 

'  I  have  no  soldiers  to  spare,  and  can  leave  none  of  you  here.  It  is 
your  own  fault — why  did  not  you  and  your  cavaliers  sit  quietly  ?  Get 
yourselves  ready  directly,  otherwise  I  shall  be  obliged  to  clear  the 
room.* 

'  We  shall  be  robbed  on  the  road  home !  Where  shall  we  go  at  this 
time  of  night  ?'  said  the  women  through  their  tears.  *  It  must  be  mid- 
night by  this  time/ 

'Never  mind  that;  I  will  give  yon  some  cozacks  to  escort  you. 
Make  haste  to  dress  yourselves  without  further  talk. — What  is  this  the 
door  of  ?    Hey  I     Hostess  1' 

'  It  is  my  bed-room,  your  Excellency,'  replied  the  voice  of  the  bell- 
ringer's  wife,  half  naively,  half  terrified.  *  There  are  no  strangers 
there.' 

'  Let  us  see.  Clerk  !  shew  us  a  light  here !  And  who  is  that  asleep 
on  the  bed  V 

*  It  is  my  dear  sister.' 

'  Does  she  live  constantly  with  you  ?' 

*  She  lodges  here.' 

^  And  where  is  her  bed  ?' 

*  She  sleeps  with  me,  your  Excellency.  She  is  a  very  quiet  sleeper, 
and—' 

'  Hm  I  close  quarters,'  interrupted  the  peremptory  voice.  '  Get  up, 
sister,  dress  yourself,  and  be  off  with  God's  blessing.  Without  any 
screams,  if  you  please.  Now  let  us  have  a  look  here ;  shew  us  a  light. 
What  have  you  got  here  ?'  said  the  awful  voice,  as  its  owner  stopped  at 
our  door  and  rapped  at  the  padlock  with  something  metallic. 

At  the  same  moment  the  light  of  the  candle  streamed  through  a  chink 
in  the  door,  and  illuminated  our  closet  with  a  bright  stripe.  I  was 
breathless  with  terror,  and  felt  that  my  mother  hugged  me  tightly  round 
my  neck. 

'  That's  a  little  closet,  your  Excellency.  We  keep  the  kitchen  utensils 
there,  and  coals,  and  tlie  urn,  and — ' 

*  Open  it  I     Give  me  the  key !' 

*  1*11  bring  it  directly,  your  Excellency.' 

For  a  long  time  afterwards  I  could  not  bring  that  moment  to  mind 

*  Title  of  princes  and  counts,  but  hazarded  here  by  way  of  wheedling,  or  gaining 
favour.    (Trans.) 


576  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

without  horror.  I  well  understood  that  raj  mother  and  I  were  perfectly 
free  from  blame,  and  the  utmost  danger  that  threatened  us  was  confined 
to  the  probabilitj  of  not  seeing  to-morrow*8  sight;  but  I  felt  the 
trembling  of  my  mother's  hand  as  I  clung  to  it  in  terror,  and  the  agony 
with  which  my  own  childish  bosom  throbbed.  I  do  not  remember  ever 
to  have  experienced  so  painful  a  sensation ;  and  it  occurred  to  me  too 
that  perhaps  many  others  were  thus  suffering  innocently  as  well  as 
ourselves.  And  the  thought  of  our  return  home  in  the  depths  of  night, 
and  the  inevitable  loss  of  so  interesting  a  sight  as  that  of  even  a  part 
of  the  Imperial  Coronation,  did  not  distress  me  so  much  as  the  idea  of  tlie 
disappointment  of  my  mother,  who  had  spared  neither  money  nor  trouble 
in  order  to  secure  a  glimpse  of  it.  Like  an  ancient  Roman  matron, 
public  spectacles  were  as  necessary  to  her  as  daily  bread. 

'  Make  haste  there,  can't  you  ?'  shouted  the  voice  after  the  hostess, 
who  was  gone  for  the  key.  'And  whom  have  we  here?'  it  added,  as 
the  clanking  strides  moved  from  our  door.  '  Light  us  here !  It  is 
fastened  inside  !  Hey !  open  the  door,  or  I'll  have  it  broken  througli. 
Do  you  hear  T     Make  haste,  for  I  have  no  time  to  waste  with  you.' 

Somewhere  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  corridor,  the  sound  of  a  bolt 
being  pushed  back  and  the  creaking  of  a  door  were  distinguishable, 
followed  by  tears  and  entreaties  again.  We  could  not  exactly  hear  all  that 
was  said,  but  it  was  evident  that  a  new  and  numerous  assembly  had  been 
discovered,  and  that  it  also  wasbeing  mercilessly  dispei*sed.  After  this, 
in  ten  minutes  or  so,  the  steps  retreated  farther  and  farther,  though  now 
and  then  in  the  distance  might  still  be  heard  a  confused  murmur  of 
voices. 

*  Sh,  sh,  Sascha ! '  whispered  my  mother ;  ^  perhaps  they  will  not  come 
back  here.* 

But  her  hopes  were  vain.  Again  the  noise  and  the  talking,  the 
spurs  and  the  sabres,  made  themselves  heard,  and  nearer  and  nearer 
came  the  shouts.  'Be  off  with  you  all  I  Turn  them  out!  See  them 
all  safe  at  the  other  side  of  the  Spassky  Gates  I  Quick  1'  Nearer  and 
nearer!  and  again  the  clanking  strides  approach  our  closet,  and  again 
the  streak  of  light  illuminates  it  for  a  few  seconds.  I  was  frightened 
to  death,  and  clung  to  my  mother,  hardly  able  to  restrain  my  tears  and 
Bobs.  Several  moments  passed  in  a  sort  of  senseless  agony.  But  when 
I  raised  my  head  again  the  stripe  of  liglit  had  disappeared,  the  noise  of 
the  sabres  had  become  considerably  deadened  by  distance,  and  only  the 
shouts,  'Leave  the  place  instantly!  No  stoppings  on  the  road,'  were 
distinguishable,  but  they  grew  fainter  and  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at 
last  only  a  weak  confused  grumble  reached  our  ears,  which  gi*adually 
quite  died  away,     I  began  to  breathe  more  freely. 

'  Well,  thank  God !  they  are  gone,'  whispered  my  mother. 

*  Won't  they  come  back  V 

'  I  do  not  think  they  will.  See,  Sascha,  how  good  God  is !  Although 
we  have  had  a  fright,  yet  still  we  shall  see  the  procession.     How  glad 


BYGONES,  577 

I  ami  I  will  light  a  taper  before  the  Protectress*  to-morrow,  that  I 
will !    Tea,  they  are  gone ;  I  hear  no  noise  whatever.' 

And  indeed,  so  death-like  a  silence  prevailed  in  our  closet,  that  I 
think  the  beatings  of  my  heart  might  have  been  counted.  Half  an 
hour  passed  thus,  and  I  began  to  doze  with  my  head  on  my  mother's 
lap,  when  cautious  steps  were  heard  approaching  our  door,  the  key 
turned  in  the  padlock,  and  the  door  was  gently  opened. 

*Is  that  youT'  asked  my  mother. 

^J,  Matoushka,  I!'  answered  Mrs.  Bell-ringer. 

*Wellf 

'The  Lord  has  delivered  us;  they  are  gone.  You  may  come  out 
now,  only  pray  be  cautious.  I  dare  not  bring  a  candle,  for  fear  of  its 
being  oli^erved.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  I  will  lead  you  into  the  bocl- 
room  again;  you  must  try  to  get  a  nap  now.  Well,  we  have  had  a 
fright  I  And  we  have  suffered  not  a  little  for  your  sakes.  I  am  regularly 
upset;  I  can't  collect  myself  to  this  moment!  Such  thunderings ! 
LfOrd,  have  mercy  on  us!  Every  one  of  our  guests  are  gone,  and  I 
don't  suppose  that  more  than  ten  persons  in  the  whole  belfry  contrived 
to  conceal  themselves.' 

'  How  did  they  escape?' 

*  Our  prayers  reached  Christ,  that  is  evident.  \  Tliere  was  not  a 
mouse's  hole  that  the  brigands  did  not  poke  into.  Where,  where  did 
not  that  police-master  thrust  his  nose?  In  one  of  the  other  ringer's 
quarters  a  rich  merchant  hid  himself  under  the  stove,  and  yet  they 
found  him,  and  dragged  him  out!  And  we  have  not  received  all  our 
money  for  the  tickets,  more's  the  pity!' 

During  this  monologue  we  were  creeping  along  the  dark  corridor,  in 
which  not  a  gleam  of  light  was  visible,  nor  the  slightest  sound  to  be 
heard ;  and  in  due  time  we  found  ourselves  safe  in  the  little  bed-room,  and 
finally  we  went  comfortably  to  bed.  Besides  us,  only  one  young  woman 
remained  in  our  hostess's  quarters ;  she  had  contrived  to  hide  herself  in 
a  tub.  We  passed  the  remainder  of  the  night  tranquilly,  and  tiie  next 
morning  we  found  that  the  police-master's  invasion  had  done  us  an 
infinitely  good  turn,  for  not  more  than  ten  ticket-holders  appeared  in  the 
belfry  to  witness  the  procession,  and  consequently  we  were  at  liberty  to 
choose  which  places  we  preferred  in  the  front  row  of  benches.  Gradually, 
however,  some  hundred  or  so  of  spectators  assembled  from  somewhere 
unknown;  but  there  was  no  crowding,  no  quarrelling;  and  we  really 
had  the  satis&ction  of  beholding  the  Imperial  procession,  with  only  tli^e 
slight  disadvantage  of  seeing  it  d  vol  d^oiseatij  from  the  height  of  some 
one  hundred  and  forty  feet. 

How  weU  I  remember  that  picture,  its  pomp  and  its  magnificence !  the 

*  One  of  the  appellations  of  the  Virgin.  (Trans.) 

t  The  freqnent  mention  of  the  Divine  Name,  and  expressions  of  thankfulness  and 
faith,  are  not  the  least  exaggerated,  and  are  perfectly  in  keeping  with  Rassiaa 
character.  (^Trans.) 

VOL.   10.  39  PART  60. 


578  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

broad  platform  covered  with  crimson  cloth,  extending  from  the  I?ed 
Vestibule  to  the  Cathedral,  the  procession  nwving  along  it,  the  canopy 
with  its  waving  plumes  of  white  feathers,  and  beneath  it  the  two 
Imperial  figures,  in  their  ermine  mantles,  and  before  and  behind  the 
flood,  as  it  were,  of  people,  all  shining  with  silver  and  gold.  It  all 
passed,  like  a  gigantic  panorama,  slowly  before  our  eyes,  from  the  Palace 
to  the  Cathedral^  and  from  the  Cathedral  back  to  the  Palace,  between 
balustrades  formed  by  brilliant  soldiery,  to  the  thunder  of  countless 
cannons,  and  the  bopming  of  hundreds  of  bells,  to  the  shoufs  of 
thousands  of  people,  and  amid  the  chaos  of  unceasing  echoes;  beneath 
a  clear  sky  and  the  sunshine  of  the  summer*s  day,  and  surrounded  by 
the  stately  building  of  the  KreraVs  sanctuaries. 

But  it  may  be  eiisily  imagined  what  my  mother  and  I  endured  dunng 
all  this,  under  the  great  bell.  The  belfry  trembled  from  the  vigorous 
ringing,*  and  the  overpowering  sound  of  the  brazen  giant,  swelling  like 
waves  of  the  sea  above  our  heads,  was  so  tremendous  that  the  noise  of 
the  cannons  and  the  cries  of  the  multitude  were  hardly  audible.  Long, 
long  after  the  conclusion  of  the  ceremony,  I  fancied  that  tiie  booming  of 
that  bell  still  continued.  It  rang  in  my  ears  even  the  day  following, 
and  my  mother  complained  of  a  head-ache  for  a  whole  week — not  that 
she  regretted  for  one  moment  that  for  the  pleasure  of  a  few  hours  she 
had  undergone  that  martyrdom  beneath  the  Kreml  bell. 

Another  particularly  memorable  sight  was  the  People's  Feast  in  the 
long  familiar  and  well-known  Maiden  Field. 

The  prepai^ations  for  this  remarkable  fete  extended  over  several  weeks. 
The  whole  space  of  the  vast  field  was  covered  with  rows  of  tables  made 
of  rough  boards,  and  surroundf.d  by  rude  wooden  benches ;  on  the  t^ihles 
were  quantities  of  eatables  for  the  coming  treat,  kalatchest  ^iih  gilt 
handles,  fowls  and  geese  ornamented  with  greens,  sheep  and  oxen 
roasted  whole,  with  gilded  horns  and  hoofs,  and  to  crown  all,  by  way 
of  dessert,  immense  pyrnnn'ds  of  cakes  and  gingerbread.  There  was 
nothing  like  plates  or  dishes,  nor  were  any  knives  and  forks  prepar*-d, 
probably  from  the  consideraiion  that  *  fingers  were  made  before  forks, 
and  hands  before  spoons,'  and  that  no  one  could  possibly  run  the  risk  of 
swallowing  a  whole  sheep.  Between  the  tables  on  difTfrent  parts  of  the 
field  rose  wooden  pavilions,  containing  fountain-basins,  painted  jkvhiie, 
and  ornamented  with  gaudy  wreaths.  Into  these  basins  it  was  proposed 
to  pump  vodka  from  ca>ks  concealed  beneath  them,  and  ladles  and  mugs 
hung  all  round  for  the  greater  convenience  of  drinking  therefrom. 

But  the  banquet  was  not  to  be  confined  to  gastronomic  enjoyment 
alone ;  esthetic  (?)  delights  were  also  prepared  for  the  public.  On  one 
side  of  the  field  facing  the  stables  were  several  elevations,  with  scenery 
and  decorations;  open  booths,  in  fact,  where  conjurors  and  acrobats  were 

*  See  Monthly  Packet,  Old  Scries,  Vol.  XXVII.,  pajje  603. 

t  A  knlatch  is  merely  whcnten  doagh  bnkcd  in  a  shape  sonicwhat  resembling  that 
of  ;ui  old  fashioned  door  knocker.  (^Ttuns.) 


BYGONES.  579 

to  entertain  Hid  Iinperiul  jMiijesty*s  guests  with  gratuitous  performances. 
Between  them  were  placed  revolving  swings,  each  with  four  seats  for  two 
persons.  At  the  end  of  the  Held  were  Russian  mountains,  surmounted 
by  pretty  little  summer-houses,  from  whence  fanciers  of  the  terrilic  might 
sjide  down  in  little  light  carriages  along  a  wooden  railroad.  In  tlie 
centre  of  all  these  temporary  buildings  rose  a  pole,  secured  in  tlve 
ground,  and  presenting  the  nppenrance  of  a  tall  smooth  mast,  on  which 
were  hung  handkerchiefs,  giidles,  men's  caps,  kaftans — the  higher  the 
more  valuable ;  and  at  the  top,  beneath  a  great  nosegay  of  foliage  and 
flowers,  hung  a  purse  full  of  half  imperials.*  It  was  presumed  that  the 
Hussinns,  in  order  to  shew  off  their  Agility,  for  tho  amusement  and 
admiration  of  the  rest  of  the  public,  would  climb  up  this  pole  to  obtain 
the  prizes  ;  and  that  at  last  one  fine  fellow  would  be  found  among  them, 
who  having  attained  tho  summit  of  the  pole  would  get  the  reward  that 
awaited  him  there. 

Opposite  the  swings  and  booths  on  the  other  side  of  the  field,  extended 
a  Ion;;  row  of  wooden  stands  or  galleries,  intended  for  the  spectators  of 
the  People's  Feast.  They  were  effective  structures  enough,  adorned 
with  arches,  covered  with  white-washed  canvas.  The  weather  was 
particularly  lovely  and  warm,  so  that  they  had  got  thoroughly  dried, 
and  at  a  little  distance  had  the  effect  of  white  marble.  Enfin^  at  the 
end  of  the  field,  close  to  the  Maiden  Monastery,  were  two  large  richly 
ornamented  tents  for  the  Court  and  Diplomatic  Corps,  and  between 
them  an  elegant  pavilion  for  the  Imperial  Family,  decked  with  drapery 
and  hot-house  plants.  All  this  was  quite  ready  several  days  before  that 
appointed  for  the  feast,  and  the  Moscovians  went  in  crowds  to  look  at 
these  hitherto  unseen  and  unheard-of  preparations. 

It  need  hardly  be  said  that  my  mother,  with  her  fondness  for  sights 
in  general,  did  not  let  such  an  opportunity  pass ;  and  for  a  whole  fortnight 
previous  she  was  trying  to  ascertain  the  best  way  to  see  it  all.  At  first 
she  thought  of  looking  from  the  windows  of  Uncle  Simeon  Afanasievitch's 
old  house,  but  it  turned  out  that  even  from  the  highest  story  of  the 
manufactory  nothing  could  be  seen  but  the  backs  of  the  wooden 
galleries  for  the  spectators.  Then  she  went  to  the  Convent,  to  ask  if  she 
might  sit  or  stand  on  its  battlements ;  but  here  again  nothing  was  visible 
but  the  backs  of  the  Imperial  Pavilion.  At  last  she  reconciled  herself, 
after  much  hesitation,  to  buying  a  ticket  for  a  seat  in  the  gallery,  and 
of  course  in  one  of  the  cheaper,  t.  e,  back  rows.  After  this  we  calmly 
awaited  the  day  of  the  feast. 

In  the  meantime  bills  were  circulated  in  the  city  and  its  suburbs, 
informing  the  orthodox  of  the  festival  prepared  for  them  by  their  Tzar. 
In  these  bills,  besides  an  invitation,  the  plan  of  the  day's  amusement 
was  minutely  laid  down.  Having  informed  the  invited  guests  of  the 
place  and  time  of  the  dinner,  it  proceedeil  to  beg  them  to  wait  with 
patience  the  appointed  hour,  and  to  control  the  pangs  of  appetite  until 
♦  An  almost  forgotten  gold  coin,  value  railier  less  than  ^l.  {Trcmt.) 


680  THE  MONTHLY  PACKBT. 

the  arrival  of  the  Imperial  Family,  The  order  of  the  feast  was  to  he 
regulated  hj  the  hoisting  of  certain  flags  ahove  the  Imperial  Pavilion  ; 
hy  the  first  signal  the  guests  were  invited  to  assemble  at  the  tables,  at 
the  second  to  take  their  seats,  and  at  the  third  to  begin  their  repast. 
AfW  dinner  they  were  at  liberty  to  walk  about  in  the  field,  slide  down 
the  mountain,  refresh  themselves  at  the  fountains,  and  enjoy  the  perform- 
ances of  the  gymnasts  and  acrobats.  To  judge  from  the  programme,  the 
whole  was  to  produce  an  ideal  picture  of  joy  and  gaiety,  though  many 
sceptics  had  grave  doubts  as  to  the  possibility  of  the  Russian  being  capable 
of  going  through  a  task,  as  it  were,  of  given  pleasures,  which  were  not 
entirely  in  accordance  with  his  ^habits  and  manners.' 

My  mother  and  I  repaired  to  the  Maiden  Field  at  an  early  hour  on  the 
appointed  day.  As  we  were  to  take  part  in  the  Imperial  feast  only  as 
spectators,  of  course  my  mother  took  care  that  we  should  not  look  on 
with  empty  stomachs ;  and  therefore,  as  on  the  day  of  the  Coronation,  we 
took  a  parcel  of  eatables  with  us.  Early  as  it  was,  the  amphitheatre 
was  already  beginning  to  fill,  and  not  only  the  back  seats  where  our  places 
were,  but  the  front  seats  also,  were  gay  with  the  smart  dresses  of  the 
holiday  makers.  The  public  was  far  more  select  than  that  in  the  belfry, 
and  partook  of  the  refreshments  that  accompanied  them  with  the  utmost 
propriety. 

The  weather  was  exactly  calculated  for  sight-seers,  bright  and  warm ; 
the  various  coloured  flags  that  were  hoisted  over  the  booths  and  mountains 
were  scarcely  stirred  by  the  gentle  wind.  By  noonday  the  whole 
enormous  space  of  the  Maiden  Field  became  covered  with  people,  who 
incessantly  and  unrestrainedly  poured  in  from  the  streets  and  lanes  that 
led  to  it,  like  rivers  into  a  vast  lake,  while  a  murmur  filled  the  air  like 
the  noise  of  the  ocean.  In  the  midst  of  this  ever-moving  mass  stretched 
the  long  rows  of  tables  and  the  vodka  fountains,  all  of  which  were 
surrounded  by  a  line  of  cozacks,  who  were  placed  there  in  order  to 
keep  within  bounds  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  Tsar's  guests.  In 
different  parts  of  the  field  might  be  observed  groups  formed  by  military 
bands,  with  the  brass  instruments  shining  in  the  sun.  It  was  very 
pleasant  in  our  gallery,  there  was  no  want  of  laughing  and  joking  and 
talking  while  we  were  waiting  for  the  beginning  of  the  day's  amusements. 
One  very  affected  lady,  who  sat  in  the  front  row,  made  a  great  fuss 
about  the  smell  of  the  provisions  on  the  table  near  her,  and  which  she 
affirmed  overpowered  her;  she  threatened  to  faint  away,  which  awakened 
universal  merriment,  but  a  ladies'  man  among  the  gentlemen  spectators 
contrived  to  procure  a  smelling-bottle  for  her,  to  the  consolation  of  her 
sensitive  nasal  organs.  What  amused  me  the  most,  however,  was  the 
throng  of  people  below. 

'Will  there  be  room  for  them  all  at  the  tables?'  I  asked  of  my 
mother. 

'  Those  who  cannot  get  places  must  be  content  to  stand  to  dinner.' 

*  And  who  will  carve  the  meat?' 


BYGONBS.  581 

*  I  suppose  the  Court  footmen  will/ 

'I  wonder  who  will  get  the  purse  at  the  top  of  the  mast?' 

*It  is  a  pitj  your  friend  Kolia  is  not  here,  he  is  such  an  active 
fellow.' 

In  the  meantime,  carriages,  containing  the  Ambassadors,  and  other 
persons  belonging  to  the  Imperial  suite,  began  to  arrive  at  the  tent, 
and  the  public  in  our  gallery  amused  themselves  by  conjecturing  as  to 
which  court  each  diplomate  belonged,  by  the  colour  of  the  feathers  in 
their  lacqueys'  hats ;  both  tents  filled  rapidly  with  brilliant  uniforms  and 
elegant  ladies'  toilette  forming  in  themselves  a  sight  sufficiently  in- 
teresting for  such  spectators  as  we.  But  now,  from  the  direction  of 
the  Zouboffsky  Boulevard  we  hear  a  distant  lengthened  shout,  which 
approaches,  increases  with  each  second,  deafening  the  field  with  its 
thundering  peals,  and  at  last,  above  the  mass  of  heads,  may  be 
discovered  a  sort  of  stripe,  formed  by  white  feathers,  and  the  glittering 
glass  windows  of  gilt  coaches.  This  was  the  Imperial  procession,  which 
moved  through  the  mass,  and  made  its  way  towards  the  Grand  Pavilion. 

An  acquaintance  of  my  mother's,  who  was  sitting  in  the  front  row, 
called  me  to  her  just  then,  and  placed  me  in  front  of  her,  at  the  very 
edge  of  the  balustrade  which  surrounded  our  gallery.  From  thence  I 
had  an  excellent  view  of  the  whole  field  and  its  temporary  buildings. 
The  procession  moved  slowly  through  the  crowd,  and  at  last  stopped 
at  the  Pavilion;  in  a  few  minutes  the  Imperial  Family  made  their 
appearance  on  the  balcony,  and  I  had  a  full  view  of  the  Emperor  as  he 
advanced  towards  the  front,  and  replied  with  bows  to  the  shouts  which 
rang  like  thunder  over  the  vast  space. 

Little  by  little  all  became  comparatively  tranquil  again ;  echo  no  longer 
repeated  the  shouts,  of  the  people,  and  all  eyes  were  directed  towards 
the  flag-stafi^,  from  whence  the  signals  were  to  be  given ;  and  I  think 
that  we  all  awaited  the  hoisting  of  the  first  with  as  much  impatience  as 
those  who  crowded  around  the  tables  and  fountains. 

^The  Flag!  the  Flag!'  suddenly  exclaimed  a  chorus  of  voices. 

The  first  signal,  according  to  the  programme,  was  indeed  made,  and 
the  feast  was  to  begin  in  real  earnest  I  But  this  first  signal  was  also  the 
last  I  Hardly  had  the  long- wished- for  fiag  appeared,  when  the  heaving 
crowd,  till  this  moment  restrained  by  a  wall  of  cozacks,  rushed  to  the 
tables,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  entirely  cleared  of  the  provisions ! 
the  heaps  of  kalatches  and  cakes  vanished;  the  oxen  and  sheep  dis- 
appeared, as  if  they  had  sunk  into  the  earth  ;  the  very  boards,  of  which 
the  tables  and  benches  were  made,  were  taken  possession  of,  together 
with  the  tressels  on  which  they  rested ;  and  on  the  place  where  such 
profuse  abundance  but  a  few  moments  before  awaited  the  guests  of  the 
Tzar,  nothing  remained  but  the  still  heaving  agitated  crowd.  And  while 
the  hungry  souls  were  thus  arranging  their  affairs  concerning  the 
eatables,  the  thirsty  ones  had  rushed  to  the  fountains,  where  streams  of 
white  and  red  wine  had  already  begun  to  flow.    Some  dipped  deeply 


582  THE  MONTULY  PACKET. 

with  the  hidles  and  mugs,  others  helped  themselves  by  means  of  tlieir 
liats,  while  many  simply  applied  their  lips  to  the  edge  of  the  reservoir. 
Those  who  were  pressing  from  behind,  probably  not  fancying  the  idea  of 
patiently  waiting  their  turn,  or  not  believing  in  the  inexhaustibility  of 
the  fountains,  set  to  to  remove  by  force  the  foremost  from  the  edge  of 
the  basins,  and  such  as  proved  obstinate  they  dragged  away  by  the  bair 
of  their  heads.  But  at  last  one  of  the  thirsty  public  discovered  that  the 
real  source  of  the  streams  of  wine  was  concealed  in  temporary  cellurs 
beneath  the  basins,  and  proceeded  to  penetrate  thereinto,  and  to  open  the 
remaining  casks.  The  fountains  ceased  playing,  and  the  refreshment 
was  continued  below,  in  puddles  of  wine  mingled  with  earth. 

The  amusements  concluded  in  the  same  rapid  and  unexpected  manner. 
Hardly  had  the  performers,  dressed  in  flesh-coloured  tricot,  and  adorned 
with  spangles  and  ribbons,  appeared  on  the  scene,  or  the  sliders  seated 
themselves  in  the  little  carriages  at  the  top  of  the  monntains,  ere  the 
respectable  'guests,'  preferring  solid  gain  to  such  fanciful  delights,  fell 
on  the  scenes  of  either  of  these  amusements,  and  acted  with  regard  to 
them  exactly  as  they  did  with  the  tables  and  benches.  In  a  few  more 
minutes  the  flags  and  staffs  were  taken  down,  the  little  carriages  and 
the  seats  in  the  revolving  swings  were  carried  away,  the  very  boards 
were  wrenched  from  the  buildings,  and  in  the  place  of  the  pretty  effective 
structures  now  remained  their  mere  skeletons,  composed  of  beams  and 
posts,  which  were  too  heavy  for  the  excited  mob  to  carry  away  with 
them,  and  did  not  offer  any  particular  advantages.  Not  so  with  the 
mast  and  its  prizes ;  unwilling,  as  it  would  appear,  to  exercise  their  limbs  . 
in  '  German  dodges,'  when  the  matter  might  be  concluded  with  the  aid  of 
mere  Russian  gumption,  the  guests  managed  to  have  their  own  way  with 
this  gigantic  plaything  also.  Hardly  had  a  few  honest  and  conscientious 
climbers  began  to  ascend  the  pole,  in  the  lawful  hope  of  honourably 
gaining  a  prize,  when  the  more  practical  of  the  public  actually  felled 
down  the  mast,  confiscated  the  prizes,  and  thus  put  at  end  to  the  whole 
fun.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  the  hoisting  of  the  flag,  to  the 
astonishment  of  all  who  were  not  well  acquainted  with  the  ciiaracter  of 
the  Russian  moojik  of  that  period,  the  scene  of  the  People's  Feast 
presented  one  naked  beaten-down  plain,  with  the  remains  of  the  mass 
still  heaving  on  it. 

]\Iany  persons  were  highly  indignant  at  this  sudden  and  unexpected 
termination  of  the  day's  pleasure. 

*  The  wild  beasts  that  they  are !  The  cannibals !  *  grumbled  a 
gentleman  near  me,  a  foreigner,  to  judge  by  his  accent. 

'  Yes,  they  nearly  ate  up  the  German  *  performers,'  said  a  merchant, 
with  an  attempt  at  sarcasm. 

While  listening  to  these  and  other  jokes,  neither  I  nor  my  companions 
imagined  that  a  near  and  friglitful  danger  threatened  us.     When    the 

*  The  word  German  is  made  use  of  by  the  lower  orders  freciuciuly  lo  eApvci^s 
foreigner,     (7Van.s.) 


BYGONES.  583 

Court  began  to  leave  the  Pavilions,  the  mob  took  it  into  its  head  to 
commemorate  the  old  Russian  custom  of  doing  honour  to  the  Tzar  by 
'  taking  a  fortress,'  that  is,  falling  on  Imperial  property  and  carrying  it 
otT  as  a  remembrance  of  the  Tzar.  For  this  purpose  they  selected  the 
galleries  occupied  by  the  spectators,  and  several  spirited  fellows  got  up 
on  the  roofs  and  began  to  tear  away  the  white-washed  canvas  with 
which  they  were  covered.  The  white-wash  had  become  so  thoroughly 
dried  in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  that  this  operation  raised  a  cloud  of 
blinding  choking  dust,  which  was  taken  at  first  for  smoke,  and  occasioned 
a  cry  of  terror,  perhaps  merely  begun  by  a  practical  joker — 'We're 
burning  I  Fire  I  Fire  ! '  Of  course  everybody  endeavoured  to  escape 
from  the  galleries,  which  another  crowd  immediately  filled  for  the 
purpose  of  carrying  off  the  seats  and  tearing  down  the  draperies  from  the 
arches.     Confusion  ensued,  accompanied  by  screams  and  cries. 

Separated  as  I  was  from  my  mother  by  several  rows  of  seats,  I  had 
not  time  to  come  to  my  senses  ere  I  had  completely  lost  sight  of  her  in 
the  whirl  of  the  crowd,  where  I  can  by  no  means  imagine  how  I 
remained  alive;  but  I  came  to  myself  at  lust  near  the  Imperial  Pavilion, 
in  the  midst  of  strange  faces,  and  of  an  awful  crush  and  noise.  I  could 
see  neither  my  mother  nor  my  friend  the  merchant's  wife,  who  had  taken 
me  under  her  protection.  Somebody  picked  me  up  and  put  me  on  a 
ledge  of  the  Pavilion,  where  I  was  out  of  danger  of  being  crushed  to 
death ;  and  from  whence  the  entire  picture  of  that  exciting  moment 
presented  itself  to  my  eyes.  The  galleries  did  indeed  appear  in  the 
midst  of  smoke,  from  the  fine  white  dust  of  the  agitated  canvas ;  people 
with  chairs  and  benches  in  their  arms  sprang  through  the  arches,  v«  Iiile 
the  gens  d'armes  and  cozacks  on  either  side  endeavoured  to  suiTound 
the  thieves.  So  great  was  the  noise,  that  the  shouts  of  the  truly  loyal 
party,  which  accompanied  the  retiring  carriages  containing  the  Imperial 
Family,  were  scarcely  distinguishable.  We  were  subsequently  informed 
tliat  during  this  strange  demonstration  of  delight,  many  respectable 
spectators  lost  valuable  shawls  and  other  nrticlt^s  of  clothing,  and  some 
actually  had  their  ear-rings  stolen  out  of  their  very  ears. 

While  I  was  standing  on  the  ledge  of  the  Imperial  Pavilion,  crying, 
and  vainly  striving  to  espy  my  mother  in  the  crowd  that  passed  by  me, 
a  tall  powerful  moojik  came  up  to  me.  To  judge  from  the  sheep's  head 
with  gilt  horns  that  he  held,  he  had  evidently  taken  a  lively  part  in  the 
People's  Feast;  and  a  red  blister  under  his  eye,  and  his  torn  kaflnn, 
which  shewed  a  rent  of  almost  its  whole  length,  testified  bow  dearly  he 
had  paid  for  the  gratuitous  pleasure  he  had  enjoyed. 

*  What  are  you  crying  about,  my  boy  ? '  he  a»<ked. 

I  explained  that  I  had  lost  my  mother,  and  that  I  did  not  know  how 
to  set  about  to  seek  her. 
'  Do  you  live  far  off? ' 

*  On  the  other  side  of  the  Sonkhareff  Tower.' 

*  Well,  that's  not  in  my  way,  or  1  would  take  3  ou  home.     I  suppose 


584  THE  MONTHLY  PACICET. 

you  do  not  know  the  way  ?     Really,  I  am  very  sorry  for  you  !    Have 
you  no  relations  or  friends  nearabouts  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  have  some  acquaintances  in  the  manufactoiy/ 

*  AVhat  manufactory  t ' 

'  That  great  briek  house,  there/ 

'  All  right !  I'll  carry  you  there,  my  boy,  or  else  youll  get  crushed  to 
death.    See  how  shamefully  they  are  conducting  themselves  ! ' 

My  protector  gave  me  the  sheep's  bead  to  hold  by  its  gilt  horns,  took 
me  in  his  arms,  and  carried  me  through  the  crowd,  vigorously  making 
his  way  with  his  broad  shoulders.  In  a  few  minutes  we  had  reached  the 
backs  of  the  galleries,  and  soon  found  ourselves  at  the  gates  of  my  late 
uncle's  house,  where  we  met  my  terrified  mother,  who  with  a  party  of 
workmen  was  just  on  the  point  of  setting  out  to  seek  me.  My  deliverer 
placed  me  in  her  arms,  and  not  only  refused  any  remuneration,  but 
presented  me  at  parting  with  a  gilt  cake. 

We  remained  for  an  hour  or  two  at  the  manufactory,  for  in  the  first 
place  my  poor  mother  had  been  seriously  alarmed  on  my  account,  ancl 
required  rest  in  cM'dcr  to  bring  her  nerves  to  their  usual  state  of  cheerful 
ti'anquillity ;  and  in  the  second,  it  was  deemed  but  prudent  to  wait  until 
the  crowd  should  disperse  in  a  degree.  Notwithstanding  that  everything 
on  the  field,  except  the  Imperial  Pavilion,  had  long  ago  been  broken 
and  destroyed,  large  masses  of  people  still  remained.  While  my  mother 
was  resting,  I  took  the  opportunity  of  running  into  the  dear  old  garden. 
My  heart  beat  high  when  I  heard  the  chimes  of  the  convent  clock,  and 
the  tolling  of  its  minute-bell,  which  reminded  me  so  strongly  of  past  joya 
and  past  sorrows. 

As  we  were  returning  home  we  met  several  moojiks,  some  with  chairs, 
some  with  fragments  of  the  white-washed  canvas,  some  with  nothing 
more  than  a  board.  We  were  told  afterwards  that  the  Police-master 
General  placed  soldiers  at  the  various  entrances  to  the  Field,  with  ordei*8 
to  take  all  stolen  property  from  such  thieves  as  should  fall  into  their 
hands;  but  tiie  Emperor  countermanded  these  orders,  and  the  con- 
sequence was  that  the  greater  part  of  the  stolen  property  was  sold  at 
various  taverns  for  a  mere  trifle. 

When  my  father  came  to  know  all  that  had  befallen  us  on  the  Maiden 
Field,  he  gave  my  mother  a  serious  lecture,  and  would  not  allow  her  to 
tuke  me  to  any  of  the  remaining  flutes  attendant  on  the  Coronation ;  thus 
I  was  deprived  of  the  sight  of  the  great  illumination  at  the  Kreml,  and 
of  the  fire- works  on  the  Lefort  Field,  with  which  all  the  public  rejoicings 
concluded. 

In  a  few  months,  however,  I  accompanied  my  mother  to  see  a  sight 
that  interested  the  Moscovians  deeply  at  that  time.  Reports  were 
circulated  that  Montferraut,  the  celebrated  architect,*  had  arrived  from 
Petersburgh  to  raise  the  great  Tzar  bell.     Until  that  time  this  Moscow 

*  A  talented  Frenchman,  who  built  the  Isaac  Cathedral  at  S.  Petersburgli. 
{Trans.^ 


BYGONES.  585 

curiosity,  the  real  history  of  which  was  unknown  to  the  many,  lay  in  a 
deep  hole  opposite  the  Tcbovdoff  Monastery.  Over  this  hole  a  wooden 
covering  was  placed,  in  which  was  a  trap-door,  the  key  of  which  was  in 
the  keeping  of  the  bell-ringers  of  the  Ivan  belfry,  and,  thanks  to  the 
curiosity  of  the  residents  of  Moscow  and  of  occasional  visitors  from  the 
provinces,  was  a  source  of  inexhaustible  perquisite  to  them.  When  we 
lived  on  the  Maiden  Field,  my  mother  took  me  to  see  it;  and  I  recollect 
well  that  we  had  to  go  down  a  flight  of  steps  into  a  sort  of  cavern, 
preceded  by  the  guide,  who  held  a  lighted  lantern  in  his  hand. 

When  the  report  became  confirmed  that  the  architect  of  the  Isaac 
Church  had  really  been  sent  to  get  the  twelve- thousand  pood  bell  out  of 
its  hole,  the  people  began  to  talk  more  or  less  against  such  an  under- 
taking. Some  said  that  it  was  all  of  no  use;  that  it  would  be  far  better 
to  sell  the  bell-metal  by  public  auction.  Others  wished  that  a  relic  of 
such  historical  interest  should  be  left  as  it  was,  as  a  monument  to 
posterity.  And  there  were  some  few  sceptics,  who  positively  affirmed 
that  the  contemplated  raising  was  an  utter  impossibility,  not  only  on 
account  of  the  tremendous  weight  of  the  bell,  but  also  because  it  had 
been  cursed,  as  they  affirmed,  by  a  saint,  who  had  doomed  it  to  remain 
in  the  earth  as  long  as  Moscow  remained  a  city  of  the  world. 

But  notwithstanding  all  this,  a  puzzle  of  8caffi)lding  composed  of 
immensely  large  and  strong  beams  and  boards,  began  to  surround  the 
hole  where  the  bell  lay,  and  in  due  time  certain  cylinders  and  other 
machinery  were  fixed  in  their  proper  places.  The  space  occupied  in  this 
manner  was  bordered  by  a  spacious  amphitheatre,  containing  seats  for 
such  spectators  as  might  wish  to  witness  the  release  of  the  long 
imprisoned  captive;  and  so  many  curious  persons  there  were,  even  among 
the  sceptics,  that  in  a  few  days  not  a*  single  place  was  to  be  procured. 
My  mother  contrived  to  get  a  ticket  too;  and  on  the  appointed  day  we 
repaired  to  occupy  our  place,  from  whence  we  could  see  not  only  the 
hole  but  the  cylinders  on  which  the  bell  was  to  be  rolled  to  the  granite 
pedestal  prepared  for  it,  at  the  foot  of  the  tall  belfry  of  Ivan  Veliki. 
When  we  arrived,  a  crowd  of  soldiers  stood  near  the  cranes,  from  which 
enormous  cables  proceeded,  and  coiled  themselves  like  giant  serpents 
into  the  hole.  In  our  amphitheatre  there  was  a  great  deal  of  talking 
and  disputing,  and  even  laying  of  wagers,  concerning  the  fate  of  the  bell, 
as  to  whether  or  no  it  would  move  :  one  gentleman  declared  that  in  the 
year  '12,  Napoleon  Bonaparte  during  his  sojourn  in  Moscow  had  made 
an  attempt  to  remove  it,  but  that  the  Tzar  bell,  at  the  very  first  attempt 
of  a  Frenchman  to  touch  it,  went  further  than  ever  into  the  earth  I 

But  at  last  a  signal  was  given — the  groups  of  soldiers  applied 
themselves  to  the  levers^  and  worked  vigorously,  and  in  perfect  unison  ; 
every  moment  the  machines  turned  more  and  more  rapidly,  the  enormous 
cables  became  stretched  and  strained,  and  by  degrees  wound  round  the 
massive  revolving  cylinders.  The  attention  of  the  public  was  so  vividly 
exerted,  that  for  the  greater  part  they  stood  up,  in  the  momentai*y 


586  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

expectation  Ihfit  the  mad-brained  Frenchman  would  be  made  a  fool  of. 
At  any  rate,  tiiey  devoutly  wished  it  to  be  so.  But  the  ropes  did  not 
break,  and  every  moment  tliey  stretched  more  and  more,  reminding  one 
of  a  gigantic  cobweb.  Tlien  there  appeared  at  the  mouth  of  the  hole  a 
quantity  of  enormous  knots,  and  among  them  the  beams  that  were 
attached  to  them  ;  and  at  last  the  blackish -green  mass  of  the  bell  itself, 
in  a  tangled  net-work  of  cables,  rose  higher  and  higher — pausing  at  the 
sCcifFolding  prepared  for  it ;  inclinetl  to  one  side,  and  gently  rolled  to  its 
place,  where  by  a  continuation  of  clever  contrivances,  it  was  raised  to  its 
edge  on  the  granite  pedestal  that  awaited  it.  Thus  in  one  short  half 
hour  the  talented  Frenchman  laughed  to  scorn  the  prophecies  of  the 
blessed  saint,  and  those  of  the  more  modern  ill-wishers  in  Moscow. 

A  few  days  after  this,  I  went  with  my  father  to  look  at  the  bell.  It 
now  stood  quite  free  of  all  the  scaffolding  and  cordage,  and  on  its  summit 
shone  a  globe  surmounted  by  a  gilt  cross ;  at  its  foot  leaned  the  piece 
that  was  broken  out  of  it,  as  if  on  purpose  to  shew  off  the  thickness  and 
massiveness  of  the  enormous  casting. 

I  once  heard  a  narrative  respecting  this  bell,  which  struck  me  by  its 
originality.  I  happened  to  go  with  my  schoolfellows  to  the  arsenal,  and 
having  inspected  its  historical  curiosities,  we  wandered  towards  the  Tzar 
bell.  Before  it  stood  a  group  of  persons,  to  all  appearance  workmen, 
between  whom  a  lively  dispute  was  going  on  respecting  when  and  where 
the  bell  was  cast.  Their  arguments  were  as  confused  as  those  on  the 
same  subject  which  subsequently  occupied  various  Moscow  journals. 

^But  it  i^  a  good  inch  that  is  broken  out  of  it  V  said  a  young  fellow. 
*  It  must  weigh  a  hundred  poods,  eht' 

*  A  hundred  f '  retorted  another,  *  five  hundred,  at  least,  they  say.' 
'Oi,  oi!' 

*  Yes,  the  bell-ringers  say  so.' 

*  And  how  did  it  get  broken  ?' 

*  They  rang  it  too  hard.' 

*  No  such  thing  I '  contradicted  an  elderly  workman. 
*Then  how?' 

*  Well,  they  say,  brothers,  (that  is,  I  heard  so  at  the  factory,)  that 
when  the  Tzar  Peter  the  First  had  beaten  the  Swedes  at  Poltava,  he 
came  to  Moscow  to  celebrate  his  victory.  lie  had  the  Red  Gateway 
built  then,  and  passed  through  it  in  a  grand  procession  with  all  his 
generals.  And  orders  were  given  to  fire  the  cannons,  and  cry  hurrah, 
and  to  ring  the  bells  in  all  the  churches  of  the  city.  Well,  you  see,  this 
same  Tzar  bell  took  the  fiincy  not  to  ring.  The  ringers,  hard  as  they 
worked  and  heartily  as  they  tried,  could  not  move  the  tongue !  it  did  not 
give  out  one  sound  !  and  there's  an  end  of  it  1  it  would  not  !  because  it 
did  not  choose  to !  The  Tzar  Peter  happened  to  pass  through  the  Red 
Gateway  just  at  that  very,  time,  and  inquired — **  What  is  the  reason,"  he 
says,  "  that  all  the  bells  in  Moscow  are  ringing,  and  that  Ivan  Veliki  is 
sileat  ?     IIow  dares  it  not  obey  ?  "    And  he  sent  an  oflicer  to  know  the 


BYGONES.  587 

cause.  So  the  officer  galloped  off,  and  prrsenlly  returned  with  the 
answer,  "The  bell  won't  obey."  The  Tzar  ^ot  vexed,  and  sent  aji^nin  to 
order  that  the  bell  should  ring  immediately,  or  else  he  would  have  all  the 
ringers  put  to  death.  The  poor  fellows  were  awfully  frightened,  and 
worked  with  all  their  might,  so  that  the  cords  were  on  the  point  of 
breaking,  yet  still  it  would  not  sound,  exactly  as  if  it  had  no  tongue  at 
all.  They  could  see  Peter  the  First  with  his  generals  riding  into  the 
Kreml,  very  angry  that  his  commands  were  not  attended  to;  so  all  the 
ringers  fell  to  the  ground  and  in  one  voice  begged  for  mercy,  and  said 
that  it  was  indeed  the  bell,  and  not  themselves,  that  would  not  obey. 
The  Tzar  shouted  at  them,  "  1*11  make  you  ring  it  with  your  heads ! 
Make  it  ring  this  instant  I "  lie  gave  them  a  whole  regiment  of  soldiers 
of  the  Guard  to  help  them,  the  finest  and  bravest  that  there  were.  Tht^y 
set  to  work,  and  pulled  so  hard  that  the  tongue  fell  out,  and  still  it  gave 
no  sound.  (You  see  it  was  more  obstinate  than  the  Tzar  himself.)  But 
.  when  he  saw  that  the  rcjjiment  and  the  rinjijers  could  do  nothinof  with  it, 
he  was  so  vexed,  and  scolded  so  furiously,  that  all  the  generals  shook 
with  terror.  lie  had  a  great  staff  in  his  hand,  the  very  one  that  he 
killed  the  Swedish  King  with;*  and  he  went  up  to  the  bell  in  a  rage, 
with  the  stick  in  his  hand,  and  gave  it  a  good  beating.  "  That's  for 
thee  ! "  he  says,  "  for  not  ringing  to  tell  the  people  of  my  victory ! " 
And  he  did  it  so  stoutly  that  he  broke  this  piece  right  out  of  it  with  one 
blow  !  The  bell  gave  a  great  howl  and  fell  into  the  earth,  and  the  Tzar 
abused  it  roundly,  and  commanded  it  to  remain  where  it  was  for  ever  and 
ever.  But  our  Emperor,  that  now  is,  took  compassion  on  it,  and  as  a 
hundred  years  have  passed  since  the  victory  at  Poltava  was  gained,  he 
pardoned  it,  and  got  the  Metropolitan  to  give  his  blessing  on  its  being 
removed  from  the  hole.  They  say  the  Frenchman  wanted  to  stick  the 
broken  bit  into  its  place  again,  but  they  would  not  let  him ;  you  see  they 
wish  to  leave  it  as  a  curiosity,  and  as  a  remembrance  of  how  it  disobeyed 
the  Tzar  Peter,  and  received  its  punishment  for  not  announcing  the 
victory  at  Poltava.' 

'  The  Tzar  Peter  must  have  been  pretty  strong,  eh,  brothers  ? '  re- 
marked the  young  fellow,  after  listening  attentively  to  this  narrative. 

'  Yes.     And  a  pretty  considerable  force  was  required  to  get  it  out  of 
the  hole,  too,'  said  another. 

Tiiis  legend  was  long  the  subject  of  comment  and  repetition  in  our 
school  of  the  Three  Bishops. 

{Concluded,) 


*  Peter  the  Great  really  had  a  stick,  of  historical  renown,  with  which  he  occa- 
sionally corrected  ofTendors,  and  among  others  his  favourite,  Prince  Menstchikoif. 
It  still  exists  Among  the  other  curiosities  that  remain  of  Peter  I.  in  the  Hermitage  at 
St.  Pctcrshurgh. 


588  THS  MONTHLT  PACKET. 


NUNN'S  COURT. 

I 

CHAPTER  VI. 

'  The  God  of  Heaven,  He  will  prosper  us ;  therefore  we  His  servants  will  arise  and 
build.' 

My  dear  Grandmother,  Oxford. 

The  examination  is  over.     I  have  passed.     Expect  me  home  on 
Thursdaj,  by  the  six  o'clock  train. 

Your  affectionate  grandson, 

John  Ttdvillb  Tbeyiulb. 

Bbief  as  this  letter  was,  the  Grandmother's  eyes  glistened  with  pleasure 
as  she  read  it,  and  she  felt  very  proud  indeed.  'Poor  Johnny!'  she 
exclaimed ;  but  there  was  no  pity  implied  in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  only 
exultant  sympathy ;  and  there  was  something  allied  to  reverence  in  the 
care  bestowed  on  the  replacing  the  letter  in  its  envelope. 

The  examination  he  had  so  much  dreaded  was  over.  And  when  they 
met,  he  said  to  her,  'No  blushing  honours,  Granny;  but  it  will  be,  I 
know,  some  comfort  to  you  to  think  that  when  my  name  is  added  to  the 
list  of  my  forefathers,  dunce  will  not  now  be  appended  to  it.' 

On  the  following  St.  Bartholomew's  Day,  the  Tydville  estate  passed 
into  his  hands ;  and  the  Manor  House,  which  had  been  partly  shut  up 
since  the  death  of  his  father,  was  once  again  opened  to  receive  an 
immediate  heir.  It  was  an  ancient  Elizabethan  structure,  dark  and 
heavy,  surrounded  by  cedar  and  cypress  trees,  whose  thick  and  somhre 
foliage  completely  shut  out  even  a  glimpse  of  the  flower-gardens  and 
the  park  beyond,  with  its  magnificent  oaks  and  chestnuts,  and  meandering 
river.  Mrs.  Treville  was  very  busy  in  getting  the  house  restored  to 
habitable  order ;  and  having  been  so  long  accustomed  to  her  own  little 
bright  home,  she  quite  shuddered  as  she  went  along  the  dark  passages, 
or  looked  from  the  windows  upon  the  tall  dark  impenetrable  trees. 
Jarvis  said  she  was  reminded  of  the  cemetery  catacombs,  and  Mrs. 
Treville  thought  the  comparison  by  no  means  inapplicable.  John 
heeded  neither ;  he  knew  what  would  bring  both  brightness  and  home 
to  that  house  for  him :  but  before  he  would  rest  on  that  thought,  he 
must  rise  up  and  build.  He  betrayed  something  of  what  was  passing 
in  his  mind,  when  Mrs.  Treville  asked  what  rooms  he  should  use:  in 
signifying  them,  he  added,  'But  not  the  little  east  sitting-room;  leave 
that  alone  for  the  present' 

'  But,  Johnny,'  the  old  lady  remonstrated,  '  that  is  the  brightest  room 
in  the  house !  If  you  cut  down  that  tree  in  front  of  the  window,  you  can 
get  such  a  pretty  view  of  the  rose-garden.  Jarvis  and  I  quite  thought 
you  would  make  it  your  own  room.' 

'  That  room  shall  be  used  by-aud-by,  Granny,'  he  answered,  with  so 


nunn's  court.  589 

bright  a  smile  that  she  could  not  misunderstand  his  meaning.  '  When 
I  begin  to  furnish  that  room,  you  will  know  that  the  waste  places  are 
filled  up.' 

Good  substantial  cottages  had  to  be  built  to  receive  the  different 
families  residing  in  Nunn's  Court,  who  could  not  be  ejected  from  their 
homes  until  suitable  dwelling-places  were  ready  for  them ;  and  time 
was  needed  for  this.  Day  by  day  John  Treville  watched  the  progress 
of  the  builders ;  and  day  by  day  was  assailed  by  the  reiterated 
entreaties  of  the  aged  people  in  the  Court,  not  to  turn  them  out  of 
their  old  homes. 

Old  Ben  was  an  especial  charge  at  this  time.  Age  was  gradually 
depriving  him  of  all  mental  power ;  nothing  pleased  or  satisfied  him ; 
and  he  was  at  times  incapable  of  listening  to  reason.  To  fret  and 
whine  about  the  coming  change  of  residence  was  his  chief  occupation, 
and  he  succeeded  in  worrying  all  who  waited  upon  him,  and  in  giving 
pain  to  those  who  sought  to  comfort  him. 

^  Ben,'  said  John  one  evening,  after  reading  the  Psalms  to  him — John's 
monotonous  voice  more  often  soothed  him  than  anything  else — '  I  hope 
you  will  sleep  well,  for  I  want  to  take  you  for  a  drive  to-morrow.' 

The  old  man  took  the  hand  stretched  out  to  meet  his,  and  retaining  it, 
murmured,  * ^'That  Thy  way  may  be  known  upon  earth."' 

John  finished  the  verse  and  repeated  the  next. 

^Miss  Grace  says,  says  she,'  Ben  continued,  '''Do  yon  think,  Ben, 
that  Master  Treville's  agoing  to  turn  you  out  of  your  home  for  his  own 
pleasure  T"  and  I  hadn't  nothing  to  answer ;  only  Miss  Agnes,  she  said 
she  was  sure  I  should  see  it  in  the  proper  light  by-and-by ;  and  I  think, 
Master  John,  the  proper  light  come  while  you  was  reading  that  last 
Psalm.     You  want  His  way  to  be  known  upon  earth/ 

John  closed  his  other  hand  over  the  wrinkled  one  which  clasped  his, 
and  said  slowly,  while  the  blood  crimsoned  his  brow,  'Ben,  He  chose 
and  sanctified  this  place ;  and  shall  we  hinder  His  way  being  made  known 
here  r 

'  I  see,  Sir,'  said  the  old  man  with  a  quivering  voice ;  '  and  I  know  I 
oflen  worrit  you — forgive  me.' 

'  I  am  sorry  enough,  Ben,  that  I  have  to  turn  you  out  of  your  dear  old 
home.' 

'  Sorry  for  me,  Sir ;  but  not  sorry,  I  know,  'cause  the  way  to  right  is 
a  bit  crooked.' 

'  No,  J  hope  not,'  John  answered. 

He  was  thankful  for  this  unexpected  glimpse  of  the  hidden  life  in  the 
imbecile  old  man,  and  did  not  fail  to  gather  from  it  an  encouragement 
to  persevere;  and  if  the  shade  of  care,  which  Agnes  first  noticed,  had 
been  gradually  deepening,  yet  the  bearded  young  man  still  loved  a 
game  with  the  young  ones,  and  the  old  dull  look  more  often  gave 
place  to  his  own  peculiarly  bright  smile. 

And  when  St.  Bartholomew's  Day  came  again,  the  cottages  in  Nunn's 


590  THE  MONTHLt  PACKET. 

Court  had  been  razed  to  the  ground — not  a  brick  or  a  stone  remained. 
Wildly  rang  the  bells  of  the  parish  church  I  Meet  for  the  hour 
sounded  the  unruly  joy  of  the  winged  choristers.  The  stars  that  roll 
round  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  had  their  harps  strung  and  set  for  a 
triumphal  lay,  *  built  in  light  divine;'  and  with  that  lay,  one  'faint 
-warbler  of  the  earth  '  sought  to  combine  '  bis  trembling  notes.' 

'  Who  am  I,  and  what  is  my  house,  that  we  should  obtain  strength  to 
offer  so  willingly  of  this  sortl'  was  John  Treville*s  waking  exclamation 
on  that  morning. 

Old  Ben  heard,  from  the  open  window  of  his  new  home,  the  first  note 
of  the  procesi$iunal  hymn,  as  clergy  and  choir  issued  from  the  little 
temporary  chapel ;  heard,  too,  the  words  grow  fainter  and  fainter,  till 
only  the  tune  was  discernible;  and  even  the  sound  of  that  was  lost  ere 
the  destined  spot  was  reached,  where,  with  one  shout,  and  as  if  with  one 
voice,  was  heard, 

*  Both  now  and  ever,  Lord,  protect 
The  temple  of  Thine  own  elect ; 
Be  Thou  in  them,  and  they  in  Thee, 
O  ever -blessed  Trinity.' 

The  Grandmother's  hand  was  very  tremulous  as  she  took  the  trowel, 
and,  guided  by  her  grandson,  fulfilled  the  part  appointed  for  her  in  laying 
the  foundation-stone  of  the  future  church ;  while  her  veil  and  the  strings 
of  her  widow's  cap  were  floating  on  the  gentle  breeze,  which  also  lightly 
waved  the  white  apparel  of  the  priests  and  singers  who  sang  together  by 
course  in  praising  and  giving  thanks  unto  the  Lord,  because  the  found- 
ation of  His  House  was  laid. 

John  did  not  join  the  choir  on  its  return  at  the  end  of  the  service, 
for  his  grandmother  looked  pale  and  tired,  and  while  Agnes  waited 
with  her,  he  went  to  fetch  the  carriage.  When  he  returned,  he  bade 
them  both  get  in,  saying,  *  I  must  drive  you,  for  there  are  no  coachmen 
to-day ;  it  is  a  holiday  for  all.* 

There  were  archways  of  evergreens  and  flow^ers  up  the  drive  from 
the  park  gate  to  the  Manor  House,  and  banners  waving  in  every 
direction.  There  were  swinging-boats,  and  merry-go-rounds,  targets, 
and  various  tents,  giving  a  bright  and  holiday  aspect  to  the  place,  of 
which,  as  Mrs.  Treville  thought,  the  house  did  not  partake.  She  had 
a  nice  long  resting-time  before  the  bustle  began.  John  was  sitting 
with  her  whin  the  sound  of  distant  music  proclaimed  the  approach  of 
his  guests;  and  at  that  sound  he  rose  to  go,  exclaiming,  'There  are 
all  the  people !  I  must  go  and  stand  on  the  terrace,  and  by  my 
presence  bid  them  w-elcome,  for  it  is  very  certain  I  shall  not  know 
what  to  say.' 

'Johnny,'  said  the  old  lady  then,  'your  granny  blesses  God  that  she 
has  lived  to  see  this  day,  and  the  fulfilment  of  your  heart's  desire.' 

The  young  man  knelt  on  one  knee  and  kissed  her  brow ;  then,  just 


nunn's  court.  5&-1 

ad  he  was  about  to  dart  out  of  the  room,  turned  back  to  draw  down 
a  blind,  remembering  that  any  strong  light  was  trying  to  her  eyes. 

•Never  mind,  Johnny,*  she  cried;  *  why,  you  would  quite  spoil  me  if  I 
remained  here  long.  Go,  my  boy,  go;  the  people  will  like  to  see  you 
wlien  they  arrive.' 

lie  was  gone  before  she  had  fairly  finished  her  sentence.  His  presence 
on  the  terrace  was  hailed  wiih  deafening  cheers,  to  which  he  responded 
by  raising  his  hat  high  in  the  air;  then  with  one  bound  he  cleared  ihe 
steps,  and  stood  amidst  them  all.  The  Vicar  at  once  came  forward, 
shook  his  hand,  and  made  a  very  grave  and  suitable  speech. 

^Thanks,  thanks!*  said  John  in  return.  'The  house  is  open  to  all. 
Will  you  and  Dr.  Murray  kindly  help  me  to  entertain  my  friends?  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  be  of  more  use  out  of  doors  than  in.' 

*  In  fact,  you  are  "  the  people's  man,"  Treville,*  said  the  Doctor 
jocosely. 

John  laughed,  and  answered,  'That  is  what  I  want  to  be  in  its  truest 
sense.' 

Mr.  Yardley  again  held  out  his  hand,  saying,  *Our  future  represent- 
ative, of  course.* 

*  Oh  no !'  said  John,  with  a  start. 

*  And  why  not?*  asked  Mr.  Yardley,  turning  to  Dr.  Murray,  as  John 
moved  away. 

*  Because,'  answered  the  Doctor,  *  he  has  such  a  dread  of  increased 
responsibility;  the  lad  has  such  a  tender  conscience.* 

There  was  a  pause.  Presently  Mr.  Yardley  exclaimed,  *  Look  tliere  ! 
at  any  rate  his  responsibilities  have  not  a  very  depressing  effect,*  and 
pointing  to  John,  who  was  on  one  of  the  horses  in  the  merry-go-round, 
with  a  little  urchin  on  his  knee. 

'Just  like  him  !*  said  the  Doctor.  'What  do  you  think  of  that,  Ned, 
for  the  owner  of  such  a  place  as  this?*  he  observed  to  Mortimer,  who 
was  at  his  side.  « 

'  That  Oxford  has  not  spoilt  him,'  said  Grace  Allyn,  intercepting 
Mortimer's  reply. 

'  What  a  naughty  insinuation,  Grace  I'  returned  the  Doctor.  '  Where 
did  you  spring  from  ? ' 

'  From  no  subterranean  place,  I  can  assure  you,  Doctor,'  she  answered 
gaily;  'I  have  only  come  away,  in  a  most  natural  manner,  from  the  little 
flock  I  have  promised  to  watch  over,  to  say  that  Mrs.  Yardley *s  carriage 
is  coming  up  the  drive.' 

'And  that  we  are  by  duty  bound  to  go  and  meet  it,'  retorted  tlie 
Doctor. 

But  they  were  superseded  by  John,  who,  as  soon  as  the  carriiige 
appeared,  jumped  down  from  the  merry-go-round,  and  was  at  the  hall 
door  ready  to  hand  Mrs.  Yardley  out. 

'  The  lad  is  worthy  of  his  position,  Mortimer,'  remarked  the  Doctor,  as 
John  conducted  Mrs.  Yardley  into  the  house. 


592  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

*  Treville  sustains  his  dignity  under  any  circumstances^*  was  the  quiet 
answer. 

*He  has  one  great  gift,  which  he  uses  in  an  admirable  manner/ 
remarked  Mr.  Yardley. 

'  Influence  ?'  suggested  Dr.  Murray. 

^  Just  so  I  And  what  a  great  gift  it  is !  See  what  he  has  accomplished 
with  it  amongst  a  set  of  most  unruly  people  I' 

*  Unruly !  He  speaks  of  them  as  if  they  were  pattern  people,'  said 
Mortimer. 

*  Because/  said  the  Doctor,  '  at  the  very  beginning  he  regarded  their 
wretched  condition  as  the  result  of  his  forefathers'  sacrilege  and  neglect, 
and  therefore  it  would  be  painful  to  him  to  betray  anything  but  his  great 
interest  in  them ;  and  again,  he  has  such  control  over  every  one  of  them, 
that  the  spirit  of  insubordination  is  checked,  and  in  some  has  entirely 
yielded  to  better  influences.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that,  now  that  little 
colony  is  no  longer  herded  together  in  a  court,  the  desire  to  resist  lawful 
authority  will  gradually  die  out,  and  the  old  as  well  as  the  young  learn 
to  value  a  church  and  clergyman  of  their  own.' 

'  The  children  are  being  well  instructed,  I  find,'  said  Mortimer. 

^  Yes,  that  has  been  a  most  satisfactory  part  of  the  work ;  and  with 
Giles  for  their  school-master,  their  advantages  will  be  still  greater. 
And  John  is  not  likely  to  slacken  his  efforts  or  become  wearied,  if, 
after  all  he  has  done,  the  fruit  apparently  is  not  so  abundant  as  might 
be  expected.' 

^It  is  very  abundant,  I  consider,'  remarked  Mr.  Tardley;  'I  am 
reluctant  to  confess  that  when  he  first  conceived  the  idea  of  introducing 
means  for  effecting  a  moral  and  religious  reformation  into  that  den  of 
vice  and  ignorance,  I  looked  upon  it  as  the  visionary  scheme  of  a 
young  and  over-imaginative  boy,  deeming,  from  past  experience,  that 
the  result  he  anticipated  was  an  utter  impracticability.' 

*1  too  consider  that  his  work  has  been  bountifully  blessed,'  said 
Mortimer  musingly.  ^Yet  I  have  learned  to  know  that  he  had  only 
the  work  and  no  result  in  view  when  he  began.' 

*  That  I  firmly  believe  now,'  said  Mr.  Yardley ;  *  hence  Ids  success, 
and  mt/  mistake.' 

Here  they  were  interrupted  by  Agnes  and  Grace,  who  came  to  tell 
them  that  John  had  gone  to  fetch  old  Ben  in  time  for  dinner;  fresh 
guests  had  arrived,  and  Mrs.  Treville  was  begging  help  to  entertain  them. 

'And  what  mischief  are  you  two  about  to  concoct?'  asked  the 
Doctor. 

^  We  have  no  intention  of  standing  here  to  gossip,'  Grace  answered 
merrily ;  '  or  you  will  have  no  honey  to  eat  with  your  bread ;  for  it 
is  very  certain  you  will  make  none  for  yourselves.' 

'  It  is  very  obvious  bees  sting,*  retorted  the  Doctor. 

*  Only  those  who  are  tempted  to  loiter  on  their  way,'  she  said,  and 
passed  on. 


nunn's  court.  593 

The  three  genUemen,  however,  fully  redeemed  their  character  daring 
the  day,  and  were  not  again  found  gossiping. 

John  and  Edwin  Mortimer  paced  the  terrace  that  night,  enshrouded 
by  the  light  of  the  summer  moon.  The  other  guests  had  departed, 
and  they  were  alone.  The  hour  was  still  and  solemn,  and  the  light 
mystic  and  soothing ;  its  influence  was  upon  them  and  all  around. 

*Treville,'  said  Mortimer,  'your  purpose  is  being  fulfilled  according 
to  your  heart's  desire.  It  was  no  mere  boyish  dream,  old  fellow,  was 
it?' 

'  My  life's  dream,  rather.' 

When  they  again  broke  the  silence  that  followed,  they  had  returned 
to  the  house.  Moriimer  asked  if  John  intended  to  live  alone  in  that 
large  house. 

'  Till  my  life's  dream  is  complete,'  was  the  answer. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

*  Three  solemn  parts  together  twine 
In  harmony's  mysterions  line ; 
Three  solemn  aisles  approach  the  shrine.' 

*  And  thus  was  the  holy  house  finished !'  '  Each  nook  and  corner  was 
swept  and  cleaned ;'  and  '  there  stood  the  church  like  a  garden,'  just  as  the 
sun  was  setting  and  pouring  in  its  rays  through  the  west  window !  It  was 
the  only  coloured  window,  and  bore  the  inscription,  'To  the  glory  of 
God,  and  in  memory  of  Elizabeth  Giles,  who  departed  this  life  on  the 
day  of  her  baptism.  May  15th,  18 — ,'  and  the  sunbeams  reflected  its 
many  colours  and  danced  about  the  sculptured  font  beneath. 

It  was  the  eve  of  the  Consecration  ;  and  although  there  had  been  many 
helping  hands,  busy  in  the  work  of  decoration  fully  a  fortnight  before 
the  appointed  day,  there  was  at  the  last  much  pressing  to  get  all  done 
in  time.  A  few  of  the  workers  remained  to  finish  whatever  was  lefl  to 
be  done,  and  daylight  was  fast  fading  before  Agnes  had  completed  her 
task.  So  intently  occupied  had  she  been,  that  the  fact  of  her  fellow- 
workers  having  left  her  one  by  one,  was  not  recognized  until  she  had 
finished. 

'  Never  mind,'  she  said  to  herself,  '  I  told  Papa  I  should  be  late ;  he 
will  be  sure  to  come  and  meet  me ;'  and  taking  one  long  glance  at  the 
whole,  she  prepared  for  walking  home.  At  the  door,  however,  she  met 
both  her  father  and  John  Treville,  the  latter  having  come  to  lock  up 
the  church  for  the  night.  The  three  walked  back  together,  talking  about 
the  decorations  and  the  morrow's  service. 

'  Tired,  Aggie  ?'  asked  her  father,  detecting  a  little  sigh. 

John  left  the  Doctor's  side,  and  coming  round  to  Agnes,  said  he  was 
afraid  she  must  be  very  tired,  which  she  did  not  deny. 

VOL.    10.  40  PART   GO. 


594  THE  MONTflliY  PACKET. 

*  Doctor,'  said  John,  after  a  slight  pause,  *  I  want  to  ask  you  to  give 
Agnes  to  me,  if  she  will  consent' 

'How— whj — dear  me!  I  never  thought  of  it!'  stammered  the 
Doctor,  '  nor  did  she,  I'm — ^ 

The  Doctor  paused;  for  unhesitatingly,  though  with  downcast  eyes 
and  deep  blushes  on  her  cheeks,  she  had  allowed  John  to  slide  her  hand 
through  his  arm.  Then  the  Doctor  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  blew 
his  nose  vigorously,  and  was  unable  to  speak  until  he  reached  his  own 
door. 

There  John  said,  'I  cannot  come  in,  Doctor;  I  have  promised  to 
have  tea  with  my  grandmother,  and  I  shall  like  to  take  your  answer  to 
her.' 

'  May  God  bless  you,  my  children,'  returned  the  Doctor  in  a  broken 
voice ;  and  that  was  all  he  could  utter. 

John  was  received  by  his  grandmother  with  the  usual  fond  smile. 
She  was  anxious  to  hear  as  much  as  ix)ssible  about  the  church  and  the 
preparations  for  the  morrow.  John  gave  her  all  the  details  she  desired, 
waiting  until  a  proper  pause  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  saying, 
'  Granny,  I  am  going  to  furnish  the  little  east  sitting-room.' 

'  For  Agnes  Murray,  Johnny  f ' 

*  Right,  Granny.' 

Her  knitting  was  put  down,  and  rising,  she  gave  him  a  warm  kiss  of 
congratulation. 

*  Will  you  love  her  as  your  own  child,  Granny  V 

*  I  love  her  already  for  her  own  sweet  sake ;  and  will  love  her  now, 
Johnny,  still  more,  fbr  yours.' 

There  was  a  sudden  and  a  protracted  silence. 

John's  next  exclamation  was,  '  O  Granny,  what  a  happy  life  mine  has 
been!  Everything  has  come  just  as  I  wished  it.  Sunshine  every- 
where I' 

There  was  cloudless  sunshine  beaming  in  his  eyes  just  then,  and  his 
grandmother  saw  it.  The  feeling  which  lay  so  deep  down  seemed  to 
inundate  his  face  with  such  a  ray  of  happiness  as  she  had  never  seen 
there  before.  It  was  a  look  which  lived  in  her  memory  all  her  days ; 
and  told  her  then,  and  more  afterwards,  that  the  joy  with  which  no 
stranger  intermeddleth  was  there. 

The  next  day  came  in  warm  and  bright.  Early  in  the  morning  John 
drove  to  the  station  with  the  Vicar  to  meet  the  Bishop,  who  was  to  stay 
at  the  Manor-house  until  the  hour  for  the  service.  One  more  thorough 
investigation  of  the  church,  and  then  John  knew  he  must  go  to  the 
school-room,  as  the  choir  would  be  waiting  for  him.  As  he  entered  the 
church,  Edwin  Mortimer,  now  in  priest's  orders,  advanced  to  meet  him ; 
he  had  been  putting  the  vases  of  flowers  on  the  rotable,  and  had  the 
preparations  for  a  high  service  to  make.  They  went  into  the  vestry, 
and  together  talked  of  their  respective  responsibilities. 

*  The  Church  will  have  her  own  to-day,  John ;  and — ' 


nunn's  court.  595 

^  She  gives  to  you  joar  charge,'  interrupted  John,  in  order  to  stop  the 
thanks  that  were  about  to  be  added,  and  which  he  considered  were  not 
due  to  him. 

When  the  Bishop  and  the  other  clergy  arrived  at  the  school-house, 
they  found  the  choir  already  surpliced.  Altogether  they  made  a  very 
long  procession,  and  the  singing  was  almost  without  a  fault  As  Giles 
struck  the  first  chord  on  the  organ,  the  crowded  congregation  rose ;  and 
many  eyes  wandered  round  the  building,  to  catch,  if  possible,  a  glimpse 
of  the  founder's  face — ^little  recking  that  they  must  look  for  him  amongst 
the  surpliced  forms :  and  only  those  who  knew  and  loved  him,  watched 
him  coming  on  and  on,  recognised  his  voice,  and  knew  that  body,  soul, 
and  spirit,  were  rendering  a  holy  and  acceptable  service :  and  they  knew 
too,  that  he  was  scarcely  conscious  of  aught,  save  that  the  house  which 
he  had  builded  was  now  6od*s  House,  consecrated  to  Him  by  a  fitting 
service — prayer  and  the  breaking  of  bread.  It  was  all  over  now,  and 
the  Church  had  her  own  again.  John  Treville  might  well  lengthen  out 
his  thanksgiving :  might  well  return,  after  taking  off  his  surplice,  to 
render  an  additional  one ! 

He  had  written  a  note  in  haste  to  Agnes  early  in  the  morning,  asking 
her  to  wait  for  him  after  the  service ;  and  as  he  rose  from  his  knees  he 
went  to  seek  her.  Siie  was  standing  in  the  porch.  He  took  her  hand, 
and  slipping  her  betrothal  ring  upon  her  finger,  bent  down  and  kissed 
her.  The  bells  rang  out  a  merry  peal,  and  in  those  two  young  hearts 
there  was  nothing  but  love  and  gladness. 

*  I  hope  we  shall  find  the  chaise  waiting,*  John  said,  as  they  left  the 
church,  *  or  we  shall  be  late  for  luncheon.' 

The  chaise  was  waiting ;  and  they  drove  off,  both  already  feeling  that 
they  belonged  to  each  other  more  than  to  anybody  else.  Dr.  Murray 
and  Mrs.  Treville  met  them  at  the  door,  the  latter  with  the  intention 
of  protecting  Agnes  in  the  uncomfortable  newness  of  her  position. 

Agnes'  cheeks  were  very  glowing,  as  Mrs.  Treville  kissed  her  and  took 
her  up-stairs.  She  wanted  a  little  quiet  time  to  Iierself ;  but  it  was  too 
late,  she  could  only  just  put  her  hair  in  order,  kiss  Mrs.  Treville  again, 
and  then  go  down  into  the  drawing-room.  John  cnme  up,  as  soon  as 
she  made  her  appearance,  and  led  her  to  the  fiishop,  who  had  expressed 
a  wish  to  be  introduced  to  her ;  and  ngain  her  cheeks  were  crimson  with 
blushes. 

*You  have  managed  matters  very  badly,  Mr.  Treville,'  said  Grace 
Alljrn,  in  an  undertone,  a  few  minutes  afterwards.  *  You  have  dragged 
that  poor  child  through  a  regular  ordeal.  Shew  your  contrition  now  by 
taking  me  in  to  luncheon.' 

*  1  have  no  doubt  I  sliall  be  able  to  have  my  revenge  upon  you  before 
long,  Miss  AUyn,'  John  answered  gaily;  *and  until  that  period  arrives, 
I  shall  endeavour  to  keep  as  much  as  possible  out  of  your  company.' 

*  I  am  afraid  though,'  he  whimpered  to  Agnes  afterwards,  '  it  has  been 
rather  trying  to  you  T' 


596  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'  No  matter,  John,'  she  said ;  '  it  could  not  be  helped.' 

The  Bishop  left  as  soon  as  the  luncheon  and  speeches  were  over; 
and  the  stranger  guests  departed  also,  leaving  behind  them  Mrs.  Treville, 
who  was  going  to  remain  for  a  few  days,  the  Murrajs,  and  the  Allyns. 

'  I  must  shew  you  oyer  the  house,  Agnes,  that  you  may  know  what  a 
dungeon-like  home  you  will  have.' 

Agnes  was  sitting  on  a  sofa  with  Mrs.  Treville  when  John  said  this, 
and  it  brought  a  smile  into  his  grandmother's  face :  she  asked  him  what 
he  would  say  if  the  gloominess  of  the  house  made  the  young  lady  repent 
of  her  bargain  f  He  laughed,  without  answering,  and  led  Agnes  away. 
When  they  were  by  themselves,  he  asked  her  if  she  would  be  afraid  of 
the  experiment. 

'  What  experiment  V  she  said  timidly. 

'  Having  the  dreariness  of  your  future  home  pointed  out  to  you.' 

He  waited  for  an  answer,  so  she  was  compelled  to  give  it. 

*  You  will  be  here,  John,'  was  all  she  said,  and  all  he  needed. 

After  Evensong,  John  was  compelled  to  own  himself  fairly  tired  out. 
Strangely  tired  and  sleepy,  he  had  expressed  it  to  his  grandmother ;  and 
the  night's  rest,  which  both  had  prophesied  would  banish  all  signs  of 
fatigue,  was  disappointing,  for  he  awoke  the  next  morning  unrefreshed, 
and  feeling  stiff  and  chilly.  The  attempt  to  dress  was  frustrated  by  an 
increased  throbbing  in  his  temples ;  and  throwing  himself  down  on  his 
bed,  he  remained  there  until  his  servant  came  to  him.  A  message  to 
Mrs.  Treville  soon  brought  her  to  his  bed-side  with  a  cup  of  tea,  which 
revived  him,  though  any  attempt  to  rise  brought  back  the  throbbing. 
A  violent  cold  was  pronounced  by  the  doctor  to  be  the  cause  of  his 
sudden  prostration — an  opinion  be  held  until  the  third  day,  when  the 
illness  assumed  a  more  alarming  form,  and  fever  set  in. 

John  Treville  lay  on  his  bed,  prostrate  alike  in  body  and  mind,  in 
the  house  of  his  fathers,  while  the  dark  cedar  and  cypress  surrounded  it 
like  a  funeral  pall.  Quietly  and  sadly  footsteps  echoed  through  the 
long  passages,  and  left  a  leaden  weight  on  the  heart  of  the  Grandmother. 
Her  presence  gave  him  no  pleasure  now;  the  soft  touch  of  her  hand 
was  unrecognized :  she  knew  this,  and  knew  also  how  unconsciovs  he 
was  of  the  sweet  flowers  that  lay  on  his  pillow;  yet,  when  Agnes 
gathered  them,  could  she  tell  her  the  painful  truth,  or  refuse  to  place 
them  there !  The  doctors  bade  her  wait ;  in  time  the  fever  would  have 
a  turn :  and  she  did  wait,  gathering  strength  and  patience  by  a  prayerful 
and  a  loving  waiting. 

*  My  own  Johnny !  Always  Johnny  to  me  1'  she  murmured,  as  she 
hung  over  him  one  morning,  and  laid  her  cool  hand  on  his  forehead. 

For  the  first  time  since  his  illness  began,  those  restless  eyes  looked  at 
her  full  in  the  face,  and  his  lips  feebly  uttered,  *  Granny  !*  the  name  so 
dear  to  her!  what  joy  I  It  was  with  the  utmost  dijQ&culty  that  she  could 
restrain  herself;  could  preserve  her  calmness,  while  her  heart  was 
throbbing  with  such  thankful  gladness.     The  gloominess  and  length  of 


nunn's  court.  597 

the  passages  were   as   nothing  now :  '  Granny !'  that  word  was  still 
sounding  in  her  ears. 

'  Would  you  like  to  see  him,  Agnes  P  she  asked,  as  she  noticed  the 
inquiring  look  turned  upon  her  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  room  where 
the  young  girl  was  waiting.  ^  I  would  not  take  you  to  him  in  his  restless 
delirium,  hut  my  Johnny  has  recognized  me  once  more.'  Tears  came 
now  to  relieve  her  overburdened  heart. 

Did  John  know  Agnes  I  Oh  the  wild  agony  of  that  young  heart,  as 
she  noted  the  ravages  that  fever  had  already  made !  She  knelt  down 
by  his  bed,  and  took  one  of  the  hot  hands  in  hers,  and  let  one  tear, 
wrung  from  her  by  her  heart's  agony,  drop  upon  it,  as  she  kissed  it. 

Once  more  those  wandering  eyes  were  arrested:  that  bright  glance 
she  so  much  loved  fell  upon  her,  while  he  murmured,  *  Agnes,  my  own  ! 
It  ringeth  out  to  Evensong !'  It  was  still  all  song  to  him !  Agnes  felt 
that,  even  amidst  the  bitterness  of  her  sorrow,  and  was  comforted. 

It  was  eventide!  The  doctors  were  holding  a  consultation  in  the 
library:  Mrs.  Treville  and  Agnes  were  watching  in  the  sick-room.  The 
crisis  had  come ;  and  John  Treville  was  asleep — asleep,  while  life  was 
ebbing  fast  away. 

A  start,  a  lifting  up  of  the  hands,  and  the  sudden  exclamation,  'Hark! 
the  marriage  bells !'  and  the  crisis  was  over.  His  spirit  was  breathed 
out  into  the  air,  and  his  soul  carried  by  the  angels  to  its  rest.  Rest  had 
come — not  here,  but  there,  where  there  is  perpetual  sunshine. 

The  bells  of  St.  Bartholomew's  Church — the  church  that  he  had 
founded,  where  he  had  received  his  last  communion,  and  prayed  his 
last  public  prayer — rang  out  a  muffled  peal,  and  spread  the  painful  news 
that  the  last  of  the  Tydvil  Trevilles  was  dead. 

And  in  that  old  Elizabethan  house,  in  the  unfurnished  little  east 
sitting-room,  the  newly  betrothed  made  a  cross  of  white  flowers  for  his 
breast,  and  wept  over  her  bright  new  ring.  Agnes  was  quiet  in  the 
Grandmother's  presence,  remembering  the  words  spoken  long  ago — *  I 
know  I  may  trust  you  to  take  care  of  my  grandmother.'  But  Mrs. 
Treville's  grief  sank  into  insignificance  when  compared  with  that  of 
Agnes,  and  she  would  fain  have  had  every  tear  wept  out  on  her  bosom. 
To  leave  her  to  herself  was  perhaps  the  kindest  way ;  and  with  this  idea, 
Mrs.  Treville  would  not  follow  her  into  her  retreat — the  room  which 
would  have  been  her  own. 

Dr.  Murray  sought  her  there,  on  the  <lay  before  the  funeral ;  she  was 
not  crying  then,  but  walking  up  and  down.  Her  kiss  was  a  very  gentle 
one ;  she  was  afraid  of  any  kind  of  demonstration. 

*  Aggie  dear,'  he  said,  feeling  his  way,  ^  Giles  wants  to  know  about  the 
Altar  and  the  pulpit.' 

She  put  her  hand  on  her  forehead  for  a  minute,  then  removed  it,  and 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

'  Mrs.  Yardley  has  asked  to  be  allowed  to  supply  the  flowers ;  and  the 
choir  beg  earnestly  that  it  may  be  tlieir  work :  will  you  decide  ?' 


698  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Mrs.  Treville  came  in  befope  she  could  answer,  and  was  told  lh« 
Doctor's  errand. 
'And  what  would  you  wish,  love?'  she  asked.    . 

*  I  think,'  she  replied,  *  I  should  like  to  see  Giles  myself.' 

*  It  would  be  too  much  for  you,  my  child.' 

'  Then  I  should  like  him  to  be  told  how  glad  I  shall  be  that  the  choir 
should  have  the  work  to  do.'  She  stopped,  then  added,  ^  I  should  hkm 
all  who  loved  him  to  do  something  for  him.' 

Something  in  her  voice  forbade  any  reply  while  she  paused  i  and 
presently  she  continued :  *  Giles  will  manage  the  singing ;  be  knows  the 
kind  of  music  he  loved.    Papa !  Grandmother !  he  lived  a  life  of  song  I' 

'  And  does  still,  my  own  darling,'  said  Mrs.  Treville,  folding  her  arms 
round  her ;  restraining  even  her  tears  at  the  sight  of  Agnes'  sudden  wild 
burst  of  grief.  It  was  soon  over,  and  she  was  her  own  calm  gentle  self 
again ;  and  the  next  day,  very  early,  her  trembling  hands  laid  the  last 
cross  of  white  flowers  on  him ;  looked  her  last  look,  and  was  led  away, 
feeling  very  quiet  and  calm  still.  She  suffered  herself  to  be  dressed ;  any 
effort  would  upset  her,  she  knew ;  to  remain  passive  was  all  she  could  do. 

Every  demonstration  of  sorrow  was  checked  in  her  presence,  and 
every  eye  was  lowered  as  she  left  the  carriage  and  followed  as  chief 
mourner  up  the  path  to  St.  Bartholomew's  Church.  The  way  was 
strewn  with  flowers;  and  Agnes  even  then  noticed  how  beautiful  th« 
singing  was :  she  missed  hi8  voice,  but  would  not  grudge  it  to  that  Choir 
whose  song  is  louder  and  sweeter  than  the  angels'. 

There  was  a  cross  with  a  wreath  of  immortelles  on  the  pulpit ;  and 
the  chancel  screen  was  hung  with  wreaths  varying  in  hue  and  species, 
the  work  of  those  who  loved  him ;  and  the  altar  was  vested  in  violet^ 
with  a  cross  of  white  flowers  on  the  frontal.  A  wreath  of  white  rose- 
buds and  forget-me-nots  was  laid  by  Mrs.  Yardley  on  the  coffin,  and  a 
smaller  one  of  daisies,  by  one  of  old  Ben's  grandchildren,  who  had  also 
been  John's  godchild. 

The  Blessed  Feast  was  spread,  and  the  living  partook  of  it,  in  the 
presence  of  the  dead:  then  with  lowly  reverence  they  bore  the  coffin 
away,  the  clergy  and  choir  going  before,  and  singing  ^  Brief  life  is  here 
our  portion,'  and  leaving  Agnes  behind,  still  kneeling,  with  her  ungloved 
hands  clasped,  and  the  cross  of  diamonds  on  her  betrothal  ring  glittering 
on  her  finger. 

She  knelt  a  long  time;  not  praying,  not  looking  back  nor  on,  but 
feeling  a  sense  of  repose  she  was  reluctant  to  lose.  Her  father  and 
Mrs.  Treville  were  with  her ;  for  their  sakes  she  had  not  attempted  to  go 
on  to  the  parish  church,  where  he  was  to  be  buried,  and  where  he  was 
followed  by  all  his  tenants  and  servants.  The  service  was  still  choral, 
and  although  the  grave-yard  was  crowded,  a  reverent  quiet  was  on  all. 
It  was  not  until  the  choir  commenced  '  O  Paradise,'  on  leaving  the 
grave,  that  any  sound  of  sorrow  was  heard ;  but  GUes's  voice  faltered  at 
the  first  *  Where  faithful  hearts  and  pure,'  and  his  example  was  infectiouSy 


nunn's  coubt.  699 

for  an  immediate  and  universal  sob  followed,  and  some  minutee  elapsed 
before  any  more  singing  could  be  attempted. 

It  was  hard  work  to  begin  every-daj  life  again — to  go  back  to  her 
fittber's  house,  and  give  thought  and  heart  to  tasks  too  trivial  to  excite 
anybody's  interest  John's  will,  made  immediately  after  he  had  attained 
his  majority,  was  the  means  of  furnishing  her  with  some  stipulated 
duties  $  giving  her  an  opportunity  of  carrying  on  his  work,  and  thereby 
seeming  to  bring  her  nearer  to  him.  He  had  bequeathed  five  thousand 
pounds  to  Dr.  Murray,  and  the  row  of  cottages  he  had  built  for  the  people 
from  Nunn's  Court  He  had  held  the  land  on  which  they  stood,  on 
a  building  lease,  not  wishing  to  include  them  in  the  estate.  When 
this  was  made  known  to  Agnes,  she  immediately  regarded  the  people  as 
her  own  particular  legacy;  and  under  Edwin  Mortimer's  direction,  and  by 
his  request,  she  took  the  superintendence  of  the  girls  schooL 

The  winds  of  the  early  winter  tried  poor  old  Ben's  remaining  strength, 
and  he  faded  like  the  leaves  that  rustled  by  in  the  stormy  blast. 

Agnes  was  with  him  daily,  ministering  to  his  comfort  in  every  way. 
Mrs.  Treville  oflen  thought  these  daily  visits,  with  her  usual  avocations, 
were  too  fatiguing  for  her;  and  watched  with  tender  anxiety  the 
increasing  paleness  of  her  cheek  and  languor  of  her  manner.  Edwin 
Mortimer  had  noticed  also  a  growing  pensiveness,  which  he  feared 
betokened,  fretfulness ;  and  he  was  sometimes  inclined  to  think  she  nursed 
her  sorrow  in  a  way  that  was  not  good  for  her.  He  came  away  from 
old  Ben  with  her  one  day  after  they  had  Eaten  and  Drank  together  with 
the  dying  man. 

Agnes  was  unusually  sad ;  not  speaking  until  they  neared  the  school* 
house,  when  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  '  When  Grace  comes  to  the  Parsonage, 
Edwin,  I  must  give  up  my  place  in  the  girls  school.' 

'No,  indeed,'  he  answered  quickly;  '  Grace  does  not  wish  it;  she  will 
give  you  all  the  assistance  you  like ;  but  I  do  not  think  she  is  so  well 
fitted  to  take  the  head  as  you  are,  Agnes.' 

'But,  as  your  wife,  will  it  not  be  her  duty?  Edwin,  you  must  not 
humour  me  too  much.' 

'This  is  not  a  common  instance,  Agnes.  No,  believe  me,  we  could 
not  do  without  you  at  the  head.' 

The  tears  were  fast  gathenng  in  Agnes*  eyes ;  and  with  the  intention 
of  diverting  her  mind,  he  stopped  to  speak  to  some  of  the  children,  who 
were  coming  from  schooL  She  made  an  effort  to  rally  herself,  but  could 
not  speak. 

'  What  are  you  looking  at  so  earnestly,  my  little  maiden  V  he  asked, 
at  the  same  time  patting  the  child  he  addressed  on  her  head. 

'  Please,  Sir,  at  the  lady's  beautiful  bright  cross.' 

Agnes  heard  and  walked  on,  clasping  her  ungloved  hands  yet  tighter. 
Edwin  soon  followed ;  when  she  looked  up  smilingly,  and  begged  him  to 
let  her  go  on  alone,  as  she  wanted  to  see  the  Grandmother ;  and  finding 
her  quite  composed,  he  yielded. 


600  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

'  You  are  looking  better,  my  child,'  said  Mrs.  TreTille,  as  Agnes  knelt 
at  her  feet,  and  throwing  back  her  black  veil,  revealed  a  pair  of  glowing 
cheeks. 

'  Grandmother,'  she  returned,  '  the  work  left  for  me  to  do  is  good  and 
true;  and  the  cross  laid  upon  me  is  bright  and  beautiful,  like  my 
betrothal  ring.'  She  held  up  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  and  the  Grand- 
mother took  it  in  both  hers.  *  I  have  been  slow  in  seeing  it ;  I  have 
been  restless  and  chafing,  while  seemingly  resigned,'  she  continued,  ^  and 
needed  a  little  child  to  tell  me  how  bright  and  beautiful  my  cross  is. 
Granny,  when  I  look  at  (his,  it  shall  remind  me  of  what  1  have  so  long 
forgotten  I' 

The  Grandmother  folded  her  in  her  arms,  and  murmured,  *  My  bright 
and  happy  Johnny !' 

(Concluded,) 


PRACTICAL  HINTS  ON  ILLUMINATION. 

II. 

We  have  criticized  in  general  terms  the  defects  of  modern  Illumination, 
and  endeavoured  to  point  out  how  to  avoid  them,  and  how  to  use  the 
rules  by  which  it,  in  common  with  all  other  branches  of  decorative  art, 
should  be  directed.  In  conclusion,  we  will  examine  a  few  published 
examples  of  book-ornamentation,  and  comparing  them  with  those  of  the 
mediaeval  school  of  Illumination,  observe  the  difference  between  the  two 
systems. 

Among  the  numerous  drawing-room  books  which  are  published  every 
season  is  an  illuminated  copy  of  '  The  Prisoner  of  ChiUon,'  executed  by 
two  architects  in  1865.  The  border-patterns  are  for  the  most  part 
strictly  geometrical,  and  the  colouring  is  in  some  pages  glaring  and 
heavy  from  the  undue  prominence  of  one  tint,  in  others  so  pale  and 
washy-looking  as  to  seem  faded.  One  page,  evidently  suggested  from 
an  old  model,  has  a  large  zig-zag  running  round  it,  and  dividing  it  into 
triangular  compartments,  which  in  old  MSB.  are  always  filled  with 
groups  of  flowers,  graceful  and  varied,  but  in  the  book  before  us  contain 
merely  straight  stalks  with  conventional  leaves,  and  are  all  alike.  Only 
one  border  in  the  book  has  anything  suggestive  of  flowers.  The  design 
is  not  ungraceful,  and  the  stalks  twine  prettily  in  and  out,  but  the 
flowers  are  like  nothing  on  earth.  One,  which  may  be  conjectured  to 
be  a  blue-bell,  is  half  as  long  again  as  nature  ever  made  one,  and  the 
petals  are  turned  up  with  orange. 

An  illustrated  *  History  of  Joseph '  contains  a  series  of  borders  purely 
Egyptian  in  pattern  and  colours,  and  we  must  suppose  were  chosen  from 


PRACTICAL  HINTS  ON  ILLUMINATION.  601 

their  appropriateDess  to  the  suhject.  They  are  nothing  but  a  succession 
of  plaits,  zig-zags,  lines,  squares,  and  lotus  flowers,  and  therefore  there 
is  very  little  to  be  said  about  them.  Such  patterns  a^e  common  to  the 
early  and  barbaric  art  of  all  nations ;  and  to  those  who  think  that  the 
repetition  of  lines  and  squares  is  worthy  of  the  name  of  design,  it  is 
hardly  worth  while  to  say  anything  in  contradiction. 

Another  book,  illustrated  by  a  lady,  is  called  *  The  Year :  its  Leaves 
and  Blossoms.'  In  this  there  is  no  attempt  at  Illumination,  properly  so 
called.  Each  month  is  illustrated  by  tlie  flowers  belonging  to  it,  in 
realistic  painting,  and  are  of  full  life-size.  Enormous  roses  and  bunches 
of  grapes  seem  to  hang  in  mid- air,  and  others  are  twisted  round  the 
pages  in  various  uncomfortable  ways,  till  one  wonders  that  the  very 
difficulty  of  managing  the  stalks  did  not  suggest  the  necessity  of  a  leading 
line. 

These,  we  believe,  are  fair  specimens  of  modem  book-ornamentation ; 
and  it  would  be  to  little  purpose,  even  were  it  not  wearisome  and 
uninteresting,  to  criticize  them  at  greater  length. 

Let  us  turn  to  one  of  the  manuscripts  of  the  fourteenth  century,  and 
glance  through  its  pages. 

It  is  a  large  tome,  measuring  sixteen  inches  by  twelve,  containing 
in  closely- written  French  verse,  a  romance  of  Alexander  the  Great. 
Almost  every  page  has  a  miniature  or  an  elaborate  capital ;  and  these 
last  ornaments  are  all  formed  of  the  beautiful  cinque-foiled  foliation  so 
familiar  to  us  in  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  century  illuminations, 
twined  about  with  exquisite  grace  of  design,  and  inexhaustible  change- 
fulness.  The  title-page  is  one  large  picture,  and  one  or  two  other  pages 
are  quite  covered  with  painting:  the  other  miniatures  are  about  four 
inches  square,  with  backgrounds  of  embossed  gold  or  diapered  patterns, 
gleaming  with  purple,  scarlet,  and  gold,  and  delicate  with  exquisite 
tracery,  of  which  no  two  designs  are  alike.  The  subjects  are  the  actions 
and  exploits  of  Alexander.  Page  after  page  shews  him,  first  taming 
Bucephalus,  then  fighting  in  single  combat,  beleaguering  cities,  feasting 
with  his  men — graphic  pictures,  too  numerous  to  describe,  of  battle  and 
festivity,  of  war-councils  and  beast-hunting.  Then  come  his  illness, 
death,  and  funeral.  Every  picture  is  a  story,  every  face  a  character, 
and  living  action  moves  in  every  figure.  And  up'  and  down  the  border, 
peeping  in  and  out  of  the  leaves,  are  little  figures,  sounding  trumpets, 
beating  drums,  shooting  arrows — imps  fl3dng,  and  monsters  grinning. 
Round  the  last  few  pages  of  Alexander's  illness  and  death,  the  tiny  forms 
change  into  groups  of  men,  women,  and  children,  weeping  and  hiding 
tlieir  eyes,  and  gesticulating  mournfully,  while  little  birds  sit  dolefully  on 
the  boughs,  looking  on  in  a  melancholy  way  with  their  heads  on  one  side. 
At  the  bottoms  of  the  pages  are  a  series  of  scenes  in  mediseval  life — 
employments  and  recreations.  Snaring  birds,  cooking  dinners,  dogs 
and  huntsmen  chasing  stags,  killing  ducks,  forging  iron ;  men  and  women 
plaving  chess  and  all  manner  of  games;   grotesque  animals  imitating 


602  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

them ;  caricatures  of  dressee-— quite  a  history  of  every-daj  life  iu  the 
middle  ages.  And  all  this  glittering  with  burnished  gold*  and  perfect 
groups  of  colour,  delicate  as  brilliant,  soft  as  rich. 

Five  years  were  spent,  we  find  noted  at  the  end,  in  producing  this 
book — we  may  venture  to  add,  well  spent;  since  after  five  hundred  years 
have  passed  away,  the  work  of  the  unknown  artist  still  lives,  to  claim 
and  to  receive  the  reverence  due  to  all  noble  Art  in  all  time,  and  to  call 
out,  alike  in  the  thoughtful  and  the  ignorant,  the  instincts  of  admiration 
for  the  unchanging  laws  of  beauty.  And  whoever  has  done  that  haa 
not  lived  in  vain,  even  though  but  one  thing  may  remain  to  represent 
the  work  of  a  life.  With  this  example  before  us-— but  one  among 
thousands — and  the  thought  which  it  suggests,  it  is  impossible  to  do 
other  than  pause  and  consider  if  it  be  not  within  our  power  to  raise  a 
standard  somewhat  less  feeble  and  puerile  than  is  that  of  the  Illuminated 
work  of  the  present  day.  If  it  is  wonh  while  to  give  time  and  labour 
to  such  work  at  all,  would  it  not  be  wiser  and  more  worthy  of  educated 
and  thinking  persons,  to  set  on  it  the  seal  of  knowledge  and  thought, 
and  so  at  least  to  save  it  from  being  contemptible?  This  is  possible  to 
all  in  degree ;  and  it  is  not  demanding  very  much  of  persons  who  follow 
any  one  branch  of  Art,  to  expect  of  them  that  they  shall  first  make 
themselves  acquainted  with  a  few  of  the  laws  of  beauty  and  harmony. 
Surely  it  must  be  more  pleasure  to  paint  one  thing  in  which  hand  and 
mind  combine  to  do  their  very  best,  even  though  it  occupied  months, 
than  to  go  on  year  after  year,  manufacturing  a  series  of  useless  thingSy 
reproductions  it  may  be  of  otliers'  work,  which  perhaps  the  painter 
scarcely  cares  to  look  at  again  when  finished.  Some  of  us  may  have 
had,  in  looking  through  the  pages  of  a  beautiful  manuscript,  a  feeling  of 
gratitude  to  the  painter  of  it  fur  the  enjoyment  which  it  gives  us;  and 
there  is  no  reason  why  modern  Illumination  should  not  also  wile  away 
many  an  hour  pleasantly  to  others  besides  the  painters  themselves,  with 
the  passing  jest  or  thought,  with  the  ingenuity  of  design  and  harmony 
of  colour. 

Power  of  design^  which  is  so  essential  to  the  beauty  of  illuminated 
ornament,  is  a  natural  gid,  and  cannot  be  acquired  to  any  great  extent, 
though  it  may  be  developed  by  study.  Those  who  have  it  not  in  any 
degree  had  better  give  up  Illumination,  and  turn  their  knowledge  of 
drawing  to  account  in  some  other  branch  of  Art.  The  first  thing  which 
is  necessary  for  those  who  possess  the  faculty  and  wish  to  cultivate  it,  is 
to  acquire  some  knowledge  of  the  laws  which  regulate  it.  This  may  be 
done  by  careful  study  of  some  such  book  as  Owen  Jones's  *  Grammar  of 
Ornament ;'  but  chiefiy  by  drawing  from  good  models,  and  studying  fine 
conventional  ornament,  especially,  if  possible,  the  designs  in  twelfth  and 
thirteenth  century  MSS. 

It  has  been  said  before  that  conventional  ornament  must  have  for 
its  chief  object  the  representation  of  natural  facts.  In  Illumination, 
vegetable  and  lower  animal  forms  will  generally  predominate;  and  the 


PRACTICAL  HINTS  ON  ILLUMINATION.  608 

Study  of  these  in  their  several  oharacteristics-^the  growth  of  flowers 
and  leaves,  the  ways  and  movements  of  birds  and  insects*— is  a  labour  of 
love  in  itself.  To  draw  these  things,  it  is  necessary  to  know  something 
of  them,  and  of  the  way  they  move  and  grow ;  which  knowledge  can 
only  be  acquired  by  watching  them.  It  is  not  enough  to  know  of  a 
flower  that  it  is  red  or  blue,  that  its  leaves  are  round  or  pointed,  four 
or  six  in  number.  No  one  could  paint  a  plant  to  much  pleasure  of 
purpose,  who  had  not  seen  and  tried  to  express  the  way  in  which  the 
leaves  sprouted  and  the  buds  uncurled;  and  the  more  attentively  and 
thoughtfully  he  had  looked,  the  greater  amount  of  truth  would  the  drawing 
convey.  The  question  of  how  much  or  little  of  nature  it  is  well  to 
represent  in  Illumination,  and  the  practical  difficulties  which  it  involves, 
must  be  solved  by  everyone  for  himself.  But  setting  aside  that,  it  is 
certain  that  knowledge  of  natural  form  is  equally  necessary  for  good 
design  in  even  purely  conventional  ornament.  The  power  of  drawing 
the  finest  lines  and  most  subtile  curves  is  only  attained  by  watching 
nature  in  the  broad  sweeps  and  delicate  pencilings  of  her  forms.  The 
old  masters,  most  perfectly  versed  in  the  knowledge  of  all  the  higher 
forms  of  natural  life,  have  always  produced,  when  they  chose,  the  most 
inimitable  designs  in  conventional  ornament.  And  those  who  attempt 
to  design  systematically  without  regard  to  nature,  will  soon  find  that  they 
have  limited  their  range  and  cramped  their  hands,  and  that  they  repeat 
themselves  again  and  again.  Of  course  designs  will  often  consist  of 
purely  conventional  ornament.  This  must  be  the  case  sometimes  in 
branches  of  inferior  art,  as  in  the  engraving  of  metals  and  the  printing 
of  dresses;  and  patterns  of  this  kind  may  often  be  very  beautiful  in 
Illumination,  if  drawn  by  persons  constantly  practising  in  higher  studies. 

Something  of  colouring  may  be  learned  from  the  books  written  on 
the  subjects^  and  some  knowledge  of  the  theory  of  colour  is  very 
necessary  to  anyone  engaged  in  ornamental  design.  But  natural  delicacy 
of  perception,  trained  by  study  of  good  colouring,  can  alone  give  the 
power  of  producing  compositions  as  brilliant  and  lovely  as  those  of  the 
mosaics  and  illuminations  of  the  middle  ages.  If  a  group  of  colouring 
will  bear  another  fragment  of  any  tint,  it  is  imperfect  without  that  tint : 
if  there  is  one  piece  of  colour  which  could  be  dispensed  with,  that  piece 
is  spoiling  the  whole.  In  this  gift  of  colouring  the  French  school  is 
unrivalled.  It  came  to  perfection  towards  the  close  of  the  twelfth 
centuiy,  and  continued  through  the  thirteenth  century  an  almost  faultless 
system  of  brilliant  colouring.  With  the  fourteenth  century  appears  to 
have  grown  up  a  taste  for  paler  colouring,  and  though  very  lovely^  the 
harmonies  are  rarely  so  perfect  as  in  the  preceding  century. 

There  is  one  kind  of  book  ornamentation,  which  seems  to  be  rarely 
practised,  but  which  is  specially  suitable  for  printed  works,  and  of  which 
neither  the  execution  nor  the  printing  would  be  attended  by  so  many 
difiiculties  as  real  Illumination,  Borders  and  initial  letters  well  designed, 
and  drawn  in  outline  with  coloured  inks,  would  constitute  a  very  effective 


604  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

species  of  decoration,  and  one  which  was  in  fact  practised  to  some  extent 
by  the  illuminators  of  the  fourteenth  century.  An  edition  of  'The 
Imitation  of  Christ,'  published  some  years  since  by  Mr.  Parker,  is  a 
very  good  specimen  of  this  kind  of  ornamental  drawing. 

It  does  not  seem  probable  that  Illumination  will  ever  occupy  a  more 
prominent  position  than  it  does  now ;  but  so  far  as  it  furnishes  employ- 
ment and  interest  to  a  number  of  educated  persons,  it  is  a  means  of 
developing  an  appreciation  of  Art,  and  therefore  of  all  beauty.  There 
are  many  occupations  of  young  ladies  in  our  day,  far  less  healthful  and 
profitable  than  would  be  the  illustration  of  some  poem  or  volume  of  a 
favourite  author,  of  Tennyson  or  of  Keble.  Moreover,  there  appears  to 
be  at  least  as  much  prospect  of  advancement  in  knowledge  and  feeling 
for  Art  by  steady  practice  in  this  branch  of  it,  as  the  average  kind  of 
landscape  sketches  give  promise  of.  But  at  any  rate,  it  is  certain  that 
to  learn  day  by  day  something  in  any  one  branch  of  knowledge,  is  one 
of  the  best  and  purest  pleasures  granted  to  men ;  as  also  it  is  one  of  the 
chief  sources  of  helpfulness  to  others. 

(Concluded,)  A.  C.  Owew. 


THE  EIGHT-POINTED  CROSS;    OR,   STARS  IN 

THE  EAST. 

*  Star  of  the  East,  how  sweet  art  thou. 
Seen  in  Ufe*s  early  morning  sky.* 

In  the  chief  room  of  the  Grand  Palace  of  St.  Juan  de  Panetes,  in 
Saragossa,  is  a  fine  collection  of  pictures  or  busts  of  the  principal 
Knights  of  St.  John ;  and  hanging  on  the  wall,  just  over  the  rsdsed  seat 
of  honour,  there  is  a  most  curious  interesting  relic. 

It  was  a  representation  of  the  St.  John's  Cross — known  generally  as 
the  ^  Maltese' — the  design  clearly  indicating  the  full  deep  symbolical 
meaning  attached  to  that  cross,  the  chief  Order-decoration  of  the 
Knights  of  St.  John,  under  which  bravely  fighting,  they  made  their 
deeds  immortal  in  the  history  of  all  nations. 

In  the  centre  of  the  representation  stands  the  cross  of  the  Order, 
over  the  cross  a  crown.  From  each  of  the  eight  points  of  the  cross, 
a  line  stretches  out  to  a  circle,  over  which  a  word  is  written,  supposed 
to  have  some  special  knightly  reference.  The  two  upper  northern 
points,  over  which  the  crown  hangs,  have  the  following :  over  the 
left  point,  *  Terror,^  over  the  right,  *  Turcoi'wnJ^  In  the  circle  under 
*  TeiTOTy*  is  written  *  Beati  pauperes  spir,^  quoniam  ipsotmm  est  regnum 
coslorum ;'  under  *  Turcorum,'  *  Beati  mites  quoniam  ipsi  possiderunt 
tetTam.*  The  two  points  on  the  left,  have  '  Prudenciay'  and  the  Spanish 
word  '  Forialeza*    In  the  circle  under  *  Prudencia,^  is  *  Beati  qui  lugent 


THE  EIGHT-POINTED  CROSS.  605 

quontam  consolahuntur  f  under  ^Foriahza^  ^Beati  misencordes,'  &c. 
From  the  two  points  on  the  right,  are  ^  Justiciar*  and  ^  Temhlama,* 
Under  the  former,  ^  Beati  qui  esuriunt  et  aitiunt  justitice^*  &c. ;  under 
the  latter,  ^Beati  cand.  cordis^  quofdam  ipsi  Deum  videhuntJ'  Under 
the  lower  southern  points,  are  the  words,  '  Sub  istis  Signis^*  and 
*'Militamu8f  and  in  the  respective  circles,  ^  Beati  pacificiy  &c.,  and 
'  Beaii  qui  persecutionem  patiuntur  propter  justitiam,  quoniam  ipaorum  est 
regn,  ccsV 

The  eight-pointed  cross  worn  by  the  Knights,  has  the  double  meaning 
of  a  star  and  a  cross.  As  a  star,  from  whose  rays  stream  out  the 
blessings  to  the  true  followers  of  St  John,  it  is  white,  as  being  the  sign 
of  purity,  spoUessness,  the  lustre  of  that  Star  of  Promise,  which  shone 
out  to  the  shepherds  on  the  Holy  night ;  the  clear  Light  of  Truth,  which 
burst  upon  the  dwellers  in  the  region  and  shadow  of  death.  It  is  at 
once  the  symbol  of  Light  and  Life,  and  of  the  death-sacrifice  of  the 
greatest  Love!  Thus  the  representation,  with  its  lines  and  symbols, 
gives  the  whole  guiding  code  of  the  Order  of  the  Knights  of  St.  John. 

Romance,  superstition,  bigotry,  are  the  only  fruits  some  bring  o6t 
from  the  perusal  of  the  knightly  record,  judging  merely  from  the  rusty 
over-growth  and  withered  fruits,  and  maybe  poisonous  parasites,  instead 
of  considering  the  seed,  the  root,  the  core,  and  the  first-fruits.  Well 
would  it  be  for  all  Christians,  whether  in  reporting  of  the  deeds  of  the 
^  Dark  ages,'  or  of  the  deeds  of  this  '  Age  of  Light,'  to  bear  in  mind, 
that  *  There  was  never  anything  by  the  wit  of  man  so  well  devised, 
or  so  sure  established,  which  in  continuance  of  time  hath  not  been 
corrupted,'  and  to  draw  largely  on  their  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  when 
they  find  that  the  '  original  and  ground  of  the  same  was  not  ordained 
but  of  a  good  purpose,  and  for  a  great  advancement  of  godliness.' 

Fortunately  my  pen   cannot  keep  pace  with  my  thoughts— or  this 

paper  might  expand  to  an  undesired  degree — as  they  flit  back,  far  back, 

to  the  early  days;  even  to  the  lonely  desert,  listening  with  the  first 

followers  of  St.  John,  to 

'  the  lore  the  Baptist  taught. 
The  soul  unswerving,  and  the  fearless  tongue  ;* 

bringing  away  a  lesson  of  self-setting-aside,  and  the  power  springing 

therefrom  to  win  others.     He  preached  not  himself.     He  counted  '  it 

gain  his  light  should  wane,  so  the  whole  world  to  Jesus  throng.' 

Back  to  the  Angel-guarded  sepulchre;   back  to  the  days  when  the 

Emperor  Constantine  ordered  a  splendid-  cupola  to  be  built  over  what 

was  believed   to  be  the  same.     Lingering  amongst    the  glories  and 

sufierings    of   the  crusading    times,   the  comparatively  peaceful    days 

enjoyed 

'In  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun-al-Raschid  1' 

Then  to  the  renewed  pitiless  persecutions  of  the  Christian?,  and  the 


606  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

undaunted  increasing  vigour  of  the  brave  Knights  of  St.  John ;  their 
dispersion,  the  scenes  in  Cyprus,  Rhodes,  Malta  I  their  splendid 
buildings,  churches,  hospitals,  noble  ruins  of  them  remaining  to  this 
day— all  this  I  must  leave,  to  bring  you  without  further  delay  to  my 
intended  starting  point,  to  the  sunny  land  of  Syria,  to  beautiful  Beyrout. 

Just  out  of  the  town  is  a  good  carriage-road,  many  buildings  along  the 
same  worth  noting,  but  now  I  must  linger  only  on  one  point  of  interest. 
On  the  lefl-hand  side  of  the  road  are  to  be  seen  large  iron  gates, 
the  white  eight-pointed  cross  introduced  into  the  design.  On  entering, 
one  sees  natural  terraces,  one  upon  the  other,  formed  of  huge  rocks* 
Further  on,  a  flight  of  regular  stone  steps  leads  up  to  the  highest  terrace, 
which  is  bordered  by  flower-beds.  And  what  a  view!  just  below 
are  white,  one-storied,  green^shuttered,  flat-roofed  houses,  standing  in 
gardens  of  orange  trees,  olive,  and  palm  trees,  with  sturdy  cactus  hedges^ 
And  beyond  is  the  calm  blue  sea,  with  its  many  flshing  and  sponge* 
collecting  boats;  and  steamers,  Turkish,  Austrian,  English,  Russian, 
and  French,  looking  often  more  like  *•  painted  ships  upon  a  painted  ocean.' 
But  this  same  calm  blue  sea  has  its  stormy  dark  moods.  It  is  not  oflen 
demonstrative,  but  £  have  seen  it  chafe  and  dash  against  the  rocks,  and 
heave  up  mighty  waves,  send  them  roaring  and  foaming  on  the  shore^ 
as  if  to  give  some  indications  of  its  hidden  power.  And  to  the  right 
is  the  glorious  range  of  the  Lebanon,  with  its  wonderful  contrast  of 
wintry  snowy  summits,  and  lower  points  of  summer  glow,  and  at  its 
base  the  emerald  embroidery  of  spring. 

Across  the  terrace,  then  a  few  more  stone  steps,  and  you  stand  at  the 
entrance  door  of  a  fine,  large,  modem  building ;  it  is  the  Hospital  of  the 
Knights  of  St.  John,  founded  by  that  Order  in  1866.  On  the  roof  waves 
the  blood-red  banner,  with  its  white  cross  proclaiming,  not  as  in  olden 
times,  war,  death  to  the  Infidel  I  but,  '  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  towards 
men,'  the  star  pointing  out  where  Christ,  in  His  poor,  is  to  be  found. 
(St.  Matt.  XXV.  40.) 

Lately,  the  newspapers  have  been  full  of  Eastern  descriptions;  the 
brilliant  doings  at  Constantinople,  the  opening  of  the  Suez  Canal,  &c. 
Grand  and  surprising  as  all  must  have  been,  I  would  place  in  rank  of 
equal  surprise  and  interest,  a  scene  which  took  place  in  this  Hospital  a 
few  days  ago.  In  the  reception-room — a  fine  large  lofty  room,  with  a 
dark  massive-beamed  ceiling,  and  a  marble  floor,  in  the  centre  of  which 
is  a  large  Maltese  cross  white  on  black ;  the  same  design,  but  white  on 
red,  over  the  entrance  to  the  room — a  party  was  assembled  to  witness 
the  Christmas  Tree  which  was  provided  for  all  the  patients  who  could 
manage  to  crawl  from  their  rooms.  The  tree,  a  present  from  the  Pacha, 
was  brought  from  the  pine  forest  on  the  Damascus  road.  It  was  the  best 
arranged  one  I  have  seen.  It  had  the  customary  amount  of  glittering 
pendants,  and  wreaths  formed  of  leaves  cut  out  of  red  leather,  and  white 
paper  flowers,  and  gilded  leather  leaves  and  acorns.  At  the  foot  of  the 
tree  was  a  model  of  a  three-storied  tower.     It  was  made  simply  of  sugar 


THE  BIGHT-POINTED  CROSS.  607 

and  almonds,  by  one  of  the  patients,  a  native  of  Damascus.  The  natural 
taste  and  delicate  handiwork  of  the  Orientals  is  really  wondei'ful.  If, 
with  these  weak  materials,  he  can  produce  such  a  work  of  art  as  this 
undoubtedly  is,  what  would  he  not  accomplish  with  due  fitting  help  ?  I 
thought  of  Canova's  early  attempts,  his  '  Lion,'  first  modelled  in  butter ! 
The  tree  was  a  blaze  of  light ;  and  on  the  wall,  just  behind  the  tree, 
were  placed  two  palm  branches,  looking  like  huge  feathers  with  glittering 
diamonds,  tapers  being  fixed  all  along  the  firm  middle  stem.  The  gifls 
were  arranged  on  a  table,  a  plate  of  oranges,  nuts,  bonbons,  and  cakes, 
(strong  garments  to  some,)  and  a  bag  of  tobacco,  with  a  box  of  matches, 
to  each  sick  man ;  mandilles  (coloured  handkerchiefs)  &c.,  to  the  women ; 
toys  and  bags  to  the  Arab  children.  One  patient  who  had  left,  sent  the 
handkerchief ;  and  another  who  had  been  a  year  in  the  Hospital,  gave  the 
bags  of  tobacco.  The  trouble  of  arrangement  fell  on  the  Sisters ;  and  hard 
work  it  must  have  been  for  them,*  in  their  short  intervals  of  rest  from 
attending  to  the  sick,  to  provide  a  pi*esent  for  each,  and  to  get  through 
all  the  needle-work  which  the  men's  garments  required.  An  English 
gentleman,  who  has  never  seen  the  Hospital,  but  who  was  interested 
in  accounts  of  it,  has  lately  sent  from  Liverpool  a  first-rate  sewing- 
machine,  which  will  be  of  great  use,  also  many  toys  for  the  children. 

About  five  o'clock  all  was  ready.  The  men  patients,  dressed  in  striped 
blue  and  white,  came  in  and  took  their  seats  quietly,  then  the  women, 
then  the  children,  two  and  two.  The  harmonium  was  played  in  the 
next  room,  and  a  sweet  Christmas  hymn  was  sung.  Afterwards  the 
children  sang  a  Christmas  carol  in  Arabic.  Short  addresses,  explaining 
the  holy  Christmas  story,  were  given  in  German  and  Arabic.  On  this 
occasion  one  felt  that  the  tree  of  light,  with  its  manifold  gifls,  was  no 
unmeaning  toy,  but  a  clear  symbol.  One  man,  a  Druse,  brought  back  his 
presents,  and  said,  '  They  are  all  very  good  and  beautiful,  but  I  dare  not 
take  them,  they  are  from  the  Messias.'  All  of  earth's  pilgrims  are  ad-" 
mitted,  on  due  application :  they  who  can,  pay ;  others  are  received  gratis. 
North,  South,  East,  and  West,  have  their  suffering  representatives.  At 
one  time  there  were  even  natives  of  Finland,  sailors.  English  sailors  are 
often  brotight  to  this  Hospital ;  and  last  summer,  a  captain  was  here  for 
some  weeks.  A  poor  Greek  priest  remained  for  many  months ;  I  believe 
it  was  a  case  of  foot-amputation.  The  doctor,  a  highly  educated  Prussian, 
has  been  wonderfully  successful  in  most  difficult  surgical  operations,  and 
in  apparently  incurable  cases  of  eye-disease. 

I  forgot  to  mention,  with  the  other  tree-accompaniments,  some 
ingeniously  formed  baskets,  which  an  Arab  had  made  out  of  the  palm 
leaves,  which  had  been  put  up  in  honour  of  the  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia's 
visit  to  the  Hospital,  November  9th. 

I  could  relate  many  circumstances  connected  with  the  Hospital,  which 
I  am  sure  would  interest ;  but  I  must  bring  my  little  sketch,  imperfect 
as  it  is,  to  a  close. 

B^out,  Decmher,  18C9.  T.  G.  B. 


608  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


FOR  THE  SICK  AND  WOUNDED. 

ENGLAND'S  DOINGS  GREAT  AND  SMALL. 

BT  THB  AUTHOR  OV  'MOBAYIUI  LIVE  IH  THE  BLACK  FOBE8T.' 

The  war  has  called  forth  many  sympathies,  and  much  good  feeling  and 
kind-heartedness  from  England;  although  the  countries  concerned  are 
something  slow  and  loath  to  recognize  the  fact.  We  can  scarcely  go 
for  a  call  or  a  friendly  visit  into  one  house  in  five,  (to  keep  within  the 
mark,)  without  being  asked  either  for  a  contribution  of  linen,  or  to  help 
to  pull  charpie  or  sew  bandages.  Every  day  as  we  read  our  morning 
paper,  we  note  with  warm  interest  the  rapid  increase  of  the  funds  for 
the  'Sick  and  Wounded.'  If  we  are  shopping  in  town,  we  perceive 
one  and  another  large  house  of  business — a  circulating  library  at  the 
West-end,  a  restaurant  in  Oxford  Street,  a  chemist  here,  a  large  china 
warehouse  there,  and  so  forth — with  the  red-cross  flag  hung  out  as  a 
signal  that  subscriptions  are  received  within.  Even  at  the  comers  of  the 
streets  we  find  boys  in  badge  and  uniform  with  closed  boxes,  entitled  to 
take  our  money  '  for  the  sufferers  in  the  present  war.'  Music  is  composed 
and  sold  for  their  benefit;*  concerts  are  given  in  their  aid.  We  have 
sermons  for  them.  Part  of  our  Offertories  are  spared  for  them;  and 
many  are  the  little  and  great  acts  of  self-denial  that  are  being  practised, 
that  something  more  still  shall  go  to  the  Patriotic  Funds ;  although  we  do 
not,  and  cannot  perhaps  be  expected  to  do,  so  much  as  the  young  pupils 
of  certain  Pensions  at  St.  Denis,  of  whom  we  heard  at  the  commencement 
of  the  war :  *  Les  eleves  de  la  maison  de  la  Legion  d'  Honneur  k  Sl 
Denis,  celles  des  maisons  d'  Ecouen,  et  des  Loges,  ont  demandes 
spontan^ment  que  la  somme  consacree  annuellemet  A  V  epoque  des  grands 
concours,  k  V  achat  de  prix,  fut  envoyee  aux  soldats  de  V  armee  du  Rhin. 
Elles  la  destinent  k  soulager  les  blesses  de  notre  vaillante  armee.' 

Alas  for  this  valiant  army,  of  whom  we  are  told  that  scarcely  one  remains 
at  the  present  moment  not  dead,  or  wounded,  or  sick,  or  imprisoned  I 

It  is  pleasant  to  know,  however,  that  also  at  St  Denis — and  it  may 
be  a  probable  type  of  other  places — *  pendant  toute  la  duree  de  la  guerre, 
les  employes  du  ministere,  des  lettres,  des  sciences,  et  des  beaux  arts, 
abandonneront  chaque  mois  pour  la  souscription  patriotique  une  journee 
de  leurs  appointements ' — and  that  numberless  youths  of  the  medical 
schools  at  once  volunteered  to  use  their  vacation  in  helping  in  the 
ambulance  service. 

However,  to  return  at  once  to  our  own  home  doings,  we  must  not 

*  We  have  before  us  a  spirited  rendering  of  the  *  Wacht  am  Bhein,'  with  music  by 
F.  Weber,  resident  organist  of  the  German  Chapel  Royal,  St.  James's  Palace;  which 
is  sold  by  the  composer,  (price  one  shilling,)  for  the  beneHt  of  the  sick  and  woondcd, 
and  which  has  already  realized  the  sum  of  forty  pounds ! 


FOR  THE  SICK  AND  WOUNDED.  609 

forget  that  some  of  oar  most  hard- worked  medical  men  have  also  thus  self- 
devoted  themselves  this  summer,  and  that,  in  their  wake,  self-denjing 
women  have  followed,  whose  heart's  yearning  shall  one  day  be  fulfilled  in 
the  Saviour's  words :  '  Come,  ye  blessed  of  My  Father,  inherit  the 
Kingdom  prepared  for  you  from  the  foundation  of  the  world ;  for  I  was 
an  hungred,  and  ye  gave  Me  meat;  I  was  thirsty,  and  ye  gave  Me 
drink ;  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  Me  in ;  naked,  and  ye  clothed  Me  : 
I  was  sick,  and  ye  visited  Me ;  I  was  in  prison,  and  ye  came  unto  Me : 
inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  My  brethren, 
ye  have  done  it  unto  Me.' 

Last,  not  least,  wo  would  mention  that  the  committee  of  the  British 
and  Foreign  Bible  Society  have  set  apart  for  the  service  of  the  German 
army  a  staff  of  well- trained  colporteurs.  They  follow  the  movements 
of  the  soldiers  from  place  to  place.  They  have  authority  to  distribute 
gratuitously  any  number  of  Gospels  or  Testaments,  where  there  is 
manifest  eagerness  to  possess  a  copy,  without  the  means  of  paying  for  it. 
In  other  cases,  a  New  Testament  may  be  obtained  for  a  groschen,  (a 
penny  farthing.)  Some  of  the  colporteurs  having  themselves  served  in 
the  ranks,  know  the  best  modes  of  reaching  those,  whose  habits, 
associations,  and  temptations,  are  connected  with  military  life. 

To  the  French  Association  for  the  Sick  and  Wounded,  the  Bible  Society 
has  sent  390  Bibles,  2250  Testaments,  and  4315  Gospels.  An  additional 
supply  of  10,000  Testaments  has  been  asked  for,  and  25,000  Gospels.  A 
colporteur  distributed  4,000  Gospels  amongst  the  marines  alone,  at  Cher« 
bourg.  Another  colporteur  has  found  his  way  among  the  three  hundred 
Turkos,  who  are  prisoners  at  Ulm.  All  that  we  have  hitherto  heard  of 
these  savage  troops,  has  been  repulsing  and  horrifying  in  the  extreme, 
apparently  justifying  their  not  infrequent  cognomen  of  '  wild  beasts ;' 
but  M.  Lowitz,  having  been  employed  as  a  missionary  in  Algiers,  and 
knowing  Arabic  well,  has  visited  them  '  on  behalf  of  an  English  religious 
society,'  and  seems  to  have  succeeded  in  bringing  to  light  some  better 
aspect  of  their  dark  character.  He  recently  received  permission  from  the 
military  authorities  at  Ulm  to  address  them.  They  were  accordingly 
directed  to  meet  in  an  out-work  of  the  fort  for  a  religious  sermon. 
Many  of  the  officers,  curious  to  see  what  would  take  place,  were  present. 
First  appeared  a  priest,  who  had  somehow  managed  to  gain  access  to 
them,  and  who  read  one  afler  the  other  several  chapters  of  the  K6ran, 
but  in  so  low  a  voice,  as  to  be  scarcely  understood ;  and  presently  they 
all  began  to  say,  *  Stop  now,  we  have  had  enough.' 

Then  M.  Lowitz  came  forward,  took  the  Kbran  from  the  hands  of  the 
priesti  and  read  out  the  first  chapter  slowly  and  distinctly,  causing  each 
sentence  to  be  repeated  after  him  by  the  Turkos,  which  attracted  their 
interest.  When  he  delivered  an  address,  they  nodded,  and  called  out 
frequently,  *  That  is  true,  that  is  true.'  At  the  close  he  prayed.  After 
which,  the  Turkos  came  up  to  him,  kissed  his  hand,  and  said,  '  You  are 
sent  by  God.' 

-     VOL.  10.  41  PAET  60. 


610  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

Side  by  side  with  these  greater  efforts,  smaller  haye  run  hand  in  hand, 
as  already  intimated. 

One  of  these  that  will  be  perhaps  the  least  known  out  of  London,  is  the 
'  Exhibition  of  Works  of  Art '  gratuitously  presented  for  the  relief  of 
destitute  widows  and  orphans  of  Germans  killed  in  the  war ;  and  under 
the  immediate  patronage  of  H.  R.  H.  the  Crown-Princess  of  Prussia,  and 
their  Excellencies  the  Ambassadors  of  the  North  German  Confederation 
and  Bavaria ;  held  at  the  Gallery  of  the  New  British  Institution,  39^  Old 
Bond  Street. 

Some  people  have  objected  to  it  as  being  only  for  the  Germans.  We 
will  not  now  enter  into  the  right  or  wrong  of  this  objection,  but  merely 
make  some  slight  notice  of  the  Exhibition  itself. 

A  little  introduction  to  the  catalogue  of  pictures  gives  the  following 
account  of  its  intention  and  origin. 

'  The  project  of  this  Exhibition  originated  with  the  German  Academic 
Society,  supported  by  the  German  artists  of  London ;  but  its  promoters 
have  to  gratefully  acknowledge  the  large  and  very  generous  assistance 
they  have  received  from  English  artists  and  amateurs,  and  also  from 
several  Continental  artists. 

'The  measure  of  success  which  the  Exhibition  may  attain  will  doubtless 
be  also  largely  due  to  the  attraction  of  the  contributions  graciously 
presented  by  Her  Royal  Highness  the  Crown-Princess  of  Prussia,  and 
Her  Royal  Highness  the  Princess  Louise,  for  which  the  Committee  humbly 
tender  their  sincerest  thanks. 

'  The  Committee  have  the  gratification  to  add  that  Her  Royal  Highness 
the  Crown-Princess  of  Prussia  has  graciously  consented  to  place  the 
Exhibition  under  her  immediate  patronage,  and  to  superintend  the 
distribution  of  its  proceeds,  and  that  of  the  subscriptions  connected 
therewith.  The  Committee  have  further  gratefully  to  acknowledge  the 
kind  patronage  of  His  Excellency  Count  Bemstorff,  Ambassador  of  the 
North  German  Confederation,  and  His  Excellency  Count  Hompesch, 
Ambassador  of  Bavaria.  The  Committee  desire  also  to  thank  the 
Proprietor  for  the  loan  of  the  Gallery,  together  with  the  services  of  the 
attendants,  during  the  period  the  Gallery  is  not  engaged  for  the 
Exhibitions  of  the  New  British  Institution.' 

Contributions  of  works  of  art  are  still  invited,  and  continue  to  be 
thankfully  received. 

We  hear  that  it  is  proposed  to  continue  the  Exhibition  until  Christmas, 
but  cannot  at  present  say  whether  it  positively  will  be  so.  Works 
remaining  unsold  will  be  disposed  of  by  the  Committee,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Fund,  by  means  of  the  Prize  Drawing,  particulars  of  which  are  annexed. 

Subscriptions  for  the  Fund  will  be  thankfully  received  (of  any  amount) 
at  the  Union  Bank,  Argyll  Place,  Regent  Street;  by  Herr  J.  Wolf, 
Treasurer,  59,  Bemers  Street ;  Herr  KUmpel,  Honorary  Secretary,  20, 
Newman  Street;  and  Mr.  T.  J.  Gullick,  Honorary  Secretary,  at  the 
Grallery,  39,  Old  Bond  Street. 


FOR  THE  SICK  AND  WOUNDED.  611 

Tickets  for  the  Prize  Drawing  are  sold  at  one  shilling  each,  or  can  be 
had  in  books  of  twenty  for  £l. 

The  Prize  Drawing  is  Bxed  to  take  place  on  the  30th  and  81st  of 
December,  1870,  at  the  Grerman  Academic  Society,  4,  Hanway  Street, 
London,  between  the  hours  of  nine  and  twelve  a.m.  The  results  of  the 
Drawing  will  be  publicly  advertised  in  the  '  Daily  News,'  and  the  German 
papers,  on  January  2nd. 

Remittances  and  applications  for  tickets,  to  be  addressed  to  the 
Treasurer,  J.  Wolf,  69,  Bemers  Street,  W.,  or  to  any  member  of  the  two 
Committees,  and  at  the  Exhibition  Gallery. 

The  works  of  art,  already  designated  for  the  Prize  Drawing,  are 
labelled  in  the  Exhibition,  '  Reserved  for  the  Prize  Drawing.' 

On  looking  through  the  catalogue  one  feels  a  little  surprised,  and 
perhaps  disappointed  at  first,  on  finding  so  few  names  of  any  note,  or 
indeed  that  one  knows  at  all.  The  eye  and  mind  rest  gladly  on  such  as 
Carl  Haag,  Britton,  Riviere,  Goodall,  and  one  or  two  others  of  that 
stamp ;  and  with  interest  on  those  of  our  loved  and  talented  Princesses ; 
C.  Bauerle's,  Count  Gleichen'iB,  and  two  or  three  other  familiar  names, 
greet  us  further  on,  and  then  we  soon  become  lost  in  a  maze  and 
wHdemess  of  lady-amateurs. 

A  friend,  on  looking  through  our  catalogue,  exclaimed,  '  Oh,  I  thought 
all  our  English  artists  would  have  joined,  and  sent  some  of  their  best.' 
But  we  explained  that  what  went  was  to  be  sold  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Fund,  not  only  exhibited  for  it.  This,  of  course,  altered  the  case ;  and  yet 
what  some  have  done,  others  might  also  have  managed  to  do,  more  or 
less  perhaps,  if  it  had  occurred  to  them.  Meanwhile,  the  managers  of 
the  Exhibition  express  themselves  most  thankfully  and  gratefully  for  the 
success  so  far  attained  and  the  measure  of  interest  shewn. 

Certainly  there  is  a  great  deal  of  trash  in  the  collection,  among  a  few 
very  good  things.  But  we  are  bidden  by  an  old  English  proverb  not  to 
look  a  gifl-horse  in  the  mouth,  and  these  being  all  gift-horses,  the 
Committee  very  wisely  did  not  attempt  to  look  them  in  the  mouth ;  but, 
as  one  of  the  Secretaries  said  to  us,  '  What  we  received,  we  hung.  It 
was  not  a  case  of  examining  into  merits,  and  accepting  or  refusing,  as  at 
the  Academy,  yon  know !' 

And  so  there  they  all  are,  from  some  daubs  of  unfi*amed  illuminations, 
to  a  set  of  etchings  by  Sir  Edwin  Landseer ;  and  from  the  crudest  of 
lady's  sketches  to  Carl  Haag's  original  study  of  the  Arciere  Veniziano, 
which  is  one  of  those  reserved  for  the  Prize  Drawing,  valued  at  £42 ; 
up  to  the  finished  pictures  of  their  Royal  Highnesses,  some  of  which  are 
priced  at  £525. 

*  Five  hundred  pounds  I'  grunted  a  bluff  country  visitor,  as  he  shaded 
his  eyes  and  scanned  one  of  these ;  ^  and  it's  worth  about  ten !' 

*I  dare  say  it's  worth  what  it  says,'  suggested  his  mild  little  wife. 
And  we  thought  she  was  probably  right.  If  only  for  the  interest  of 
knowing  whose  autograph  the  picture  bears,  and  for  sympathy  with  the 


612  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

occasion  of  its  exhibition,  someone  who  can  afford  it,  will  probablj 
gladly  pay  the  sum. 

The  two  pictures  thus  highly  priced  are,  however,  to  our  mind,  not  so 
attractive  as  their  pathetic  companion-piece,  also  by  the  Crown -Princess  of 
Prussia,  bearing  the  title,  '  Widowed  and  Childless,'  and  representing  a 
poor  old  peasant  woman,  in  her  little  close-fitting  German  cap,  cowering 
in  the  dark  over  the  dying  embers  on  her  lonely  hearth,  with  handfl 
clasped  on  her  knees,  and  downcast  eyes,  a  few  pieces  of  scant  old- 
fitfhioned  furniture  all  that  bears  an  approach  to  any  aspect  of  comfort 
about  her.  This  is  priced  at  £262.  Above  it  hangs  a  '  Portrait  of  a 
Canadian  Lady,'  a  sweet  young  face,  half  sad,  half  frolicsome,  excellently 
rendered  in  coloured  chalks,  by  the  Princess  Louise,  who  has  also 
contributed  a  marble  bust  of  Her  Highness  Princess  Amelie  of  Saxe 
Coburg,  and  some  paintings. 

There  is  a  very  lovely  enamel  painting  of  the  '  Madonna  at  the  Cross,' 
afler  the  original  of  Delaroche  at  Berlin,  by  C.  Schmidt,  for  the  Prize 
Drawing,  which  we  gazed  at  long  with  pleasure,  so  soft  and  sweet  and 
tender  is  the  expression,  and  the  rendering.  Not  so  did  we  feel  about  a 
more  vigorously  executed  *  Head  of  the  Saviour,'  enamel,  after  Guido, 
by  Miss  M.  Tekusch.  It  is  not  the  face  of  Him  that  one  would  have 
chosen  to  copy. 

Just  close  by  there  hangs  a  quaint  picture,  called  the  'The  Old 
Grandmother,'  by  C.  Webb.  A  wrinkled  but  kindly-faced  old  lady  sits 
life-like  in  her  tall  Swiss  cap  of  dark  print,  her  feet  on  a  wooden 
chauffrette  filled  with  charcoal,  her  crutch  laid  aside,  while  she  peels  her 
potatoes  into  a  large  red  earthen  bowl  on  her  lap.  She  has  no  son  at  the 
war.  Perhaps  she  is  thanking  God  for  it  in  her  humble  way ;  or  maybe 
she  is  just  saying  to  herself  that  Fritz  will  be  glad  of  his  coffee  and 
potatoes  when  he  gets  home  with  the  cows  from  pasture. 

There  is  a  pretty  view  of  the  old  bridge  at  Bedd  Gelert,  with  a  very 
good  effect  of  a  distant  rain  shower  on  the  mountains ;  and  a  capital 
picture  of  Sancho  Panza  finding  his  lost  pet.  This  is  for  the  Prize 
Drawing.  Near  it  is  another  for  the  Prize  Drawing,  called  *  Broadwater 
Meadows,'-— a  flat  cold  thing,  against  which  we  wrote,  '  Hope  we  sha'n't 
get  it,'  for  we  took  a  ticket  '  in  aid  of  the  Fund.' 

A  study  of  a  head  of  an  old  Eastern,  by  Carl  Haag,  is  of  course 
good ;  and  there  is  a  street  view  in  Cairo,  with  mosque  of  the  Grand 
Vizier,  by  J.  A.  Bemell,  which  is  also  good — ^an  interesting  group,  but 
too  pale  and  tender  in  colour,  and  everyone  much  too  trim  and  clean 
looking,  from  the  old  Mussulman  whiffing  his  hookah  as  he  ponders 
his  next  move  on  the  chess-board,  to  the  camels  and  their  drivers  passing 
near  ai  hand :  the  doves  indeed  may  be  allowed  their  silken  looks,  for 
they  can  come  out  of  the  potsherds  and  dust-heaps  on  the  roof-tops  with 
silver  wings  and  feathers  like  gold;  but  we  scarcely  know  any  other 
living  things  in  or  about  Cairo  that  look  ever  so  proper  and  clean  as  do 
these  of  Mr.  Bemell's. 


1 


FOR  THE  SICK  AND  WOUNDED.  618 

Miss  C.  G.  Cruikflhank  has  contributed  a  very  beautiful  girl's  fece, 
with  the  motto,  *  Pregar,  pregar,  ch'  altro  ponno  i  mortali  al  pianger 
nati/ 

Of  course  we  have  magnum-bonum  plums  and  fruits  and  flowers,  and 
still  life,  and  sketches  from  nature ;  but  why  will  artists  in  such  cases 
choose  such  unnatural  looking  nature  ? 

There  are  two  other  pictures  for  the  Prize  Drawing;    one  called 

*  Nursing  the  Baby,'— a  raw  boned  hona-fde  cow,  licking  her  calf  in  a 
stable ;  and  the  other  called  ^  A  Sketch :'  against  the  one  we  wrote,  '  What 
should  we  do  with  the  cow  and  calf  if  we  get  it  V  and  against  the  other, 

*  or  with  this  young  lady  ?' 

Lady  Theodore  Grosvenor  has  sent  a  beautiful  copy  from  Cuyp— — 
which  in  Holland,  we  may  observe,  is  pronounced  Goyp — the  cows,  tlie 
bridge,  and  the  herds-boy,  all  standing  clear,  as  if  carved  in  relief 
Against  the  background  of  evening  sky. 

Someone  sends  a  ^  seascape '  from  nature,  the  only  thing  to  be  noted 
about  it  being  its  title. 

E.  A.  Goodall  has  sent  a  pretty  picture  of  Pallanza  on  Lago 
Maggiore;  and  P.  R.  Morris,  a  touching  little  thing  called  *The 
Prisoner's  Charity — ^an  oil  study  for  a  picture,' — a  haggard  criminal 
stretching  forth  his  lean  hand  through  his  prison  bars,  with  a  morsel  of 
bread  for  two  wandering  minstrels,  a  woman  and  her  emaciated  sleeping 
boy. 

It  is  invidious  to  single  out  pictures  by  name :  there  are  several  pretty 
landscapes ;  one  of  Arran,  by  Miss  Gillies,  in  which  a  girl  reaper,  with 
white  sun-bonnet,  pinned  back  by  the  flap,  looks  picturesquely  Italian ) 
A  Race-day  on  Minehead  Sands ;  A  View  of  the  River  Derwent ;  '  A 
Scene  in  Harvest  Time,'  by  Britten  Willis ;  Frondjem,  Norway,  by  F. 
Dillon;  Chillon,  by  Lady  Louise  Cotes;  and  others;  and  among  the 
sculpture  we  would  mention  especially  a  dancing  girl,  cast  in  stearine, 
by  Count  Gleichen ;  a  portfolio  of  prints,  drawings,  and  photographs, 
have  been  contributed  by  various  people ;  also  a  silver  enamelled 
wine-cup  by  Mr.  Carl  Krall,  and  an  oxydized  card-tray  by  Mr. 
Burkentin. 

We  looked  around  us  with  deep  interest  at  all — good,  bad,  and 
indifferent;  and  hoped  that,  'many  men'  being  of  *many  minds,'  those 
that  did  not  please  us  might  please  someone  else,  and  that  each  might  at 
le-ast  fulfil  in  some  way  the  charitable  intentions  of  the  donor.  At  all 
events,  it  is  a  good  thing  to  be  ready  to  give  and  to  distribute;  and 
looked  upon  in  that  light,  not  a  picture  there  but  had  its  own  little  hale 
of  interest.     May  others  go  and  do  likewise  I 


614  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 


THINGS. 

'"What!  from  Disorder  do  yon  frightened  start? 
Matilda  clasped  sweet  Order  to  her  heart. 
And  said,  ^  From  thee,  best  friend,  111  nerer  part 


»if 


'  Oh  dear  me !  here  we  are  in  the  last  week  hut  one  of  the  holidays. 
How  dreadfully  fast  the  days  do  go !'  said  a  little  ^rl  of  seyen,  yawning 
as  she  looked  ahout  her  for  something  to  do. 

'  Ah,  Jessie,  you  don't  know  something,'  said  a  sister  three  or  four  years 
older.  '  Mamma  came  in  here  while  all  of  you  were  out  yesterday,  and 
looked  into  all  the  drawers  and  cupboards,  and  said  that  they  were  not  • 
fit  to  he  seen,  and  we  must  have  a  regular  great  tidying  before  Miss 
Jones  comes  back,  and  your  shelf  was  the  worst  of  all;  and  when 
Mamma  opened  the  cupboard  door,  your  doll  that  the  mice  ate  came 
tumbling  out,  and  the  bran  came  pouring  out  of  her  arm,  and  there  tvas 
such  a  mess.' 

'  Well,  I'm  sure  it's  not  my  fault,  at  any  rate,'  exclaimed  Sarah,  the 
eldest  sister.  ^  I  am  always  telling  Jessie  and  the  boys  to  put  away  their 
things,  but  they  always  say  they  will  presently,  and  then  they  leave  them 
and  leave  them  till  the  tea  comes  in,  and  then  I  have  to  clear  everything 
on  to  the  piano,  and  they  get  all  mixed  up  with  the  music  and  things,  and 
there  they  stay.' 

^  It  isn't  so  much  the  things  that  I  care  about,'  said  Millicent,  '  it's  the 
things  that  aren't  exactly  things  at  all  that  make  it  so  tiresome ;  and~when 
I  told  Mamma  that,  what  do  you  think  she  said  ?  (I  think  that  part  will 
be  rather  fun,) — that  we  had  better  have  a  sort  of  parliament,  and  get 
the  boys  to  come  too,  and  all  make  speeches,  and  consider  what  could 
be  done— for  all  she  would  settle  about  it  was  that  something  must  be 
done.' 

'I  don't  believe  it  will  be  much  good,'  said  Sarah.  'Arthur  might 
help,  certainly — but  Reggie  and  Freddie !  I  know  what  they'll  do— make 
a  most  fearful  noise,  and  turn  out  their  shelves  and  drawers  on  the  floor, 
and  then  go  off,  and  leave  us  to  put  them  in  again.' 

'  Oh,  but  Sarah !  do  let  them  come  too,'  said  Jessie ;  '  it  won't  be 
anything  like  a  parliament  with  only  four.' 

At  this  both  the  others  laughed  very  much,  and  it  was  agreed  that  as 
it  seemed  to  be  setting  in  for  a  regular  wet  afternoon,  Jessie  should  be 
sent  to  look  for  the  boys. 

'  And  mind  you  bring  Arthur^  at  any  rate,'  was  Sarah's  parting  in- 
junction ;  '  the  others  will  be  unbearable  without  him.' 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  Arthur  (a  pleasant-looking  boy  of  seventeen) 
was  stationed  with  his  back  against  the  mantel-piece,  and  an  absorbed 
expression  in  his  eyes  and  mouth.  The  rest  having  arranged  themselves 
round  him  in  a  sort  of  semi-circle,  waited  for  him  to  speak,  till  Freddie, 


THINGS.  615 

who  had  seated  himself  on  the  table,  grew  restless,  and  in  re-arranging 
himself,  sat  down  on  the  ink-bottle,  over-tipping  it,  and  breaking  sererid 
quill  pens  which  had  been  left  in  it. 

This  brought  down  a  chorus  of  indignation  on  poor  Freddie,  who  was 
desired  to  come  down  and  sit  on  a  stool  by  the  fire ;  and  when  order  was 
in  some  degree  restored,  Arthur  cleared  his  throat  in  an  impressive 
manner,  and  began. 

'  In  the  present  alarming  crisis,  I  am  sure  you  must  all  feel  that  strong 
measures  are  necessary,  and  that  no  time  should  be  lost ;  but  in  the  first 
place  I  wish  to  propose,  that  everyone  present  should  prepare  a  pap^r 
(to  be  read  at  our  next  meeting)  on  untidiness  in  general,  and  on  wl^s^t 
he  considers  to  be  the  reasons  (I  should  say  causes)  of  the  deploralz^^e 
condition  in  which  we  behold  our  beloved  school-room,  and  the  b^^ 
means  of  avoiding  the  same  for  the  future,  when  once  order  has  be^i] 
restored.' 

Arthur  then  bowed  low  to   the  audience,  and  sat  down  amidst    a 
deafening   applause,   which  lasted  for  several  minutes,  and  ended    ixx 
Freddie's  foot  coming  down  on  the  handle  of  the  poker,  which  kicked  up 
and  hit  him  on  the  nose. 

'  Order !  order  I'  cried  Reginald  in  a  thundering  voice,  as  he  rose  to 
reply. 

^  Stop !  wait  I  not  quite  so  fast,  please,'  objected  his  brother.  *  I  spoke 
first,  as  chairman  of  the  meeting ;  but  I  think  we'll  hear  the  opinions  of 
the  ladies  before  you  and  Freddie  speak.' 

Now  Reginald  being  as  near  in  age  to  one  brother  as  he  was  to  the 
other,  had  a  particular  objection  to  being  classed  with  Freddie,  and  liked 
to  consider  that  he  was  one  of  the  elder  ones,  whenever  his  inveterate 
love  of  noise  and  commotion  allowed  him  to  think  about  it.  So  he  sat 
down  again  with  rather  a  cross  face,  and  Sarah  began. 

'  Well,  what  I  think  about  it  is,  that  we  shall  spend  all  the  time  in 
talking  and  writing  these  grand  essays  which  won't  be  any  good,  when 
this  wet  afternoon  is  just  the  time  to  get  it  all  done.' 

This  had  some  sense  in  it,  no  doubt ;  but  it  sounded  very  uninteresting, 
and  no  one  clapped  except  Jessie,  who  was  afraid  that  Sarah  would  be 
disappointed. 

After  this  short  speech  delivered  in  rather  a  desponding  manner,  Sarah 
sat  down,  leaned  back,  and  waited  with  rather  a  contemptuous  expression 
to  hear  what  the  others  would  say. 

Millicent  took  her  place,  stood  silent  for  a  minute,  and  during  that  time 
grew  very  red,  and  then  said,  '  I  don't  think  I  know  what  to  say ;  Jessie, 
do  speak  first.' 

^  Oh  yes,  do,  Millie,'  said  Arthur  encouragingly.  ^  You  needn't  make 
much  of  a  speech,  but  just  say  whether  you  agree  with  Sarah 
or  me.' 

^  Well,  then,  I  think  you  are  right,'  said  Millie,  *  for  if  we  could  make 
out  what  makes  the  shelves  and  things  do  like  that,  perhaps  they 


616  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET, 

wouldn't  get  just  as  bad  again  directly  after  we've  done  tbem,  as  tfaej 
always  do.' 

'  Hear !  hear !'  cried  Arthur,  delighted ;  and  he  clapped  and  stamped 
so  rigorously,  that  Sarah  said  he  was  '  as  bad  as  Be^e  and  Freddie.' 

Jessie  said  that '  she  should  like  to  write  about  it,  because  then  they 
need  not  begin  to  tidy  directly,  and  tidying  was  so  nasty.' 

Reginald,  who  had  been  impatiently  waiting  for  his  turn,  then  sprang 
to  his  feet,  and  b^gan.  ^  In  my  opinion,  the  honourable  gentleman  who 
first  honoured  us  with — who  first — ^who  spoke  first — ^left  out  the  most 
important  part  of  what  he  ought  to  have  said,  which  is,  that  while  you 
are  all  settling  how  to  prevent  the  place  from  getting  into  the  same  state 
another  time— the  real  difiiculty  is  what  to  do  with  it  now ;  where  are 
you  to  begin?  just  look  at  Sarah's  shelf,  for  instance ;  did  you  ever  see 
such  a  pig-sty  V 

'  Order !'  criei  Arthur ;  '  it  isn't  manners  to  mention  names  in  parlia- 
ment ;'  and  as  Ranald  tried  to  proceed  without  minding  the  interruption, 
he  added  yery  loud,  ^  Time's  up !     Now,  Freddie,  it's  your  turn.' 

Freddie,  who  had  not  been  paying  very  particular  attention  to 
anything,  said,  ^  Tliat  he  rose  to  second  everybody,'  (laughter  and  cheers.) 
*•  and  that  he  saw  nothing  for  it  but  a  bonfire  of  almost  everything,  in 
which  he  would  help  with  great  pleasure ;  and  then  they  could  make  a 
fresh  start  with  empty  shelves,  which  could  easily  be  kept  tidy ;  and  Miss 
Jones  would  be  so  pleased  to  find  all  the  books  gone,  because  then  she 
could  teach  what  she  liked  all  out  of  her  own  head.'  Then  he  resumed 
his  seaty  and  helped  in  the  clapping  and  stamping  with  great  good 
wiU. 

Arthur  then  got  up  again,  and  said,  '  At  the  suggestion  of  a  certain 
honourable  gentleman,  I  rise  to  propose  that  in  the  papers  we  are  going 
to  write,  we  should  also  consider  the  chief  difficulties  in  the  way  of  putting 
the  room  in  order  now.' 

^  Hear,  hear  I'  cried  Reginald,  much  flattered. 

'  Now  then,  Sarah,  do  let  us  find  some  paper  and  pencils,  and  begin,' 
exclaimed  Millicent;  and  they  were  soon  all  seated  round  the  table, 
writing  busily,  or  thinking  deeply. 

Jessie  was  the  first  to  speak.  ^  Please,  Sarah,  how  am  I  to  begin  ? 
My  dear — like  a  letter  ?  but  then,  my  dear  who  V 

Sarah  laughed ;  and  Arthur  said,  '  If  you  like,  you  can  begin  '^  Dear 
Mr.  Chairman," — that  will  mean  me,  you  know.' 

Jessie  stared  at  him  for  a  minute,  and  then  said, '  Oh !  then  I  think  I'll 
begin  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Chair-woman,"  because  I'd  rather  mean  Sarah.* 

'  All  right,'  said  Arthur,  laughing ;  ^  that  will  do  just  as  well.' 

Everyone  was  very  quiet  for  about  half  an  hour,  and  then  Freddie 
suddenly  pushed  back  his  chair,  exclaiming  as  he  did  so,  '  I  say,  what  rot 
this  all  is,  when  we  might  be  doing  something  jolly  !     I  shall  go.' 

'  Oh  no,  Freddie ;  do  finish  first,'  said  Millicent. 

^  Well,  I've  said  everything  there  is  to  say ;  and  if  you  act  upon  it,  my 


THINGS.  617 

deiar,  itll  be  all  right,'  said  Freddie,  making  a  comical  face ;  and  he  went 
out,  slamming  the  door. 

Reginald  heartily  wished  himself  with  him,  but  he  chose  to  do  as 
Arthur  did,  and  stayed  where  he  was. 

Presently  a  servant  came  in  with  the  tea-things,  and  they  were  all 
obliged  to  move  from  the  table. 

'  Who  has  finished  V  said  Arthur. 

'  I  hare,'  said  Sarah,  handing  him  a  folded  paper. 

Millicent  and  Jessie  said  they  '  hadn't  quite,'  and  went  on  writing  at  tFx^ 
piano  while  the  tea-things  were  being  set. 

Reginald  said  it  was  '  such  a  silly  sort  of  thing,  he  didn't  believe  thesr^ 
was  anything  worth  saying  about  it,'  but  nevertheless  he  continued  -^o 
scribble. 

*  Arthur,*  cried  Freddie,  bursting  into  the  room,  *  Mamma  wants  (Oti  / 
here's  the  grub  already,  that's  first-rate!)  Mamma  and  Papa  want  to  knour 
what's  been  keeping  you  and  Sarah  so  quiet  all  the  afternoon,  so  of  course 
I  had  to  tell  them  what  we've  been  doing,  and  they  say  they  want  us  to 
come  and  read  them  down-stairs  after  tea.' 

'  O  Sarah !'  cried  Millicent,  ^  how  can  we  ?  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  never 
should  have  written  anything  if  I  had  known  that  Papa  was  going  to 
hear  them.' 

'But  you  see  you're  caught  now,'  said  Arthur ;  'and  it's  just  as  bad  for 
me.  /'m  awfully  frightened,  but  I  think  we  had  better  do  it ;  and  we  can 
shuffle  them  all  up  together,  and  read  them  as  they  come,  and  then  no 
one  will  know  which  is  which,  you  know.' 

Millicent  brightened  up  a  little  at  this  new  idea,  and  they  took  their 
places  at  the  table. 

Arthur  usually  dined  with  his  father  and  mother  at  half-past  seven, 
but  that  did  not  prevent  him  from  coming  to  tea  in  the  school-room  at 
"  half-past  five ;  and  Sarah  was  glad  of  his  help  sometimes,  for  Freddie 
always  considered  that  Miss  Jones's  absence  gave  him  a  certain  liberty, 
and  the  consequence  was  that  he  tried  many  and  surprising  experiments 
with  his  tea  and  bread  and  butter.  To-night,  however,  he  did  nothing 
worse  than  attempting  to  re-fill  his  own  cup  while  Sarah  was  not  looking, 
and  in  his  hurry  getting  his  elbow  into  some  jam  on  Jessie's  plate.  In 
spite  of  this  little  accident,  however,  tea  was  over  sooner  than  Millicent 
could  have  wished  it  to  be ;  and  she  felt  rather  queer,  as  she  would  have 
expressed  it,  as  she  followed  the  others  to  the  drawing-room. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carey  soon  joined  them  there ;  and  when  they  had  all 
collected  round  the  fire,  Arthur  produced  the  papers,  and  began  to  read 
the  one  which  happened  to  be  uppermost.     It  was  called 

'THE  GREAT  MESS  THAT  THE  SCHOOL-ROOM'S  IN/ 

'  The  reason  why  it's  in  such  a  dreadful  state,  I  think  is  partly  that 
Miss  Jones  is  away.'    Some  of  the  audience  laughed,  and  !Milliccnt  looked 


618  THB  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

into  the  fire,  while  Arthur  went  on,  ^  But  one  thing  is  that  we  are  often  in 
a  hurry,  because  we  want  to  do  something  different ;  and  then  we  put 
things  away  just  for  now  to  make  room  on  the  table,  and  mean  to  put 
them  right  presently,  and  then  we  don't,  but  put  in  some  more  things  on 
the  top,  and  then  everjrthing  gets  full,  and  then  the  room  gets  full ;  and 
when  once  it  is  tidy,  if  we  always  put  eveiything  away  properly,  it  will 
keep  tidy.  But  why  it  is  so  difficult  to  put  it  tidy,  is  because  of  the 
things  that  we  don't  want,  and  that  are  not  any  good,  and  yet  they  are  so 
odd  that  they  can't  be  burnt ;  but  I  have  not  time  to  say  all  about  them, 
so  I  must  stop.' 

^That's  exceedingly  good,'  said  Mr.  Carey;  'which  of  you  wrote  it? 
You  must  tell  me,  for  I  can't  guess.' 

'  No,  no.  Papa,'  said  Arthur ;  '  you  musta't  be  told  till  you  have  heard 
the  others ;  we  mixed  them  all  up  on  purpose.' 

'  I  know,'  said  Reginald,  '  as  well  as  if  I  had  looked  at  the  writing.' 

*  Very  likely,'  replied  Arthur.     '  This  paper  is  headed 

"  ORDER." ' 

'  Some  people  have  what  is  called  the  organ  of  order,  and  that  is  very 
lucky  for  them,  because  it  saves  them  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  for  they 
always  like  to  put  their  things  neatly  away  when  they  have  done  with 
them,  and  to  mend  them  when  they  are  broken,  and  so  of  course  they 
have  not  any  trouble  about  it ;  and  therefore,  if  it  can  be  found  out  which 
of  the  family  has  this  gift  most,  the  best  way  will  be  for  that  one  to  have 
the  business  of  keeping  the  school-room  tidy,  and  then  it  will  all  be  easy. 
The  chief  difficulty  in  the  way  of  getting  it  into  order  to  begin  with 
is,  the  lots  of  things  that  don't  belong  to  anyone ;  but  there  ought  to  be  an 
auction  of  them,  and  then  they  will  be  done  with.' 

'  And  what  must  all  the  others  do,  I  wonder,  to  make  up  for  throwing 
so  much  work  on  one?'  said  Mrs.  Carey,  smiling.  'I  am  afraid  I  know 
the  old  lazy-boots  that  wrote  that,  but  of  course  I  must  not  guess  till  we 
have  heard  the  others.*^ 

'  This  one  has  no  title,'  said  Arthur,  and  began  to  read. 

'  Very  few  people  really  like  to  live  in  an  untidy  room,  except  perhaps 
Irish  people ;  and  I  don't  think  that  many  people  would  be  untidy  if  they 
lived  alone,  but  seeing  other  people's  things  lying  about  that  they  can't 
put  away  because  they  don't  know  where  to  put  them,  makes  them  think 
that  it's  no  use  to  put  away  their  own  things.' 

Arthur  read  the  last  few  words  in  rather  a  shaky  voice,  and  then  fairly 
gave  it  up  and  went  off  into  fits  of  laughing.  As  soon  as  he  could  speak, 
he  said,  '  I  am  very  sorry,  it's  very  rude  of  me,  but  I  really  couldn't  help 


THINGS.  619 

i%  80  I  hope  the  author  won't  mind ;  it's  so  exactly  like  somebody,  that  I 
thought  you  must  have  guessed.' 

^  I  don't  know  at  all/  said  Mr.  Carey. 

'  I  can't  think,'  said  Jessie ;  '  and  I  think  Arthur  is  a  very  funny  boy 
to  sit  laughing.' 

'  Well,  I  think  I  can  finish  now,'  he  answered ;  and  went  on  reading. 

^I  think  it  would  be  a  good  plan  if  we  took  it  in  turns  to  be  the 
one  to  put  the  room  tidy  in  the  evening,  and  then  that  one  must  take 
everjrthing  that  is  left  about  up  into  the  old  lamber-room  in  the  attics  ; 
and  haying  the  trouble  of  fetching  them  when  we  want  them,  might  make 
us  remember  to  put  them  away  next  time.' 

Arthur  stamped  with  one  foot  as  he  finished  reading  it,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Carey  said  it  was  '  a  capital  idea,  whoever  it  came  from.' 
^  Here  is  a  very  short'  one,'  said  Arthur. 

*  TIDINESS.' 

*  Keeping  places  tidy  is  a  most  awful  bother,  but  girls  ought  to  do  it^ 
because  when  men  have  wives  they  always  do  it.' 

'  I  hope  somebody's  wife  will  agree  with  him,'  said  Mr.  Carey,  laughing. 
^  I  wonder  what  Mamma  would  say  to  me  if  I  was  never  to  put  away 
anything  that  I  took  out.' 

^  Well,  then,'  said  Freddie,  forgetting  that  he  was  betraying  himself, 
^  when  I  am  grown  up  I  shall  have  a  servant  on  purpose.' 

'O  Freddy,  your  tidying  servant  would  soon  give  warning,  I  am 
afraid,'  said  his  mamma. 

Arthur  took  up  the  next  paper,  and  began. 

'  We  let  our  places  get  untidy,  not  because  we  like  it,  or  even  because 
we  don't  care,  but  simply  to  save  trouble :  leaving  a  thing  on  the  table, 
instead  of  putting  it  on  a  shelf;  or  putting  pens  and  pencils  into  the  paper 
drawer,  because  the  right  drawer  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  table ;  or 
stuffing  things  into  a  cupboard  through  a  smaU  opening  without  looking, 
because  a  chair  happens  to  be  standing  against  it,  instead*  of  using  a 
second  hand — are  expedients  that  save  very  little  trouble  certainly,  but 
they  seem  worth  while  at  the  time  that  we  do  them,  even  though  we 
might  not  be  able  to  give  any  particular  reason  why  a  minute  then  is  more 
valuable  than  half  an  hour  a  week  or  two  afterwards.  In  the  same  way^ 
people  often  try  to  carry  more  things  than  they  can,  and  spend  a  good 
deal  of  time  in  piling  them  up,  and  drop  half  of  them  on  the  way,  and 
have  to  pile  them  up  a  second  time,  and  still  after  all  feel  pleased  that 
they  have  saved  themselves  a  second  journey,  although  only  of  a  few 
yards. 

'  So  much  for  the  great  trouble  people  take  to  save  themselves  trouble* 


620  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

The  difficulties  in  the  way  of  patting  the  pUces  to  rights,  seem  to  me  to 
require  another  meeting  of  parliament,  when  everyone  might  exhibit 
specimens  of  the  things  that  he  is  most  at  a  loss  to  dispose  of.' 

*  And  here  is  the  last^'  said  Arthur,  and  began  to  read  without  learing 
time  for  any  comments. 

'  My  dear  Mrs.  Chair-woman,  I  wish  the  mess  was  tidy.  I  think  the 
dolls  make  some  of  it,  but  the  liltel  doU's-house  was  tidy,  and  you  have 
put  big  Sophy  in  there  on  the  tabel  wile  they  were  at  diner,  plese  dont.' 

^  That  was  very  shocking,'  said  Mrs.  Carey ;  '  if  it  was  my  house  I 
don't  think  I  should  employ  that  char- woman  any  more.' 

*  Now  then  for  the  guessing,'  said  Mr.  Carey.  '  I  can't  be  quite  sure 
whether  the  last  but  one  was  Arthur's  or  Sarah's.' 

'  Oh !  I  thought  Arthur  had  betrayed  me,'  said  Sarah ;  ^  it  was  too  bad 
of  you,  Arthur,  to  laugh  so  njuch.' 

^  Poor  old  Sally !  so  it  was,'  he  answered ;  '  but  if  I  begin  to  laugh 
when  I  am  reading,  I  can't  stop.' 

'  So  that  was  youi^  about  the  lumber-room,  Sarah,'  said  her  father. 
•  I  liked  that  very  much ;  and  yours  too,  Arthur. — As  for  yours,  Sir,' 
turning  to  Reginald,  '  come  here  and  let  me  feel  your  head,  and  if  I  find 
a  bump  of  order,  we'll  lead  you  a  life  that  will  soon  cure  you  of 
laziness.' 

But  unhappily  there  was  a  hollow  where  order  should  have  been,  so  he 
only  got  his  hair  pulled. 

'  And  now,  Millie,  I  want  to  see  some  of  these  things  that  are  too  odd 
to  be  burnt ;  run  and  fetch  some  of  them.' 

So  Millie  and  Jessie  were  despatched  to  the  school-room  to  collect 
specimens ;  and  afler  a  few  minutes  they  returned  with  a  very  remarkable 
collection.  Clothes  belonging  to  deceased  doUs,  and  which  were  too  big 
or  too  small  for  jany  of  their  successors ;  boxes  which  had  lost  their  lids, 
and  lids  which  had  lost  their  boxes,  &c. ;  besides  which,  they  each  had  a 
special  burden  of  their  own,  which  had  been  lying  heavy  on  their  hearts 
for  some  time.  Millie's  was  a  half-finished  little  piece  of  wool  work, 
which  Jessie  thought  she  had  given  her  at  some  former  tidying  of  their 
shelves ;  but  Millie  could  not  remember  the  transaction,  and  as  she  said, 
^  she  didn't  want  it  to  be  hers,  because  there  was  a  long  bit  to  unpick 
before  she  could  go  on  with  it ;  and  besides,  the  needle  was  lost.'  And 
Jessie  was  in  trouble  about  a  doll's  head,  which  was  in  very  good 
preservation,  but  destitute  of  a  body.  They  sighed  deeply  as  they  spread 
out  the  different  articles  on  the  rug  for  inspection,  and  did  not  quite 
know  what  to  make  of  it  when  they  found  that  their  elders  could  do 
nothing  but  laugh ;  but  presently  Mrs.  Carey  said,  '  What  is  the  matter 
with  that  pretty  wax  head,  Jessie,  my  dear  ?  If  you  bring  me  the  body 
to-morrow,  I  think  I  can  sew  it  on  for  you.' 


*  MY  LIFE.'  621 

^  But,  Mamma,'  said  poor  Jessie,  looking  very  dismal,  ^  it*s  been  off  a 
long  while,  and  now  the  body's  quite  gone,  I  can't  find  it  anywhere.' 

^  Well,'  said  her  mamma,  '  but  I  think  I  see  a  body  without  a  head 
among  the  things  on  the  rug ;  bring  it  here.' 

*  O  Mamma,'  said  Jessie,  fairly  beginning  to  cry,  '  but  that  would  be 
Emily's  head  and  Margaret's  body,  I  shouldn't  know  which  she  was.' 

With  some  difficulty  Mrs.  Carey  soothed  her  outraged  feelings,  and 
promised  to  keep  Emily's  head  till  the  right  body  should  be  found.  '  And 
as  for  that  poor  little  piece  of  work,'  she  added^  '  that  and  all  other  things 
that  don't  belong  to  anyone,  may  be  brought  to  me  for  the  present,  and 
all  the  things  that  are  too  odd  to  be  burnt;  and  I  rather  think  I  can  find 
some  children,  whose  cupboards  are  not  quite  so  full  as  yours,  and  whose 
dolls  might  not  mind  wearing  clothes  that  are  not  a  very  good  fit.' 

K  T.  N. 


*MY  life; 

[The  following  poem  was  foand  among  the  papers  of  a  young  lady  recently 
deceased.  Her  parents  are  not  aware  whether  it  if  original,  and  if  any  of  oar  readers 
recognize  it,  would  be  glad  of  an  intimation.] 

*  Give  me  my  life,  my  God !'  she  cried, 

'  Oh,  give  my  life  to  me ! 
Are  not  the  threescore  years  and  ten 
The  span  that  it  should  bet 

*  Why  take  me  from  this  lovely  world 

Full  twoscore  years  and  ten 
Before  the  allotted  time  which  Thou 
Hast  given  unto  men  V 

'My  daughter,'  said  an  aged  man, 

Who  knelt  with  her  in  tears, 
'  Thou  hast  no  right  thus  angrily  * 

To  clamour  for  thy  years ; 

'  They  never  did  belong  to  thee ; 

No !  not  one  single  day ; 
But  always  to  that  God,  Who  gave. 

And  now  Who  takes  away.' 

ft 

The  old  man  paused  with  lifted  eye, 

And  silent  heartfelt  prayer : 
'  My  God  I  make  Thou  this  erring  child 

To  own  the  loving  care 


622  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

*  Which  Thou  hast  ever  shewn  to  her, 
From  her  first  long-drawn  hreath 

Till  now,  when  in  the  flush  of  life 
Thou  bidd'st  her  taste  of  death.' 

*  •  *  •  ♦ 

Six  weeks  have  passed,  and  once  again 

That  aged  man  is  there, 
And  kneeling  by  her,  as  before, 

In  silent  heai*tfelt  prayer : 

But  he  now  no  longer  prays  for  peace 
On  that  weary  heart  and  brain ; 

For  the  lovely  blessed  change  has  come 
In  that  short  six  weeks  of  pain. 

She  now  no  longer  wildly  prays 
For  the  time  God  has  not  given ; 

But  awaits  in  faith  His  blessed  gift. 
Eternity  in  Heaven. 

There  is  within  her  Uttle  room 
A  table  dressed  in  white ; 

Brother  and  parents  round  it  stand,   ' 
To  share  with  her  to-nisrht 

The  precious  Body  and  Blood  of  Him 
Who  came  the  world  to  save. 

That  so,  with  blessings  on  her  path, 
She  may  pass  the  still  dark  wave 

Which  Death  spreads  over  all  alike. 
Though  only  to  some  it  is  given 

To  see  through  its  gloomy  shadow  straight 
To  the  bright  white  gates  of  Heaven. 

*TLs  ended :  and  peace  unearthly  falls 
On  all  who  witness  the  flight 

Of  that  soul  from  the  earthly  tenement. 
When  't  has  fought  the  bitter  fight 

Which  everyone  here  below  must  fight. 
Though  everyone  does  not  win : 

Pray  thou  to  the  God  Eternal, 
That  thy  soul  may  enter  in 

To  that  glory  inexpressible. 

Which  her  soul  has  gone  to  view ; 

That  so,  in  God's  own  perfect  time, 
Thou  mayest  be  ready  too. 


623 


BITS  FROM  A  NOTE  BOOK. 

A  DiSTiNCTiVB  characteristic  of  woman  is  that  she  can  admire  at  a 
distance,  and  even  appreciate  that  which  she  cannot  imitate,  and  what 
she  knows  to  he  most  unlike  herself.  Men  in  general  treat  with  con- 
tempt that  which  is  out  of  their  own  line  of  thought  or  action,  and  one 
seldom  values  in  a  hrother  that  of  which  there  is  no  counterpart  in 
himself;  thus  the  mathematician  rarely  admires  the  poet;  the  meditative 
philosopher  is  seldom  appreciated  hy  the  man  of  business.  But  woman 
is  by  nature  a  worshipper ;  she  loves  to  look  up  and  wonder  and  admire, 
nor  is  she  reluctant  to  confess  her  inferiority  ;  and  her  power  of  appre- 
ciation is  very  far  in  advance  of  her  own  attainments. 


No  doubt  the  whole  includes  its  parts;  yet  very  often  the  parts  are 
withheld  under  the  idea  that  the  whole  is  given.  We  sometimes  see  a 
wife  or  mother  or  sister  neglect  little  attentions,  and  thwart  in  little  things, 
in  a  way  she  would  not  venture  to  do  if  she  did  not  solace  herself  with  ihe 
thought  that  ^  she  is  altogether  devoted  to  his  happiness ;'  and  sometimes 
we  see  a  failure  in  consideration  and  domestic  courtesy  on  the  part  of  the 
man  who  lives  and  labours  for  his  family.  Many  are  less  attractive,  less 
polite  and  gentle,  to  their  own  households  than  to  strangers,  simply  from 
this  feeling ;  a  sort  of  careless  and  unloving  confidence  in  the  reality  and 
strength  of  the  affection  that  binds  them  together.  So  that  we  often 
find  the  husband  whose  rudeness,  or  the  wife  whose  fretfulness,  have 
injured  home-bom  happiness  moment  by  moment,  till  moments  amounted 
to  days  and  days  to  years,  in  utter  despair  when  separated  by  death ; 
proving  by  their  anguish  when  too  late,  that  a  true  attachment  existed, 
though  its  gentle  auxiliaries  were  withheld.  This  worm  gnaws  at  the 
root  of  a  plant  even  holier  than  domestic  love. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  one  who  takes  a  high  stand  in  reli^ous 
profession,  whose  general  life  tends  to  religious  objects,  who  feels  himself 
one  of  those  who  are  valiant  for  the  truth  upon  earth,  may  be  less 
startled  by  a  wandering  thought  or  irritable  movement,  less  strict  in 
devotional  observances,  less  watchful  against  idle  words  and  harsh  judge- 
ments, than  he  would  be  if  he  were  not  so  confident  that  he  is  on  the 
Lord's  side  and  altogether  devoted  to  the  Lord's  service.  Our  present 
state  is  not  like  one  grand  sheet  of  water,  or  like  the  expanse  of  the  sky ; 
time  is  made  up  of  moments,  life  of  actions  and  emotions,  each  perhaps 
scarcely  to  be  distinguished  as  apart  from  the  rest,  and  all  combining 
to  form  either  a  galaxy  of  light  or  a  cloud  of  gathering  gloom ;  yet  in 
either  case  composed  of  small  particles ;  and  each  particle  must  be  given 
to  its  right  owner  none  the  less  carefully  because  we  intend  the  whole  to 
shine  to  His  glory.    There  are  two  opposite  evils  in  domestic  intercourse, 


624  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

which  find  their  antitype  in  the  religious  life.     In  some  there  is  a  love  of 

expression  which  gives  a  graceful  utterance  to  shallow  emotions,  and 

which  wins  a  confidence  which  there  is  not  strength  of  purpose  and 

depth  of  feeling  to  justify,  which  is  calculated  to  win  more  than  it 

bestows ;  in  others  there  is  a  stiff  and  hard  reluctance  to  all  the  more 

delicate  and  refined  charities  of  society,  so  that  there  is  more  readiness 

to  perform  a  great  service  than  to  do  a  gentle  courtesy  or  avoid  a  slight 

ofi^ence ;  there  are  many  who  see  no  guilt  in  giving  pain,  no  charity  in 

giving  pleasure.     The  one  character,  supposing  both  to  have  vitality,  is 

like  a  tree  chiefiy  decorated  by  the  ivy  wreaths  that  entwine  its  branches 

and  add  to  its  apparent  foliage  by  a  verdure  not  its  own ;  the  other  is 

like  a  gnarled  trunk,  displaying  neither  leaf  nor  blossom,  whereas  the 

loving  heart  should  ever  be  as  a  tree  of  life  whose  leaf  withers  not,  and 

which  ceases  not  from  yielding  fruit. 

C.  B. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 

ST.  SWITHUN'S  HOME. 

November  14th,  1870. 
My  dear , 

I  want  to  tell  you  about  a  Home  for  Destitute  Boys,  which  has  been 
lately  established  in  Winchester ;  and  whether  your  readers  regard  street  boys  as 
public  nuisances,  or  keep  a  warm  comer  in  their  hearts  for  them,  I  think  they  will 
all  lie  be  pleased  to  hear  of  a  place  where  these  neglected  little  mortals  are  gathered 
in,  and  trained  up  in  good  industrious  ways. 

The  idea  of  attempting  Komething  for  the  benefit  of  these  friendless  urchins  was 
first  conceived  by  the  Rector  of  the  parish  in  which  the  Home  is  situated ;  and  it 
happened  that  just  as  he  was  wishing  to  find  someone  who  might  be  able  to  carry 
out  his  views,  a  young  citizen,  who  had  passed  some  time  in  a  religious  Brotherhood, 
and  felt  drawn  towards  charitable  work,  voluntarily  came  fbrward  and  offered  his 
services.  They  began  the  undertaking  very  quietly  and  privately,  without  any 
ambitious  programme  or  flourish  of  trumpets ;  and  Marie  Th^r^  de  Lramourou*s 
saying — 'People  fancy  many  things  needful  to  form  a  Befuge.  What  is  wanting? 
This :  A  house  of  four  rooms^  food  for  a  day,  work  for  a  week,  six  francs  in  the 
pocket,* — almost  exactly  sums  up  their  notions  of  what  was  necessary  for  the  realiza- 
tion of  their  scheme.  After  an  experimental  attempt  in  some  rooms  which  were 
lent  for  the  purpose,  Brother  William's  first  care  was  to  procure  a  permanent  house, 
and  he  lighted  on  a  queer  old  tumble-down  place,  which  had  once  been  the  Assembly 
Booms  of  Winchester,  and  part  of  which  stood  on  a  site  that  had  formerly  been 
occupied  by  an  ancient  church,  dedicated  to  St.  Swithun.  In  remembrance  of  this, 
he  determined  to  call  the  house  *  St.  Swithun's  Home ;'  and  after  completing  the 
purchase,  removed  there  at  once ;  and  with  the  help  of  the  few  boys  he  had  gathered 
round  him,  proceeded  to  make  it  habitable.  His  funds  had  been  expended  in  buying 
the  building,  and  therefore  for  its  repairs  he  had  to  depend  on  his  own  hands  and 
those  of  his  small  helpers ;  and  for  furniture  and  food  chiefly  on  the  kindness  of  the 
few  friends  who  began  to  be  interested  in  the  undertaking,  some  of  whom  after 


CORRESPONDENCE.  625 

a  while  formed  themselves  into  a  committee,  with  the  Rector  at  their  head,  and 
undertook  to  a  certain  limited  extent  the  supervision  of  the  establishment. 

Now,  at  the  end  of  some  months,  St.  Swithun's  Home  is  weather-tight,  clean, 
orderly,  and  sufficiently  comfortable ;  six  boys  are  resident  in  it,  and  four  come  in 
daily  to  be  taught  and  fed,  the  teaching  being  given  by  Brother  William  and  another 
Brother  who  has  lately  joined  him,  and  who  hopes  to  make  himself  useful  in  mission 
work  among  the  ignorant  poor  around.  The  necessary  supply  of  food  is  chiefly 
procured  by  a  daily  gathering  from  the  houses  of  some  of  the  gentry  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, who  willingly  give  their  scraps  for  the  use  of  the  Home ;  and  presents  of 
bread,  rice,  vegetables,  &c,  are  received  from  time  to  time,  end  help  out  the 
heterogeneous  store  which  is  thus  collected.  Eveiy  week-day  evening  one  of  the 
Brothers  or  two  of  the  most  trustworthy  of  their  scholars  set  forth  on  this  qudte, 
carrying  with  them  a  bag  and  a  can,  and  when  they  return  with  their  provender  it  is 
carefully  sorted  and  stowed  away  in  the  little  larder  which  opens  out  of  the  Refectory, 
a  long  low  chamber  with  a  brick  floor,  deal  benches  and  tables,  and  a  very  ingenious 
stove,  which  serves  both  for  warmth  and  cookery.  This  room  is  used  as  a  school  and 
workshop  in  the  intervals  between  meals,  and  looks  into  a  little  cloister — the  arches 
of  which  were  once  filled  np  by  the  bricks  that  now  have  been  made  to  serve  as 
flooring — and  beyond  that  again  into  a  small  conrt,  with  a  raised  garden-bed  and 
neat  path  along  one  side  of  it,  and  a  pile  of  rock-work  in  the  centre,  among  which 
may  be  seen  some  remains  (lately  dug  up)  of  the  ancient  church  before  mentioned. 
Above  it  is  a  very  large  room,  with  an  arched  ceiling,  the  walls  of  which  once  echoed 
to  the  strains  of  minuets  and  cotillions  and  the  laughter  of  county  belles  and 
beaux.  Ihis  is  now  used  as  an  Oratory,  and  looks  like  what  its  name  implies,  though 
its  ecclesiastical  decorations  are  necessarily  few  and  humble.  Here  the  household 
assemble  to  recite  a  short  office  morning  and  evening,  and  on  Sundays  are  often 
joined  by  a  number  of  lads  from  the  streets,  sometimes  as  many  as  seventy  being  got 
together  there  to  take  part  in  the  simple  service,  and  receive  instruction  from  the 
Brothers.  It  is  proposed,  if  funds  can  be  obtained,  to  improve  the  fittings  of  this 
room,  supplying  it  with  chairs  and  so  on,  and  thns  to  make  it  available  for  mission 
work  generally ;  and  it  is  especially  wished  that  it  should  be  ready  in  time  for  some 
mission  servicCvS,  which  the  Rector  proposes  to  hold  during  Advent. 

The  second  room  up-stairs  serves  as  a  dormitory  for  the  boys,  and  does  not  contain 
much  fumitnre  beyond  a  neat  little  row  of  iron  bedsteads ;  while  the  second  on  the 
ground  floor  has  just  been  rescued  from  a  state  of  shapeless  ruin,  and  is  being 
converted  into  a  community-room  and  study  for  the  Brothers.  Much  yet  remains  to 
be  done  in  the  way  of  improvement,  but  the  dwellers  in  St.  Swithun's  Home  are 
content  to  get  on  by  degrees ;  and  as  an  instance  of  their  ingenuity  in  making  the  most 
of  what  they  have,  it  may  be  mentioned  that  their  first  wash-hand  stand  was  an 
old  stone  chimney-pot,  surmounted  by  a  broken-rimmed  basin  which  happened  to  fit 
nicely  into  the  opening  1  Not  that  I  would  be  understood  to  mean  that  the  gamins 
had  to  scramble  up  to  the  roof  to  wash,  like  the  giant  who  had  to  go  up  a  ladder 
to  comb  his  own  hair ;  the  chimney-pot  had  been  brought  down  from  its  elevated 
position  and  safely  placed  on  terra  firma,  before  it  was  turned  to  this  novel  use. 

Five  of  the  lads  now  in  the  Home  have  been  received  gratuitously ;  the  sixth,  who 
comes  from  another  town,  has  an  annual  payment  of  £10  made  for  him  by  someone 
interested  in  his  case ;  and  destitute  boys  from  any  part  of  England  would  be  gladlj 
received  on  the  same  terms,  as  there  is  ample  accommodation  for  more  boys  in  the 
house,  though  not  as  yet  means  for  their  gratuitous  support.  All  six  are  fatherlessi 
and  were  growing  up  untaught  and  nhcared  for,  one  being  so  neglected  in  health 
that  when  first  admitted  he  seemed  not  likely  to  live,  though  now  he  has  recoyered 
and  is  flourishing  nicely.  They  are  all  dressed  alike  in  tunics  of  dark  blue  serge,  and 
in  future  are  to  have  a  small  badge,  to  be  worn  or  not  in  token  of  their  behaviour. 
In  the  morning  they  do  house-work,  carpentering  and  gardening,  or  make  faggots  for 

VOL.  10.  42  PART  60. 


626  THE  MONTHLY  PACKET. 

sale ;  in  the  afternoon  they  read,  write,  and  cypher ;  and  there  are  certain  times  for 
religious  instruction,  for  recreation,  and  so  on.  Occasionally  they  have  the  treat  of 
a  long  country  walk,  and  collect  ferns  for  their  rockery ;  and  each  morning  at  7.30 
they  attend  Matins  at  the  parish  church,  which  is  close  at  hand.  Their  ages  vary 
from  eight  to  twelve ;  and  it  is  hoped  that  as  they  get  older,  and  are  sufficiently 
trained,  places  may  be  found  for  them  in  shops  or  private  families.  One  little  bright- 
faced  fellow  already  earns  two  shillings  a  week  by  going  errands  for  a  tradesman  of  the 
city.  The  Brothers  are  very  anxious  to  extend  the  work,  to  admit  more  boys  as 
boarders,  and  to  inflaence  as  far  as  possible  their  relations  and  friends,  who  are  of  the 
most  degraded  class  ;  but  it  cannot  be  done  without  help.  Even  now  the  supply  (^  food 
does  not  always  quite  suffice  for  the  eight  inmates  of  the  Home  and  the  four  day- 
scholars,  though  it  is  not  the  boys  who  go  without,  but  the  kind-hearted  Brothers. 
Gifts  of  plain  useful  furniture,  especially  chairs  for  the  Oratory,  kitchen  utensils, 
blankets,  clothing  for  the  boys,  food  of  any  sort,  suitable  books  and  pictures,  would 
be  gratefully  welcomed ;  while  money  of  course  would  be  especially  acceptable.  Post- 
office  orders  and  stamps  should  be  sent  to 

The  Rev.  G.  A.  Setmouh, 

Holt  Trinitt  Hbctost,  Wikchbbteb, 

and  gifts  in  kind  may  be  sent  either  to  him  or  to  the  Home  itself,  (Upper  Brook 
Street,  Winchester,)  where  visitors  will  be  gladly  received  at  any  time. 
With  many  thanks  for  giving  me  space  for  this  letter, 

I  am,  yours  &c., 

Flo&bncb  Wilford. 


ST.  LUKE'S  MISSION,  BURDETT  ROAD,  STEPNEY. 

i  28,  Ck)ttage  Grove,  Bow  Road, 
Dear  Mr.  Editor,  Nov.  9th,  1870. 

I  send  with  this  a  list  of  contributions  to  St.  Luke's  Church-House,  for 
which  an  appeal  was  made  by  Ivanovna  in  the  April  Monthly  Packet,  It  is  a  very 
favourable  response,  and  the  words  I  have  added  may  induce  other  friends  to  help 
out  the  £100  for  which  I  am  liable.  Let  me  tell  you  what  is  done.  I  think  I  sent 
you  an  extract  from  the  Times^  which  shewed  that  we  had  completed  and  paid  for 
our  Church.  On  October  18th,  the  very  last  payment,  a  balance  reserved  for  a  year 
oh  the  builder's  account,  was  paid. 

The  beautiful  mosaic  reredos,  and  equally  beautiful  stained  East  Window,  the 
anonymous  benefaction  of  the  giver  of  the  chancel,  were  opened  on  September  80th, 
our  Quarterly  Service,  for  the  first  time,  and  the  order  for  the  North  Chapel  East 
Window  has  been  given,  another  person's  gift. 

The  Board  of  the  Hamlet  has  put  down  the  footpath  flagging  on  Burdett  Road, 
after  a  year's  patient  endurance  of  mire  and  wet ;  and  now  the  railings  on  that  side 
are  to  be  got  at  once. 

We  had  a  Harvest  Festival  on  October  6th,  which  was  *  utterly  magnificent'  I 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  wonder,  and  preach — *  Giving  Him  thanks.' 

On  October  18th,  and  through  its  octave,  we  had  good  congregations.  In  26  days, 
fi*om  September  30th  to  October  25th,  in  35  services  the  total  congregations  were 
6,244  persons,  5  Eucharists  having  80  Communicants.  Of  these  services,  22  were 
evening  week-day  coikgregations,  m  all  3,029  persons,  and  averaging  138  each  time, 
the  highest  we  have  had  for  such  a  period.  The  total  Ofiertory  was  £33  lis.  7}d., 
(£13  being  special,)  and  since  then  the  Ofiertories  have  been  above  the  average. 

By  God's  help  service  has  always  been  held  from  day  to  day  in  St.  Luke's,  and  now 
we  enter  on  its  second  year  with  thanks  and  hope. 

As  to  the  Church-House,  the  ground  and  three  houses  on  it  were  purchased  by  a 
friend  for  £740,  and  on  October  18th  we  were  given  the  keys  of  two  houses  for  use  as 
choir-vestry,  place  for  mothers'  meeting,  &c.,  and  will  be  given  the  ownership  of  the 
third  house  on  condition  that  XlOO,  in  addition  to  £220  paid  in,  be  made  up  at 
Easter.  I  shall  be  glad  if  the  gifts  of  the  readers  of  The  Monthly  Packet  enable  me  to 
meet  this. 

The  new  movement  about  schools  left  us  no  time  to  breathe,  and  although  I  may 
not  succeed,  I  may  be  allowed  to  mention  our  prospects.    The  site,  which  is  lurge  and 


NOTICES  TO  correspondents/  627 

yfffg  convenient  for  the  7,500  in  St.  Lnke's  District,  was  purchased  last  year  hj  the  Bishop 

^of  of  London's  Fund.    Thej  have  also  given  £975  grant  towards  the  building,  and  all 

I  jm  things  are  prepared  for  the  Privy  Council,  the  National  Society,  and  the  Society  for 

,  y^  Promoting  Christian  Knowledge.    If  the  grants  from  these  sources  are  given,  1  think 

;^{lj  some  friends  who  have  heen  liberal  beyond  measure  before  are  about  to  add  this  to 

^l  all,  to  guarantee  the  taking  of  a  contract  for  schools  for  225  boys,  180  girls,  230 

,f  ^  infants.    If  this  be  so,  will  it  not  be  allowed  me  to  say, '  It  is  His  doing,  and  mar- 

^  u  yellons  in  our  eyes.' 

f^  So,  dear  Sir,  we  enter  on  Advent  and  Christmas-tide:  may  God  he  with  ns,  for 

fy^  Christ's  sake. 

^..  Yonrs  very  sincerely, 

leA  William  Wallacb. 

)ald  

ort- 


,  Notices  to  Correspondents. 

at 

No  MS.  can  be  returned  unless  the  Author's  mtme  and  address  he  written  on  itj  and 
stamps  be  sent  with  it. 

Contributions  must  often  be  delayed  for  want  of  space,  but  their  writers  may  be  assured 
that  when  room  can  be  found  t/iey  shall  appear. 

Wm  the  Authors  of  Ireland's  Sorrow  and  of  Things  communicate  with  usf 

Declined  with  thanks.^The  Children's  Friend ;  T^ee  Poems'-^f  which  The  Highland 
Widow's  Lament  u  one — with  no  address  on  them  ;  Appeal  for  Schools  at  Cheltenham. 

Belston  Rectory  ad!(2t  to  the  information  given  last  month  to  Ella,  that  Hymn  860  wom 
brought  from  Oenoa,  but  again  the  giver's  name  was  forgotten. 

Elizabeth  asks  for  a  book  of  sacred  verses^  to  be  read  aloud  on  Sundays  at  Family 

Worsh^. Dr.  MonselPs  Spiritual  Songs,  (Parker,)  Mrs,  Alexander's  Verses  for 

ir  Sacred  Seasons,  (Masters,)  or  The  Child's  Christian  Year,  (Parker,)  would  either  of 

J  them  answer  her  purpose. 

p  H.  B.  and  a  former  Correspondent — A  literary  Correspondent  of  the  New  Orletms 

t  Snndaj  Times  solves  the  question  considering  tlte  origin  of  the  hitherto  untraceable 

r  quotation,  *  Though  lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear.'    It  first  appeared  in  verses  written 

r  tn  an  old  memorcmdum'book,  the  author  not  recollected. 

*  Sweet-heart,  good-bye !  the  flattering  saQ 
>  Is  ipread  to  wait  me  far  flnom  thee, 

And  aoon  before  the  favoring  gale, 

My  ship  shall  bound  U|>on  the  sea. 
Perchance,  all  desolate  and  foriorn, 

These  eyes  shall  miss  thee  many  a  srear. 
But  unfurguttcn  every  charm. 
Though  lust  to  sight  to  memory  dear.* 

A.  B.  win  be  very  much  obliged  for  any  information  reading  Holy  Cross  Home, 
Walworth,  London. 

Martina. — *  Your  affectionate  bother '  is  a  case  in  which  printers  will  be  too  correct^  and 
authors  cannot  be  a  match  for  them.  We  stand  corrected  as  to  St  Canace  or  Kenny 
being  a  man. — Another  Correspondent  brings  us  to  book  as  to  the  chronology  of  The 
Pillars  of  the  House.      We  own  that  contemporary  anachronisms  are  great  pit-falls. 

Sister  Elvira  begs  for  some  hints  on  the  study  of  Hebrew  Foetiy. 

,  Margaret  would  be  very  glad  to  be  recommended  a  good  book  of  Christmcu  Carols,  with 

music 

A  Constant  Reader  of  The  Monthly  Packet  would  be  much  obliged  if  the  Editor  would 

recommend  her  a  good  Commentary  on  the  Gospels  and  Epistles. //  this  means  the 

Epistles  and  Go^)els  for  the  Sundays,  the  Rev.  Isaac  Williams's  Sermons  on  the 
Epistles  and  (Joroels  (Parker)  is  best  to  use.  As  to  the  Gospels  themselves,  we  should 
recommend  either  Isaac  WHliams,  Walshwn  How,  (S.P.C.K.)  or  Ridley.  (Rivingtons.) 
For  the  Epistles,  A  Cottage  Commentary. 

F.  M.  P.  begs  for  information  on  the  working  of  Cr^hes.