A FAIRY STORY.
B
ehind, before, in the branches of the trees, amongst the blades of grass, creeping under the mushrooms, swinging on the foxgloves, and clinging to the ragged-robin, were the fairies.
Blanche and Belinda did not see them, because of the bright golden sunshine, which hides the fairies from mortal sight; but the fairies saw the two girls walking arm in arm through the wood.
Blanche stooped to gather a splendid crimson foxglove, which she shook gently, saying,
"The bells shall ring
For the fairy king;
Ding, dong, bell!
Ding, dong, bell!"
But, alas! as she shook it, no fewer than seven little fairy pages fell to the ground. They were not much hurt, but they were very indignant at being knocked about in that manner; also the feathers in their caps were much ruffled.
They sprang to their feet feeling very angry, especially as the other fairies were laughing.
"We are the Queen's pages,
And very great our rage is!"
they shouted.
And then, as they looked more carefully at one another and saw how tossed and tumbled were their pretty suits of embroidered white velvet, they burst out crying, saying—
"We are not fit to be seen
By her Majesty the Queen;
Our clothes are all blue and green,
Who will wash and make them clean?"
"I will," said the Fairy Queen; "I saw it all, and I am very angry.
My pages shall not be Treated so shamefully!"
And her face grew as red as a peony.
"walking arm in arm"
But Blanche and Belinda knew nothing of all this; they had not any idea that the fairies were in the wood.
Blanche had just thrown down the foxglove, for suddenly there issued out of every flower clusters of bees, that buzzed and hummed and made a dense cloud around the two little sisters until they could not see one another.
II.
And then——
Why, suddenly all the bees disappeared as quickly as they had come, and all was sunshine and brightness again; and Belinda was not stung, though she looked at her arms and hands, and felt her forehead and cheeks and neck, expecting to be covered with great smarting lumps. Instead of which, she had never been freer from pain; and the world around had never looked so beautiful as it did to-day, with so many butterflies of divers colours, and great green dragon-flies, that she wondered where they all came from. The wood-path, too, grew more lovely, and patches of blue sky appeared through the branches of the trees.
All at once she cried out—
"Blanche! Blanche!"
For Blanche was nowhere to be seen; and though she hunted in and out among the trees and bushes, she could not find her. No one answered, except the echoes repeating, "Blanche! Blanche! where are you?"
And then Belinda sat down, and she began to cry.
III.
Belinda cried for half an hour without stopping, and her eyes were swollen up, and her cheeks wet with tears. Some one was standing by her, and a voice was saying—
"Why are you crying, little girl, I pray,
On such a pleasant sunny summer day?
I'm a little packman, with my funny pack.
Such a weight! oh, such a weight! to carry on my back.
What will you buy, maiden? what will you buy?
Half a dozen handkerchiefs, to wipe your cheeks quite dry?"
Belinda looked up, and in her surprise left off crying. Before her stood a small boy with a bundle of wheat over his shoulder. He looked tired and melancholy, and not by any means as jovial as might have been expected from his words.
"Handkerchiefs!" said Belinda, disdainfully. "Why, you've nothing but a wisp of straw over your shoulder, and it can't be any weight."
"he ... stood with his hat in hand."
"Try it," said the boy, throwing it down upon the ground.
But Belinda took no notice of it.
"And you're not a packman, only a little boy," she said, angrily; "how can you tell such stories?"
The melancholy-looking boy answered—
"Perhaps I'm a king in disguise,
Although of a very small size;
If you were a little more wise,
You might find in my pack a great prize.
However, I'll leave it for you, and the first young gentleman you meet with will, perhaps, pick it up and carry it home for you; for you will soon find you are not able to lift it yourself."
And so saying the boy turned away, and Belinda was again alone.
"Not lift a few ears of corn," she said, giving a slight kick to the heap at her feet.
But as her foot touched it it was no longer a bundle of wheat, but a sack tied close at the mouth, and it expanded until it was as large as Belinda herself. Added to which there appeared to be something alive in it, for it moved from side to side as though some creature were struggling inside.
"Oh! perhaps it is Blanche!" exclaimed Belinda, "and the boy has brought her back. He said 'a great prize,' and a king in disguise. He may have been a fairy, who can tell?"
And she tried to open the sack, but to no purpose, for she only tore her fingers and made them bleed, and the blood dropped down on her frock and stained it, and she grew very hot.
There was a glassy pool close by, so she knelt down and bathed her hands and face; and as she rose up she caught sight of herself in the pool, and for a moment she scarcely knew herself, for she was dressed so grandly. She had on a pink satin gown and a white satin apron with cherry-coloured bows, and a gauze cap, and red shoes with gold buckles.
"I wonder wherever these clothes could come from?" she said aloud.
The sack gave a roll, and whatever might be within was evidently trying to get out. And again she called out—
"Blanche! Blanche!"
She tried to lift up the sack, for she thought if she could drag it along she might in time find some one who could open it.
But she found that the melancholy boy was right, she could not move it.
"And I am not likely to meet with any one in this part of the wood."
IV.
Some one was whistling in the distance.
Belinda listened.
Then she cried out, "Help! help!"
The footsteps came nearer, and a boy in a fine suit came along. As soon as he saw Belinda he made a low bow, and stood with his hat in his hand.
"This must be a gentleman," thought Belinda, "or he would not be so polite."
But she did not speak.
"Did you not cry out for help?" asked the youth.
"Yes," replied Belinda; "I have lost Blanche, and I want some one to find her, and to help me to carry this bag; for I can't lift it, and I believe there is a prize in it."
"Prize!" repeated the boy; "I should think there was! Why this bag is full of wonderful magic toys, and if you let them out they will search the world over until they find anything that you have lost. Where did you get them from?"
"A boy with a bundle of corn brought the sack. At least it wasn't a sack, but it turned into one—and——"
"It must have been Oberon himself, the King of the Fairies, you know, who brought the sack to you."
"Ah!" returned Belinda, "he did say something about a king in disguise, but I did not believe him."
"Perhaps if you had been more polite," answered the boy, "you would have found Blanche back by this time, for he knows all about her. The Queen has carried her away because she knocked her little pages about."
"Knocked her little pages about! you are as foolish as the other boy. But if you know so much, pray where has the Queen hidden her?"
"How should I know?" replied the boy.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Belinda, and she began to cry again.
"Do be wise," said the boy; "crying does no good."
"Wise, prize, size, disguise," murmured Belinda.
"What are you saying?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing!" said Belinda.
"That is not true," he answered; "you said some words; say them again."
"out rushed the toys."
And as Belinda repeated the words the boy lifted up the sack quite easily, and cut the string that fastened it, with his knife. And his clothes changed even as Belinda's had done. He wore now a sort of helmet with a plume of feathers in it, and a slashed dress; and he knelt down and opened the mouth of the sack. Ah! was not Belinda astonished, for out rushed the toys—such toys—all of them able to move about. One of them, a man on horseback, galloped away over a bridge, in the distance; another ran up the mountain with a donkey following after him. A woman and a little child next rushed down into the valley, so did a boy with a dog that did not look like a dog running behind him.
To all of these the youth said—
"Now be kind,
Find, find, find!"
Belinda gazed in astonishment, for never had she seen such toys before.
"Now," said the boy, as a white horse with a cart behind it emerged from a heap of carriages and toy soldiers, "jump in, and you and I will drive about the world till we find Blanche."
"But we can't possibly get in," returned Belinda; "it is too small for one, certainly for two."
"Do not be stupid," said the boy; "almost all mischief comes from stupidity; get in whilst I hold the horse."
How Belinda got into the little cart she did not know; but in it she was with the boy beside her, and he was driving as fast as he could go. And there was plenty of room for both.
The toy soldiers had mounted their horses and were riding behind them and at the side of them, for the boy had said—
"Mount quickly, guards."
And as they went along, Belinda presently heard the man on horseback and the woman and all the magic toys come clattering after them as hard as they could come.
"Ah!" observed the boy; "we are on the right path; the King has sent them after us."
"The King!"
"Yes; did you not see a toll-man on the bridge?"
"No," answered Belinda; but she whispered to herself, "a king in disguise; wise, prize, size."
"You are getting more sensible," said the boy, as he drove faster and faster till the white cart-horse seemed to turn into a race-horse, he went so swiftly.
"There will be an accident," said Belinda.
And so there was, for the cart-wheel flew off, and down went the cart, and Belinda and the boy were tumbled into a ditch, whence they scrambled out and rolled down a grassy slope, on and on and on, such a distance that Belinda felt quite giddy.
"This is the end of the drive," said the boy; "we need not trouble about the horse and cart. Follow me."
And Belinda followed him.
He pushed aside the red chestnut flowers and the sycamore branches, and as he did so all the birds seemed to wake up, and to sing a wonderfully beautiful song. There were nightingales singing, though it was day, and the larks were carolling as blithely as at early morn. As for the thrushes, their voices were so clear that Belinda was sure she could hear the words they were saying.
Of course it was poetry, only Belinda had never heard such beautiful poetry before.
And the waterfall was singing, so was the brook, but they sang a different song.
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Slumbering let the maiden lie,
Sweetest dreams shall float around her,
Magic blossoms shall surround her.
Fairy chains shall keep her still,
Fairy wand ward off all ill,
Gnat or fly shall not come nigh,
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Sleep, sweet maiden, fear no harm,
Potent is the fairy charm."
"Oh, boy! are they talking about Blanche?"
"Hush!" said he; "come quietly."
Belinda came softly, and looked where he pointed, and would have cried out—
"Blanche!"
But the boy put his hand over her mouth.
Nevertheless they had found Blanche.
Yes! there she was fast asleep on a crimson cushion with tall white lilies and bright poppies and splendid foxgloves nodding all round her and drowsily ringing their sweet bells; whilst a flood of fairy light fell over her. She looked very happy, as though she were having pleasant dreams.
"she was fast asleep."
"Kiss her," said the boy.
And Belinda stooped and kissed her.
And then Blanche opened wide her eyes, saying.
"Where have you been?" she asked; "I have had such a nice sleep. It all came from the foxglove."
Belinda looked round to thank the boy, but he had vanished.
So had the cushion and the lilies, and the poppies.
"Why it's the old woodpath again," murmured Belinda. "I know the place quite well. Size, wise, prize, disguise; disguise, prize, size, wise," she repeated; "yes, the young gentleman must have been a king in disguise."
Blanche looked surprised.
"Yes, that is just what I was dreaming of. I thought I had really quite lost you, and he brought you to me."
Perhaps the youth was Oberon; but if so, of course he never told them.
"But he must have been a great many Oberons," Belinda went on, musing; "the melancholy packboy, the toll-man, the young gentleman! Ah! it is of no use thinking about it, one only gets confused."
But if she had had ears to listen to fairy music, she would have heard this song:—
"Each little page
Hath lost his rage,
The punishment is o'er;
The sisters twain
Have met again,
To separate no more.
So 'tis decreed by Queen and King,
Who now the two together bring."
Julia Goddard.
DAISY AND DOLLY.
eneath the poplars' leafy screen
The shade is cool and sweet,
Where Daisy sits like any queen—
The sunbeams kiss her feet,
Steal round the border of her dress,
And one white dimpled arm caress.
She holds her dainty parasol
Above her playmate's head,
Lest the hot sun should touch her doll,
And fade the lovely red
In dolly's rosy cheek that lies,
Or dim her beautiful blue eyes.
She weaves a pretty dream, I know,
All in the garden shady,
How dolly was, long, long ago,
A little fairy lady,
And held her court on a green, green knoll,
Ere she became a mortal doll.
She thinks her blue-eyed pet knows all
The solemn words she speaks,
And feels the kisses soft that fall
Upon her mouth and cheeks:
And often when I see the two
I wish I were the doll—don't you?
r.
STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
By Edwin Hodder ("Old Merry").
III.—ROYAL FUNERALS IN THE ABBEY.
O
n the occasion of our last visit to the Abbey, I told you a little about the coronations that have taken place within its walls, and apart from the venerable fane itself, the principal object connected with that long chain of events was the antique royal chair, standing in the Chapel of Edward the Confessor. Returning to the same spot, we will now look around us, and we soon see that we are in the midst of a burying-place of English kings. Sebert and his Queen Ethelgoda have their monument beside the gate at the entrance to the chapels; but there is no authentic account of a funeral here before that of Edward the Confessor, whose ashes, after three removals, repose in the shrine close beside us.
It was on January 5th, 1066, just after the consecration of his beautiful new Abbey, that the soul of St. Edward passed away. Englishmen were filled with gloomy forebodings at the event. Crowds flocked to see the body as it lay in the palace, with an unearthly smile on its rosy cheeks, and with the long thin fingers interlaced across the bosom.
Then, attired in royal robes, and bedecked with crown, crucifix, and golden chain, they laid the remains before the High Altar of the Abbey. His wife Edith was afterwards laid beside him. After the Conquest, royal personages for a time were buried in Normandy, till "the good Queen Maud," the wife of Henry I. and niece of Edgar Atheling, was laid beside the Confessor. In rebuilding the Abbey, Henry III. provided a new shrine, to which the remains of the now canonised Edward were removed, and in which (except for a short time) they have since remained.
Behind the shrine the king placed some holy relics, including a tooth of St. Athanasius, and a stone said to show a footprint of our Lord. For fifty years Henry watched his new Abbey growing to completion, and determined it should be the burying-place of himself and the Plantagenet line. He was laid temporarily in the place from which the Confessor's bones had been taken. His son Edward I., returning from the Holy Land, brought home porphyry, slates, and precious marbles to build the tomb to which Henry's body was transferred about twenty years after his death. The Abbess of Fontevrault was then in London, and the late king's heart was delivered into her hands to be deposited in the foreign home of the Plantagenets.
"daisy and dolly." (See [p. 176]).
Henceforward many royal personages were brought to be buried near the Confessor's shrine; but I shall only mention the more prominent. When Queen Eleanor died in 1291, the course of the funeral cortége from Lincoln to London was marked by twelve memorial crosses, and the Abbots of Westminster were bound to have a hundred wax lights burning round her grave for ever on the anniversary of her death. In 1307, after having placed in the Confessor's Chapel the golden crown of the last Welsh Prince, Llewellyn, and the Stone of Fate from Scotland, Edward I. was himself brought here to lie beneath the rough monument, from which it was hoped that, in accordance with his dying wish, his bones might at some time be taken and carried through Scotland at the head of a conquering army.
In 1394, Richard II. buried here his beloved Queen Anne, the friend of the followers of Wickliffe. The palace of Sheen in which she died was destroyed by her sorrowing husband, and immense sums were spent on her funeral. For asking to go away before the ceremony was completed, the Earl of Arundel was struck on the head with a cane by the king, and brought to the ground with his blood flowing on to the Abbey pavement. The affair caused so much delay, that darkness came on before all was over. The tomb that covers her remains was intended by her husband for both, but whether Richard II. sleeps in the tomb that bears his name or not must remain a matter of doubt. Henry IV. brought a corpse from Pontefract to Langley, and Henry V. transferred it to this tomb; but few believed it to be really the body of the murdered king.
England had never seen a grander royal funeral than that of Henry V. He died at Vincennes, and with great pomp his body was brought by Paris to London. At every stage between Dover and London, and again at St. Paul's, and at the Abbey, funeral services were performed. The closing scenes were very impressive, as the funeral car, amidst a blaze of torches borne by hundreds of surpliced priests, and followed by his three favourite chargers, came up the nave to the altar steps. Room for the tomb was made by clearing away the holy relics behind the Confessor's shrine. Here was placed the magnificent piece of workmanship, which we now behold, a tomb below, and above a chantry, in which for a year thirty poor persons were to read the Psalter of the Virgin and special prayers for the repose of Henry's soul. At the back of the chantry hung the king's indented helmet (in all probability the one worn at Agincourt), his shield, and his saddle. In the arch beneath lies the headless effigy of Henry, the silver head having been carried off when Henry VIII. was robbing the churches.
Henry VI. was very fond of the Abbey. He chose a place for his tomb, and even paid the first instalment for its erection, in readiness for his own demise. But the civil wars hindered its completion; and I have already told you how Henry VII. meant to raise a special chapel for him and altered his mind.
We will pass on now into the Chapel of Henry VII., the grand mausoleum of a race of kings, who looked back (as Stanley points out) not to Saxon Edward, but to British Arthur, as their great ancestor. A gloomy porch conducts us into a blaze of splendour. Walls, ceilings, and arches are richly decorated; the "stone seems by the cunning labours of the chisel (says Washington Irving) to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft as if by magic." Nobody seems to be quite sure who was the architect of this beautiful piece of workmanship. The king lavished vast sums of money on the costly edifice, and left plenty with the abbot for its completion after his death. And in the stalls monks were to sing masses for the repose of his soul, "while the world lasts."
In April, 1509, Henry died, and was placed beside his Queen, Elizabeth of York, in the great vault beneath the chapel floor. His mother, Margaret, Countess of Richmond, was brought here three months afterwards, of whom it was said, "Everyone that knew her loved her, and everything that she said or did became her." She endowed charities, founded colleges, ended the civil wars by marrying her son to Elizabeth of York, and protected Caxton in his early labours.
At the Reformation there was a carrying off of relics, a rifling of tombs, and a temporary disturbance of the Confessor's bones. But the royal tombs saved the Abbey from destruction, although Protector Somerset was on the point of pulling it down to build his new palace in the Strand. Edward VI. was buried here, and Anne of Cleves, and then, in 1558, came Queen Mary, the last English monarch interred with Roman Catholic solemnities. In the same tomb reposes her sister Elizabeth, at whose funeral the national mourning was intense. An old chronicler tells us that, as her coffin was borne through the streets crowded with spectators, "there was such a general sighing, groaning, and weeping, as the like hath not been seen or known in the memory of man; neither doth any history mention any people, time, or state, to make like lamentation for the death of their sovereign." The tomb was raised above the two sisters by James I. He also raised the monument to his mother, Mary Queen of Scots, in the south aisle, and had her body removed to it from Peterborough. Devout Scots visited this tomb, as the shrine of a saint, and many miracles were said to have taken place here.
In the north aisle of this chapel, beside two infant children of James I., are the remains of the murdered princes brought from the Tower. In the south aisle lies Henry Frederick, Prince of Wales, of whom such high hopes were entertained. Two thousand mourners swelled his funeral procession, but no monument marks his resting-place. Three years later the corpse of Arabella Stuart, the king's cousin, whom some would have put in his place, was brought up the Thames from the Tower at midnight, and placed without ceremony in the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots. James I. came here in 1625 and was laid in the tomb of Henry VII.
Under the Commonwealth the royal monuments suffered no harm; their dilapidations date (as we have said) from Henry VIII's time. The mother, sister, and favourite daughter of Cromwell were buried here; the great Protector himself was interred in the august Chapel of Henry VII. amongst the royal dead. For two months the body lay in state at Somerset House in a room hung with black, and lit with innumerable black candles. Then there was a grand procession, a magnificent hearse, and the usual ceremonies of a royal funeral. On the 30th of January, 1661, Cromwell, Ireton, and Bradshaw were dragged from their tombs to Tyburn, and there hanged and beheaded. Their bodies were buried beneath the gallows, and their heads set up over Westminster Hall.
Charles I. was to have been brought from Windsor to a grand tomb in the Abbey, but Charles II. applied the £70,000 voted for this purpose to other uses, and the matter dropped. This king's funeral was a hurried affair—it took place at night without pomp of any kind. To the same narrow vault was brought William III. Mary, after her death on December 28th, 1694, had been interred here—"one of the saddest days," says Macaulay, "that Westminster had ever seen." She was the first English sovereign who was followed to her grave by both Houses of Parliament, as in other cases Parliament had expired with the sovereign.
Eleven children of James II. and eighteen children of Queen Anne lie around the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots. Queen Anne herself was brought in a coffin more enormous than that which inclosed the gigantic frame of her husband, Prince George, to the vault of her sister Mary. George II. and Queen Caroline repose in a black marble sarcophagus in the centre of the Chapel of Henry VII. And now Westminster Abbey ceased to be a burial-place of English kings and queens. George III. constructed a vault at Windsor for himself and his numerous family, and there his descendants have been interred.
THE CHILDREN'S OWN GARDEN IN SEPTEMBER.
The month of September is one of even more fickle and changeable a nature than most others; it is, however, one of very great importance to those who are desirous of securing plenty of geranium and other cuttings, for the next summer's work; because, should the month by chance happen to be a dry one, it will be almost impossible to obtain very many in consequence of so little growth being made. If, on the other hand, plenty of rain fall during the latter part of August and throughout September growth will be made both rapidly and vigorously, whereby cuttings can be taken almost ad infinitum. When the weather is of a congenial nature, perhaps few months in the year are more enjoyable in one's garden than that of September.
* *
*
The present month is the best one in which to consider the various effects—good or bad—which have been secured by growing certain plants in juxta-position with others. All incongruities or extremes arising from misplaced judgment or uncertain taste should be at once noted in a pocket-book reserved exclusively for gardening notes, comments, &c. It is ever so much easier to determine the proper positions of various colours, and situations of certain plants, when they are at the perfection of their beauty, than it is to allot them to certain imaginary quarters on plans, however skilfully drawn up, in winter. Indeed, it may be stated without reservation, that the only satisfactory means of insuring an harmonious blending and contrast of colours is by comparing the relative position which one plant of a certain colour and habit should occupy to another and different plant, when growth is perfected.
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Most bedding plants can be induced to continue flowering for a considerable period longer, if deprived of their seed-vessels so soon as these are formed, than they would otherwise do; geraniums, more especially. Not only does it hasten their decay to allow seeds to ripen, but materially enfeebles the entire plant. It is wise to secure as much beauty as is possible just now from your gardens, as a single and unexpected frosty night will destroy almost everything; nothing is more ephemeral than floral beauty.
* *
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As last month, the chief attractions in the garden will be dahlias and hollyhocks; fine displays of roses often delight us throughout the autumnal months, and the last rose of summer charms us quite as much as the first one of spring. Rose-cuttings may still be taken, and those inserted last month should by this time be well-rooted plants, if properly treated, and must at once undergo a process of being gradually hardened off to the open air. Growing rose-shoots, having plenty of buds, must be carefully tied in. As regards very strong-growing plants which will need keeping within bounds, the operation of cutting them back requires the very greatest care, and our readers should get a practical gardener, if possible, to point out those which need trimming, and those to be left alone. Most young people possessing a knife generally commence sundry manœuvres on the first plant or tree within reach, and generally with very disastrous results. Trimming and pruning of all sorts should, therefore, be only done by practical hands, and then the life of the plant will be in pretty safe keeping.
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Dahlias will require plenty of attention until frost commences its havocs; shoots will need thinning, and the branches must be secured to stout stakes firmly placed in the earth; autumnal winds wreak great destruction among such branches as are insecurely made fast, and a number of handsome blooms are thus destroyed without coming to perfection. Insects are very fond of infesting dahlias, and their depredations must be guarded against. Hollyhocks, if entirely free from disease, will still be handsome objects, but their beauty will be somewhat on the wane; seeds may be saved from the best flowers, and should be sown at once in a pan of light sandy soil, and placed in a cold frame. Rooted layers of carnations of all sorts and of every section should now be planted out into a rich light soil, or, what is more preferable, two can be placed in a 5-inch or 6-inch pot, and wintered thus under glass. Asters of various kinds, such as Chinese and German, will now be in full beauty, and where large single flower-heads are a desideratum, only two or three must be allowed beyond the bud stage. Asters are among the prettiest of autumn flowers, and for children's gardens we would recommend what are known as "Dwarf Bouquet."
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The present month is the one during which all tender or half-hardy plants used in summer gardening are "housed," or removed to their winter quarters under glass. It is courting failure to allow such plants as chrysanthemums, auriculas, geraniums, and many others, to be exposed to the influence of cold, frosty nights, as when the "fell destroyer" commences to exert its power all plants touched by it rapidly decay. Gladioli will now be clothed in the full glory of their gaudy, but handsome dress; they are comparatively easy to manage in well-drained spots, and being such continuous bloomers, at least three or four or even half a dozen should be in every small garden. In winter they must be covered by about six inches of litter; but in cold and ill-drained soils it will be safer to take the roots up during October, keeping these in a dry situation until the following spring.