CONCLUSION.
Extract of a letter from M. Carton, announcing the death of the blind mute, Anna Timmermans, after a residence of twenty-one years in his establishment at Bruges:
BRUGES, Sept. 26, 1859.
GENTLEMEN,—I write to you in deep affliction, for death hath this day deprived me of my blind mute, Anna Timmermans, whom you may remember to have seen at my establishment last year.
She was just forty-three years of age; and twenty-one of these had been passed at my asylum. God has taken her from this life to bestow upon her a better, and his holy will be done! It was a great mercy to her, but I shall regret her all my lifetime, even while rejoicing at her present happiness, and feeling most thankful for that love and knowledge of Almighty God to which, through all the physical difficulties of her position, he enabled her to attain. She loved him indeed with all the náiveté, and invoked him with the simple confidence of a child; and the last weeks of her life were almost entirely devoted to earnest entreaties that he would call her to himself.
You are the first to whom I announce my loss, because of all those persons who have visited my house, you seem best to have comprehended the painful position of a deaf-mute, and the exquisite sensibility which they are capable of feeling toward any one who shows them sympathy and affection. I have already described Anna as she was when she came first among us—a girl twenty-one years of age, with the stature of a woman and the habits of a child. I need not recall her to your remembrance as she appeared to you last year, a woman thoughtful beyond the common, and endowed with such true knowledge of God and of religion, that you deemed it no indignity to ask her prayers, and were pleased by her simple promise never to forget you.
Thanks be to God for his great goodness toward his poor, afflicted child! She not only learned to know him and to love him, but we were enabled by degrees to place her in still closer communication with him, by means of those sacraments which he has appointed to convey grace to the soul. The last confession which she made previous to receiving extreme unction reminds me of all the difficulty we had long ago experienced in persuading her to make her first.
"It will soon be Easter," said one day to her the sister appointed to prepare her for this duty. "It will soon be Easter, and then you and all of us will have to go to confession."
"What is confession?" asked Anna. "It is to tell our sins to the priest," explained the sister; "and to ask pardon of them from God."
"But why should we do that?" quoth Anna.
"Because," replied the sister, "God himself has commanded us to confess our sins. You will have to do it, therefore, like the rest of us; and when you go to confession, you must say in your heart to God, 'I am sorry for my sins. Forgive me, O my God; and I promise I will sin no more.'"
"And what are the sins I must confess?" asked Anna. She was standing in the midst of her class, who had all assembled to receive instruction, at the moment when she put the question.
"You have been in a passion," replied the sister; "you must confess [{342}] that. You have broken M. Carton's spectacles. You have torn the cap of Sister So-and-so. You have scratched one of the blind children;—and you must mention all these things when you go to confession."
"All these things are past and gone," replied Anna, resolutely; "when I broke M. Carton's spectacles, I was made, for my punishment, to kneel down; and," she continued, lightly passing one hand over the other, as if rubbing out something, "that was effaced. When I tore Sister So-and-so's cap, I was not allowed any coffee; and," repeating the action with her hands, "that was effaced. When I scratched the blind child, I went to bed without supper; and that was effaced. I will not, therefore, confess any of these things."
"But, Anna," replied the sister, "we are all obliged to go to confession. I am going myself, as well as you."
"Oui da! Have you, then, also, been in a passion, my sister? Have you broken M. Carton's spectacles, torn our sister's cap, and scratched a blind child?"
Anna asked these questions with an immense air of triumph, and waited the answer with a wicked smile, which seemed to say she had put the sister in a dilemma. Not one of the class misunderstood the little malice of her questions. Indeed, the uncharitable surmise as to the nature of their mistress's conduct appeared so piquant to all of them, that they unanimously insisted on its receiving a reply. It is not difficult, indeed, to imagine their amusement, for they were all daughters of Eve; and, beside, the best of children have an especial delight in embarrassing their superiors. Altogether it was a scene for a painter.
"I have not been in a passion; God forbid!" replied the poor sister, gently. "And I have not scratched or done injury to any one; but I have done so-and-so, and so-and-so." And here, with the greatest náiveté and humility, the sister mentioned some of her own shortcomings. "I have done so-and-so and so-and-so, and am going to confess them; for I know I have sinned by doing these things; but I hope God will pardon me, and give me grace not to offend him again in like manner."
When the children heard this humble confession, they one by one quietly left the class, like those in the gospel, beginning with the eldest; but Anna, even while acknowledging herself defeated, could not resist the small vengeance of giving the sister a lecture on her peccadilloes.
"Remember, my sister, you are never again to do so-and-so and so-and-so. You must be very sorry, and promise to be wiser another time. And above all other things, you must go to confession to obtain God's pardon."
"And you?" asked the sister, as her only answer to this grave exhortation.
"And I also will go to confession," replied Anna, completely vanquished at last by the tenderness and humility of the good religious.
From that time, in fact, Anna went regularly to confession; and so far from having any difficulty in persuading her to do so, she often reminded us herself when the time was approaching for the performance of that duty.
During the winter preceding her death she grew weaker from day to day; and her loss of appetite, extreme emaciation, and inability to exert herself, all convinced us that we were about to lose her. She herself often spoke about dying, though for a long time she would not permit any one else to address her on the subject. If any of the sisters even hinted at her danger, she would grow quite pale, and turn off the conversation; and even when she alluded of her own accord to the symptoms that alarmed her, it seemed as if, like many other invalids, she did so in order to be reassured as to her state. She became convinced at last, however, that she could not recover, and from that moment her life was one uninterrupted act of resignation [{343}] to the will of God, submission to his providence, and hope and confidence in his mercy. These sentiments never forsook her even for a moment. "I suffer," she used to say,—"I suffer a great deal; but Jesus suffered more;" and, embracing her crucifix, she would renew all her good resolutions to suffer patiently, and her earnest entreaties for grace to do so.
Previous to receiving the last sacraments, Anna disposed of everything belonging to her in favor of her companions, and then causing them all to be brought to her bedside, she kissed each one affectionately, and bade her adieu. After that she refused to see any of them again, seeking only the company of the sisters, and of that one in particular who best understood the silent language of the fingers. "Let us speak a little," the poor sufferer would often say, "of God and heaven;" and then would follow long and earnest conversations full of faith and hope and love, confidence in the mercies of Almighty God, and gratitude for his goodness.
During these communications Anna would become quite absorbed, as it were, in the love of God; her poor face would brighten into an expression of absolute beauty; and she seemed to lose all sense of present suffering in her certain hope and expectation of the joy that was about to come in on her soul.
"A little more," she would often say, when she fancied the conversation was about to finish; "speak to me a little more of God. I love him and he loves me. O my dear sister, will you not also come soon to heaven, and love him for evermore?"
Her agony commenced on the morning of the 26th of September, and she expired about noon, so quietly that we scarce perceived the moment in which she passed away (safe and happy, as I trust) to the presence of her God.
I recommend her to your good prayers; and I trust that she also will sometimes think of us and pray for us in heaven.
From Macmillan's Magazine.
TWILIGHT IN THE NORTH.
"UNTIL THE DAY BREAK, AND THE SHADOWS FLEE AWAY."
Oh the long northern twilight between the day and the night,
When the heat and the weariness of the world are ended quite;
When the hills grow dim as dreams; and the crystal river seems
Like that River of Life from out the Throne where the blessed walk in white.
Oh the weird northern twilight, which is neither night nor day,
When the amber wake of the long-set sun still marks his western way;
And but one great golden star in the deep blue east afar
Warns of sleep and dark and midnight—of oblivion and decay.
Oh the calm northern twilight, when labor is all done,
And the birds in drowsy twitter have dropped silent one by one;
And nothing stirs or sighs in mountains, waters, skies—
Earth sleeps—but her heart waketh, till the rising of the sun.
Oh the sweet, sweet twilight, just before the time of rest,
When the black clouds are driven away, and the stormy winds suppressed:
And the dead day smiles so bright, filling earth and heaven with light—
You would think 'twas dawn come back again—but the light is in the west.
Oh the grand solemn twilight, spreading peace from pole to pole!—
Ere the rains sweep o'er the hill-sides, and the waters rise and roll,
In the lull and the calm, come, O angel with the palm—
In the still northern twilight, Azrael, take my soul.
From Chambers's Journal.
A NIGHT IN A GLACIER.
Nothing is more common than to hear the wish expressed among ordinary tourists "to see Switzerland in the winter;" and nothing is more disappointing than its fulfilment. To see Switzerland then is just what you cannot do; all that is visible is one vast sheet of blinding snow, unrelieved by a particle of color; and the view is not even grand—it is simply monotonous. However, in April, 1864, I made the experiment of choosing that month, instead of the conventional August, for a mountaineering ramble; and having been weather-bound at least half a dozen times, in various places, found myself in the same miserable predicament, at the hospice of the Great St. Bernard. It was terribly wearisome work. We had exhausted all our small-talk, had discussed all the celebrated passages of the Alps, from that of Hannibal with his vinegar-cruets to that of Macdonald with his dragoons; had worked the piano to death by playing derisive waltzes; had elicited fearful wheezings from the harmonium, and blundered inappropriate marches on the organ—when, early on the third morning, two momentous events occurred. In the first place, the weather had become suddenly fine; and in the second, the news had arrived that a party of Italian wood-carvers had reached St. Remy, on their passage to the Rhone valley, and that two of their number had left the main body on the previous evening, avowing their intention of making their way to a little stone hut, which is used in summer as a dairy for the supply of the hospice, and passing the night there. This hut, however, had been visited that morning, and found to be untenanted; and as the traces of the two wanderers had been obliterated by the snow during the night, the messenger had been sent forward to obtain assistance in the search for them.
Though the unusually large fall of snow in the winter of 1863-64 made mountain-climbing singularly easy in the past autumn (Mont Blanc was ascended by more than seventy tourists in the latter year), yet in the spring the passes were rendered more than usually difficult by the loose snow which the sun had not yet been powerful enough to solidify by regelation. Most travellers who cross in summer must have noticed a line of stout posts about ten or twelve feet high, which are placed on the most elevated points of the path, so that their summits, which the snow rarely reaches, may serve as landmarks in the winter; but at this time the posts were entirely covered, and it was not without great difficulty that the man who brought the news had been able to find his way to the Hospice. There was no time to be lost. Abandoning their usual costume for a dress more suited to do battle with the elements, four of the "fathers" were soon ready to start, two of them shouldering knapsacks of provisions, one bearing a stout rope, and the fourth carrying an axe, with which to cut steps, if necessary, in the ice. Just as they were leaving, it was discovered that the last-named implement had a crack in its handle, which would most probably cause it to break short off when brought into active service; and as some delay would be caused by fitting a fresh handle, Père Christophe, to whose cordial politeness few travellers are not indebted, came to ask for the loan of my axe for the day. "Perhaps, however," he said, "as monsieur is used to glacier expeditions, he would like to accompany us in our search, and so to carry his axe himself?"—a proposal [{346}] with which I eagerly closed, promising that my preparations should not delay them above five minutes.
The messenger had arrived at eight in the morning; and in less than half an hour afterward, we were making our way over the lake on the Italian side of the pass. Two of the renowned dogs were with us; but their proceedings did not confirm the idea which had long ago been produced on my childish mind by the well-known print of a St. Bernard dog, with a bottle of wine and a basket of food round its neck, scratching away the snow under which a wayfarer was supposed to lie buried. For finding lost travellers, indeed, they are, as I was assured by the monks, in no-wise adapted; their function, and a most important one it is, is to find the direct path up and down the pass, when it is covered with snow, and in this duty they are unrivalled. Fortunately, the frosts had been very severe, so that we were able to tramp cheerily over the crisp snow, instead of having to undergo the fatigue of sinking up to our knees at every step. But probably the poor fellows down below wished that the frost had been lighter, and our walk heavier. The scene was grand in its wildness. Huge clouds hung along the mountain-sides at our feet, now whirling boisterously, now creeping sullenly along; and rough gusts of wind dashed the snow with blinding coldness into our faces, and produced on ears and nose a tingling terribly suggestive of frost-bites. It was unusual, M. Christophe said, for the fathers themselves to go out in search of travellers; the latter generally waited at the house of refuge near the Cantine, or that near St. Remy, and a servant was sent down with a dog to lead them up; but in cases like the present, where search must be made in different directions, it was of advantage to have three or four people with local knowledge to join in it. Beside, the expedition was a relief to the ordinary monotony of convent life; though the kindness of English travellers had done much for the comfort of the brethren, in supplying them with musical instruments, books, and similar means of recreation. The circumstances under which the Prince of Wales sent them their piano were curious enough. He had bought one of the dogs, which, being quite young and very fat, was given into the charge of a porter to carry down. The man stupidly let it fall, and it was killed on the spot. The prince (this was some time ago) burst into tears, and was almost inconsolable; but the monks, on hearing of the loss, sent another dog, which the prince received while at Martigny; and when he reached Paris, he forwarded, as a royal acknowledgment for the gift, one of Erard's best piano-fortes, which has been the great cheerer of their winter evenings, and on which they set no small store.
Pleasantly chatting after this fashion, my friend beguiled the way to the house of refuge, which we reached before ten o'clock, and where we found collected about five-and-twenty people, waiting to be led up to the hospice. Leaving them in charge of one of the monks, we proceeded along the valley where the vacherie of the hospice is situated, toward the Col de la Fenêtre, in search of the man and woman who were missing. It appeared that they were natives of the Val de Lys, which descends from Monte Rosa toward Italy, and the inhabitants of which have, from time immemorial, held themselves aloof from all communication with their neighbors, and have formed of their little community a sort of nation within a nation, to which a native of Alagna or St. Martin would have no more chance of being admitted by marriage, than a reformer of the franchise would of being elected a member of the Carlton Club. So we discovered that the two lost sheep, presuming on their fortunate accident of birth, had been sneering at the others as having been "raised" in the country of cretins and lean pigs, and had excited such a storm of abuse about their ears, that, finding themselves only two to twenty, they [{347}] had beaten a retreat, and decided to sleep at the cow-hut. At this we arrived in about half an hour; but it was evident that it had not been tenanted for some weeks by anything but marmots, of which we saw a couple scudding along with that awkward mixture of scratch and shuffle which is their ordinary mode of locomotion. From here we each made casts, to use the hunting phrase, in different directions, especially trying places which lay on the leeward side of rocks, and on which, therefore, any tracks might not have been effaced by the night's snow. A diabolical yell, which was the result of an attempt to imitate the jödel of the Oberland guides, met with no human response, but was taken up, as it seemed, by a chorus of imps in the depths of the mountain; and by the multiplying echoes so common in Switzerland was carried on from crag to crag, till it appeared to be lost only at the top of the valley. We fixed on a point about a mile off at which to reunite, as what was snow in the lower part of the valley would be ice higher up, and would probably be crossed by crevasses, among which it would be dangerous to go singly, and without the protection of the rope. Presently there came a shout from the extreme left of our quartett, and we saw the young marronnier (that is, a half-fledged monk or deacon) standing on the top of some rocks, and indulging in various contortions and gesticulations, which we interpreted as a summons for our help; and when we reached him, he wanted it badly enough, for right before him were the objects of our search; but how to get at them was a problem which required all our skill and all our strength for its solution.
He had come to where the glacier joined the rocks over which our course had hitherto been, when his progress was stopped by a bergschrund or deep chasm between a nearly perpendicular wall of rock on one side, and a wall of ice on the other, inclined at an angle of probably sixty-five degrees. On reaching this, we could see the fugitives about fifty feet below us, and were relieved by the assurance that they were neither of them seriously injured, except by the cold, which had made them unable to do anything to extricate themselves. It was evident that nothing could be done from the side of the rocks, so we made our way as quickly-as-possible along the side of the bergschrund, to cross on to the glacier. This involved a long detour; but the bergschrund was too wide to be jumped, and far too steep to be scaled, while the insecurity of the snow-bridges over it was apparent. At last we found one that seemed solid, and M. Christophe led the way upon it boldly, but had scarcely reached the middle, when it suddenly broke down; and but for the rope—that great protection of mountaineers—he would have had very little chance of seeing the hospice again. As it was, I was the chief sufferer, for I happened to be second in line, and had my waist (round which the rope was tied in a slip-knot) reduced to wasp-like proportions by the jerk of a man of fourteen stone falling in front, and the counteracting strain which my rear-rank man forthwith put on behind. At last we crossed, and hastily made our way to the scene of action. I have estimated the angle of the ice-wall at sixty-five degrees, and tremendous as that inclination is, I believe I have rather understated it, though, as my clinometer was left behind, I could only compare it mentally with the well-known ice-wall on the Strahleck, which seemed about fifteen degrees less. Our rope was about ten feet too short to reach the bottom, so the axe was brought into requisition to cut steps for that distance, and to carve out a ledge which should give us secure hand-hold as well. This done, we let down the rope; but the man's fingers were so benumbed with the night's exposure, that he was unable to tie it round his wife; and though she offered to attach it to him first, he refused to be drawn up until after her. This punctilio seemed rather misplaced, as it involved [{348}] the descent of one of our number; but you cannot argue with a man who has spent the night in the heart of a glacier; so the lightest of our party lost no time in descending, which was only difficult from the piercing cold that was beginning to get the better of us, and which was so benumbing, that cutting the five-and-fifty steps for the descent was a rather formidable task.
The appearance of the girl's face—she was scarcely more than a girl— was one to fix itself in the memory. It was white—almost as white as the snow which had so nearly formed her cold winding-sheet; stains of blood were on the blue lips, which she had involuntarily bitten through in that night's agony. Her large Italian eyes seemed fascinated by the wall of snow at which she glared; and even now, when rescue was certain, she could only burst into a flood of tears, and repeatedly ejaculate "gerettet!" (saved!) having again sunk into the crouching position from which the question as to the rope had roused her. The tears indeed gave relief to the heart over which a shadow of a terrible death had for long hours been brooding. The shortness of our rope caused the only difficulty in the ascent; but we managed to hew out a sort of stage on the ice at which we could rest with her, while the two younger monks carried the rope to the top, and then completed her restoration to the upper day. The husband's ascent was rather harder of achievement, as his chilled limbs made him as helpless as a child in arms, without reducing his weight in the same proportion; but after some awkward slips, it was managed; and having refreshed the inner man, we made our way painfully toward the hospice, obliging the husband to walk, in spite of the agony which it caused him, as the only means of saving his limbs. We then learned that on the previous evening they had started for the chalet, the situation of which was well known to them, but had been completely enveloped in a cloud of thick mist which had risen from the valley, and had obscured their way; that after numerous turnings, they had decided, just before darkness came on, to make their way up the St. Bernard valley, knowing that in time they must come to the hospice, but that they had actually mistaken for it the valley leading up to the Col de la Fenêtre, which is nearly at right angles to the other, and had come upon the bergschrund at a point where there was fortunately a huge cornice of snow. On this they must have unwittingly walked, as they believed, for many yards, when it suddenly gave way with that terrible rushing sound at which most explorers of the great ice-world have shuddered once or twice in their lives. Fortunately, an immense mass of snow gave way, and its bulk broke their fall, and saved them from being dashed with fatal violence against the rocks. They were warmly clad, and had the courage to keep in motion during nearly the whole night, performing an evolution corresponding to the goose-step of the volunteers, as they dared not change their ground in the darkness.
When the gray morning showed that there was no possibility of their extricating themselves, and the snow fell, which they knew would hide their track, the husband sank down in despair, saying: "Nun bedeckt mich mien Grabtuch" (Now my shroud is covering me)—and two hours of inaction were sufficient to allow the cold to seize his hands and feet. It was curious to observe how, as we gleaned the story from husband and wife, each praised the other's endurance, and depreciated his or her own. They had only been married at Gressonnay St. Giacomo four days before, and were on their way to the celebrated wood-carving manufactory at Freyburg. We had nearly reached the hospice, having had hard work in helping our friend to walk, and in beating his fingers smartly to restore circulation, when the girl, who had refused our aid en route, suddenly gave a shriek and fainted away. The cause of this had not to be sought for long. Our path had led [{349}] us close by the Morgue, in which, as is well known, the rarity of the air preserves the corpses so thoroughly that they retain for years the appearance of only recent death. There, placed upright against the wall, is the ghastly row; and one figure—that of a woman with a child in her arms— is especially noticeable for having preserved not only the features, but even the expression which marked the last agony of despair. To see these, you must generally wait some moments before your eyes get accustomed to the dim light in which they are; but on this occasion, the glare reflected from the snow threw the whole interior of the charnel-house into full view, and the revulsion of feeling was too much for the poor girl, who had so narrowly escaped a similar fate. She was borne into the hospice, and soon recovered; and on the following morning, both were able to resume their journey, though it was feared by the monks, who had had large experience of frostbites, that one of the man's fingers would be sacrificed. They were profuse in their gratitude, and left, determined that the superiority of the inhabitants of the Val de Lys over all other Piedmontese, Italians, and Savoyards, was not best maintained by spending a night in a bergschrund.
From The Month.
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
CHAPTER VI.
I was to travel, as had been ordered for our mutual convenience and protection, with Mistress Ward, a gentlewoman who resided some months in our vicinity, and had heard mass in our chapel on such rare occasions as of late had occurred, when a priest was at our house, and we had commodity to give notice thereof to such as were Catholic in the adjacent villages. We had with us on the journey two serving-men and a waiting-woman, who had been my mother's chambermaid; and so accompanied, we set out on our way, singing as we went, for greater safety, the litanies of our Lady; to whom we did commend ourselves, as my father had willed us to do, with many fervent prayers. The gentlewoman to whose charge I was committed was a lady of singular zeal and discretion, as well as great virtue; albeit, where religion was not concerned, of an exceeding timid disposition; which, to my no small diversion then, and great shame since, I took particular notice of on this journey. Much talk had been ministered in the county touching the number of rogues and vagabonds which infested the public roads, of which sundry had been taken up and whipped during the last months, in Lichfield, Stafford, and other places. I did perceive that good Mistress Ward glanced uneasily as we rode along at every foot-passenger or horseman that came in sight. Albeit my heart was heavy, and may be also that when the affections are inclined to tears they be likewise prone to laughter, I scarce could restrain from smiling at these her fears and the manner of her showing them.
"Mistress Constance," she said at last, as we came to the foot of a steep [{350}] ascent, "methinks you have a great heart concerning the dangers which may befall us on the road, and that the sight of a robber would move you not one whit more than that of an honest pedler or hawker, such as I take those men to be who are mounting the hill in advance of us. Doth it not seem to you that the box which they do carry betokens them to be such worthy persons as I wish them to prove?"
"Now surely," I answered, "good Mistress Ward, 'tis my opinion that they be not such honest knaves as you do suppose. I perceive somewhat I mislike in the shape of that box. What an if it be framed to entice travellers to their ruin by such displays and shows of rare ribbons and gewgaws as may prove the means of detaining them on the road, and a-robbing of them in the end?"
Mistress Ward laughed, and commended my jesting, but was yet ill at ease; and, as a mischievous and thoughtless creature, I did somewhat excite and maintain her fears, in order to set her on asking questions of our attendants touching the perils of the road, which led them to relate such fearful stories of what they had seen of this sort as served to increase her apprehensions, and greatly to divert me, who had not the like fears; but rather entertained myself with hers, in a manner such as I have been since ashamed to think of, who should have kissed the ground on which she had trodden.
The fairness of the sky, the beauty of the fields and hedges, the motion of the horse, stirred up my spirits; albeit my heart was at moments so brimful of sorrow that I hated my tongue for its wantonness, my eyes for their curious gazing, and my fancy for its eager thoughts anent London and the new scenes I should behold there. What mostly dwelt in them was the hope to see my Lady Surrey, of whom I had had of late but brief and scanty tidings. The last letter I had from her was writ at the time when the Duke of Norfolk was for the second time thrown in the Tower, which she said was the greatest sorrow that had befallen her since the death of my Lady Mounteagle, which had happened at his grace's house a few months back, with all the assistance she desired touching her religion. She had been urged, my Lady Surrey said, by the duke some time before to do something contrary to her faith; but though she much esteemed and respected him, her answer was so round and resolute that he never mentioned the like to her any more. Since then I had no more tidings of her, who was dearer to me than our brief acquaintance and the slender tie of such correspondence as had taken place between us might in most cases warrant; but whether owing to some congeniality of mind, or to a presentiment of future friendship, 'tis most certain my heart was bound to her in an extraordinary manner; so that she was the continual theme of my thoughts and mirror of my fancy.
The first night of our journey we lay at a small inn, which was held by persons Mistress Ward was acquainted with, and by whom we were entertained in a decent chamber, looking on unto a little garden, and with as much comfort as the fashion of the place might afford, and greater cleanliness than is often to be found in larger hostelries. After supper, being somewhat weary with travel, but not yet inclined for bed, and the evening fine, we sat out of doors in a bower of eglantine near to some bee-hives, of which our hostess had a great store; and methinks she took example from them, for we could see her through the window as busy in the kitchen amongst her maids as the queen-bee amidst her subjects. Mistress Ward took occasion to observe, as we watched one of these little commonwealths of nature, that she admired how they do live, laboring and swarming, and gathering honey together so neat and finely, that they abhor nothing so much as uncleanliness, drinking pure and clear water, even the dew-drops on the leaves and flowers, [{351}] and delighting in sweet music, which if they hear but once out of tune they fly out of sight.
"They live," she said, "under a law, and use great reverence to their elders. Every one hath his office; some trimming the honey, another framing hives, another the combs. When they go forth to work, they mark the wind and the clouds, and whatsoever doth threaten their ruin; and having gathered, out of every flower, honey, they return loaded in their mouths and on their wings, whom they that tarried at home receive readily, easing their backs of their great burthens with as great care as can be thought of."
"Methinks," I answered, "that if it be as you say, Mistress Ward, the bees be wiser than men."
At the which she smiled; but withal, sighing, made reply:
"One might have wished of late years rather to be a bee than such as we see men sometimes to be. But, Mistress Constance, if they are indeed so wise and so happy, 'tis that they are fixed in a condition in which they must needs do the will of him who created them; and the like wisdom and happiness in a far higher state we may ourselves enjoy, if we do but choose of our free will to live by the same rule."
Then, after some further discourse on the habits of these little citizens, I inquired of Mistress Ward if she were acquainted with mine aunt, Mistress Congleton; at the which question she seemed surprised, and said,
"Methought, my dear, you had known my condition in your aunt's family, having been governess for many years to her three daughters, and only by reason of my sister's sickness having stayed away from them for some time."
At the which intelligence I greatly rejoiced; for the few hours we had rode together, and our discourse that evening, had wrought in me a liking for this lady as great as could arise in so short a period. But I minded me then of my jests at her fears anent robbers, and also of having been less dutiful in my manners than I should have been toward one who was like to be set over me; and I likewise bethought me this might be the cause that she had spoken of the bees having a reverence for their elders, and doubted if I should crave her pardon for my want of it. But, like many good thoughts which we give not entertainment to by reason that they be irksome, I changed that intent for one which had in it more of pleasantness, though less of virtue. Kissing her, I said it was the best news I had heard for a long time that I should live in the same house with her, and, as I hoped, under her care and good government. And she answered, that she was well pleased with it too, and would be a good friend to me as long as she lived. Then I asked her touching my cousins, and of their sundry looks and qualities. She answered, that the eldest, Kate, was very fair, and said nothing further concerning her. Polly, she told me, was marvellous witty and very pleasant, and could give a quick answer, full of entertaining conceits.
"And is she, then, not fair?" I asked.
"Neither fair nor foul," was her reply; "but well favored enough, and has an excellent head."
"Then," I cried, letting my words exceed good behavior, "I shall like her better than the pretty fool her sister." For the which speech I received the first, but not the last, chiding I ever had from Mistress Ward for foolish talking and pert behavior, which was what I very well deserved. When she had done speaking, I put my arm round her neck—for it put me in mind of my mother to be so gravely yet so sweetly corrected—and said, "Forgive me, dear Mistress Ward, for my saucy words, and tell me somewhat I beseech you touching my youngest cousin, who must be nearest to mine own age."
"She is no pearl to hang at one's ear," quoth she, "yet so gifted with a well-disposed mind that in her grace [{352}] seems almost to supersede nature. Muriel is deformed in body, and slow in speech; but in behavior so honest, in prayer so devout, so noble in all her dealings, that I never heard her speak anything that either concerned not good instruction or godly mirth."
"And doth she not care to be ugly?" I asked.
"So little doth she value beauty," quoth Mistress Ward, "save in the admiring of it in others, that I have known her to look into a glass and smiling cry out, 'This face were fair if it were turned and every feature the opposite to what it is;' and so jest pleasantly at her own deformities, and would have others do so too. Oh, she is a rare treasure of goodness and piety, and a true comfort to her friends!"
With suchlike pleasant discourse we whiled away the time until going to rest; and next day were on horseback betimes on our way to Coventry, where we were to lie that night at the house of Mr. Page, a Catholic, albeit not openly, by reason of the times. This gentleman is for his hospitality so much haunted, that no news stirs but comes to his ears, and no gentlefolks pass his door but have a cheerful welcome to his house; and 'tis said no music is so sweet to his ears as deserved thanks. He vouchsafed much favor to us, and by his merry speeches procured us much entertainment, provoking me to laughter thereby more than I desired. He took us to see St. Mary's Hall, which is a building which has not its equal for magnificence in any town I have seen, no, not even in London. As we walked through the streets he showed us a window in which was an inscription, set up in the reign of King Richard the Second, which did run thus:
"I, Luriche, for the love of thee
Do make Coventry toll free."
And further on, the figure of Peeping Tom of Coventry, that false knave I was so angry with when my father (ah, me! how sharp and sudden was the pain which went through my heart as I called to mind the hours I was wont to sit on his knee hearkening to the like tales) told me the story of the Lady Godiva, who won mercy for her townsfolk by a ride which none had dared to take but one so holy as herself. And, as I said before, being then in a humor as prone to tears at one moment as laughter at another, I fell to weeping for the noble lady who had been in so sore a strait that she must needs have chosen between complying with her savage lord's conditions or the misery of her poor clients. When Mr. Page noticed my tears, which flowed partly for myself and partly for one who had been long dead, but yet lived in the hearts of these citizens, he sought to cheer me by the recital of the fair and rare pageant which doth take place every year in Coventry, and is of the most admirable beauty, and such as is not witnessed in any other city in the world. He said I should not weep if I were to see it, which he very much desired I should; and he hoped he might be then alive, and ride by my side in the procession as my esquire; at the which I smiled, for the good gentleman had a face and figure such as would not grace a pageant, and methought I might be ashamed some years hence to have him for my knight; and I said, "Good Mr. Page, be the shutters closed on those days as when the Lady Godiva rode?" at the which he laughed, and answered,
"No; and that for one Tom who then peeped, there were a thousand eyes to gaze on the show as it passed."
"Then if it please you, sir, when the time comes," I said, "I would like to look on and not to ride;" and he replied, it should be as I pleased; and with such merry discourse we spent the time till supper was ready. And afterward that good gentleman slackened not his efforts in entertaining us; but related so many laughable stories, and took so great notice of me, that I was moved to answer him sometimes in a manner too forward for my years. He told us of the queen's visit to that [{353}] city, and that the mayor, who had heard her grace's majesty considered poets, and herself wrote verses, thought to commend himself to her favor by such rare rhymes as these, wherewith he did greet her at her entrance into the town:
"We, the men of Coventry,
Be pleased to see your majesty,
Good Lord! how fair you be!"
at the which her highness made but an instant's pause, and then straightway replied,
"It pleaseth well her majesty
To see the men of Coventry.
Good Lord! what fools you be!"
"But," quoth Mr. Page, "the good man was so well pleased that the Queen had answered his compliment, that 'tis said he has had her majesty's speech framed, and hung up in his parlor."
"Pity 'tis not in the town-hall," I cried; and he laughing commended me for sharpness; but Mistress Ward said:
"A sharp tongue in a woman's head was always a stinging weapon; but in a queen's she prayed God it might never prove a murtherous one." Which words somewhat checked our merriment, for that they savored of rebuke to me for forward speech, and I ween awoke in Mr. Page thoughts of a graver sort.
When we rode through the town next day, he went with us for the space of some miles, and then bade us farewell with singular courtesy, and professions of good will and proffered service if we should do him the good at any time to remember his poor house; which we told him he had given us sufficient reason not to forget. Toward evening, when the sun was setting, we did see the towers of Warwick Castle; and I would fain have discerned the one which doth bear the name of the great earl who in a poor pilgrim's garb slew the giant Colbrand, and the cave 'neath Guy's Cliff where he spent his last years in prayer. But the light was declining as we rode into Leamington, where we lay that night, and darkness hid from us that fair country, which methought was a meet abode for such as would lead a hermit's life.
The next day we had the longest ride and the hottest sun we had yet met with; and at noon we halted to rest in a thicket on the roadside, which we made our pavilion, and from which our eyes did feast themselves on a delightful prospect. There were heights on one side garnished with stately oaks, and a meadow betwixt the road and the hill enamelled with all sorts of pleasing flowers, and stored with sheep, which were feeding in sober security. Mistress Ward, who was greatly tired with the journey, fell asleep with her head on her hand, and I pulled from my pocket a volume with which Mr. Page had gifted me at parting, and which contained sundry tales anent Amadis de Gaul, Huon de Bordeaux, Palmerin of England, and suchlike famous knights, which he said, as I knew how to read, for which he greatly commended my parents' care, I should entertain myself with on the road. So, one-half sitting, one-half lying on the grass, I reclined in an easy posture, with my head resting against the trunk of a tree, pleasing my fancy with the writers' conceits; but ever and anon lifting my eyes to the blue sky above my head, seen through the green branches, or fixed them on the quaint patterns the quivering light drew on the grass, or else on the valley refreshed with a silver river, and the fair hills beyond it. And as I read of knights and ladies, and the many perils which befel them, and passages of love betwixt them, which was new to me, and what I had not met with in any of the books I had yet read, I fell into a fit of musing, wondering if in London the folks I should see would discourse in the same fashion, and the gentlemen have so much bravery and the ladies so great beauty as those my book treated of. And as I noticed it was chiefly on the high-roads they did come into such dangerous adventures, [{354}] I gazed as far as I could discern on the one I had in view before me with a foolish kind of desire for some robbers to come and assail us, and then a great nobleman or gallant esquire to ride up and fall on them, and to deliver us from a great peril, and may be to be wounded in the encounter, and I to bind up those wounds as from my mother's teaching I knew how to do, and then give thanks to the noble gentleman in such courteous and well-picked words as I could think of. But for all my gazing I could naught perceive save a wain slowly ascending the hill loaden with corn, midst clouds of dust, and some poorer sort of people, who had been gleaning, and were carrying sheaves on their heads. After an hour Mistress Ward awoke from her nap; and methinks I had been dozing also, for when she called to me, and said it was time to eat somewhat, and then get to horse, I cried out, "Good sir, I wait your pleasure;" and rubbed my eyes to see her standing before me in her riding-habit, and not the gentleman whose wounds I had been tending.
That night we slept at Northampton, at Mistress Engerfield's house. She was a cousin of Mr. Congleton's, and a lady whose sweet affability and gravity would have extorted reverence from those that least loved her. She was then very aged, and had been a nun in King Henry's reign; and, since her convent had been despoiled, and the religious driven out of it, having a large fortune of her own, which she inherited about that time, she made her house a secret monastery, wherein God was served in a religious manner by such persons as the circumstances of the time, and not their own desires, had forced back into the world, and who as yet had found no commodity for passing beyond seas into countries where that manner of life is allowed. They dressed in sober black, and kept stated hours of prayer, and went not abroad unless necessity compelled them thereunto. When we went into the dining-room, which I noticed Mistress Engerfield called the refectory, grace was said in Latin; and whilst we did eat one lady read out loud out of a book, which methinks was the life of a saint; but the fatigue of the journey, and the darkness of the room, which was wainscotted with oak-wood, so overpowered my senses with drowsiness, that before the meal was ended I had fallen asleep, which was discovered, to my great confusion, when the company rose from table. But that good lady, in whose face was so great a kindliness that I never saw one to be compared with it in that respect before or since, took me by the hand and said, "Young eyes wax heavy for lack of rest, and travellers should have repose. Come to thy chamber, sweet one, and, after commending thyself by a brief prayer to him who sleepeth not nor slumbereth, and to her who is the Mother of the motherless, get thee to bed and take thy fill of the sleep thou hast so great need of, and good angels will watch near thee."
Oh, how I did weep then, partly from fatigue, and partly from the dear comfort her words did yield me, and, kneeling, asked her blessing, as I had been wont to do of my dear parents. And she, whose countenance was full of majesty, and withal of most attractive gentleness, which made me deem her to be more than an ordinary woman, and a great servant of God, as indeed she was, raised me from the ground, and herself assisted to get me to bed, having first said my prayers by her side, whose inflamed devotion, visible in her face, awakened in me a greater fervor than I had hitherto experienced when performing this duty. After I had slept heavily for the space of two or three hours I awoke, as is the wont of those who be over-fatigued, and could not get to sleep again, so that I heard the clock of a church strike twelve; and as the last stroke fell on my ear, it was followed by a sound of chanting, as if close unto my chamber, which resembled what on rare occasions I had heard performed [{355}] by two or three persons in our chapel; but here, with so full a concord of voices, and so great melody and sweetness, that methought, being at that time of night and every one abed, it must be the angels that were singing. But the next day, questioning Mrs. Ward thereupon as of a strange thing which had happened to me, she said, the ladies in that house rose always at midnight, as they had been used to do in their several convents, to sing God's praises and give him thanks, which was what they did vow to do when they became religious. Before we departed, Mistress Engerfield took me into her own room, which was small and plainly furnished, with no other furniture in it but a bed, table, and kneeling-stool, and against the wall a large crucifix, and she bestowed upon me a small book in French, titled "The Spiritual Combat," which she said was a treasury of pious riches, which she counselled me by frequent study to make my own; and with many prayers and blessings she then bade us God-speed, and took leave of us. Our last day's lodging on the road was at Bedford; and there being no Catholics of note in that town wont to entertain travellers, we halted at a quiet hostelry, which was kept by very decent people, who showed us much civility; and the landlady, after we had supped, the evening being rainy (for else she said we might have walked through her means into the fair grounds of the Abbey of Woburn, which she thanked God was not now a hive for drones, as it had once been, but the seat of a worthy nobleman; which did more credit to the town, and drew customers to the inn), brought us for our entertainment a huge book, which she said had as much godliness in each of its pages as might serve to convert as many Papists—God save the mark!—as there were leaves in the volume. My cheeks glowed like fire when she thus spoke, and I looked at Mistress Ward, wondering what she would say. But she only bowed her head, and made pretence to open the book, which, when the good woman was gone,
"Mistress Constance," quoth she, "this is a book writ by Mr. Fox, the Duke of Norfolk's old schoolmaster, touching those he doth call martyrs, who suffered for treason and for heresy in the days of Queen Mary,—God rest her soul!—and if it ever did convert a Papist, I do not say on his deathbed, but at any time of his life, except it was greatly for his own interest, I be ready …"
"To be a martyr yourself, Mistress Ward," I cried, with my ever too great proneness to let my tongue loose from restraint. The color rose in her cheek, which was usually pale, and she said:
"Child, I was about to say, that in the case I have named, I be ready to forego the hope of that which I thank God I be wise enough to desire, though unworthy to obtain; but for which I do pray each day that I live."
"Then would you not be afraid to die on a scaffold," I asked, "or to be hanged, Mistress Ward?"
"Not in a good cause," she said.
But before the words were out of her mouth our landlady knocked at the door, and said a gentleman was in the house with his two sons, who asked to pay their compliments to Mistress Ward and the young lady under her care. The name of this gentleman was Rookwood, of Rookwood Hall in Suffolk, and Mistress Ward desired the landlady presently to bring them in, for she had often met them at my aunt's house, as she afterward told me, and had great contentment we should have such good company under the same roof with us; whom when they came in she very pleasantly received, and informed Mr. Rookwood of my name and relationship to Mistress Congleton; which when he heard, he asked if I was Mr. Henry Sherwood's daughter; which being certified of, he saluted me, and said my father was at one time, when both were at college, the closest friend that ever he had, and his esteem for him was so great that he would be better [{356}] pleased with the news that he should see him but once again, than if any one was to give him a thousand pounds. I told him my father often spake of him with singular affection, and that the letter I should write to him from London would be more welcome than anything else could make it, by the mention of the honor I had had of his notice. Mistress Ward then asked him what was the news in London, from whence he had come that morning. He answered that the news was not so good as he would wish it to be; for that the queen's marriage with monsieur was broke off, and the King of France greatly incensed at the favor M. de Montgomeri had experienced at her hands; and that when he had demanded he should be given up, she had answered that she did not see why she should be the King of France's hangman; which was what his father had replied to her sister, when she had made the like request anent some of her traitors who had fled to France.
"Her majesty," he said, "was greatly incensed against the Bishop of Ross, and had determined to put him to death; but that she was dissuaded from it by her council; and that he prayed God Catholics should not fare worse now that Ridolfi's plot had been discovered to declare her highness illegitimate, and place the Queen of Scots on the throne, which had moved her to greater anger than even the rising in the north.
"And touching the Duke of Norfolk," Mistress Ward did ask, "what is like to befal him?"
Mr. Rookwood said, "His grace had been removed from the Tower to his own house on account of the plague; but it is reported the queen is more urgent against him than ever, and will have his head in the end."
"If her majesty will not marry monsieur," Mistress Ward said, "it will fare worse with recusants."
Upon which one of the young gentlemen cried out, "'Tis not her majesty will not have him; but monsieur will not have her. My Lord of Oxford, who is to marry my Lord Burleigh's daughter, said yesterday at the tennis court, that that matter of monsieur is grieviously taken on her grace's part; but that my lord is of opinion that where amity is so needful, her majesty should stomach it; and so she doth pretend to break it off herself by reason of her religious scruples."
At the which both brothers did laugh, but Mr. Rookwood bade them have a care how they did suffer their tongues to wag anent her grace and such matters as her grace's marriage; which although in the present company might be without danger, was an ill habit, which in these times was like to bring divers persons into troubles.
"Hang it!" cried the eldest of his sons, who was of a well-pleasing favor and exceeding goodly figure; "recusants be always in trouble, whatsoever they do; both taxed for silence and checked for speech, as the play hath it. For good Mr. Weston was racked for silence last week till he fainted, for that he would not reveal what he had heard in confession from one concerned in Ridolfi's plot; and as to my Lord Morley, he hath been examined before the council, touching his having said he would go abroad poorly and would return in glory, which he did speak concerning his health; but they would have it meant treason."
"Methinks, Master Basil," said his father, "thou art not like to be taxed for silence; unless indeed on the rack, which the freedom of thy speech may yet bring thee to, an thou hast not more care of thy words. See now, thy brother keeps his lips closed in modest silence."
"Ay, as if butter would not melt in his mouth," cried Basil, laughing.
And I then noticed the countenance of the younger brother, who was fairer and shorter by a head than Basil, and had the most beautiful eyes imaginable, and a high forehead betokening thoughtfulness. Mr. Rookwood drew his chair further from the table, and conversed in a low voice with Mrs. Ward, [{357}] touching matters which I ween were of too great import to be lightly treated of. I heard the name of Mr. Felton mentioned in their discourse, and somewhat about the Pope's Bull, in the affixing of which at the Bishop of London's gate he had lent a hand; but my ears were not free to listen to them, for the young gentlemen began to entertain me with divers accounts of the shows in London; which, as they were some years older than myself, who was then no better than a child, though tall of mine age, I took as a great favor, and answered them in the best way I could. Basil spoke mostly of the sights he had seen, and a fight between a lion and three dogs, in which the dogs were victorious; and Hubert of books, which he said, for his part, he had always a care to keep handsome and well bound.
"Ay," quoth his brother, "gilding them and stringing them like the prayer-books of girls and gallants, which are carried to church but for their outsides. I do hate a book with clasps, 'tis a trouble to open them."
"A trouble thou dost seldom take," quoth Hubert. "Thou art ready enough to unclasp the book of thy inward soul to whosoever will read in it, and thy purse to whosoever begs or borrows of thee; but with such clasps as shut in the various stores of thought which have issued forth from men's minds thou dost not often meddle."
"Beshrew me if I do! The best prayer-book I take to be a pair of beads; and the most entertaining reading, the 'Rules for the Hunting of Deer;' which, by what I have heard from Sir Roger Ashlon, my Lord Stafford hath grievously transgressed by assaulting Lord Lyttleton's keepers in Teddesley Haye."
"What have you here?" Hubert asked, glancing at Mr. Fox's Book of Martyrs, and another which the landlady had left on the table; A profitable New Year's Gift to all England.
"They are not mine," I answered, "nor such as I do care to read; but this," I said, holding out Mr. Page's gift, which I had in my pocket, "is a rare fund of entertainment and very full of pleasant tales."
"But," quoth he, "you should read the Morte d'Arthur and the Seven Champions of Christendom."
Which I said I should be glad to do when I had the good chance to meet with them. He said, "My cousin Polly had a store of such pleasant volumes, and would, no doubt, lend them to me. She has such a sharp wit," he added, "that she is ever exercising it on herself or on others; on herself by the bettering of her mind through reading; and on others by such applications, of what she thus acquires as leaves them no chance in discoursing with her but to yield to her superior knowledge."
"Methinks," I said, "if that be her aim in reading, may be she will not lend to others the means of sharpening their wits to encounter hers."
At the which both of them laughed, and Basil said he hoped I might prove a match for Mistress Polly, who carried herself too high, and despised such as were slower of speech and less witty than herself. "For my part," he cried, "I am of opinion that too much reading doth lead to too much thinking, and too much thinking doth consume the spirits; and often it falls out that while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to do the effect of his thinking."
At the which Hubert smiled, and I bethought myself that if Basil was no book-worm neither was he a fool. With such like discourse the evening sped away, and Mr. Rookwood and his sons took their leave with many civilities and pleasant speeches, such as gentlemen are wont to address to ladies, and hopes expressed to meet again in London, and good wishes for the safe ending of our journey thither.
Ah, me! 'tis passing strange to sit here and write in this little chamber, after so many years, of that first meeting with those brothers, Basil and Hubert; to call to mind how they did look and speak, and of the pretty kind [{358}] of natural affection there was betwixt them in their manner to each other. Ah, me! the old trick of sighing is coming over me again, which I had well-nigh corrected myself of, who have more reason to give thanks than to complain. Good Lord, what fools you be! sighing heart and watering eyes! As great fools, I ween, as the Mayor of Coventry, whose foolish rhymes do keep running in my head.
The day following we came to London, which being, as it were, the beginning of a new life to me, I will defer to speak of until I find myself, after a night's rest and special prayers unto that end, less heavy of heart than at present.