AND WHAT HAPPENED TO IT.
E
thel was always trying to write poetry, but it was so hard to find rhymes. When the cat killed the big pink begonia, she did manage to find a rhyme; and she thought the epitaph looked beautiful printed in violet ink on a piece of paper—
"Here my poor begonia lies.
Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."
These were the only verses Ethel ever made. Perhaps we are beginning near the end of the story. You may want to know what the big pink begonia was, and how the cat killed it.
The beginning of this sad story was a red ribbon bow with a kitten behind it: the bow was so big and the cat was so little, that the ribbon looked much more important than the kitten that wore it. Ethel called the kitten Kafoozalum: Tom talked of the bow with the cat behind it; to which Ethel retorted: "The ribbon becomes her very much, Tom. Boys have no taste."
Early in the summer—about the time that the kitten was a weak little squeaker in a basket of straw with the cat of the house next door—Ethel was given a plant as a present. There had never before been a begonia in her mother's greenhouse; and Ethel knew very little about it, except that any rough treatment would kill it. The begonia grew very fast. It became a tall plant, with beautiful large reddish-veined leaves, and it was covered with a cloud of pink blossoms.
One day Ethel ran out of the conservatory in a hurry and left the door open; and Kafoozalum—the red bow with the kitten behind it—ran into the conservatory in a hurry, as she had never had the chance before. Tom, coming home from school, went, watering-pot in hand, to attend to his geranium-slips; he found the door open, and the kitten nearly on its head in frantic attempts to roll in the begonia pot.
A few weeks after, all the pink bloom was gone. The begonia, branch and leaf, died away. There was nothing left but a dry brown stump.
"It is dead!" cried Ethel. "A knock or a rub kills the young shoots. Mrs. Smith told me so. Kafoozalum rubbed and knocked it enough to kill it all."
"Tears! tears for the begonia!" laughed Tom. "Why, Ethel, I thought nothing but the death of Kafoozalum would reduce you to tears."
"Ah! Tom, but you don't know how fond I was of that plant. It was the only one I ever had. I feel almost as if it was really alive once, and dead now! I shall make it a grave and bury it."
Tom seemed very much amused at this idea—because the begonia was buried already in its own pot—and Ethel could not bear his making fun about it. So she ran away to her mother's room, with tears in her eyes.
"Mother, how do you spell 'begonia'?"
"Why, dear? who are you writing to?"
"My poor begonia is quite dead," sobbed Ethel, with a gulp of grief. "I want to write its epitaph."
"You mustn't cry about it now, Ethel dear. It could not feel. I shall get you another next summer."
But the only consolation Ethel could get was the writing of the epitaph. She worked at this for half an hour, and smeared herself very much with violet ink.
"Here is laid my pink begonia," was her first attempt.
Tom came into the room to learn his lessons at the other side of the table.
"Tom," she said, "please don't say your verbs out loud. I can't write poetry when you do. Tell me a rhyme for begonia. 'Here is laid my pink begonia.'"
"'Toss it over the wall, or let it alone-will-you?' That is the only rhyme in the English language," said Tom.
"You are very unkind," said Ethel, leaning her cheek on an inky hand, and rubbing her hair till it was a wild black mane. Then she tried what would happen if she began in quite a different way. At last she read out in sad tones:—
"Here my poor begonia lies,
Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."
To which Tom only answered in a jaunty tone, throwing his penknife out of his pocket.
"Here's my knife to bury your roots,
Lock the greenhouse, and wipe your boots."
Ethel's mouth gave a little twitch; but she would not laugh when Tom made fun of her poetry.
She went into the greenhouse, carrying a piece of black stuff and a pair of scissors, the penknife, and her verses printed in violet.
Then she dug a hole in the earthen floor, under the greenhouse shelf, in a warm corner near the pipes. Next she dug her begonia root out of the pot, popped it into the hole, and covered it up, and left a bit of stick standing upright, holding in a notch the wonderful epitaph.
Tom found her there, drying and smearing her face with an earthy corner of her pinafore. Tom had Kafoozalum peeping out from under his jacket-front; but Ethel sobbed afresh at the sight of the red bow with the kitten behind it.
"Come and take care of my geraniums with me, Ethel," said Tom.
"Oh! boo-hoo-no-no! You are very unkind."
"Why, what have I done? I didn't roll on my head in the begonia pot, did I, pussy?"
"Oh! boo-hoo—go 'way!"
So Tom went away. But the next time Ethel went into the greenhouse with a bright face, she could not help laughing at Tom's addition to her verses. She read:—
"Here my poor begonia lies,
Drop a tear and wipe your eyes—
The door was open—if you had locked it,
The bow with the kitten couldn't have knocked it."
The winter passed; and Ethel's birthday came in the spring.
"Here is a silver pencil for you to write poetry with," said Tom, mischievously. Poetry or not the silver pencil was worth having, and Ethel felt that teasing Tom was fond of her. Ah! what could she do without Tom, or without the teasing either? "Come into the greenhouse," he said; "there's a begonia for you."
"Is there? I thought I had all my presents."
She went racing to the greenhouse, and came back with a disappointed face. "Why do you cheat me, Tom? This is not the first of April."
"Come and see." He led her into the greenhouse to the pink begonia's grave.
They both stooped down to the corner of the earthen floor near the hot pipes.
There was a dark red folded leaf growing above the earth.
"Oh, Tom! it is my own dear old plant."
"Yes—it is growing up again for another summer," he said. "I found it a week ago; but I kept it for a birthday surprise."
"Tom," said Ethel, seizing his arm in her delight, "put my poetry in your pocket, and let us go and ask mother if we should put it in a pot."
"What? put the poetry in a pot? Whatever for?"
"Oh! no, I didn't mean that at all—I mean——"
"Never mind—here go the verses, though they've served their turn."
So the pink plant went into a pot again, and grew more beautiful than ever; and the only poetry Ethel ever made went into Tom's pocket.
STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
By Edwin Hodder ("Old Merry").
VI.—THE MONUMENTS.
A
s we walk round the building once more, I shall not attempt even to name the greater number of the Monuments, but confine myself to telling you something about the more remarkable ones. The earliest monuments were really the tombs of persons buried here; many of the modern ones simply commemorate illustrious men and women buried elsewhere.
We will first make the round of the chapels, and begin with that of St. Benedict, where once an indulgence of two years and forty days could be obtained by hearing mass at the altar. But the altar has gone, and in its place rises the stately tomb of Frances Howard, Countess of Hertford, whose effigy lies where once stood the candlesticks and sacred host. Close by is the tomb of Archbishop Langham, who was buried here in 1376, with his head towards the altar, little dreaming that that altar would ever be displaced to make room for the tomb of a heretic lady.
Through an ancient oaken screen we enter the adjacent Chapel of St. Edmund. Here is the once beautiful tomb of William de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, and half-brother to Henry III. Some of the monuments in this chapel are of great interest as examples of ancient art, but there is not much to say about their occupants. Frances Hokes, who died in 1622, is represented in Greek costume, and Horace Walpole and others have highly praised this statue. Close by lies Lady Knollys, who attended Anna Boleyn on the scaffold. In the monument of Elizabeth Russell we have the earliest of the sitting figures, which have been so strongly condemned by many who maintain that a recumbent or bowed figure is the only proper one for a tomb. Her marble finger points to a death's-head at her feet, and hence arose the story that she died from a prick of a needle, and some chose to add that it was a judgment upon her for working on Sunday. But we must leave the men and women "of high degree" who throng this chapel, and the tiny alabaster babies of Edward III. in their little cradle, and pass on to the Chapel of St. Nicholas. This chapel is rich in monuments of the Elizabethan era, and was once bright with gold and colouring.
Of the royal tombs in the Chapel of Henry VII. I have already spoken, but there are some others of great interest. One bay, or chapel, is nearly filled by the monument of James I.'s favourite "Steenie"—George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who was assassinated by Felton at Portsmouth, in 1628. In another bay are two beautiful modern monuments, harmonising well with their surroundings: the one of the Duke of Montpensier, brother of Louis Philippe, the other of the late Dean Stanley. The Duke of Richmond and his beautiful Duchess, "La Belle Stuart," occupy a bay with their colossal canopied tomb. Of the other tombs in the Chapel of Henry VII., we should specially mention that of General Monk in the south aisle. He had a splendid funeral. For the three weeks that he lay in state forty gentlemen of good family stood as mutes with their backs against the wall, twenty each day alternately.
In the Chapel of St. Paul is the once gilded tomb of Lord Bourchier, the standard-bearer of Henry V. at the battle of Agincourt. The altar has given place to the tomb of Frances Sydney, the wife of Ratcliff, Earl of Sussex, who figures in Scott's story of "Kenilworth." Near at hand is the tomb of Sir Thomas Bromley, the Lord Chancellor, who presided at the trial of Mary, Queen of Scots. But the chief feature of this chapel is the colossal marble effigy of James Watt, the celebrated improver of the steam-engine—a splendid monument, from the chisel of Sir F. Chantrey.
The adjoining chapel, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, contains the tomb of one of Cromwell's officers, Colonel Edward Popham. Where the altar once stood stands the loftiest monument in the Abbey—the tomb of Queen Elizabeth's Chamberlain, Lord Hundsdon. The old statesman had waited long for an earldom, which the queen had granted and revoked three times over. She came at last to see him, and lay the patent and the robes of a peer on his bed. "Madam," said the old man, "seeing you counted me not worthy of this honour whilst I was living, I count myself unworthy of it now that I am dying."
Visitors are not admitted into the beautifully sculptured, but dark, little chapel of Abbot Islip. Just beyond it we enter what is now called the eastern aisle of the south transept, formerly the separate chapels. Here we find the celebrated tomb of Sir Francis Vere. Above the warrior's effigy, supported by four kneeling knights, is a plain canopy, upon which lies his helm and breastplate. Looking round, we see many interesting memorials: Admiral Kempenfelt, who went down in the Royal George; Sir John Franklin, who perished among Polar icebergs: Telford, the engineer; Sir Humphry Davy, the philosopher: all these and many others are commemorated in this aisle.
Emerging now into the north transept, we find ourselves amongst what has been termed "the dead Parliament of Britain." Famous statesmen look down upon us from their marble pedestals, and beneath the central pavement are the graves of Chatham, Pitt, Fox, Castlereagh, Canning, Wilberforce, Grattan, and Palmerston. The magnificent monument to the great Earl of Chatham cost £6,000. Close beside it stands the huge pile of sculpture by Nollekens, in memory of the three captains who fell in Rodney's famous victory over the French in April, 1782. Nearly opposite to Chatham's monument is Chantrey's fine statue of Canning. On each side the transept, and in the contiguous western aisle, the eye rests upon sculptured marble bearing honoured names—Warren Hastings, Richard Cobden, Palmerston, Beaconsfield, and others whose lives are part of our country's history. As we stand here we may well remember the words of Macaulay: "In no other cemetery do so many great citizens lie within so narrow a space. High over these venerable graves towers the stately monument of Chatham, and from above, his effigy, graven by a cunning hand, seems still, with eagle face and outstretched arm, to bid England to be of good cheer, and to hurl defiance at her foes."
From the north transept we pass to the nave along the north aisle of the choir. Here we enter what has been termed a "Musicians' Corner;" amongst a few other organists and composers lies Henry Purcell, whose epitaph (written by Dryden) declares that he has gone to "that blessed place where only his harmonies can be excelled." The sitting figure of the great philanthropist, William Wilberforce, a little farther on, is not generally admired.
Passing through the gate into the nave, we see against the choir screen on our left the monument of Sir Isaac Newton, with a tedious list of his discoveries. Proceeding along the north aisle we see to the left the new pulpit for the Sunday evening services, and near it is a brass of life-size on a slab covering the grave of the eminent engineer, Robert Stephenson. Another slab close by shows the Victoria Tower and a ground-plan of the Houses of Parliament. This is the grave of the great architect, Sir Charles Barry. The famous African explorer, David Livingstone, lies in the centre of the nave. Turning again to the north wall we see about the centre of the numerous monuments one to the Right Hon. Spencer Perceval, First Lord of the Treasury, who was shot in the House of Commons by Bellingham, in the afternoon of May 11th, 1812. In this aisle I was going to say lies, but more correctly stands the body of Ben Jonson, who is buried in an upright position.
At the end of the aisle are the monuments of a few famous statesmen. Among them are Mackintosh the historian, Tierney the orator, Lord Holland, Zachary Macaulay, friend of Wilberforce, and father of the great historian; and Charles James Fox. The great rivals, Fox and Pitt, as we have seen, are buried near each other in the transept. Their monuments are also near together—that of Pitt, by Westmacott, represents the great orator trampling on the French Revolution, in the attitude well known to the House of Commons at that day.
Passing some immense military memorials of little interest nowadays, and the busts of Canon Kingsley and the poet Wordsworth, we now turn along the southern wall of the nave. Here is the monument of the dramatic poet Congreve, and that of Admiral Tyrrell, who was buried at sea in 1766, always attracts the notice of visitors. Many allegorical emblems surround the representation of the Admiral's resurrection from the depths of the sea. The clouds above are so like pancakes as to have given the tomb its familiar name of "The Pancake Monument." Farther east we reach the monument of the unfortunate Major André, executed as a spy by General Washington in the War of Independence. The monument has been frequently injured and repaired, as the heads of Washington or André have been again and again broken off by persons having strong sympathies for one side or the other.
In the south aisle of the choir we pass on the left the curious monument of Thomas Thynne, representing in relief the murder of that gentleman in Pall Mall. In this aisle also is the monument of the well-known Dr. Watts. It was erected here a century after his death; and still more recently two other great Dissenters were commemorated close by—John and Charles Wesley—the former the founder of the religious society that bears his name, and the latter justly called "the sweet singer of Methodism."
Passing the remarkable monument which shows us Admiral Shovel dressed as a dandy of the period, and reclining on cushions under a canopy, we enter the south transept, or Poets' Corner. Geoffrey Chaucer was the pioneer of the children of genius in this hallowed spot. He was buried here in 1400. Nearly two hundred years passed on, then Spenser was laid near by. As we gaze round us we behold such a crowd of honoured names that it is difficult to select any for special mention. Just at our feet is the black marble slab that covers the grave of Charles Dickens. Close by lie the historians Grote and Lord Macaulay. Other gravestones cover the mortal remains of the wit Sheridan, the learned Dr. Johnson, Old Parr (who lived under ten kings and queens, from Edward IV. to Charles I.), &c. The monument of Cowley recalls his grand funeral, which was attended by about a hundred coaches full of nobility and eminent personages. Close by is a noble bust with the simple inscription—"J. Dryden." The monuments to Milton and Shakespeare were erected here by admirers long after their death, and are quite unworthy of their fame. Gray, Thomson, Goldsmith, and many other poets who were not buried here, are commemorated on the walls and columns. The beautiful bust of the poet Longfellow is one of the most recent additions to the interesting features of Poets' Corner. A tablet to Granville Sharp reminds us how that good man exerted himself on behalf of the slave Somerset, and procured from twelve English judges the famous decision "that as soon as any slave sets his foot on English ground he is free." The allegorical pile in memory of the "Great Duke of Argyll" strikes the eye of every visitor. The monument to Dr. Busby, the famous Westminster schoolmaster, is a fine piece of sculpture. Addison represents Sir Roger de Coverley as standing before it and saying, "Dr. Busby! a great man; he whipped my grandfather; a very great man! I should have gone to him myself, if I had not been a blockhead—a very great man." If we turn round we see the statue of Addison himself, by Westmacott, in the farther corner of the transept. He was very fond of meditating in the old Abbey, and in the Spectator are many beautiful thoughts suggested by his visits to the place. I will conclude our survey of the tombs with a few of his words:—"When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies within me; when I read the epitaph of the beautiful every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who have deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men who divided the world by their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday and some that died six hundred years ago, I consider that day when we shall all make our appearance together."
THE BIRDS' PETITION.
W
e four little birdies, scarce able to fly,
Are starv'd with the cold of the frosty sky;
Through the trees and the hedgerows the white snow is driven,
And lies around everywhere under the heaven;
It hangs on the woods, it covers the wold,
It spreads over city, and hamlet, and hold.
Happy ye little folk! sheltered at home
From the blasts that over the white world roam;
You are merry and gay 'mid your plentiful stores,
Oh, think of us ready to die out of doors!
The ground yields no worm, few berries the trees,
Oh, throw us some crumbs, little folk, if you please!
So, when the summer-time comes with the flowers
Decking the meadows, the wild wood, and bowers,
Every garden and grove shall resound with our song:
Oh, hear now our cry, for the winter is long!
The berries are scarce, so deep lies the snow,
But there's comfort in crumbs for birdies, you know!
"begging for crumbs." See [p. 368].
The Editor's Pocket-book.
