Godey's Lady's Book
![[See larger version]](#5169110635988018041_i_001big.jpg.id-2027920037555037709.wrap-0.html.html){kind=link}
TIME IN SEARCH OF CUPID.
![[See larger version]](#5169110635988018041_i_002big.jpg.id-5883495976074228462.wrap-0.html.html){kind=link}
PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1854.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
VOL. XLVIII.
EMBELLISHMENTS, &c.
January.
- The Pleiades.
- Time in Search of Cupid.
- The Hortense Mantelet and the Victoria.
- Embroidery.
- Godey's Latest Fashions.
- Children's Dresses.
- Music.—The Bluebird Waltz, by Edward Mack.
- The Hungarian Circle.
- Boardman & Gray's Dolce Campana Attachment Piano-Fortes.
- Instructions for making Ornaments in Rice Shell-Work.
- Godey's Course of Lessons in Drawing.
- Fallen Rock-Sculptures at Bavian.
- A Gossip on the Fashions.
- Work-table for Juveniles.
- Embroidery for Petticoats.
- Chemisettes, Sleeves, and Caps.
- Child's Dress.
- Toilet Cover in Crochet.
- Embroidery for Shirts.
- Cottage Furniture.
- Directions to Ladies for Shopping.
- Designs for Headdresses.
THE HORTENSE MANTELET.
EMBROIDERY.
THE VICTORIA.
CHILDREN'S DRESSES
BY OUR "FASHION EDITOR."
THE BLUE-BIRD WALTZ.
COMPOSED BY
EDWARD MACK.
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1853, by T. C. ANDREWS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania
![[See larger version]](#5169110635988018041_i_005big.jpg.id-715234560897115164.wrap-0.html.html){kind=link}
![[See larger version]](#5169110635988018041_i_006big.jpg.id-392697265485544695.wrap-0.html.html){kind=link}
[[Listen]]
THE HUNGARIAN CIRCLE.
[From the establishment of G. Brodie, No. 51 Canal Street, New York.]
PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1854.
EVERYDAY ACTUALITIES.—NO. XV.
ILLUSTRATED WITH PEN AND GRAVER.
GATEWAY ENTRANCE TO BOARDMAN & GRAY'S FACTORY.
BOARDMAN & GRAY'S DOLCE CAMPANA ATTACHMENT PIANO-FORTES.
Perhaps we cannot present our readers a more interesting article on manufacturing, than to give an idea of piano-forte making. Piano-fortes, in these days, making an almost indispensable article of furniture in every dwelling; adding so much to the pleasures of home, and being so much of a companion in all home hours; contributing so largely to the enjoyments of society, that some little knowledge of the processes of making, and the materials used, must be not only interesting to all, but valuable to those who may wish to know how good piano-fortes should be made.
With this desire, we have selected as our MODEL the large and flourishing manufactory of Messrs. Boardman & Gray, the eminent piano-forte makers of Albany, N. Y., celebrated as the manufacturers of the Dolce Campana Attachment Piano-Fortes, whose instruments were not only sought after and used by Jenny Lind, Catharine Hayes, and other celebrities, but by the profession generally throughout the United States.
Messrs. Boardman & Gray's manufactory is situated at Albany, N. Y., occupying the end of a block, presenting a front on three streets of upwards of 320 feet, the main building of which, fronting on two streets 208 feet, is built of brick, four stories high above a high basement-story, devoted exclusively to machinery driven by a forty horse power engine. The completeness of design of these buildings and machinery for the purpose used, we believe, has no superior, if any equal, in this country. Every improvement and convenience is attached to make the entire perfect, and in going through the premises one is attracted by the comprehensiveness of the whole concern.
The entrance to the factory of Messrs. Boardman & Gray is by a large gateway through the centre of the building, next to the office, so that the person in charge of the office has full view of all that enter or leave the premises. We pass into the yard, and are surprised at the large amount of lumber of all kinds piled up in the rough state. The yard is full, and also the large two story brick building used as drying sheds for lumber. Here a large circular saw is in full operation, cutting up the wood ready for the sheds or machine-room. Messrs. Boardman & Gray have the most of their lumber sawed out from the logs expressly for them in the forests of Alleghany, Oneida, Herkimer, and other choice localities in N. Y., and also Canada, and delivered by contract two and three years after being sawed, when well seasoned. The variety and number of different kinds of wood used in the business is quite surprising. Pine, spruce, maple, oak, chestnut, ash, bass-wood, walnut, mahogany, cherry, birch, rosewood, ebony, whiteholly, apple, pear-tree, and several other varieties, each of which has its peculiar qualities, and its place in the piano depends on the duties it has to perform. The inspecting and selecting of the lumber require the strictest attention, long experience, and matured judgment; for it must be not only of the right kind, and free from all imperfections, such as knots, shakes, sapwood, &c., but it must also be well seasoned. All the lumber used by Messrs. Boardman & Gray, being cut two or three years in advance, is seasoned before they receive it; then it is piled up and dried another year, at least, in their yard, after which it is cut up by the cross-cut circular saw, and piled another season in their sheds, when it is taken down for use, and goes into the machine-shop; and here it is cut into the proper forms and sizes wanted, and then put into the drying-rooms for six months or a year more before it is used in the piano-forte.
These drying-rooms, of which there are three in the establishment, are kept at a temperature of about 100° Fahrenheit, by means of steam from the boiler through pipes. As fast as one year's lot of lumber is taken down for use, another lot is put in its place ready for the next year. In this way, Messrs. Boardman & Gray have a surety that none but the most perfectly seasoned and dry lumber is used in their piano-fortes. Their constant supply of lumber on hand at all times is from two to three hundred thousand feet, and as Albany is the greatest lumber mart in the world, of course they have the opportunity of selecting the choicest lots for their own use, and keeping their supply good at all times.
The selection of the proper kinds of lumber, and its careful preparation, so as to be in the most perfect order, constitute one of the most important points in making piano-fortes that will remain in tune well, and stand any climate.
Here is the motive power, and a beautiful Gothic pattern horizontal engine of forty horse power, built at the machine works of the Messrs. Townsend of Albany, from the plans, and under the superintendence of Wm. McCammon, Esq., engineer now in charge of the Chicago (Ill.) Water-works. The engine is, indeed, a beautiful working model, moving with its strong arm the entire machinery used throughout the building, yet so quiet that, without seeing it, you would hardly know it was in motion. In the same room is the boiler, of the locomotive tubular pattern, large enough not only to furnish steam for the engine, but also for heating the entire factory, and furnishing heat for all things requisite in the building. Water for supplying the boiler is contained in a large cistern under the centre of the yard, holding some 26,000 gallons, supplied from the roofs of the buildings. The engine and boiler are in the basement (occupying the basement and first story in one room), at one end of the building, and are so arranged that all the machinery used in the different stories is driven throughout by long lines of shafting put up in the most finished manner, while the entire manufactory is warmed in the most thorough and healthy manner by steam from the boiler, passing through some 8,000 feet of iron pipe, arranged so that each room can be tempered as required. At the same time, ovens heated with steam through pipes are placed in the different rooms to warm the materials for gluing and veneering. The glue is all "made off" and kept hot in the different rooms by means of iron boxes with water in them (in which the glue-pots are placed), kept at the boiling point by steam passing through pipes in the water: thus the boiler furnishes all the heat required in the business.
DRILLERS' ROOM. ENGINE AND BOILER
We pass to the next room, where we find the workmen employed in preparing the massive metallic (iron) plates used inside the pianos, from the rough state, as they come from the furnace. They are first filed smooth and perfect to the pattern, then painted and rubbed even and smooth, and are then ready for the drilling of the numerous holes for the pins and screws that have to be put into and through the plate in using it. (A view of the drilling-machines and workmen is given with the engine.)
Into each plate for a seven octave piano, there have to be drilled upwards of 450 holes, and about 250 of these have pins riveted into them for the strings, &c.; and these must be exactly in their places by a working pattern, for the least variation might make much trouble in putting on the strings and finishing the piano. Of course, these holes are drilled by machinery with that perfection and speed that can be done only with the most perfect machines and competent experienced workmen. And these metallic plates, when finished and secured in the instrument correctly, give a firmness and durability to the piano unattainable by any other method.
MACHINE-ROOM.
In the same room with the drilling-machines we find the leg-making machines, for cutting from the rough blocks of lumber the beautifully formed "ogee" and "curved legs," as well as sides, of various patterns, ready for being veneered with rosewood or mahogany. The body of the legs is generally made of chestnut, which is found best adapted to the purpose. The leg-machine is rather curious in its operations, the cutting-knives revolving in a sliding-frame, which follows the pattern, the leg, whilst being formed, remaining stationary.
Our first impression on entering the machine-shop is one of noise and confusion; but, on looking about, we find all is order, each workman attending his own machine and work. Here are two of "Daniel's Patented Planing-Machines," of the largest size, capable of planing boards or plank of any thickness three feet wide; two circular saws; one upright turning-saw, for sawing fancy scroll-work; a "half-lapping machine," for cutting the bottom framework together; turning lathes, and several other machines, all in full operation, making much more noise than music.
The lumber, after being cut to the length required by the large cross-cut saw in the yard, and piled in the sheds, is brought into this machine-room and sawed and planed to the different forms and shapes required for use, and is then ready for the drying-rooms.
In this machine-room, which is a very large one, the "bottoms" for the cases are made and finished, ready for the case-maker to build his case upon. If we examine them, we will find they are constructed so as to be of great strength and durability; and, being composed of such perfectly seasoned materials, the changes of different climates do not injure them, and they will endure any strain produced by the great tension of the strings of the piano in "tuning up to pitch," amounting to several tons.
But we must pass on to the next room. We step on a raised platform about four feet by eight, and, touching a short lever, find ourselves going up to the next floor. Perhaps a lot of lumber is on the platform with us, on its way to the drying-rooms. On getting on a level with the floor, we again touch the magic lever, and our steam elevator (or dumb waiter) stops, and, stepping off, find ourselves surrounded with workmen; and this is the "case-making" department. And here we find piano-forte cases in all stages of progress; the materials for some just gathered together, and others finished or finishing; some of the plainest styles, and others of the most elaborate carved work and ornamental designs. Nothing doing but making cases; two rooms adjoining, 115 feet long, with workmen all around as close together as they can work with convenience. Each room is furnished with its steam ovens, glue heaters, &c. The case-maker makes the rims of the case, and veneers them. He fits and secures these to the bottom. He also makes and veneers the tops. This completes his work, and then we have the skeleton of a piano, the mere shell or box. The rim is securely and firmly fastened to the strong bottoms, bracing and blocking being put in in the strongest and most permanent manner, the joints all fitting as close as if they grew together; and then the case is ready to receive the sounding-board and iron frame. The bottoms are made mostly of pine; the rims of the case are of ash or cherry, or of some hard wood that will hold the rosewood veneers with which they are covered. The tops are made of ash or cherry, sometimes of mahogany, and veneered with rosewood. We will now follow the case to the room where the workmen are employed in putting in the sounding-board and iron frames.
SPINNING-MACHINE.
SOUNDING-BOARD AND IRON-FRAME ROOM.
The sounding-board is what, in a great measure, gives tone, and the different qualities of tone, to the piano. Messrs. Boardman & Gray use the beautiful white, clear spruce lumber found in the interior counties of New York, which they consider in every way as good as the celebrated "Swiss Fir." It is sawed out in a peculiar manner, expressly for them, for this use, selected with the greatest possible care, and so thoroughly seasoned that there is no possibility of its warping or cracking after being placed in one of their finished instruments. The making of the sounding-board the requisite thinness (some parts require to be much thinner than others), its peculiar bracing, &c., are all matters that require great practical experience, together with numberless experiments, by which alone the perfection found in the piano-fortes of Messrs. Boardman & Gray, their full, rich tone giving the most positive evidence of superiority, can be attained.
We will watch the processes of the workmen in this department. One is at work putting in the "long-block" of hard maple, seasoned and prepared until it seems almost as hard as iron, which is requisite, as the "tuning-pins" pass through the plate into it, and are thus firmly held. Another workman is making a sounding-board, another fitting one in its place, &c. &c. All the blocking being in the case, the sounding-board is fitted and fastened in its place, so as to have the greatest possible vibrating power, &c.; and then the iron frame must be fitted over all and cemented and fastened down. The frame is finished, with its hundreds of holes and pins, in the drillers'-room, and the workman here has only to fit it to its place and secure it there; and then the skeleton case is ready to receive its strings and begins to look like what may make a piano-forte.
Spinning the bass strings, and stringing the case, come next in order. In the foreground of the last plate, we have a curious-looking machine, and a workman busy with it winding the bass strings, a curiosity to all who witness his operations. To get the requisite flexibility and vibration to strings of the size and weight wanted in the bass notes, tempered steel wire is used for the strings, and on this is wound soft annealed iron wire, plated with silver; each string being of a different size, of course various sizes of body and covering wire are used in their manufacture. The string to be covered is placed in the machine, which turns it very rapidly, while the workman holds the covering wire firmly and truly, and it is wound round and covers the centre wire. This work requires peculiar care and attention, and, like all the other different branches in Messrs. Boardman & Gray's factory, the workmen here attend to but one thing; they do nothing else but spin these bass strings, and string pianos year in and year out.
The case, while in this department, receives all its strings, which are of the finest tempered steel wire, finished and polished in the most beautiful manner. But a few years since, the making of steel music wire was a thing unknown in the United States; in fact, there were but two factories of note in the world which produced it; but now, as with other things, the Americans are ahead, and the "steel music wire" made by Messrs. Washburn & Co., of Worcester, Mass. is far superior in quality and finish to the foreign wire. The peculiar temper of the wire has a great influence on the piano's keeping in tune, strings breaking, &c., and, as the quality cannot always be ascertained but by actual experiment, much is condemned after trial, and the perfect only used.
KEY-MAKERS' DEPARTMENT.
The preparation of what is termed the "keyboard" is one of peculiar nicety, and the selection of the lumber and its preparation require great experience and minute attention, so that the keys will not spring or warp, and thus either not work or throw the hammers out of place, &c. The frame on which the keys rest is usually made of the best of old dry cherry, closely framed together to the form required for the keys and action. The wood of the keys is usually of soft straight-grained white pine, or prepared bass-wood. Both kinds have to go through many ordeals of seasoning, &c., ere they are admitted into one of the fine-working, finished instruments of Messrs. Boardman & Gray. The keys are made as follows: On a piece of lumber the keys are marked out, and the cross-banding and slipping done to secure the ivory; the ivory is applied and secured, and then the keys are sawed apart and the ivory polished and finished complete. The ebony black keys are then made and put on and polished, and the key-board is complete; the key-maker has finished his part of the piano. The ivory used is of the finest quality, and an article of great expense; its preparation from the elephant's tusks, of sawing, bleaching, &c., is mostly confined to a few large dealers in the United States. The most important concern of the kind is that of Messrs. Pratt, Brothers & Co., of Deep River, Conn., who supply most of the large piano-makers in the Union. As the ivory comes from them, it is only in its rough state, sawed out to the requisite sizes for use, after which it has to be seasoned or dried the same as lumber, and then prepared and fastened on the key; then to be planed up, finished, and polished, all of which requires a great amount of labor, much skill, and experience. Besides ivory, Messrs. Boardman & Gray use no small quantity of the beautiful variegated "mother-of-pearl," for keys in their highly ornamental, finished piano-fortes, a material itself very costly, and requiring a large amount of labor to finish and polish them with that peculiar richness for which their instruments are so celebrated. In this, as in the other departments, each workman has his own special kind of work; nothing else to attend to but key-making; his whole energies are devoted to perfect this part of the instrument.
ACTION-MAKING MACHINE, ETC.
In this department, we again see the perfection of machine-work. The action is one of the most important things in the piano-forte. On its construction and adjustment depends the whole working part of the instrument; for, however good the piano-forte scale may be, or how complete and perfect all the other parts are formed, if the action is not good, if the principle on which it is constructed is not correct, and the adjustment perfect, if the materials used are not of the right kind, of course the action will not be right, and it will either be dead under the fingers, without life and elasticity, without the power of quick repetition of the blow of the hammer, or soon wear loose, and make more noise and rattling than music. Thus will be seen the importance of not only having that action which is modelled on the best principle, but of having an instrument constructed in the most perfect and thorough manner. All parts of it should be so adjusted as to work together with as much precision as the wheels of a watch.
Messrs. Boardman & Gray use the principle which is termed the French Grand Action, with many improvements added by themselves. This they have found from long experience to be the best in many ways. It is more powerful than the "Boston, or Semi-Grand;" it will repeat with much greater rapidity and precision than any other; it is far more elastic under the manipulation of the fingers; and, to sum up all, it is almost universally preferred by professors and amateurs, and, what is still a very important point, they find, after a trial and use of it for many years, that it wears well. What is technically called the action consists of the parts that are fastened to the key, and work together to make the hammer strike the strings of the piano when the key is pressed down. The parts made of wood, consisting of some eight or ten pieces to each key, are what compose the action-maker's work; and, although they are each of them small, still on their perfection and finish depends much of the value of the instrument in which they are used. Various kinds of close-grained wood are used in their construction, such as white holly, apple or pear-tree, mahogany, hard maple, red cedar, &c., and other kinds as are best adapted to the use put to. They have to be closely fitted; the holes for the centre pins to work in must be clothed with cloth prepared expressly for this work. Buckskin of a particular finish, and cloth of various kinds and qualities, are used to cover those parts where there is much friction or liability to noise, and every part so perfectly finished and fitted that it will not only work smoothly, and without any sticking or clinging, but without noise, and yet be firm and true, so that every time the key is touched the hammer strikes the string in response. The action-maker completes these different parts of the action; and then another workman, who is called the "finisher," fits them to the keys and into the case of the piano; but, before we enter into his room, we will see to the preparation of another important part of the action, namely, the hammer. This is another extremely important thing in piano-forte making; the covering of the hammers is one of the most peculiar branches of the business. It is one that long experience and minute attention can alone perfect. The hammer head is generally made of bass-wood, and then covered with either felt prepared for this purpose, or deer or buckskin dressed expressly for this business. The preparation of buckskin for piano-forte makers is at this time quite an important trade, and the improvements made in its dressing of late years have kept full pace with the other improvements in the piano. The peculiar ordeal they undergo we cannot here explain; but we can only see the beautiful article finished for use. Some of them for the under coatings or layers are firm and yet elastic and soft, while those prepared for the top coating or capping are pliable and soft as silk velvet; and these, when correctly applied, will form a hammer which, if the piano-forte is perfect otherwise, will always give the rich, full organ tone for which the pianos of Messrs. Boardman & Gray are so celebrated. Those employed in covering and preparing hammers do this exclusively, and must perfect their work. They give the greatest number of coats, and the thickest buckskin to the hammers for the bass strings, and then taper up evenly and truly to the treble hammers, which have a less number of coats and of the thinnest kinds; and then, after the hammer is fitted to the string in the piano, and it has been tuned and the action adjusted, it goes into the hands of the hammer finisher, who tries each note, and takes off and puts on different buckskin until every note is good, and the tone of the piano is perfectly true.
FINISHING-ROOM.
We left the piano-case in the hands of the persons employed in putting on the beautifully polished steel strings, whose vibrations may yet thrill many a heart, or bring the starting tear. After it has its strings, it goes to the finisher, whose duties consist in taking the keys as they come from the key-maker, the action as prepared, and the hammers from the hammer-maker, and fitting them together and into the case, so that the keys and action work together; adjusting the hammer to strike the strings, and putting the dampers in their proper places to be acted on by the keys and pedals; making and fitting the harp, or soft stop; adjusting the loading of the keys to make a heavy or light touch, and thus doing what may be termed the putting the machinery together to form the working part of the piano-forte. And, when we consider that each key in one of Messrs. Boardman & Gray's piano-fortes is composed, with its action, of some sixty-five to seventy pieces, and that there are eighty-five keys to a seven octave instrument, making a sum total of nearly six thousand pieces, and that many of these pieces have to be handled over many times before they are finished in the piano, one is not a little surprised at the immense amount of work in a perfect piano-forte. But these six thousand pieces only compose the keys and action alone, and consist of wood, iron, cloth, felt, buckskin, and many other things; and, as a matter of course, each piece must be made and fitted with the greatest exactness, and the most perfect materials alone must be used. The "finishing," it will be seen at once, is another important branch, and requires long experience, close attention, and workmanship. Messrs. Boardman & Gray have many workmen employed in this department at finishing alone. The work is done by the piece, as many of the different branches are under the personal superintendence of the foreman, whose duty it is to see that the work is made perfect; for the workman is liable for the materials he destroys. One great improvement made by Messrs. Boardman & Gray, and placed in all their piano-fortes, we believe is not used by any other maker. We refer to their metallic OVER damper register and cover. The dampers are held in their places by wires or lifters passing between the strings and through the register, which holds them as they are acted on by the keys and pedal. This register is usually made in the old way, of wood, and placed under the strings, and, consequently, the weather acting on the wood is liable to warp or spring the register, and thus throw these wires or lifters against the strings, causing a jingling or harsh jarring when the piano is used; and, then, the register being placed beneath the strings, and the lifters passing through it and above the strings to the dampers, of course they are liable to accidents, and to be bent and knocked out of place in many ways by anything hitting the dampers, as in dusting out the instrument, &c. But this improvement of Messrs. Boardman & Gray covers all these defects in the old register. Theirs, being of iron, is not affected by the changes of the weather or temperature of different houses and rooms; and, then, being placed above the strings, the dampers are at all times protected from injury. Consequently, their piano-fortes never have any jangling or jingling of the strings against the damper wires. This we believe to be a most valuable improvement, and, at the same time, the beautiful metallic damper cover is highly ornamental to the interior of the piano-forte.
When the case is thus finished, it can be tuned for the first time, although all is yet in the rough and unadjusted state; and from the finisher, after being tuned, it passes into the hands of the "regulator."
(Concluded next month.)
THE STOLEN MATCH.
BY HON. CALEB CUSHING.
The vesper bell had tolled the hour of oraciones, in Valladolid, at the close of an autumnal day, in the year 1469, and the crowds of worshippers reverted to their accustomed pleasures and pursuits, after making their evening salutation to the Virgin. Small parties of armed horsemen had been seen to enter the city during the day, who one by one disappeared under the half opened and quickly shut gateway of here and there a dark stone dwelling, whose grated windows and heavy walls seemed to be designed to guard its inmates against the assault of feudal enemies, quite as much as to shelter them from the elements. But the spectacle of military array was of too ordinary occurrence to awaken the attention of the plodding burghers, who, muffled in their large cloaks, were sufficiently happy to remain unmolested themselves by the mail-clad cavaliers, without seeking to pry into their business; to do which, would only have subjected such over-curious persons to fierce words, and perchance rude blows to back insulting speech. And it was vain to speculate on such a matter, in times when grandee and peasant alike made war at will on their own account; and no powerful chieftain moved without a retinue of right good lances beside him, inured to violence, and bound to follow his banner for weal or woe. As the sun descended behind the mountains of Leon, a sharp wind rushed along the valley of the Duero, and sweeping up the Pisuerga filled Valladolid with its chilling blasts; but the tramp of steeds and the clang of armor still rang upon the ear, long after night had thrown her dark mantle over the gothic towers of the city.
Occupying a large space on a side of the Campo Grande, at one extremity of the city, stood a stately edifice, rising amid the numerous churches and long ranges of unsightly convent walls, which formed the prominent objects in that immense irregular square. The richly ornamented front of this mansion, although its heavy carved mouldings and friezes, and indeed its entire surface, had acquired the deep brown hue of venerable age, was yet untouched by the hand of decay; and in its mass no less than its ornaments bespoke the wealth and consequence of its occupant. Indeed, the coat of arms of ample size, overhanging, as it were, the keystone of a huge arched gateway, which, being placed in the centre of the façade, constituted the sole entrance to the inner court-yard, and the apartments of the building, afforded conclusive evidence that it belonged to one of the proud nobles of Castile. Its lower range of windows was guarded by strong stanchions or bars of iron, extending longitudinally up and down, and built fast into the solid masonry. Balconies, also of massive iron bars, but wrought into tasteful shapes, and resting upon sculptured slabs of stone, jutted out in relief from the window-sills of the upper windows, which were secured by means of thick shutters of carved oak, made to open inwards, like folding doors, and fastened by movable stanchions of a peculiar form, called fallebas, somewhat resembling in make and movement the iron crane used for hoisting merchandise. Within the quadrangle or patio, where a small fountain played into a marble basin, was a postern door, which conducted through a terraced garden towards the outer wall of the city. A small, square turret, rising at each corner of the roof, rather for ostentation than use, completes the picture of the town residence of Don Juan de Vivero.
Late in the evening, a solitary cavalier, attended only by a mozo de espuelas, or groom, spurring along his weary steed, rode up to the front gate of this house, and knocked for admission. At the signal, the mirilla, or little door in the gateway, just large enough to look through and see what was without, was cautiously unclosed; and to the challenge of the porter the whispered reply of "Gente de paz," in the well known voice of Don Gutierre de Cardenas, caused the gate to be quickly unbarred for the reception of the horseman and his follower. The appearance of Don Gutierre, as he became exposed to the light of the torches within, indicated a plain citizen; it might be a common trader, it might be a mere artisan; and ere he had well dismounted and given his jaded and travel-soiled horse to the domestics, a lady hastily entered, who started at the garb and appearance of the new-comer; but without waiting for the usual exchange of salutations—
"Now what tidings, señorito, for my lady," cried she, "and why dost thou come hither thus travestied and alone, when we look for other attendance?"
"Content thee, Doña Beatriz," said the cavalier, "and conduct me straight to thy lady, or to the lord Archbishop, if he be here."
"I trow," answered Doña Beatriz, "she will welcome thee none the better for the precious specimen thou wearest of the skill of Zaragoza tailors, nor for carrying into her presence thy sweet person covered with dust from every bypath, between Osma and Valladolid, nor for speeding so ill in thy mission."
"Content thee, again, I say, and lead on," rejoined he, "lest I be tempted, in guerdon of thy swift wit, to kiss thy soft hand unbidden;" and he followed the laughing Doña Beatriz to the apartments of her lady. Scarce had their footsteps died away on the staircase, when Don Juan de Vivero was summoned in all haste to the presence of his fair guest; and the hurry of sudden preparation, and the eager looks of anxious expectation pervaded the late quiet household.
Midnight was fast approaching, when Don Gutierre once more appeared, and sought admission into the cabinet of Doña Beatriz. He now came forth, clad in the rich apparel of a Spanish cavalier of that day, which he bore with the habitual grace and ease that showed this, rather than the humble garb he had worn before, was the appropriate dress of his rank. The apartment into which he was ushered was simply, and compared with the usage of our age and country it would have been called meanly, furnished. An estera, or matting of woven sedge, was spread on the floor, and heavy embroidered hangings covered the walls, rudely representing the gests and triumphs of Bernardo del Carpio and my Cid the Campeador; but the chairs and other utensils were coarse in make, and such only as necessity required. It was in other form that the grandees of that day displayed their magnificence and squandered their wealth.
Prominent in the room sat an elderly man in the long ungainly robe and other attire of an ecclesiastic of rank, who, although advanced in years, yet evidently retained the vigor of manhood unbroken, and, to judge from his stately air and the fair glance of his eye, could do his part in the mêlée as bravely as the best, and would not scruple, if occasion required, to change his crosier for a lance. It happened then, as it does now, that the higher benefices of the church were generally the appanage of the younger members of noble families; but it was the case then, as it is not now, that to maintain his place a noble must have been either wise in council, or daring in fight; the glories of a horsejockey and cockfighter may become a peer in the era of improvement, but herein did not consist their glories; and the prelates, who sprung from the blood of men accustomed to command, naturally partook of the spirit of their sires. They were not rarely foremost in the civil wars that formed the chief business of mankind in the Middle Ages; and Don Alonso Carrillo, Archbishop of Toledo, for it was no less a personage who sat in that presence, had played his part undauntedly among the boldest knights of Castile.
He was earnestly conversing in a low voice with a lady near, whose face as she sat was slightly averted from the door; while Doña Beatriz and a third lady stood in the apartment, who, with the Archbishop and Don Gutierre, made up the whole party. Doña Beatriz had the full black eye and the raven tresses which we associate with a southern clime, and that brown shade of complexion which, but for the healthfulness of her tint, and the animation of her whole face, would scarcely have escaped the reproach of tending to sullenness of aspect. But of her, afterwards so celebrated by the name of Condesa de Moya, time had not yet touched the beauty. The lady, who stood by her side, Don Gutierre saluted as Doña Mencia de la Torre; and both of these ladies waited, with all the subdued respect of tone and deference of deportment due to the highest rank, upon the youthful incarnation of loveliness with whom the Archbishop conferred.
A low bodice or corset of black velvet, fitted closely to her waist, displayed the perfect proportions of a bust that was just blooming into womanhood. A brial or petticoat of the same rich material depended over the full, but well-formed and graceful contour of her limbs. This part of her dress was fastened at the waist by a kind of brocaded belt, embroidered with jet and brilliants, and a band of similar workmanship ran from the belt down the middle of the brial or skirt, and was continued in a border around the bottom of it; a border of the same general description running around the upper part of the bodice next to the neckerchief. The tight wristbands of the dress were adorned by several bands of corresponding make and materials. Above the bodice she wore a wrought kerchief of the costliest Flanders lace, fastened at the throat with a gold brooch, and having a border of very peculiar workmanship. It was narrow, as compared with the belt and bands of her brial, and instead of the wreaths and fanciful figures embroidered on them, it bore the form alternately of a castle and a lion, wrought in rich gems of various kinds on a silver ground, forming a splendid edging to the kerchief, double in front, and passing all around the neck. A large diamond cross, set in pearls, was suspended over her bosom from the rich pearl collar, which, as being the princely gift of him whose coming she awaited, was the fitting ornament of her person on this occasion. To complete her habiliments, a flowery tabard, as it was then called, or rich mantle of crimson silk, bordered with damask, was thrown over her shoulders and arms, hanging down to the floor, and a white veil of thin delicate lace, gauze-like and transparent as woven air, covered, without concealing, her dark brown tresses, and, being fastened in front by the brooch on her bosom, could be dropped over her face at will, so as to increase the effect of the beauty which it veiled, like the light fleecy clouds flitting along the moon's orb in a bright autumnal eve.
It is easy to give a description of garments, but how describe the surpassing loveliness of form and countenance, which consists, not in the peculiar shape of each separate feature or limb, but in the perfect harmony of parts, and heavenly combination of elements in the whole person? The lady of whom we speak was of middling stature, and rather fuller in form than might be considered consistent with a faultless model; but the grace of every movement, and the mingled sweetness and dignity of her whole manner, would alone have sufficed to mark the royal daughter of a line of kings. Her face was not of that stamp which fancy is prone to attribute to the maidens of Spain. We have already said that her hair was brown; and her complexion was pure blushing red and white, the unclouded carnation of the fairest youthful beauty. A broad, open brow, an oval face gently curving off into a rounded chin, even well-defined lips, expressing a firm character united with a gentle spirit, and eyes of dark gray deepening into blue; ojos entre verdes y azules, says a good friar of her day, who seems to have studied the constituents of beauty rather more attentively than became a monk: such were the separate features of the fair young maiden. Her general cast and look did not speak her more than eighteen; but a certain maturity of expression in her face, and a grave and somewhat devotional air, increased by the appearance of a richly illuminated missal, which she held in her hand, would have suited a much riper age.
To the low salutation of Don Gutierre, she graciously nodded in reply, without interrupting her conversation with the Archbishop. So earnestly, indeed, was it continued, that a young cavalier had entered the open door unobserved by her, and advanced towards the centre of the room. He stood with one foot slightly set forward, his short cloak, of the finest cloth of Segovia, flung back from his shoulders, displaying the close jacket of Genoese velvet, which covered his manly form, the gold-hilted sword which hung over his slashed underclothes, and a chain of massive chased gold links with a cross of Montesa suspended from his neck, while in his left hand he held a black velvet hat, ornamented with a plain diamond aigrette and a single tuft of white ostrich plumes, leaving uncovered a high, noble brow and expressive dignified features, with sparkling eyes, that gazed on the beautiful vision before them, entranced, as it were, with love and admiration.
"'Tis he, 'tis he!" cried Don Gutierre, pointing with his finger to the silent stranger; and as the lady started with a slight exclamation of surprise, Fernando de Aragon kneeled at her feet, and, seizing her not unwilling hand, covered it with the kisses of her accepted lover, whom she now, for the first time, saw, and that in secrecy and disguise.
Need we say that the lady was Isabel of Castile, the lovely and the loved, the model of queens, of wives, and of mothers; the unaffected reality of all that her false-hearted namesake of England, Elizabeth, affected to be, but was not, a woman, namely, with all a woman's sensibilities, and yet a great and high ruled princess; that Isabel, whose reign is the golden age of prosperity and glory in the annals of fallen Spain!
At the time when the events of our story happened, Henry the Imbecile held the sceptre of Castile and Leon, and the disorders of a sickly state had reached their acme. Don Henrique ascended the throne under circumstances the most inauspicious. The kingdom was devastated and exhausted by the long and bloody civil wars which preceded the accession of his ancestor, Henrique de Trastamara. The infirm health and premature death of his grandfather, Henry III., prevented his applying those remedies to the public relief which a capacious mind and enterprising spirit might otherwise have devised and undertaken. His predecessor, Don Juan, destitute of either energy or talents to govern his turbulent nobles, was equally degraded, in being at all times either their tool or their victim. Condemned to see them dispute the possession of his person and his power on the fatal plains of Olmedo, he resigned all his authority to the constable, Don Alvaro de Luna, and afterwards with still greater weakness gave up his tried and faithful minister to the fury of their common enemies. Don Henrique himself inherited the mean-spirited and servile character of Don Juan.
Wavering and pusillanimous in his purposes, despised by his vassals, corrupt in his habits, and given up to the pursuit of pleasures of which nature had denied him the enjoyment, he soon acquired a most invincible repugnance to business of whatever kind, which he gladly suffered to pass entirely into the hands of ambitious and unprincipled favorites. A never-ending succession of troubles in his family, and of civil war between contending factions of the aristocracy, was the necessary consequence of the weakness of their common head. So long as he could enjoy his personal amusement unmolested, no public calumny moved the impassiveness of his indolence. While the profligate court spent in tournaments and gallantry, or in the wild distractions of the chase, that time which belonged to the necessities of the state, the fierce grandees made civil war upon each other from province to province, dividing, with impunity, the spoils of the crown and the substance of the people. Corruption, venality, and violence became universal; and the whole kingdom, convulsed by every species of disorder, and infected with all the principles of dissolution, was hurrying onward towards absolute and irretrievable ruin.
But that we may fully appreciate the condition of unhappy Castile at this period, it is well to refer to the touching pictures given by the old chroniclers, not merely of the general aspect of things, but also of some remarkable incidents in particular.
"All Spain was overwhelmed," says Don Alonzo Ortiz, who spoke of what he actually saw; "all Spain was overwhelmed by the most terrible storm, in those days when the flames of civil war raged with the greatest fury, and total perdition impended over the prostrate commonwealth. There was no spot exempt from the common misery. There was no man who enjoyed his patrimony without fear or peril of his life. All classes of the community were filled with affliction, flying to the cities for refuge, since robbery and murder stalked unchallenged through the land. Our barons did not take up arms to defend our borders against the Infidel, but to strike the thirsty sword into the bowels of their common country. The domestic enemy banqueted in the blood of his fellow-citizens. The strongest of arm and deepest in fraud bore the palm of power and praise among us; so that all things had broken wholly forth from the check and scope of justice, and the venerable majesty of the law had quenched its light in the darkness of general corruption."
How true to the life is the general description of the canon Ortiz, may be seen from a trait of the times recorded by Fernando del Pulgar. It seems that Don Pedro de Mendaña was alcaide of Castronuño during the period under review. Seeing the time well disposed for his natural desires and inclinations, he received in that fortalice many robbers with the booty which they made, and protected them from pursuit, as also desperate men of every kind, absconding debtors, murderers, and other outlaws. And when he found himself accompanied by such followers, induced by impunity from the laws and by large rewards to do his bidding, he seized on the castles of Cubillas and Cantalapiedra, and fortified that of Sieteiglesias, and placed his men in them; from which strongholds they sallied forth to rob in all the regions round about, and brought to him the treasure and goods they collected. He also captured the town of Tordesillas, and augmented his power in such wise, that the great cities of Burgos, Avila, Salamanca, Segovia, Valladolid, and Medina, and all the other towns in that country, gave him a regular tribute of bread, wine, and money, to purchase security. And thenceforward he continued to make other demands from them, of money and cattle, all which was yielded to his satisfaction. And by such oppressions he acquired great riches, so as to maintain constantly in his pay no less than three hundred mounted banditti. All the grandees of the kingdom who had estates in these districts held him in fear, and gave him largesses, that he might not make war against them on their lands. And from the success of this alcaide, many other alcaides in the kingdom took example, and set themselves to pillaging and ransoming the people, and defending the crimes and misdeeds which robbers perpetrated. Some time elapsed in this wise, when Pedro de Mendaña was besieged in his castle of Castronuño, and after an obstinate defence surrendered only upon honorable terms of capitulation; he and his bands escaping all punishment, as if what he had done was in the mere common course of war.
We shall give one other incident equally characteristic, but differing from the foregoing, as it shows how the great nobles and their immediate followers demeaned themselves in the same reign. Don Henrique had abandoned the control of affairs to his queen, and to her paramour Don Beltram de la Cueva, Conde de Ledesma, who was universally believed to have dishonored the royal bed, and to be the father of the Infanta Juana, stigmatized from this circumstance by the sobriquet of la Beltraneja, by which name she is uniformly styled in Spanish history. The power enjoyed by this ancient Godoy excited a confederation of the discontented grandees and prelates, having for its object the deposition of Don Henrique, and the elevation of his brother Don Alonzo to the throne. The chroniclers Diego Enriquez del Castillo and Alonzo de Palencia describe the scene which ensued.
The leagued barons, being assembled at Avila, selected an extensive plain without the city, on which they erected a large scaffold, open on all sides, so that the citizens of Avila and the multitude who came from other towns to witness the ceremonial, might plainly see everything which took place. Here was displayed a royal throne, on which sat a figure representing Don Henrique with the crown on his head, a sword before, and the sceptre in his hand, in the usual manner of arraying the person of kings. Everything being thus arranged, the barons rode out from the city towards the scaffold, accompanied by Don Alonzo. When they had arrived, Don Juan Pacheco, Marquis de Villena, with the master of Alcantara, and the Conde de Medellin, took the prince a little way aside, while the other lords approached and placed themselves behind the effigy, ready to perform the act of dethronement.
Having done this, one of them advanced to the front of the scaffold, and read a paper with a loud voice, setting forth the offences of Don Henrique, which they divided into four principal heads. For the first, they alleged that he deserved to lose his royal dignity, whereupon the Archbishop of Toledo, Don Alonzo Carrillo, advanced, and took the crown from the brows of the mimic king. For the second, he forfeited the right of jurisdiction and justice, wherefore Don Alvaro de Zuñiga, Conde de Plasencia, removed the sword which lay on his lap. For the third, he ought to lose the government of his kingdom, and so Don Rodrigo Pimentel, Conde de Benavente, snatched the sceptre which he held in his hand. Lastly, for the fourth, he deserved to be deprived of the throne and establishment of a king, wherefore Don Diego Lopez de Luñiga, approaching and striking the effigy from the chair in which it was seated, kicked it ignominiously from the scaffold to the ground, accompanying the act with bitter terms of invective and reproach against the person and character of Don Henrique.
Immediately upon this, Don Alonzo came up, and being placed on the throne, received the insignia of royalty, with the homage and fealty of the banded knights, who kissed his hands as king and right lord of the realm, ordering the trumpets to sound a loud note of joy and triumph, amid the shouts of "viva el rey" from themselves and their partisans, and the muttered lamentations of the shocked and terrified multitude, too conscious that all the extremities of civil war must tread close on the heels of such high-handed and outrageous misdemeanors. And so indeed it was to the scandal of all Spain, and to the desolation and misery of the people, until the sudden death of Don Alonzo deprived the disaffected lords of a rallying-point, and abated, but did not extinguish, the fury of embattled factions in wretched Castile.
After the death of Don Alonzo, there remained only Doña Isabel, the young sister of the king, who could dispute with him the possession of the crown. She was daughter of Don Juan by a second marriage, being born at Madrigal, in old Castile, the twenty-second day of April, in the year 1451. Ere she had completed her fourth year, her father died, and Don Henrique, on succeeding to the crown, left Isabel and her mother to languish in poverty and obscurity in the seclusion of their town and lordship of Arevalo. The queen-mother, Doña Isabel of Portugal, soon lost her reason from the accumulated burden of degradation and other sorrows, and her deserted daughter, far from the luxury of palaces, and stripped of all the flattering incidents of royal birth, entered upon that childhood and youth of affliction whose trials were to conduct to so glorious an issue in her after life. Don Henrique did indeed, after a while, repent him of his abandonment of the injured Isabel, and received her into his palace, to enjoy the advantages which belonged to her rank.
But what a scene was there for the pure and ingenuous recluse of the walls of Arevalo! The implacable foe of the Gothic name strengthened himself among the hills of Granada, and defied the chivalry of Castile to the field; but the descendant of Don Pelayo was now a craven knight and a minion ruled prince, the scorn alike of Christian and of Moor; and consumed the treasures of his kingdom in revelry and favoritism, and its blood in civil broils, in the stead of devoting them to the noble task of driving Muley Hassan, from the golden halls and marble courts of the Alhambra, back to the native deserts of his race.
The skipping king, he ambled up and down,
With shallow gestures, and rash bavin wits,
Soon kindled and soon burnt: carded his state;
Mingled his royalty with carping fools;
Had his great name profaned with their scorn.
And, worst of all, the profligate consort of a shameless monarch, the guilty Doña Juana, lived in unchecked adultery with Don Beltran, at once the falsest of friends and most incapable of ministers, and reared up the offspring of their crime, the unfortunate Beltraneja, to be the watchword of treason in Castile for many a weary year of bloodshed and confusion. Fortunately for Isabel, she possessed a native dignity and purity of character, fortified and refined by the seeming mischances of her lot, which, however, had but taught her the "sweet uses" of adversity; and she passed through the fiery ordeal of a dissolute court unscathed, or rather with her genuine nobility of soul yet more elevated, by a shrinking repulsion for the foul atmosphere she had been compelled to breathe.
When the death of Don Alonzo, the victim of poison, administered to him in his food, left the insurgent nobles without a suitable chief, they went to Doña Isabel, with the Archbishop of Toledo at their head, and tendered her the sceptre of Castile. She had taken refuge in a convent at Avila, anxious to escape from the horrors of civil war, which everywhere met her eye. If her principles of conduct had been less pure and upright, the spectacle of her country given up to the reciprocal rage of hostile partisans, and her beloved brother the early victim of unregulated ambition, would have come to confirm her resolutions in such a crisis. But she needed not this; and immovable in her loyalty to her unworthy lord and brother, Don Henrique, she unhesitatingly and decidedly refused the proffers of allegiance made her by the grandees in arms against the crown. A procedure so full of high-toned generosity, while it won the regards of Don Henrique, was not without its influence upon his enemies, and greatly furthered the conclusion of a qualified peace at the congress of Los Toros de Guisando, where Don Henrique proclaimed Doña Isabel sole heiress of his kingdom, thus forever sealing the fate of La Beltraneja, whom he declared under oath not to be his child.
The barons, who had so contumeliously enacted the ceremony of dethroning the king in effigy at Avila, now returned to his confidence, and engaged in a new series of intrigues for the disposal of the hand of Doña Isabel, who, as heiress of Castile and Leon, was sought for in marriage by many of the great princes of Europe. Don Juan Pacheco obtained the grand mastership of Santiago, and the Archbishop of Toledo was again trusted. Of the various alliances which offered, that of the house of Aragon, as uniting the two great fragments of the Spanish monarchy, it was the interest of every true patriot to promote; and thus it was viewed by the Archbishop. But Don Juan had reasons of personal interest for opposing this, and managed to gain exclusive control of the movements and purposes of the king. They endeavored to compel the princess by threats of imprisonment to marry the King of Portugal, a widower far advanced in years, and wholly unsuitable as a husband for the fair and youthful Isabel. Failing this hopeful scheme, they fixed on Charles, Duke of Berri and Guienne, brother of Louis XI. of France. Don Fadrique Enriquez, Admiral of Castile, and Don Mosen Pierres de Peralta, Constable of Navarre, were coadjutors of the Archbishop in furthering the proposals of the young Ferdinand of Aragon, who had a still more powerful partisan than either in the growing tenderness of Doña Isabel.
In fact, Isabel, like a discreet and prudent lady as she was, had been playing a game of her own under the rose; quite as cunningly as the politic nobles and astute churchmen of her brother's court. Two of the applicants for her hand were quickly disposed of. She would not think of the old King of Portugal, who might as well be her father as her husband. George of Clarence, another of her suitors, had acquired a reputation of ferocity in the wars of York and Lancaster that put him out of the question. There remained only Charles and Ferdinand as subjects of deliberate consideration. She privately dispatched her chaplain, a man of entire trust, called Alonzo de Coca, with instructions to repair to the court of France on some pretended object of business or pleasure, and seek out the Duc de Guienne, and carefully make inquiries concerning him, and then return through Aragon to do the same with regard to Don Fernando, so as to bring back a full and faithful report to his mistress. He gave Doña Isabel a complete account of the appearance and habits of both princes, relating in how many things the Prince of Aragon excelled the Duke of Guienne. Don Fernando, he said, was in countenance and proportion of person very handsome, and of noble air and manner, and apt in every knightly exercise or princely deed. The Duke of Guienne, on the contrary, he said, was weak and effeminate, with legs so small as to be altogether deformed, and with weeping eyes already sinking into blindness, so that, ere long, he would stand more in need of a page to lead him by the hand, than of horse and lance for the battle-field or tournament.
Doña Isabel instantly came to a right conclusion upon what course to pursue, resolving to bestow her virgin heart and young affections upon a prince worthy of her choice, instead of giving over her person to caducity and deformity, to accommodate the ambitious projects of scheming statesmen. The Archbishop having a perfect understanding with the gentlemen of her household, Don Gonzalo Chacon and Don Gutierre de Cardenas, a private correspondence with Isabel was commenced and carried on for some time unsuspected, and she finally accepted a rich collar of gems and pearls sent her by Don Fernando, with other suitable presents, and consented to become his bride.
Doña Isabel resided at this time in Ocaña, whither she and the king had been conducted by Don Juan Pacheco, in order that they might be completely in his hands, it being a place subject to his control as master of Santiago. Hither Don Henrique summoned the Cortez, in order that the compact of Los Toros de Guisando might be carried into effect, and Doña Isabel recognized by the estates of the realm as heiress of Castile and Leon. Beginning, however, to fluctuate in his intention, and receiving tidings of disturbances in Andalusia which rendered his presence necessary there, he left Ocaña before anything was done, after compelling Doña Isabel to swear that "she would not undertake any novelty respecting her marriage during his absence."
As Doña Isabel had already engaged to espouse Don Fernando, although Don Henrique knew it not, her clerical counsellors persuaded her that she might conscientiously swear not to "undertake any novelty respecting her marriage," and that she ought to do so, to lull the suspicions of Don Henrique and the master. But no sooner had these last departed from Ocaña, than the conspirators, if so they may be termed, proceeded with all possible dispatch to conclude the marriage, and so place themselves beyond the resentment of the king and the manœuvres of Don Juan.
Doña Isabel was first conveyed to Madrigal, where her mother then lived, it being given out that her object was to remove her brother's body from Arevalo, and superintend the interment of it at Avila. Uneasy at her leaving Ocaña, and suspecting all was not right, the master now took measures for possessing himself of her person; but the Archbishop and Don Fadrique, getting intelligence of his designs, mustered a party of their friends, and conducted her in all haste to Valladolid, which was wholly at the devotion of the Admiral. As the Marquis of Villena was now on his guard, and ready to take any desperate step to secure the disputed prize, the friends of Doña Isabel saw that no time was to be lost in deliberation. Everything had been previously arranged, so far as it could be, preliminary to the marriage, a dispensation having been procured from the Pope, and Don Fernando having been raised by his father to the dignity of King of Sicily to make him better worthy of Doña Isabel. Nothing remained but that Don Fernando should come to Valladolid, and espouse the Infanta; and this was a task of greater difficulty than at first sight it would seem.
The management of the affair was intrusted to Don Gutierre de Cardenas and Don Alonzo de Palencia, the latter a gentleman attached to the Archbishop. They counted upon the Bishop of Osma, Don Pedro Montoya, to furnish one hundred and fifty lances, and Don Louis de la Cerda, the Count of Medinaceli, five hundred, which, with three or four hundred more to be procured from other sources, they deemed a sufficient escort to insure the safety of Don Fernando. But when Cardenas and Palencia reached Osma on their way to Zaragoza, they learnt to their consternation that the Bishop and the Conde de Medinaceli, with the usual levity of the Castilian nobles of that day, had deserted the party of Doña Isabel, and joined that of the master. The whole frontier was held by the powerful bands of Mendoza, who occupied with their retainers and connections all the castles along the line from Almazan to Guadalajara. Cardenas and Palencia became convinced that it was now impossible for Don Fernando to enter Castile openly, and that, unless they could succeed by some ingenious stratagem, the whole object, for which they had labored so long and so earnestly, would be utterly and perhaps forever defeated. They determined to make a bold push to overmatch the machinations of their enemies.
Concealing their immediate purpose, which they could easily do, by Cardenas passing for the servant of Don Alonzo, who frequently had occasion to go to and fro on business of the Archbishop's, they hastened forward to Zaragoza, and proposed to Don Fernando to repair to Valladolid in disguise and without attendance. Cardenas communicated to the prince the loving messages of Doña Isabel, with her maidenly complaints that he had not yet visited her in Castile, and her prayers that he would not abandon her in the perilous predicament wherein she was placed for his sake. Don Fernando instantly resolved to hasten to Valladolid at all hazards, on the wings of love and hope; having first sent forward Don Mosen Pero Vaca, a confidential servant of his father, the King of Aragon, on a simulated embassy to Don Henrique, so as to blind the eyes of the Mendozas, of Don Luis de la Cerda, and of the rest of their faction along the road to Valladolid.
Don Fernando, then, accompanied only by a few domestics, in whom he could repose implicit confidence, put himself under the guidance of Cardenas, and boldly passed the line which separates Aragon from Castile. Being obliged to stop to refresh themselves and their mules, they halted at a hamlet between Gomara and Osma, where they passed for mere traders, the prince busying himself to take care of the mules and horses, and to serve at the table, so as to divert all suspicion from his own person. After a multitude of difficulties and hair-breadth escapes, he safely arrived in the dead of night at Osma, where he found Don Pedro Manrique, Conde de Trevino, and three hundred lances secretly got together and prepared to escort him for the residue of his journey; the Manriques, the Rojas under the Conde de Castro, and other friends of Doña Isabel, being on the alert and in command of the road from Osma to Valladolid. Don Fernando was welcomed by the Conde de Trevino and his followers at Osma with cries of joy and flourish of trumpets, and conducted through the streets by the light of flaming torches, which blazed out upon the astonished sight of the inhabitants and the soldiers of the garrison, waking from their slumbers to witness the triumphant entry of Don Fernando. Cardenas pushed on with fresh horses to Valladolid, to give tidings of the approach of the party, who followed with all possible speed.
Meanwhile, the Archbishop and the Admiral had been secretly gathering in their friends, and introducing them by small parties into Valladolid, as we have already seen. When Don Gutierre arrived in the evening at the house of Vivero, he found them anxiously awaiting the coming of Don Fernando. Chacon was sent back to meet him, and conduct him into the house by the postern door from the garden, so as to avoid the risk of his being seen and recognized in the streets of the city. His followers halted at a village a few miles from Valladolid, while he rode in almost alone, to plight his faith as a prince and a knight to the fair Isabella. This interview took place the fourteenth day of October, 1469. Don Fernando returned to Dueañs the same night, and remained there until the eighteenth day of the month, when all the conditions of the intended marriage having been fully settled, he publicly entered Valladolid, in company with several lords of the houses of Manrique and Rojas, and was received without the gates by the Archbishop, the Admiral, and a brilliant cortege of the principal cavaliers of the city. Concealment was no longer necessary, and in the evening the espousals of the prince and princess were published and ratified before a great concourse of spectators, assembled in the house of Don Juan de Vivero. And there, on the following morning, the marriage ceremony was performed, and the nuptial benediction pronounced with feasts and rejoicings, it is true, but without the magnificence of display, the tournaments, the public dances, and the bull-fights, which the custom of the times and place required in honor of royal espousals.
It was, in fact, a STOLEN MATCH, to which the weak tyranny of the king, and the factious violence of the nobles, who possessed his good-will, drove the future lords of Spain, Italy, and the Indies. And distrust, as with ample cause we may, the virtue that is reared in the moral contagion of palaces, never yet did prince or subject take to his arms a more pure and lovely wife—loyal, affectionate, tender, and true, endowed with every queen-becoming grace mingled and tempered with the blander charms of humble life—than yielded up her maiden hand and heart on that occasion to her lover king.
If the gentle reader would appreciate the moral of our tale, let him summon up before his mind's eye the picture of Isabella of Castile, married by stealth in the hall of a private dwelling, and hardly with the solemnities of a common Spanish bridal; and then compare the scene with that of the same Isabel, in the overpowering glories and stupendous triumphs of her after life, as exhibited in the graphic, picturesque, and impressive pages of Washington Irving. It were idle for us to attempt a task accomplished to our hands by his magic pen. Why advance to break spears with him, when the challenger would thus but show his own weakness, without calling into display the strength of the challenged? Instead of this, we shall have recourse to that mine from which he has dug so many gems, borrowing a single trait to fill up our canvas from the naïve pages of the curate of Los Palacios:—
"The right noble and ever blessed queen, Doña Isabel, with the king Don Fernando her husband, reigned over the realms and lordships of Castile nine and twenty years and ten months; in the which time was the greatest exaltation, triumph, honor, and prosperity that ever chanced in Spain. Consider that, being the stainless daughter of such noble lineage and royal stock and ancestry, she entertained in her person so many other and excellent havings, the which our Lord adorned her withal, wherein she outshone and overtopped all the queens, whether of Christendom or of any differing law which did go before her, not only, I say, in Spain, but in all the world, of those whereof by their virtue and their graces, and by their wisdom and their power, the memory doth live and flourish. Who could worthily recount the grandeur, the magnificence of her court; the prelates, learned men, and venerable counsellors, who always accompanied her; the reverend fathers, the precentors, and the musical accordances in honor of divine worship; the solemnity of the masses and honors continually chanted in her palace; the knightly and martial nobles of Spain, dukes, masters, marquisses, and ricos hombres; the gallants and dames, the jousts and tournaments, the multitude of poets and troubadours and minstrels of every degree; the men of arms and war, ever in battle against the Moors, with all their artillery and engines of infinite variety; and the gold and silver and gems and pagan men brought from the Indies newly discovered, where the setting sun goes down behind the ocean sea! Spain was, in the time of these victorious kings, Don Fernando and Doña Isabel, more triumphant, sublimated, and potent, and more feared and honored, than ever before or since; and so of this right noble queen, the fame shall be cherished forever in the realms and lordships of Castile."
THE PLEIADES.
(See Plate.)
Borne by music on their way,
Every chord a living ray,
Sinking on a song-like breeze,
The lyre of the Pleiades;
With its seven fair sisters bent
O'er their starry instrument,
Each a star upon her brow,
Somewhat dim in daylight's glow,
That clasped the flashing coronet
On their midnight tresses set.
And who were they, the lovely seven,
With shape of earth, and home in heaven?
Daughters of King Atlas they—
He of the enchanted sway:
He who read the mystic lines
Of the planets' wondrous signs;
He the sovereign of the air—
They were his, these daughters fair.
Six were brides in sky and sea
To some crowned divinity;
But his youngest, loveliest one,
Was as yet unwooed, unwon.
On that sky lyre a chord is mute
Haply, one echo yet remains,
To linger on the Poet's lute,
And tell, in his most mournful strains,
A star hath left its native sky
To touch our cold earth, and to die;
To warn the young heart how it trust
To mortal vows, whose faith is dust;
To bid the young cheek guard its bloom
From wasting by such early doom;
Warn by the histories linked with all
That ever bowed to passion's thrall
Warn by all—above—below,
By that lost Pleiad's depth of woe—
Warn them, love is of heavenly birth,
But turns to death on touching earth.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR MAKING ORNAMENTS IN RICE-SHELL-WORK.
The term "shell-work" may, perhaps, suggest to our readers those gay, and sometimes gaudy, but often very striking groups of brightly-tinted shell-flowers, which we meet with at most watering-places. These certainly form showy ornaments for the table or mantle-piece, but are scarcely adapted for ladies' work; the plaster, stiff wire, rough colors, and actual hard work, being matters by no means fitted for
"Delicate and dainty fingers!"
The shell-work we propose to teach is a very different affair, its lightness and purity of look adapting it peculiarly for wreaths, or sprays for the hair or dress; and the materials of which it is composed, rendering it an elegant drawing-room occupation, as well as one calculated to call forth the artistic taste and inventive powers of the worker; for it is capable of infinite variety.
We shall divide our instructions into two branches—viz., the "Simple," and the "Composite Rice-Shell-Work." The former will exclusively occupy our first article.
HEADDRESS, OR RICE-SHELL-WORK.
The shells we use are called "rice-shells," from their resemblance to the grains of rice; they are brought from the West Indies, and sold by measure, or by the box, at most conchological repositories. Their Latin name Voluta Nivea. Those who would study economy will often obtain them very cheaply from those miscellaneous dealers who purchase the foreign shells and curiosities brought from abroad by sailors. A pint of these shells will go a great way.
Before we can set to work, the shells must be cleaned and prepared. For this purpose, the first thing to be done is, with a strong yet fine-pointed pin, to free each shell from any grit or dirt which may have accumulated in the interior. Next, with a strong, sharp pair of scissors, a bit of about the size of a pin's point is to be clipped off from the extreme tip of each shell, so as to leave a tiny hole there, not larger than the eye of a middle-sized sewing-needle. This is a manipulation requiring care, as, if it is roughly done, too large an opening will be made, and the symmetry of the shell will be destroyed. Neither should the worker stoop over the shell while clipping it, for, if the bit of shell snipped off were to fly into the eyes, it would occasion much irritation and pain. Practice will soon enable any one to clip the shells rapidly and evenly.
In order to set about rice-shell-work tidily and systematically, it will be necessary to have a dozen little square card-board trays or boxes, about three or four inches square, and two inches deep. These can be easily made from white or colored card-board, and should be so contrived that they may fit into one another, and all be contained in one large tray or box of similar material, and covered over by one cover.
As the shells are cut, let them be sorted into three divisions, the small, the middle-sized, and the large shells. When all are clipped, put them into three separate basins; pour over them cold water enough to cover the shells, and to stand about an inch above them. Into this water put soda and mottled soap, in the proportion of half an ounce of each to a full pint of water; the soap should be shredded. Cover the basins, and set them on a hob, or in an oven, near a good fire; stir up the whole occasionally, and let it remain until the water is scalding hot, not longer. Then rub the shells gently with the hands, and pour off that water; and having rinsed the shells, add a fresh supply of water, and put in only soap this time. Let it again stand by the fire until hot, stirring it occasionally; then again rub the shells gently between the hands, pour off the soapy water, and rinse them thoroughly with clear, cold water.
Now lay a soft, folded towel on the table; put about a tablespoonful at a time of shells on this towel, and turning another fold of it over, rub them gently, but sufficiently to free them from moisture. Have ready a silk handkerchief, and remove them to this, and polish them with it, and then transfer them to one of the boxes, and setting it on the hob, let it stand there until the shells feel warm, shaking it occasionally in order that all may be equally dried. They will now be ready for use, and ought to have a pearly, white, polished appearance.
Take notice that too much soap or soda, or too great a degree of heat in the water, or too long a soaking, will make them look yellow; while too much heat when drying will crack them or render them brittle, and too little will leave a moisture about them which will tarnish the other parts of the work.
The next important item to the shells is the silver wire. This is bought on reels, by the ounce, and can be obtained of any of the large gold and silver bullion fringe-makers and wire-drawers in this city. As "Evans's Derby Crochet Cotton" is doubtless well known to most of our readers, we will compare the different sized wires required to the different numbers of this cotton of similar size. The coarsest silver wire we ever need would be about the calibre of No. 10 "Derby Cotton;" the next about that of No. 16; and the finest about the size of No. 24 or 30. The two latter are those chiefly used for leaves, flowers, &c., the coarsest being generally only employed for the stem on to which the various component parts of a wreath or spray are to be grafted, or for baskets, or ornamental groups; our aim being lightness, not only of appearance but of weight, we use the thinnest wire we can consistently with firmness.
The largest shells are chiefly used for baskets; the middle-sized and small ones for flowers and leaves. Each kind is to be contained in its own box.
Into another of the boxes cut some two or three hundred lengths of the middle-sized wire, each piece measuring about two and a half inches.
Having now made all our preparations, we will set to work, and see how all the various separate portions of the headdress given at the commencement of this article are made, and how they are put together.
The following cut shows the manner in which every shell required for leaves or flowers must be prepared. We call it "wiring the shells." In order to effect it, the shell must be taken between the finger and thumb of the left hand, with its point towards the tip of the finger, and its opening turned upwards; then one of the two-and-a-half-inch lengths of wire, which we directed should be prepared, must be taken in the right hand, and one end of it passed in at the point, and out at the opening of the shell, and a third of it drawn through, and then turned over on itself; the folded wire being then held between the thumb and finger of the right hand, the shell must be turned round and round until the wires are sufficiently twisted together, to hold the shell firmly. In a very short time this manipulation will become so familiar that it will be performed with astonishing ease and dispatch.
Keep the wired shells sorted, laying the smaller ones in a box to themselves, and the middle-sized ones also in a box to themselves, and with the shells all towards one end; for, when we come to make up the flowers, &c., it is astonishing how much time will be saved by our being able at once to put our hands on the portion we need.
Having thus wired a hundred or two, or more of shells, according to the purpose we have in view, we next proceed to make them up.
A leaf, like the one represented, may be made of any number of shells, from five to fifteen, or even twenty-five. A very small shell should be chosen for the apex, and then the pairs graduated so as to increase in size towards the stem. They should all be picked out, and laid ready for use before we begin to form the leaf.
Take the small central, or top shell between the finger and thumb of the left hand, allow the shell itself and about an eighth of an inch of the twisted wire to project above the finger, and have the opening of the shell turned towards you. Take the first pair of shells and insert one on either side of the central one, leaving about the tenth of an inch of twisted wire between the shells and their junction with the wire of the middle shell; then, with the finest wire, bind them all together by twisting the fine wire neatly round and round the stem, for the distance of nearly a quarter of an inch, when the second pair of shells are to be added, arranged, and bound on in like manner and for a similar distance; continue thus all the way down, leaving the wires between the shell and the stem a little longer at each pair, keeping all the openings one way, and taking care to bind the stem firmly and compactly, and especially to avoid leaving any projecting ends or points of wire, as these not only look untidy, but are excessively inconvenient if the work is intended for wear.
The flower bud is formed by taking one of the lengths of wire, threading a shell on it, and then a small Roman pearl bead, and then a second shell, and twisting the wire to keep them all firm. It will be perceived by the engraving that the bead comes between the two points of the shells, and that both openings lie the same way.
This is what we term a "single," or "simple flower." It is composed of five wired shells of equal size; the openings are all turned inwards, and the wires bound together immediately below the points of the shells firmly and compactly, all the way down to the very extremity.
This double flower is composed of seventeen shells—viz., twelve small ones, and five of a middle size. The five are arranged as in the single flower, and the twelve are made up into four leaflets of three each, put together in the way a leaf is commenced; these leaflets are bound on to the flower, being arranged evenly round it, and so as to leave about a quarter of an inch of its stem above their junction with it, and the same length of wire between the pair of shells in each leaflet and the stem. Bend them into their places when the flower is completed.
Another variety of flower is here given, composed of twelve small shells, so arranged as to leave half an inch of wire between the point of each shell and the place where we begin to bind it; all the openings face upwards. The shells are to be arranged like the spokes of a wheel.
Wheat-ears may be made of any number of shells, from eighteen to thirty, and of either small or middle-sized shells. One is taken as an apex, then a pair set one on either side of it, then one in the centre; then another pair, and so on, binding them on, almost close to the point of each shell, and putting in here and there three-quarter-inch lengths of the middle-sized wire, to resemble the beards.
This is a representation of an ornamental group; the shells chosen for it should be the large ones. Three lengths of wire (middle-sized), measuring about four or five inches, must be cut off. A shell is threaded on each wire, the wire folded double, a twist or two given to it just to maintain the shell in its place, and then the double wire wound round a good sized pin to give it that spiral form. The three, when done, are bound together at the bottom for about a quarter of an inch, and mounted on an inch or two of the coarsest wire.
In binding leaves, flowers, &c., the fine wire should not be cut off until the leaf, or whatever it may be, is complete, as it is desirable to avoid ends and roughnesses.
We could amplify these notices, but we consider that the engravings will be sufficient to show our readers the kind of groups that can be arranged, and suggest to inventive and tasteful minds a multitude of other combinations.
With regard to their adjustment into sprays, or wreath, we can say but little, because that is so much a matter of taste. A light and graceful appearance should be aimed at, and the work neither crowded too closely together, nor left too straggling. It will often be advisable to mount a flower on a couple of inches of the coarse wire, in order to lengthen the stem, and it may then be grouped with a bud, or with spiral shells; but no rules can be laid down in an optional matter like this. The foundation stem, or that from which all the sprays of the headdress given at the commencement of this article, hangs, should be of double coarse wire; and the stems of the sprays of single coarse wire. All are to be bound on with the finest wire, and as neatly and as lightly as is consistent with firmness.
Care must be taken not to tarnish the wire by too much handling, especially with warm hands, or by unnecessary exposure to the atmosphere. When not in use, the reels should always be kept enveloped in silver paper.
The leaves of various sizes, the flowers of different kinds, and the other portions, should be consigned each to the boxes appropriated for them, as fast as they are made, and not all heaped together in one inextricable mass.
In our next article we shall describe the "Composite Rice-Shell-Work," which will present to our lady pupils a variety of ornamental arrangement.
This pleasing art is well worthy the pains and patience of all
"Who in work both contentment and happiness find."
DRESS—AS A FINE ART.
BY MRS. MERRIFIELD.
REMARKS ON PARTICULAR COSTUMES.
We must now offer a few brief remarks upon certain costumes which appear to us most worthy of our attention and study, for their general elegance and adaptation to the figure. Of the modern Greek we have already spoken. The style of dress which has been immortalized by the pencil of Vandyck is considered among the most elegant that has ever prevailed in this country. It is not, however, faultless. The row of small curls round the face, how becoming soever to some persons, is somewhat formal, and although the general arrangement of the hair, which preserves the natural size and shape of the head, is more graceful than that of the time of Sir Joshua Reynolds, we think it would have been more pleasing had it left visible the line which divides the hair from the forehead. With regard to the dress itself: in the first place, the figures are spoiled by stays; secondly, the dress is cut too low in front; and thirdly, the large sleeves sometimes give too great width in front to the shoulders. These defects are, in some degree, counterbalanced by the graceful flow of the ample drapery, and of the large sleeves, which are frequently widest at their lower part, and by the gently undulating line which unites the waist of the dress with the skirt. The Vandyck dress, with its voluminous folds, is, however, more appropriate to the inhabitants of palaces than to the ordinary occupants of this working-day world. The drapery is too wide and flowing for convenience.
Lely's half-dressed figures may be passed over without comment; they are draped, not dressed. Kneller's are more instructive on the subject of costume. The dress of Queen Anne, in Kneller's portrait, is graceful and easy. The costume is a kind of transition between the Vandyck and Reynolds styles. The sleeves are smaller at the shoulder than in the former, and larger at the lower part than in the latter; in fact, they resemble those now worn by the modern Greeks. The dress is cut higher round the bust, and is longer in the waist than the Vandycks, while the undulating line uniting the body and skirt is still preserved. While such good examples were set by the painters—who were not, however, the inventors of the fashions they painted—it is astonishing that these graceful styles of dress should have been superseded in real life by the lofty headdresses and preposterous fashions which prevailed during the same period, and long afterwards, and which even the ironical and severe remarks of Addison in the "Spectator" were unable to banish from the circles of fashion. Speaking of the dresses of ladies during the reigns of James II. and William III., Mr. Planché, in his History of British Costume (p. 318), says: "The tower or commode was still worn, and the gowns and petticoats flounced and furbelowed, so that every part of the garment was in curl;" and a lady of fashion "looked like one of those animals," says the "Spectator," "which in the country we call a Friesland hen." But in 1711 we find Mr. Addison remarking: "The whole sex is now dwarfed and shrunk into a race of beauties that seems almost another species. I remember several ladies who were once nearly seven feet high, that at present want some inches of five. How they came to be thus curtailed, I cannot learn; whether the whole sex be at present under any penance which we know nothing of, or whether they have cast their headdresses in order to surprise us with something in that kind which shall be entirely new: though I find most are of opinion they are at present like trees lopped and pruned that will certainly sprout up and flourish with greater heads than before."
The costume of the time of Sir Joshua Reynolds, as treated by this great artist, though less splendid, appears to us, with the exception of the headdress, nearly as graceful, and far more convenient than the Vandyck dress. It is more modest, more easy, and better adapted to show the true form of the shoulders, while the union of the body of the dress with the skirt is effected in the same graceful manner as in the Vandyck portraits. The material of the drapery in the latter is generally silks and satins; of the former, it is frequently muslin, and stuff of a soft texture, which clings more closely to the form. That much of the elegance of both styles of dress is to be attributed to the skill and good taste of the painters, is evident from an examination of portraits by contemporary artists. Much also may be ascribed to the taste of the wearer. There are some people who, though habited in the best and richest clothes, never appear well-dressed; their garments, rumpled and untidy, look as if they had been pitched on them, like hay, with a fork; while others, whose dress consists of the most homely materials, appear well-dressed, from the neatness and taste with which their clothes are arranged.
Leaving now the caprices of fashion, we must notice a class of persons who, from a religious motive, have resisted for two hundred years the tyranny of fashion, and until recently have transmitted the same form of dress from mother to daughter for nearly the same period of years. The ladies of the Society of Friends, or as they are usually called "Quakers," are still distinguished by the simplicity and neatness of their dress—the quiet drabs and browns of which frequently contrast with the richness of the material—and by the absence of all ornament and frippery. Every part of their dress is useful and convenient; it has neither frills nor flounces, nor trimmings to carry the dirt and get shabby before the dress itself; nor wide sleeves to dip in the plates, and lap up the gravy and sauces, nor artificial flowers, nor bows of ribbons. The dress is long enough for decency, but not so long as to sweep the streets, as many dresses and shawls are daily seen to do. Some few years back, the Quaker ladies might have been reproached with adhering to the letter, while they rejected the spirit of their code of dress, by adhering too literally to the costume handed down to them. The crowns of their caps were formerly made very high, and for this reason it was necessary that the crowns of the bonnets should be high enough to admit the cap crown; hence the particularly ugly and remarkable form of this part of the dress. The crown of the cap has, however, recently been lowered, and the Quaker ladies, with much good sense, have not only modified the form of their bonnets, but also adopted the straw and drawn-silk bonnet in their most simple forms. In the style of their dress, also, they occasionally approach so near the fashions generally worn, that they are no longer distinguishable by the singularity of their dress, but by its simplicity and chasteness.
PREPARATIONS FOR COMPANY.
A hostess who wishes that her friends should enjoy their dinner, and that she also should enjoy it with them, must see that all is ready and at hand before her guests arrive. If her servants are well trained, and accustomed to do things regularly, when there is no company, there will be little difficulty when there is; and if there is that pleasant understanding between the head and the hands of the household which should always exist, any casual mistake will easily be rectified; an accident itself will occasion more fun than fuss; and although no host and hostess should feel as unconcerned or indifferent at their own table as elsewhere, the duty of seeing that nobody wants anything will be manifestly a pleasant one, whilst the simple cordiality, which delights in good appetites and cheerful countenances, and the domestic order which is evidently, but unostentatiously, the presiding genius of the family, will go far to enhance the flavor of the simplest fare.
A GREAT MULROONEY STORY.
ALL ABOUT TIM DELANEY. HOW HE WINT COORTIN' WID HIS MASTHER, AND THE CONSEQUENCES.
BY SYLVANUS URBAN, THE YOUNGER.
"Wanst upon a time—an', sure, that's not so long ago, afther all—there wor a grate fri'ndship betune the familees of the Sullivans an' the O'Briens; but, by raison of their livin' a long ways apart, they niver sot eyes on ache other for many's the year, though they kep' up the ould good-will by writin' letthers back an' fore, wid the shuperscupshins of, 'Yer humble sarvint to command, Murtoch O'Brien ma bouchal,' or, 'May the heavins be yer bed, an' glory be wid ye, Dennis Sullivan a hagur!'
"Well, the years rowled by, an', in the mane time, the sunshine lived foriver in the house of Murtoch O'Brien, in the shape of a daughther that bate the wureld for beauty; while Dinnis Sullivan wor prouder of his son Maurice nor if he had found all the goold mines of Californy, wid all the jooels of the Aist Injees to the top of 'em. Oh, faix, but ye may be sartin that the ould min in their letthers gossipped about the childher, an' that Misther O'Brien, bein' discinded from the anshint kings of Munsther, belaved his daughther Norah the aquil of any princess in Eurip and Aishey, lettin' alone the Turkeys and the Roosthers—Rooshins, I mane—an' the Jarmans, an' the Frinch, an' all the other haythens.
"Well, by coorse, by an' by, young Masther Maurice an' the butyful Miss Norah wor conthracted thegither by the ould people; though, it's the thruth I'm sayin', nayther of the youngsthers wor beknowin' to it at all, until wan day, when Maurice wor near grown to be a man, his fadher up an' tould him what he had done. 'Well an' good!' sez Maurice, for he wor a mighty purty behaved young jintleman; an', wid that, he crasses over the salt say into forrin parts, where he larned to ate frogs in France, an' to sleep undher a feather bed in Jarmany, wid his exthremities stickin' out. By an' by, whin he had finished his eddicashin at the Jarman Univarsity, by dhrillin' a hole wid a small sword through the arum of wan Count Dondher an' Blixum, an' by bein' mortially wounded in his undher garmint hisself, Maurice thravels back to the ould counthry. Oh, but Dinnis Sullivan wor mighty plased to shake hands wid his darlin' boy agin! an' he grown so tall, an' sthrong, an' manly like.
"'Maurice, avourneen!' sez his fadher, tindherly, 'seein' 'tis of age ye are, an' may be I'll not be wid ye long, sure it 'u'd be plasin' me to see yeez marri'd at wanst to Norah O'Brien,' sez he.
"'But how will I tell whether I'll like her or no?' sez Maurice, dub'ously.
"'By raison that she's a hairess and a grate beauty,' sez the ould jintleman.
"'Thim's good things in their way,' sez Maurice; 'but may be I'll be ruinashin'd, afther all, wid the crooked timper.'
"'Make yerself parfaitly aisey on that score, Maurice ma bouchal,' sez his fadher. 'Honey isn't swater, nor butther safter.'
"'May be 'tis too saft she is,' sez Maurice.
"'Tare an' ounties!' sez the ould jintleman, in a grate passion. 'What 'u'd yees like to have, I'd be plased to know? Isn't Murtoch O'Brien my ould fri'nd, an' wan I niver had a quarrel wid in my life, batin' the bottle he throw'd at my head at ould Thrinity, an' the bullet I lodged in his side on the banks of the Liffey one morn? Sure, afther that affeckshinate raymonsthrance we wor betther fri'nds nor iver we wor before.'
"Well, by this an' by that, seein' the ould jintleman wor bint upon the match, Maurice consints to ride over an' coort the young lady, purvided he might take wid him his fostherer, wan Tim Delaney. Sure I know'd him well, for he wor own cousin to myself by the mudher's side, an' he it wor as tould me this sthory.
"'Take him by all manes,' sez the ould jintleman. 'I've not the laste objeckshin. 'Tis a dacent lad he is, an' a betther face or a n'ater figure, barrin' yer own, Maurice dear, there's not to be found in all the county. He desarves to be put forrid in the wureld. He's not althegither an' ignoraymus nayther,' sez he, 'for Fadher Doran thried to bate the humanities into him for the matther of two saisons; an', though he butthers his mattymatticks wid poetical conthribushins, an' peppers an' salts the larned langwidges wid aljebrayickal calkilations, there's a dale of larnin' in that head of his, av he only understhood the manage of it.'
"So, wid that, Misther Maurice sed he wor contint, an', sendin' his thrunk on afore him by the faymale stage, he"——
"Stop! stop! Mulrooney! I was not aware of any distinction between one stage and another. Will you do me the favor to enlighten me?"
"Arrah now," said Peter, boldly, "don't I know the differ? Sure, if the coaches as carries the letthers is the male stages, it stands to raison thim as doesn't must be the faymales."
"Humph! Admirably defined! Well, go on."
"An' thin—an' thin—och, wirrasthrue! but I've lost the sthory complately an' enthirely, by makin' a dickshunary of myself."
"Let me jog your memory, then. Maurice sent his trunk on before"——
"That's it," said Peter, "by the faymale stage, an' set out on horseback wid hisself an' Tim, bright an' early the nixt morn, for Carrigathroid. Well, they hadn't gone more nor a few miles, afore little Micky Dunn, the stable boy, comes tearin' down the road to say that the masther had been takin' suddintly wid a fit of the gout, an' that Misther Maurice must go back an' attind the sale of Ned Ryan's place, as the ould jintleman wanted it to square off the corner of the upper farm.
"'Oh, musha, thin, but what'll I do?' sez Maurice. ''Tis unlucky to turn back; an', besides, my thrunk is gone on afore, wid all the b'utyful clothes in it I brought from France an' Jarmany.'
"'Faix, but that's bad!' sez Tim; 'an' I misthrustin' Andy Shehan, the dhriver. May be 'tis betther I'd thravel on afther him?'
"''Deed an' 'deed, I think so,' sez Maurice. 'An' take this kay along wid ye, Tim,' sez he, 'an' sarch if the things isn't spirited away, or smashed up enthirely. An', Tim,' sez he, 'there's a letther of interjuckshin in the thrunk which I want yees to deliver at wanst, for fear the ould squireen'll be onaisey, as he expected me the day. An', Tim,' sez he, lowerin' his voice, 'I'll be plased if ye'll take it to Carrigathroid yerself, an' see if Miss Norah is half so purty an' good as fadher sez she is.'
"'Why wouldn't she be,' sez Tim, 'if the masther sez so?'
"'Throth an' I dun 'no',' sez Maurice; 'but I'd like to larn that aforehand from yer own lips, Tim, avick.'
"'Faix, that's aisey enough, I does be thinkin',' sez Tim. 'You folly afther as quick as ye can, Misther Maurice; an', in the mane time,' sez he, 'I'll pay my respicts to the family.'
"So, wid that, they took lave of one another, an' Tim thravelled on to the town where the young masther's thrunk wor left, a bit mile or so from O'Brien's, of Carrigathroid.
"'Where's the thrunk as wor left here by Andy Shehan?' sez he to the woman of the stage-house.
"'Up stairs,' sez she, 'all safe an' sound.'
"'I'll see that,' sez he. An' up stairs he goes an' opens the thrunk, an' looks over the clo'es, an' the dimont pins, and the goold watch, an' the chains an' rings galore; an', sure enough, they wor all there nate an' nice, as Ally Bawn said when the six childher fell into the saft of the bog. Oh, murther, but now comes the sthrangest part of the sthory. When Tim seen the things forenent him, an' how b'utyful they wor, he begins to wondher how he'd look in thim; an' thin he looks at his own coorse clothes, all plasthered and besmudthered over wid the dirthy wather of the road.
"'How will I carry the masther's letther to the big house, an' I lookin' for all the wureld like a dirthy bogthrotter?' sez he. 'Sure I'd be shamefaced to show myself in dacent company. 'Tis a mighty fine thing to be a jintleman,' sez he, lookin' at the thrunk ag'in. 'Oh, but thim's the grand coats, an' pantalloons, an' goolden things,' sez he; 'sure, I thinks the likes of 'em wor niver seed afore. May be,' sez he, coagitatin' the matther—'may be Misther Maurice wouldn't be onaisey if I loaned thim of him for a bit while, ispishilly as it's his sarvice that I'll be on. Sure, 'tis no harum to thry if they fits me,' sez he. An', begorra, afore he know'd it, he wor dhressed in thim b'utyful garmints, an' lookin' grander nor iver he did in his mortial life. Prisently, he flings back the dure, an' discinds the stairs wid all the goold chains a danglin' about his neck, an' wid a fine goold watch fasthened by a raal dimont pin to the breast of his flowery silk weskit: 'For,' sez he, 'sure they wouldn't know I had sich purty things, if I didn't show thim.'
"'Oh, but it does my heart good to see sich a han'some jintleman!' sez the misthress of the house, makin' a low curchey. 'Didn't I know,' sez she, 'yer honnor wor the raal quality the minnit I seen the shine of yer face at the dure. Indade, an' faix, it's the thruth I'm sayin', plase goodness.'
"'Arrah, now, be done wid yer blarney,' sez Tim, flourishin' a white han'kercher as wor sthronger wid sint nor a flower-garden. 'Don't conthaminate yer centhrifujals bu spakin' so odoriferously,' sez he; 'but tell me, like the dacent woman ye are, where'll I sarch for a barber?'
"'That's aisey,' sez she; 'for sure there's wan next dure to the corner.'
"So, wid that, out goes Tim, houldin' up his pantaloons wid both hands to keep thim clane, an' prisently he steps in at the barber's shop as bould as a lord.
"'Barber!' sez he.
"'Sir,' sez a little thin-shanked man.
"'Shave me,' sez Tim, settin' hisself down in the big chair, while the little man wor sthrappin' away at the razhier. 'Aisey, my good man,' sez Tim, 'an' cut the stubble clane.'
"'Oh, I'll do that same,' sez the barber. 'Be du husht, av ye plase.' An', afore Tim could say Larry Houlaghan, his beard wor off.
"'Barber,' sez Tim.
"'Sir,' sez the little man.
"'Frizzle my head,' sez Tim.
"An', widout any ghosther at all, the spry little man pokes a long iron thing into the fire.
"'Oh, murther!' sez Tim. 'What's that?'
"'Thim's the curlin'-tongs,' sez the barber.
"'Oh,' sez the cunnin' Tim, turnin' up his nose, 'thim's the ould time fashion. May be ye niver seen the frizzlin' insthrument they use in forrin parts?'
"'Sorra one have I seed, barrin' the masheen in my hand,' sez the barber.
"''Tworn't to be expected of yees, in this outlandish place,' sez Tim.
"'Hould still, if ye pl'ase,' sez the barber, takin' a grip of his hair.
"'Ouch!' sez Tim. 'L'ave me go, will yees? By japurs, but 'tis pullin' all my hair off ye are!'
"''Tisn't likely I'd do that, wid my exparience,' sez the little man. 'Sure, many's the quality I've dhressed the heads of in my day.' An', wid that, he saizes hould of another lock of hair, an' gives it a grip and a twist.
"'Tundher an' turf!' sez Tim, startin' up in a mighty big passion. 'Would ye burn my head aff afore my eyes? 'Tisn't a stuck pig I am that ye're singein' for bacon,' sez he.
"'Musha, thin, but that's thrue, anyhow,' sez the barber. An' on he wint, frizzlin' first one side and thin the other, till, by an' by, Tim's head wor all over corkskrews, like a haythen naygur's.
"'How will I look?' sez Tim, goin' to a glass. 'Augh! millia! murther! 'Tisn't my own face that I see yondher?'
"''Deed but it is,' sez the barber.
"'Oh, wirrasthrue!' sez Tim, wringin' his hands. 'What'll I do? 'Tis ruinashin'd I am, clane out an' inthirely! I'll be mistakin' myself for a sthranger!'
"'Yea, thin,' sez the little man, 'there's no denyin' but yees wondherfully improved in apparence.'
"'Botherashin!' sez Tim; 'but how will I raycognize myself, I'd like to know?'
"Sure, but he had the throubled look whin he mounted his horse; but, by the time he got to Carrigathroid, his spirits came back agin, an' he fasthens the baste to the swingin' bough of a three, an' steps up to the dure an' knocks as bould as Joolyus Saizer.
"'Hallo! House! Whoop!'
"'What's the matther, my good man?' sez a sarvant, answerin' the dure.
"'Matther?' sez Tim. 'Plinty's the matther. Here's a letther for Misther O'Brien, wid the respicts of the owner.'
"'Yer name, sir, if ye pl'ase,' sez the man.
"'Tell him Misther Sullivan sint it,' sez Tim.
"'Oh!' sez the man, makin' a low bow. 'Obleege me by walkin' in; ye're expicted.'
"An', wid that, he marches on afore, Tim followin' afther, an' flings open the dure of a grand room all blazin' wid light, an' sings out—
"'Misther Sullivan!'
"'Oh, murther!' sez Tim to hisself. ''Tis changed I am by that frizzlin' barbarian!'
"'Ah, my young fri'nd,' sez Misther O'Brien, takin' him by the hand, ''tis pl'ased I am to see ye the day! Let me presint ye to my daughther. Norah, mavourneen, this is Misther Maurice Sullivan.'
"'Och, the beauty of the wureld!' sez Tim, quite flusthrated. 'Call me Delaney, av ye pl'ase.'
"'Ah, I undherstand,' sez the ould squireen, wid a smile. 'The Delaneys is yer relashins.'
"Troth, an' indade they are,' sez Tim.
"'Thim's good blood, I does be thinkin',' sez the squireen.
"'Sorra betther to be found anywhere,' sez Tim.
"'I beg yer pardin, 'tis standin' ye are the while,' sez the ould jintleman. 'Will ye take a sate on the ottimin?'
"'Sure, 'tisn't the grand Turkey ye mane?' sez Tim, gettin' frikened.
"'Oh no,' sez the ould jintleman; ''tis the fine flahool stool standin' forenenst ye.'
"'Ayeh!' sez Tim. 'The ould name's the betther.'
"May be so,' sez the squireen, puttin' on his specktickles, an' starin' at Tim as if he wor a wild baste. An' sorry I am to tell ye that purty Miss Norah likewise hadn't no betther manners, but set starin' too at the bouchal wid her great black eyes.
"'What's the matther?' sez Tim, as red as a b'iled lobsther. 'Isn't it all right?'
"'How will I know?' sez the squireen.
"'Och! och!' sez Tim, 'why did I make a "behay" of myself? Blessin's on yer darlin' face!' sez he, turnin' to Miss Norah; 'an' may goodness purtect ye! an' the daisies grow up under yer purty feet! an' may all the fairies in Ireland bring good luck to ye, an' a dale of it! But oh, be pl'ased to take pity on a poor boy as is quite dumbfounder'd at yer b'utyful countenance, and burnt into ashes by the blaze from yer eyes! An' now don't be afther colloguing wid the ould man that a way, an' I kep' in the dark, like Shaun Dooley, the blind fiddler.'
"'Indade, an' in throth, 'tis very mystharious,' sez Miss Norah, whisperin' to the fadher. ''Tisn't the first ha'porth of manners the crayther has. Sure I am I'll not like him, any way.'
"'L'ave him to me,' sez the ould man. 'May be he's betther nor he seems. Get ye gone, acushla, an' ordher Michael to bring up a pitcher of st'amin' hot potheen; that's the raal stuff to bring out a man's charackther. Misther Sullivan,' sez he, as the daughther disapp'ared—'Misther Sullivan'——
"'Delaney, av ye pl'ase,' sez Tim.
"'I beg yer pardin, Misther Delaney Sullivan. May I be so bould, an' m'anin' no offince, as to be axin' ye what makes ye carry all thim goold chains, an' the han'some goold watch, an' the dimont pin, in sich a sthrange way?'
"'Oh,' sez Tim, mightily relaved, an' pokin' the ould man for fun undher the fifth rib, ''tis there ye are! Sure, 'tis raisonable,' sez he, 'a young jintleman should folly the fashi'ns.'
"'Oh,' sez the squireen, 'an' thim's the fashi'ns, is they?'
"'What 'u'd they be good for, if they worn't?' sez Tim.
"'Faix, nothin' at all, I b'lieve,' sez the squireen. 'Whin did ye l'ave home, Misther Sullivan?' sez he.
"'Delaney, av ye pl'ase.'
"'Blur an' agars!' sez the ould man, 'don't I know that, Misther Delaney Sullivan?'
"'Well,' sez Tim to hisself, ''tis no matther. Any way, I'll be kilt an' transported, whin Masther Maurice comes. Sure, if he will parsist in callin' me Sullivan, 'tisn't good manners to conthradict him.'
"'An' how did ye l'ave the family?' sez the squireen.
"'Well an' hearty,' sez Tim; 'wid no sarious disordher, barrin' the loss of a suckin' pig wid the maisles.'
"'A suckin' pig in the family!' sez the ould man. 'A suckin' pig, did ye say? Sure, thim's not human.'
"'Och! what'll I be sayin' wid the grate blisther on my tongue? Sure, tworn't any pig at all, at all. 'Twas the babby wid the shmallpox.'
"'The shmallpox!' shrieks the squireen. 'Oh, be aff wid ye! Don't come a near me! I'm frikened to death a'ready!'
"'Millia murther!' sez Tim. 'I'll be beside myself prisintly. I don't mane the shmallpox, nor the childher. Where 'u'd they come from, I'd like to know? But the docther—no, I don't mane that—the masther—no, not the masther—the weeny. Arrah, botherashin to me, I'd be obleeged to ye if ye'd tell me what I mane; for, 'deed an' 'deed, the beauty of the young lady has put the comether on my sinses enthirely!'
"'Faix, I b'lieve so,' sez the squireen. 'But here comes the potheen,' sez he; 'an' 'tis the sovre'nst thing in the wureld for a crooked tongue.'
"'Mostha, but it's the raal stuff, too!' sez Tim, takin' a long pull at the noggin, an' smackin' his lips.
"'An' so ye left the ould folk quite well?' sez the squireen.
"'Brave an' hearty,' sez Tim. 'The ould man wor br'akin' stones to mend the pike wid, an' the ould mother wor knittin' new heels to an ould pair of Connemara stockin's.'
"'I'm t'undhersthruck!' sez Misther O'Brien. To think that the blood of the Sullivans should demane thimselves by br'akin' stones for a road an' patchin' stockin's!'
"'Thim's figgers of spache,' sez Tim. 'Sure, I mane shuperintindin' of thim.'
"'Throth, it's hard to tell what ye mane, Misther Delaney Sullivan,' sez the squireen. 'A young jintleman as is college-bred shouldn't condiscend to quare figgers the likes o' thim. An' now I'll be pl'ased to have a taste of yer larnin'.'
"'Sure, it 'u'd nayther be dacent, nor proper, nor expadient, in one of my birth an' breedin', to show off my parts upon a jintleman of your wondherful sagashity. The natheral modesty that is the predominatin' trait in my charackther won't let me. Thim as is my aquils has acknowledged my shupariority; an' the masther hisself couldn't folly me in the langwidges, an' the humanities, an' in single an' double fluckshins, to say nothing of my extinsive ackwiremints in algebrayickal mattymattocks, an' the other parts of profane histhory of a similar cognashus charackther.'
"'Spake plainer,' sez the squireen, 'for ye does be puzzlin' me wid the hard words as seems to have no sinse in 'em.'
"'I'd be bothered to find it if they did,' sez Tim, slyly, to hisself. But he sez to the squireen, sez he, 'How will I diffinitively expurgate the profound m'anin' of the anshint frelosophers widout smudherin' ye wid the classicalities? Isn't it the big words as makes the l'arnin'? Axin' yer pardin, Misther O'Brien, but 'tis well beknownst to a jintleman of your exthraordinary mintal an' quizzical fackilties that the consthruction of the words consthitutes the differ of langwidges, of which pothooks an' hangers is the ilimints.'
"'Bedad, but there's some thruth in that,' sez the squireen, 'barrin' the manner of expressin' it.'
"'Arrah, thin,' sez Tim, 'I'm pl'ased to hear ye say so; an', if it's agreeable to yees, we'll dhrop the discourse for the prisint. To tell ye the blessed thruth, Misther O'Brien, 'tis dead bate wid the long thravel I am, an', wid your permission, I'll be bould to throuble yer sarvint to fling me a clane lock o' sthraw in one corner of yer honor's kitchen for the night.'
"Oh, but may be the ould squireen didn't stare at Tim wid all his eyes in raal arnest, thin—
"'Sthraw!' sez he. 'Do ye take this for a boccoch's shealin'? Well, I must say, Misther Delaney Sullivan,' sez he, 'that, for a jintleman's son, born an' brid, 'tis monsthrous quare ways ye have.' An', wid that, he rings for the futman, an' tells him to show Tim to bed. 'I'll be wantin', Misther Sullivan, to spake the sarious word wid ye the morrow morn,' sez the ould man, dhrawin' hisself up grand like; 'for, on my conscience, there's many things about ye as does be puzzlin' me exthramely.'
"''Tis no matther,' sez Tim to hisself, follyin' afther the sarvint. 'Sure, I'm in for it now, anyhow. Ayeh! is thim the stairs? Musha, thin, but 'tis wide enough they are for a drove of fat cattle. Hould on a bit, will ye, or I'll be fallin' over the ballisthers. I wonder where thim crass passiges lades too beyant? Sure, I'd give all I'll be like to have in the wureld to quit the place. Och, Tim Delaney, 'tis a bad ind ye're comin' to wid settin' yerself up for a jintleman; an', begorra, if the young masther murdhers ye enthirely, it sarves ye right, any way, an' that's no lie.'
"'Will ye be pl'ased to inter?' sez the sarvint, throwin' open the dure of a big room, where the windys wor all ornaminted wid b'utyful curt'ins, an' likewise the grate bed wid goold angels at the corners of the posts, lettin' alone the fringes an' the tassels, an' many other b'utyful things too tadious to mintion.
"'Och,' sez Tim, 'is that my bid? How will I git in widout tumblin' myself on the flure? Thim steps, did ye mane? Arrah, now, have done wid yer nonsince! Sure, I niver heard of goin' to bid wid a step-laddher afore.'
"'Thim's the fashi'n,' sez the futman.
"'To the divil wid the fashi'n!' sez Tim. 'What are ye laughin' at, ye ugly spalpeen? L'ave the light, an' go. Oh, murther!' sez Tim, whin he was all alone by hisself. 'If I wor out of this scrape, a thousand goold guineas wouldn't timpt me to do the likes agin.'
"An', wid that, he sarches the windys, manein' to make his escape, but they wor too high; an' thin he opens the dure saftly an' looks into the passiges, but they twisted all about, so he didn't dare to thry thim for fear they would be afther takin' him for a robber; so, wid many muttherin's an' moanin's, he lays hisself down on the bid wid all his clothes on, an', by an' by, falls into a throubled sleep.
"Well, all this time, ye may be sure young Masther Maurice wor not lettin' the grass grow undher his feet. So, whin he had bought the land, he takes a fresh baste an' hurries afther Tim. By hard ridin' he got to the town late that same night; an', whin he l'arned that Tim wor gone up to Carrigathroid all cock-a-hoop in his own fine clo'es an' jooels, he flies into a tearin' passion, and makes bould to ride over at wanst. As it happened, the squireen an' Miss Norah wor still up, for the raal genteels do kape mighty late hours; and so it worn't long afore he makes hisself beknownst to the ould jintleman an' his daughther, an' up an' tells 'em his sthory. Oh, but thin they all laughed more nor iver they did in their born days afore; more by token that the squireen wor glad to have a disilushin of the mysthery, an' Miss Norah bein' aiquilly pl'ased to find the thrue Masther Maurice wid the best quality manners, an', at the same time, so mortial han'some.
"'An' now,' sez Maurice, 'what'll I do wid that rogue of a Tim?'
"'L'ave him to me,' sez the squireen, wid a knowin' wink. 'Myself bein' a justus-o'-p'ace, a good frikenin' 'll be of sarvice to the saucy Omadhaun. But we'll say no more till the morn,' sez he; 'an', in the mane time, we'll thry an' find ye a supper an' a bed.'
"Well, to be sure, bright an' airly, while Tim wor tossin' an' tumblin' about in his fine flahool bid, an' dhramin' of witches, an' spooks, an' leprawhauns, an' even of the ould bouchal hisself, there's comes a t'undherin' whack at his dure; an', prisintly, in walks four sthrappin' fellows right to his bedside.
"'What's wantin'?' sez Tim, settin' boult up, wid his curly hair all untwistin' itself an' standin' on end like a porkepine's. 'Is it lookin' for me ye are?'
"'Troth, but ye're a quick hand at guessin',' sez the biggest man. 'Where's yer masther, ye thafe of the wureld? Tell me that.'
"'Oh, murther!' sez Tim. 'It's all out!'
"'Sure, he confisses it a'ready,' sez another. 'Bring him along, Tony.'
"'Confisses what?' sez Tim, wid his face as white as the bed-hangin's. 'Confisses what? Spake out, will ye?'
"'The murther!' sez Tony. 'Isn't thim his clo'es ye're wearin' now?'
"'Murther? Och! ochone! ochone!' sez Tim, wringin' his hands. 'That I iver lived to see this day! An' is the young masther dead? Why, thin, upon my oath an' my conscience, I niver had a hand in it! Sure, 'tis well the darlin' knowed I'd lay down my life for him. Oh, jintlemen, take pity on a poor innocent boy that's in the black throuble, an' all bekase he put on the young masther's things for a bit of spoort!'
"'An' a purty spoort ye'll find it,' sez the futman, for be sure he wor one of thim. 'But here comes Misther O'Brien.'
"'Stand aside, all of yees, an' let me look at the thraitor!' sez the squireen, burstin' into the room. 'Oh, 'tis there ye are, ye villin, wid yer mattymattox an' yer single an' double fluxshins. Saize him, men, wid a sthrong grip, an' bring him to the hall. 'Tis well myself's a magisther, an' can set upon the case at wanst.'
"'Oh, Misther O'Brien,' sez Tim, dhroppin' on his knees, ''tis innocent I am the day! I'll tell ye about it. You see, the young masther an' I'——
"'Isn't thim his clo'es?" sez the squireen.
"'Ayeh, but that's thrue. Let me tell ye, an' hear r'ason. The young masther an' I'——
"'Kape yer sthories to yerself,' sez the squireen, puttin' on a black frown. 'Why would I listen to yer diabolickle invintions whin thim things is witness agin ye? Hould him fast, boys, an' off wid him. May be I won't live to hang him, afther all.'
"'Help! help! murther!' sez Tim, sthrugglin' wid all the power that wor in him. 'I didn't do it! It's clane hands I have! I won't be murthered! L'ave me go, I say! What 'u'd ye hang a poor innocent for? Murther! murther!'
"All at wanst, as he wor skreekin' and kickin', who should walk in from behind the dure but Misther Maurice an' Miss Norah.
"'Whoop! whoroo!' sez Tim. 'There's the young masther now! Hands off wid ye! Don't ye see him wid Miss Norah?'
"'Hould on a minnit, men,' sez the squireen. 'May be 'tis a mistake, afther all. Is that young jintleman Misther Sullivan?'
"'Oh, to be sure it is,' sez Tim. 'Who else 'u'd it be, I'd like to know? Misther Maurice! Maurice, achorra, spake to thim, av ye pl'ase, an' tell thim it's yerself that I see.'
"'Why will I do that?' sez the young jintleman, laughin'. 'Sure, 'twould be wastin' my breath, an' they knowin' it a'ready.'
"'Oh, murther! see that now!' sez Tim. 'An' they a frikenin' me out of my siven sinses all the while. Ayeh! Maurice a vick, but I forgive ye the bad thrick yees played me the day.'
"'Musha, thin, an' thank ye for nothin',' sez Maurice; 'for I does be thinkin' that 'tis yerself, Tim, as is to blame, seein' the fine clo'es on yer back.'
"'Yea, thin,' sez the squireen, burstin' into a great laugh, ''twore hisself, sure enough, as played the bould thrick, an' bothered me all out wid his single an' his double fluxshins; but, bedad, if the thrick wor in his hands last night, sure he'll confiss I trumped it dacently this mornin'.'"
AMOR, VIVAX, FRAGILIS.
BY H. H., M. D.
Oh, love! What is love? 'Tis a tender vine,
Amid shadow and sunshine growing;
In the soft summer hours will its tendrils twine,
To cling when the wild winds are blowing.
Though through calm sunny days it will put forth its bloom,
It is greenest when tears are flowing;
And it climbeth—how mournfully!—oft o'er the tomb,
Gray shadows around it throwing.
The germs its fresh blossoms fling forth to the air
Are wafted, on white wings, to heaven;
Here though it may wither, yet, evergreen there,
A crown unto angels 'tis given!
Then tend it most gently. Though care bids it grow,
And it ever roots deepest in sorrow,
Yet the love that to-day smiles o'er dreariest woe,
Neglected, may wither to-morrow.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF SHOPPING.
BY MRS. ALARIC WATTS.
The truly lively and excellent Miss Mitford has, in her story of "The Black Velvet Bag," dilated very agreeably on the pleasures of the feminine occupation of Shopping! She has made its charms obvious to the meanest capacity; nay, more candid still, she has afforded us, now and then, a glimpse of its many pleasant delusions. She is, throughout, the busy, intelligent actor in this everyday drama of domestic life. She has admitted us fully and fairly to her confidence, from the preliminary "Inventory of Wants," with its accompaniment of a full purse, to the finale of a full budget and an empty exchequer!
Let not the above admission (honestly made), however, induce any one to suppose that the subject must necessarily be exhausted. On the contrary, she has not even alluded, in the remotest degree, to that which I hold to be its chief delight—its crowning glory; namely, the harvest of enjoyment which its many phases present to the inactive, though not uninterested, spectator of its whereabout.
"I do wish that you would lay aside your work, and accompany me in a round of shopping," was the opening address of an early morning visitor. "I really have so many commissions to execute that it would be an act of charity to afford me the benefit of your good taste and excellent judgment!"
Who could resist a request so flatteringly preferred? The work was laid aside, and the request complied with on the instant; and within a quarter of an hour we were set down at the first stage of our pleasant expedition.
The magazin that was honored by our selection on the present occasion held a middle rank between the aristocratic pretensions of Howell and James's, and the honest bourgeois reputation of Tottenham House! My friend was of that class of elegant economists who go to the fountain-head for the sample, and to the principal stream for the supply. The initiated will be at no loss to decide that Swan and Edgar's was our mart.
As I was not a principal on the present occasion, the pas was, of course, assumed by my companion. On the moment of our entrance, offers of services were obsequiously proffered, and, to my great surprise, were as courteously evaded. My friend was a tactician, and, fully alive to her own infirmity, was not so rash as to venture on an unproved agent. Former experience had revealed to her on whose head the organ of patience was most largely developed, and as its possessor happened to be engaged, my friend, like a wise general, was content to forego a present convenience, in order to secure a future advantage. She, therefore, intimated that she preferred being waited on by Miss A., and added, she was quite content to await her leisure on the present occasion.
The martyr-like expression of Miss A.'s countenance gave place to one of great complacency, the result, perhaps, of the 'compliment implied by her selection, since it must have been gratifying to feel that merit is sometimes appreciated; and no one can deny that, among the virtues, Patience has always ranked as a cardinal!
A few minutes sufficed to surround us with silks and satins, ribbons and velvets; a few more were consumed in the discussion of "the unusual prevalence" of "flat colors" and "neutral tints," together with conjectures as to the duration of this sombre mode, which soon gave place to the important business before us. My friend became serious and oracular; murmured of "harmony and contrast;" and, in the words of our divine Milton—
"With dispatchful looks in haste
She turns on (most becoming) thoughts intent,
What choice to choose, for delicacy best,
What order to contrive, as not to mix
Hues not well joined, inelegant; but bring
Shade after shade upheld by kindliest change."
She was fairly in her vocation, and I, well assured that an hour or two would elapse before my "good taste" would be in requisition, proceeded to solace my leisure by watching the sayings and doings of my neighbors of the opposite counter.
"Do you happen to have anything new for dresses?" was the first inquiry of a pair of languid-looking young ladies, evidently afflicted with a certain quantity of money and of time to be disposed of. "We want something very odd and very new." The shopman inquired of "price and texture." At this leading question the ladies looked aghast. "Oh! they did not know; only they wanted something very odd and very pretty—something that had never been seen by anybody else." And with this luminous description, the young man departed; and, after an interval of short duration, returned, followed by two subordinates bending beneath the weight of silk, wool, and cotton, and of patterns the most diverse and strange. Nondescripts of a genus botanical, flowers without stalks, and stalks without flowers. Others of the style geometrical—angles, acute and obtuse; circles, and segments of every size. A few presented strata of every sombre hue, forcibly reminding the spectator of geology and Dr. Lyell! The young ladies were more than satisfied: where all was so exquisitely "odd," the difficulty of choice was proportionably increased. They selected and rejected, and finally, embarrassed by the riches before them, ordered a dozen to be sent home for further consideration, and the final decision of mamma!
Our fair young friends were scarcely seated in their carriage, when their places were taken by a middle-aged lady of a very different stamp, who, emerging from one of the suburban omnibuses, bustled into the shop "and begged to be attended to immediately, as her time was precious." No one could look upon her and doubt it. That imposing character—a thoroughly good manager—was revealed in every word and gesture. There was decision in her voice, her step, her eye; no need had she of written memoranda to help a slippery memory. Her orders were issued with distinctness, clearness, and precision. "She desired to see some lady's four-thread fine white cotton stockings, without figure and without clocks; some lady's dark French kid habit gloves, sewed with silk of the same color, with studs at the wrist; some Irish linen (described with equal minuteness); graduated tapes, and assorted pins." Here was discrimination; no causeless second journey did thoughtlessness on her part impose on any one. The pieces of linen were opened, wetted, rubbed, and finally a thread was loosened, to test the strength of the fabric. The gloves were singly stretched across the hand, and finally the stockings were separated and turned inside out, that their quality might be ascertained beyond a doubt. I fancied the shopman winced a little at the latter experiment; but who could gainsay that quiet decision of manner which so plainly announced "I pay for what I have, and choose to have the best for my money"? A pencil was quietly drawn forth—a name written by the lady on each separate article. The bill was carefully examined—found correct—paid, and with a final chink of the purse, and strict orders as to time in the delivery of the parcel, the lady departed; and I could not help thinking we all breathed with more freedom when relieved of the presence of this very superior woman.
An interesting family group were the next to present themselves in the persons of a beautiful widow lady, perhaps of some five-and-thirty years of age; a sister, some ten years younger; a blooming miss in her teens, and a delicate-looking little boy of some five years old.
Of this party the younger ladies assumed the executive, and requested to see some dresses for second mourning. The counter forthwith groaned under the weight of silks and stuffs,
"Black, blue, and gray, with all their trumpery;"
and really the variety was so great that the office of selection seemed far from an easy one. The younger ladies were in high spirits, and proceeded to canvass the peculiar merit of each article with great energy. There certainly is something very attractive in unsunned fabrics, even though they appertain not to ourselves. I felt quite interested in the debate, and when the discussion became warm, on the comparative merits of French gray or French lavender, I could hardly forbear from offering a casting vote on the subject.
Meantime the person most interested in the decision sat by silent and abstracted, her eyes fixed on the face of the boy—her thoughts probably in the tomb of her husband. At length it became necessary to make a selection. The lady was appealed to. She seemed as though awaking from a dream, and, glancing at the shining heaps before her, said, "Too gay, much too gay." Her sister, in a low voice, appeared to expostulate with her, for the words "two whole years" were distinctly audible. The animated look of the little girl became subdued as she gazed on her mother's face. She pushed aside the brighter colors and drew some black silk over them, and was silent. Not so, however, her aunt! She had evidently resolved that the children at least should mourn no longer; with a tone of authority she desired the lavender silk to be cut off, and with a look of mingled pity and contempt heard her sister order another "Paramatta." Too indignant to interfere further, she contented herself with adding "and crape, I suppose." The lady did not reply—the shopman, probably inferring her wishes from her silence, produced the anathematized material, a liberal quantity was cut off, and the party slowly retired.
A merry-eyed, dandyfied-looking young sailor, with a complexion much bronzed beneath a fervid sun, was the next member of the dramatis personæ. He desired to see some silk pocket-handkerchiefs; India silk—no other would do. A variety was placed before him, together with some of British manufacture, greatly superior to the veritable Bandanas! It might be so—they were more beautiful, certainly; but India handkerchiefs he must have—ay, and with the true peculiar spicy smell; that odor only to be acquired by a four months' voyage in company with cinnamon and sandal-wood. After a little delay, even this desideratum was achieved. A dozen were cut off, each folded in a separate paper, and each and every one directed by his own hand! During this ceremony, a very contagious smile irradiated his features, which, gathering strength with every name he wrote, finally exploded into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Grave people turned round to stare and frown; and the youth, rather abashed by the sound of his own laugh, murmured something in an apologetic tone, and, hastily paying for his purchase, quitted the shop. There was something odd in all this. At length the truth flashed on my mind. The youth had just returned from India, and was gifted with a goodly train of unreasonable cousins, all of whom "had expected some trifle from the Land of the East." Poor fellow!—as though a hundred a year were a greater fortune in Hindoostan than in England, or self-denial a whit easier of practice on the banks of the Ganges than the banks of the Thames. At length, his means admitting of a partial satisfaction of his expectants, he had taken the only means in his power to amend his short-comings. Poor fellow!—may his pious fraud meet with a rich harvest of gratitude; and, above all, may he have wit enough to keep his own counsel!
For a few minutes the little stage that had afforded me so much interest was vacant. It was, however, shortly filled by a group well calculated to afford
"A bright atonement for the brief delay."
It consisted of a lady of some five-and-forty years, with face and figure well preserved; and which, though lacking the delicacy of youth, was redeemed by an expression scarcely less attractive. She took her seat with a quiet dignity of manner—the result, I fancied, rather of a well-balanced mind than of conventional attainment. She was accompanied by a pretty sentimental girl of about eighteen, a brisk little maiden of twelve, buoyant with delight at having escaped the school-room at an unwonted hour, and a staid-looking Young Person, probably a dependent cousin.
The party seated themselves with some regard to personal comfort, as though their business was likely to be of some duration. Their commands were, the indispensables of a lady's outfit. During this period, the young lady looked on with a kind of lofty indifference, and, when appealed to, gravely declined interference, leaving the matter to be arranged by the lady mother and the useful cousin. These affairs satisfactorily adjusted, the externals were next in demand. The smile of the child betrayed the secret—they were purchasing the trousseau of a bride. In vain was the sentimentalist appealed to in the articles of handkerchiefs and gloves—she was cold, polite, but indifferent. This I thought strange, till I remembered she was a fiancée, almost as good as a married lady already, and had therefore some dignity to sustain. At length the brilliant externals were spread before her. What young lady of eighteen could maintain the appearance of indifference? It was not in nature—not in female nature. The statue descended from its pedestal; entered quietly and gracefully into the details before it; made selections with the taste of an artist and knowledge of a woman of fashion (two qualities rarely combined); bought various trifles adapted for presents, and would have chosen as many more had not mamma held up a banker's check! The warning was understood—one and ninepence was received in change of a bill of one hundred pounds—and still they lingered. The bride elect had a purchase of her own to make. A shawl—a good, but not a fine one—was selected and paid for by herself, and presented, with a kind pressure of the hand (which would elsewhere have been a kiss), to the useful cousin. The carriage drew up, and the party retired in search of the millinery elsewhere!
Scarcely was the seat of honor vacated by the bridal party, when it was filled by another matron and her fair daughter; but no comfortable carriage set her down—no obsequious footman ushered her into Messrs. Swan and Edgar's emporium. The lady before me—for she was a lady, despite her russet gown and plain straw bonnet—had originally been as richly gifted by nature as her predecessor; but care, not time, had evidently wrought its ravages on her countenance. She looked faded and worn, took her seat with an air of embarrassment, and with a slight nervousness of manner asked to speak with "one of the principals of the establishment." During the brief interval previous to his arrival, her countenance underwent many changes, as though she were nerving herself for some painful effort. The arrival of the official, however, at once restored her self-possession. With a calm, sweet voice, she stated her business. She said she was the wife of a naval officer of limited means about to emigrate, and wished to make rather an extensive purchase, but that, as under such circumstances quantity rather than fashion was the object of her attainment, she desired to know if she could be thus supplied on terms of advantage? The reply was in the affirmative, and, with a delicacy of feeling that did honor to the speaker, he himself superintended her commission. He felt instinctively that he was addressing a gentlewoman in the best sense of the term; as much material was paid for by a fifty pound note as would have clad a dozen people. The fearful plunge once over, the manner of the lady became more assured, her daughter looked fairer than ever, and I felt, despite the frowns of fortune, she was an enviable woman.
How much, how very much, said I to myself, are the unavoidable evils of life felt, when (as in the present instance) they fall to the lot of one gifted with the step-dame dower of acute sensibility. To such the privations of poverty are far less galling than the ever-present dread of the "proud man's contumely." To minds thus constituted, misfortune feels like crime, and nothing short of the wisdom that is from above can enable its possessor to bear the burthen unrepiningly. I looked upon the lady before me, and felt, despite the lowly attire and faded form, that of the many whose riddle I had read, she was to me the heroine of the day.
The present was forgotten; my mind had travelled to scenes beyond the Atlantic. Already had I
"Built them a bower,
Where stern pride hath no power,
And the fear of to-morrow their bliss could not mar."
Should the brave lieutenant, the beau cousin of that sweet girl, accompany them? Or should the handsome curate follow after? I had not decided the matter, when I was cruelly aroused from my delightful reverie, to decide, where no difference was, between two rival satins of the purest white, and after exercising much ingenuity in discovering the favorite of my friend, I boldly declared for the opposite candidate, maintained my opinion with very becoming pertinacity, and at length gradually and graciously suffered myself to be convinced; and again in the words of Milton I admitted her choice to be
"Wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best."
The principal business of the day being thus happily accomplished, we resolved to leave the rest till to-morrow, and returned home mutually charmed with each other. My friend had labored diligently in her vocation, to engraft her own good taste on half a dozen dowdy cousins, whilst I retired to fill another page in the note-book of a day-dreamer.
GODEY'S COURSE OF LESSONS IN DRAWING.
Drawing has been generally looked upon as an accomplishment, not considered as an essential—as ornamental rather than indispensable in the education of the rising generation. The pleasures and advantages of its pursuit have been almost solely enjoyed by the rich; while they have been, to a certain extent, as a sealed book to the great majority of those now designated emphatically the people. So far from looking upon a knowledge of the art of drawing as necessary merely to the artist or designer, we hold that it should form an essential part of general education; that its proper place is in the daily school; that its principles and practice should be inculcated in the daily lessons; in short, that equally with reading or writing, drawing should be deemed one of the branches of everyday tuition. We are now fully alive to the importance of cultivating what are designated "habits of taste," and the appreciation of the beautiful in art; and this chiefly—if for nothing else—from the practical value derivable therefrom in the improvement of our arts and manufactures. By a thorough understanding of the details of drawing, an accuracy of perception and a facility for marking and retaining forms and arrangements are readily available. It is, then, of importance to place within the reach of all a means by which the art in its varied branches may be easily communicated. The design of the present article is to contribute to this desideratum. We shall make our remarks as plain as possible, and as concise as the nature of the subject will admit of; and shall give unsparingly well-digested illustrations, believing that in this subject, at least, much is to be imparted to the pupil through the medium of the eye. It is to be hoped that this union of the pen with the pencil will be of great utility in quickly imparting a knowledge of the subjects under discussion. Before proceeding to our more immediate purpose, we shall offer a few remarks elucidatory of the plan or bearing of the system, by which we mean to be guided in presenting the requisite knowledge to the student.
On the supposition that the pupil at the outset is utterly ignorant of the art, we commence our instructions by elucidating FIRST PRINCIPLES. As all drawings are reducible to certain lines and figures, we hold it necessary to enable the student to draw these elementary parts with the utmost facility; leading him, by a series of examples, from the drawing of a simple line up to the most complicated sketch or object which may be offered to him; and then, by an advance to the more intricate rules, making plain the laws of vision (the foundation of perspective), so as to delineate correctly the various views in which they may be presented to his notice; the aim of the introductory lessons being to enable the student thoroughly to understand the reason why every operation is performed as directed, not merely to give him a facility for copying any determined object without reference to principles.
The student may, by dint of practice, acquire a facility for this merely mechanical style of imitation or copying; but, unless he is well grounded in fundamental principles, his operations will be vague and uncertain. It may be considered true that the better we are acquainted with the first principles of an art, its basis or foundation, so much more intimately conversant shall we be with all the intricacies of its diversified practice, and the less easily damped by its real or apparent difficulties. Students too frequently expend much time almost entirely in vain, from want of attention to this truth, trite and commonplace as it may be deemed. In acquiring the practice of this art, they are too eager to pass from the simple rules, the importance of which they think lightly of. A sure and well-laid foundation will not only give increased security to the building, but will enable the workmen to proceed with confidence to the proper carrying out of the design in its entirety; on the contrary, an ill-laid foundation only engenders distrust, and may cause total failure. We are the more inclined to offer these remarks, being aware that students at the commencement of a course of tuition are apt, in their eagerness to be able to "copy" a drawing with facility, to overlook the importance of the practice which alone enables them satisfactorily to do so. It is the wisest course of procedure to master the details of an art before proceeding to an acquaintance with its complicated examples.
We would, then, advise students to pay particular attention to the instructions in their ENTIRETY which we place before them; if they be truly anxious to acquire a speedy yet accurate knowledge of the art, they will assuredly find their account in doing so. Instead of vaguely wandering from example to example, as would be the case by following the converse of our plan, yet copying they know not how or why, they will be taught to draw all their combinations from simple rules and examples, we hope as simply stated; and thus will proceed, slowly it may be, but all the more surely, from easy to complicated figures, drawing the one as readily as the other, and this because they will see all their details, difficult to the uninitiated, but to them a combination of simple lines as "familiar as household words."