II.
Travellers who are given to pedestrian exercises may easily visit the works being carried on for the perforation of the tunnel through the Alps, both at Bardonnêche and at Modane, passing from one mouth of the tunnel to the other by the Colle di Frejus; and in fine weather, the tourist would not repent the eight hours spent in walking from Bardonnêche to Susa—a distance of about twenty-five miles. The road descends the valley of the Dora Ripari, and abounds in beautiful scenery. The railway to be constructed along this narrow defile will be found to tax the skill of the engineer as much as any road yet attempted. Its total length, from the terminus at Susa to the mouth of the Mont Cenis tunnel, will be forty kilometres, [{66}] or about twenty-four miles; and the difference of level between these two points is about two thousand five hundred feet, the line having a maximum gradient of one in forty, and a minimum of one in eighty-four. There will be three tunnels of importance, having a total length of about ten thousand feet; three others of lesser dimensions, having a total length of five thousand five hundred feet; and twelve other small tunnels, of lengths varying from two hundred and twenty to eight hundred and fifty feet, their total length being five thousand four hundred feet. Thus, the total length of tunnel on these twenty-four miles of railway will be nearly twenty-one thousand feet, or about four miles—just one-sixth of the whole line. There will also be several examples of bridges and retaining walls of unusual dimensions.
The works being carried on at Bardonnêche are on a larger scale than at Modane; so we will, with our readers' permission, suppose ourselves arrived in company at the former place, and the first point which we will visit together will be the large house containing the air-compressing machinery. Before entering, however, we will throw a glance at the exterior of the building. We find before us, as it were, two houses, in a direct line one with the other—one situated at the foot of a steep ascent; and the other at about seventy or eighty feet above it, on the side of the mountain. These two houses are, however, but one, being joined by ten rows of inclined arch-work. Along the summit of each row of arches is a large iron pipe, more than a foot in diameter. These ten pipes, inclined at an angle of about forty-five degrees, come out of the side of the upper house, and enter the side of the lower house, and serve to conduct the water from the large reservoir above to the air-compressing machinery, which is arranged in the house below, exerting in this machinery the pressure of a column of water eighty-four feet six inches in height. On entering the compression-room, we have before us ten compressing-machines, precisely the same in all their parts—five on the right hand, and five on the left, forming, as it were, two groups of five each. In the centre of these two groups are two machines, in every respect like a couple of small steam-engines, only they are worked by compressed air instead of steam, and which we will call aereomotori. Each of these aereomotori imparts a rotary motion to a horizontal axis extending along the whole length of the room, and on which are a series of cams, which regulate the movements of the valves of the great compressors. This axis we will call the "main shaft." One group of five compressors is totally independent of the other, and has its aereomotore with its main shaft; but still, with one single aereomotore, by means of a simple connecting apparatus, it is possible to work one or the other group separately, or both together; also, any number of the ten compressors can be disconnected for repairs without affecting the action of the rest, or may be injured without conveying any injury to the others. In front of each of the ten compressors are placed cylindrical recipients, in every respect like large steam-boilers, except that they have no fire-grate or flues, each having a capacity of seventeen cubic metres, or five hundred and eighty-three cubic feet. These recipients are put into communication one with the other by means of a tube similar to a steam-pipe connecting a series of steam-boilers; and each connection is furnished with a stop-valve, so that any one recipient can be isolated from the rest.
Let us now examine the end and action of this machinery. As the aereomotori which work the valves of the machines for forcing air into the recipients are themselves worked by compressed air coming from the recipients, it is evident that before we can put the compressing-machines in motion, we must have already some supply of compressed air in the [{67}] cylindrical vessels. This supply of air, compressed to a pressure of six atmospheres, is obtained in the following manner: Each group of five recipients, filled with air at the ordinary atmospheric pressure, is put in communication with a large pipe which enters into a cistern placed in the side of the mountain at about one hundred and sixty-two feet above the floor of the compressing-room. The first operation, then, is to open the equilibrium valves placed at the bottom of the two pipes (one from each group of recipients); water then rushes into the vessels, compressing the ordinary air therein contained to about a pressure of six atmospheres. A communication is now opened between this compressed air and the cylinders of the aereomotori, which commence their action precisely as a steam-engine would do on the admission of steam; a rotary motion is given to the main shaft; and the equilibrium valves, placed in chambers at the bottom of each of the ten pipes coming from the cistern of water placed in the house above, are opened. We will observe the operation in one of the ten lines of action, as it were, consisting of the pipe conducting the water from the cistern, the compressing-machine, and the cylindrical recipient. The equilibrium valve at the bottom of the pipe being opened in the manner above explained, the water, with its head of eighty-four feet six inches, rushes past it, along a short length of horizontal pipe (in which is an exhaust valve, now closed), and begins to mount a vertical column or tube of cast-iron about ten feet high and two feet in diameter: the air in this column undergoes compression until it has reached a pressure sufficient to force open a valve in a pipe issuing from the summit of the tube, and connecting it with the recipient. This valve being already weighted with the pressure of the air compressed to six atmospheres by the means previously explained, a certain quantity of air is thus forced into the vessel; at this moment, another revolution of the main shaft causes the equilibrium valve at the bottom of the conducting-pipe to be shut, and at the same time opens the exhaust valve at the foot of the vertical column. The head of water being now cut off, and the exhaust open, the water in the vertical column begins to sink by its own gravity, leaving a vacuum behind it, if it were not for a small clack-valve opening inward in the upper part of the compressing column, which opens by the external pressure of the air, so that by the time all the water has passed out of the exhaust valve, the compressor is again full of atmospheric air; the valve in connection with the recipient being closed by the compressed air imprisoned in the vessel. The aereomotori continue their motion, another revolution of the main shaft shuts the exhaust and opens the equilibrium or admission valve; the column of water is again permitted to act, and the same action is repeated, more air being forced into the recipient at each round or pulsation of the machine. Now, supposing no consumption of the compressed air to take place beyond that used for driving the aereomotori, it seems evident that the water in the vessels would be gradually forced out, owing to the growing pressure of the air inside, above the pressure of the column of water coming from the higher cistern; but the communication with this higher cistern is always kept open, the column of water acting, in fact, as a sort of moderator or governor to the compressing-machine, rising or falling according to the consumption of the compressed air, and always insuring that there shall be a pressure of six atmospheres acting against the valve at the summit of the vertical column. A water-tube placed on the outside of each group of recipients, with a graduated scale marked on it, indicates at a glance the consumption of air. If the perforating-machines in the tunnel cease working, the pressure augments in the recipients, and the water in them falls until an equilibrium is established, [{68}] between the pressure of the column of water and the force of the compressors, until, in fact, these work without being able to lift the valve at the summit of the vertical compressing column. On the other hand, if more air than usual be used for ventilating the tunnel, or by an accidental leakage in the conducting-pipes, the water rises rapidly in the recipients, and consequently in the water-gauge outside, and in thus creating an equilibrium, indicates the state of things. By this means a continual compensation of pressure is kept up, which prevents any shock on the valves, and causes the machine to work with the regularity and uniformity of a steam-engine provided with a governor. In every turn of the main shaft, a complete circle of effects take place in the compressors; and experience has shown that three turns a minute of the shaft—that is, three pulsations of the compressing-machine per minute—are sufficient. It will thus be seen that a column of water, having the great velocity due to a head of eighty-four feet six inches, acts upon a column of air contained in a vertical tube; the effect of this velocity being to inject, as it were, a certain quantity of air into a recipient at each upward stroke of the column, and at each downward stroke drawing in after it an equivalent quantity of atmospheric air as a fresh supply. The ten recipients charged with air compressed to six atmospheres (ninety pounds on the square inch) in the manner above explained, serve as a reservoir of the force required for working the boring-engines in the tunnel, and for ventilating and purifying the gallery. The air is conducted in pipes about eight inches in diameter, having a thickness of metal of about three-eighths of an inch. Much doubt had previously been expressed as to the possibility of conveying compressed air to great distances without a very great and serious loss of power. The experience gained, however, at the Mont Cenis has shown that, conveyed to a distance of thirteen English miles, the loss would be but one-tenth of the original force; and that the actual measured loss of power in a distance of six thousand five hundred feet, a little more than a mile and a quarter, was less than 1-127th of the original pressure in the recipients.
The mouth of the tunnel is but a few hundred yards from the air-compressing house—we will now proceed thither. For nearly a mile in length the gallery is completed and lined with masonry. At the first view, we are struck with the bold outline of its section and its ample dimensions. Excepting, perhaps, the passage of an occasional railway-truck, laden with pieces of rock and rubbish, we find nothing to remind us of the numbers of busy workmen and of the powerful machines which are laboring in the tunnel. All is perfectly quiet and solitary. Looking around us as we traverse this first and completed portion, we observe nothing very different from an ordinary railway-tunnel, with the exception of the great iron pipe which conveys the compressed air, and is attached to the side of the wall. At the end of about a quarter of an hour we begin to hear sounds of activity, and little lights flickering in the distance indicate that we are approaching the scene of operations. In a few moments we reach the second division of the tunnel, or that part which is being enlarged from the comparatively small section made by the perforating-machine to its full dimensions, previously to being lined with masonry. In those portions where the workmen are engaged in the somewhat dangerous operation of detaching large blocks of stone from the roof, the tunnel is protected by a ceiling of massive beams, under which the visitor passes—not, however, without hurrying his pace and experiencing a feeling of satisfaction when the distance is completed. Gradually leaving behind us the bee-like crowd of busy miners, with the eternal ring of their boring-bars against the hard rock, we find the excavated gallery [{69}] getting smaller and smaller, and the difficulties of picking our way increasing at every step; the sounds behind us get fainter and fainter, and in a short time we are again in the midst of a profound solitude.
The little gallery in which we are now stumbling our way over blocks of stone and rubbish, only varied by long tracts of thick slush and pools of water, is the section excavated by the boring-machine—in dimension about twelve feet broad by eight feet high. The tramway which has accompanied us all the way is still continued along this small section. In the middle portion underneath the rails is the canal, inclined toward the mouth of the tunnel, for carrying off the water; and in this canal are now collected the pipes for conveying the compressed air to the machines, and the gas for illuminating the gallery. At the end of a few minutes, a rattling, jingling sound indicates that we are near the end of our excursion, and that we are approaching the perforating-machines. On arriving, we find that nearly the whole of the little gallery is taken up by the engine, the frame of which, mounted upon wheels, rests upon the main tramway, so that the whole can be moved backward or forward as necessary. On examining the arrangement a little closely, we find that in reality we have before us nine or ten perforators, completely independent of one another, all mounted on one frame, and each capable of movement in any direction. Attached to every one of them are two flexible tubes, one for conveying the compressed air, and the other the water which is injected at every blow or stroke of the tool into the hole, for the purpose of clearing out the debris and for cooling the point of the "jumper." In front, directed against the rock, are nine or ten tubes (according to the number of perforators), very similar in appearance to large gun-barrels, out of which are discharged with great rapidity an equal number of boring-bars or jumpers. Motion is given to these jumpers by the direct admission of a blast of compressed air behind them, the return stroke being effected by a somewhat slighter pressure of air than was used to drive them forward. We will suppose the machine brought up for the commencement of an attack. The points most convenient for the boring of the holes having been selected, the nine or ten perforators, as the case may be, are carefully adjusted in front of them. The compressed air is then admitted, and the boring of the holes commences. On an average, at the end of about three-quarters of an hour, the nine or ten holes are pierced to a depth of two feet to two feet six inches. Another ten holes are then commenced, and so on, until about eighty holes are pierced. The greater number of these holes are driven toward the centre of the point of attack, and the rest round the perimeter. The driving of these eighty holes to an average depth of two feet three inches, is usually completed in about seven hours, and the second operation is then commenced.
The flexible tubes conveying the compressed air and the water are detached from the machines, and placed in security in the covered canal. The perforating-machine, mounted on its frame or truck, is drawn back on the tramway behind two massive folding-doors of wood. Miners then advance and charge the holes in the centre with powder, and adjust the matches; fire is given, and the miners retire behind the folding-doors, which are closed. The explosion opens a breach in the centre part of the front of attack. Powerful jets of compressed air are now injected, to clear off the smoke formed by the powder. As soon as the gallery is clear, the other holes in the perimeter are charged and fired, and more air is injected. Then comes the third operation. Gangs of workmen advance and clear away the debris and blocks of stone detached by the explosion of the mine, in little wagons running on a pair of rails placed by the side of the main tramway. This done, the main line is [{70}] prolonged to the requisite distance, and the perforating engine is again brought forward for a fresh attack. Thus, we have three distinct operations—first, the mechanical perforation of the holes; secondly, the charging and explosion of the mine; and thirdly, the clearing away of the debris. By careful registers kept since the commencement of the work, it is found that the mean duration of each successive operation is as follows: for the perforation of the holes, seven hours thirty-nine minutes; for the charging and explosion of the mine, three hours twenty-nine minutes; for the clearing away of the debris, two hours thirty-three minutes; or, in all, nearly fourteen hours. Occasionally, however, the three operations may be completed in ten hours, all depending upon the hardness of the rock. It has been found practically more expeditious to make two series of operations in twenty-four hours.
Whatever may be the nature of the rock, if it is very hard, the depth of the holes is reduced; that is, the perforation is only continued for a certain given time—about six and a half hours—which, for the eighty holes with ten perforaters, gives us about three-quarters of an hour for each hole. The rock is generally of calcareous schist, crystallized, and exceedingly hard, traversed by thick veins of quartz, which often break the points of the boring-tools after a few blows. Each jumper gives about three blows per second, and makes one-eighteenth of a revolution on its axis at each blow, or one complete revolution every six seconds. Thus, in the three-quarters of an hour necessary to drive a single hole to the depth of twenty-seven inches, we have four hundred and fifty revolutions of the bar, and eighteen hundred violent blows given by the point against the hard rock, and that under an impulse of about one hundred and eighty pounds. These figures will give us some idea of the wear and tear of the perforating-machines. It is calculated that on an average one perforating-machine is worn out for every six metres of gallery, so that more than two thousand will be consumed before the completion of the tunnel. The total length completed at the Bardonnêche side at the present time is just two thousand three hundred metres, or nearly a mile and a half.
At the north or Modane end, the mechanical perforators are precisely the same as at Bardonnêche, as also is the system of working in the gallery. The machinery for the compression of air, however, is very different, more simple, and in every way an improvement upon that at the South end. Not finding any convenient means of obtaining a head of eighty-four feet of water sufficient in quantity for working a series of compressors, as at Bardonnêche, there has been established at Modane a system of direct compression, the necessary force for which is derived from the current of the Arc. Six large water-wheels moved by this current give a reciprocating motion to a piston contained in a large horizontal cylinder of cast iron. This piston, having a column of water on each side of it, raises and lowers alternately these two columns, in two vertical tubes about ten feet high, compressing the air in each tube alternately, and forcing a certain quantity, at each upward stroke of the water, to enter into a cylindrical recipient. There is very little loss of water in this machine, which in its action is very like a large double-barreled common air-pump. It is a question open to science whether the employment of compressed air for driving the perforating engines in a work such as is in operation at the Mont Cenis, could not be advantageously and economically exchanged for the employment of a direct hydraulic motive force, the ventilation of the tunnel being provided for by other means. The system, however, employed at Modane has many advantages, which it is impossible to overlook, and its complete success has given a marked and decided impulse to the modern science of tunnelling through hard rock.
Translated from the Civiltà Cattolica.
ON THE UNITY OF TYPE IN THE ANIMAL KINGDOM.
I.
The generation of a human creature takes place neither by the development of a being which is found in the germ, sketched as it were like a miniature, nor by a sudden formation or an instantaneous transition from potential to actual existence. It is effected by the true production of a new being, which pre-exists only virtually in the activity of the germ communicated by the conceiver, and the successive transformation of the potential subject.
This truth, an a priori postulate of philosophy, and demonstrated by physiology a posteriori, was illustrated by us in a preceding article. Here we must discard an error which has sprung from this truth. For there have been materialists who maintained that there was but one type in the whole animal kingdom, that is, man, as he unites in himself in the highest possible degree perfection of organism and delicacy of feelings; and that all the species of inferior animals were so many stages in the development of that most perfect type. This opinion is thus expressed by Milne-Edwards in his highly esteemed lectures on the Physiology and Comparative Anatomy of Man and Animals:
"Every organized being undergoes in its development deep and various modifications. The character of the anatomical structure, no less than its vital faculties, changes as it passes from the state of embryo to that of a perfect animal in its own species. Now all the animals which are derived from the same type move during a certain time in the same embryonic road, and resemble each other in that process of organization during a certain period of time, the longer as their zoological relationship is closer; afterward they deviate from the common road and each acquires the properties belonging to it. Those that are to have a more perfect structure proceed further than those whose organization is completed at less cost. It results from this that the transitory or embryonic state of a superior animal resembles, in a more or less wonderful manner, the permanent state of another animal lower in the same zoological series. Some authors have thought right to conclude from this that the diversity of species proceeds from a series of stages of this kind taking place at different degrees of the embryonic development; and these writers, falling into the exaggerations to which imitators are especially liable, have held that every superior animal, in order to reach its definitive form, must pass through the series of the proper forms of animals which are its inferiors in the zoological hierarchy; so that man, for instance, before he is born, is at first a kind of worm, then a mollusk, then a fish, or something like it, before he can assume the characters belonging to his species. An eminent professor has recently expressed these views in a concise form, saying that the embryology of the most perfect being is a comparative transitory anatomy, and that the anatomic table of the whole animal kingdom is a fixed and permanent representation of the movable aspect of human organogeny."
Thus, according to this opinion, man is the only type of animal life; and every inferior species is but an imitation, more or less perfect, of the same; an inchoation stopped in its course at a greater or shorter distance from the term to which the work of nature tends in its organization of the human embryo. In short, an [{72}] entoma in difetto, to use the language of Dante.
The doctrine is not new in the scientific world. It was proclaimed in the last century by Robinet, who held that all inferior beings are but so many proofs or sketches upon which nature practises in order to learn how to form man. In the beginning of the present century Lamarck, in Germany, following Kielmayer, reproduced the same theory. According to him all the species of animals inferior to man are but so many lower steps at which the human embryo stops in its gradual development. Man, on the contrary, is the last term reached by nature after she has travelled all through the zoological scale, to fit herself for that work. About the same time the celebrated naturalist, Stephen Geoffroy Saint Hilaire, began to disseminate in France analogous ideas under the name of stages of development (arrêt de devéloppement); and these ideas, exaggerated by some of his disciples, amounted in their minds to the same doctrine of Lamarck, just alluded to. Among them Professor Serres holds the first rank, and it is to him that Milne-Edwards alludes in the passage just cited. He expresses himself thus:
"Human organogeny is a comparative transitory anatomy, as comparative anatomy is the fixed and permanent state of the organogeny of man; and, on the contrary, if we reverse the proposition, or method of investigation, and study animal life from the lowest to the highest, instead of considering it from the highest to the lowest, we shall see that the organisms of the series reproduce incessantly those of the embryos, and fix themselves in that state which for animals becomes the term of their development. The long series of changes of form presented by the same organism in comparative anatomy is but the reproduction of the numerous series of transformations to which this organism is subjected in the embryo in the course of its development. In the embryo the passage is rapid, in virtue of the power of the life which animates it; in the animal the life of the organism is exhausted, and it stops there, because it is not permitted to follow the course traced for the human embryo. Distinct stages on the one hand, progressive advance on the other, here is the secret of development, the fundamental difference which the human mind can perceive between comparative anatomy and organogeny. The animal series thus considered in its organisms is but a long chain of embryos which succeed each other gradually and at intervals, reaching at last man, who thus finds his physical development in comparative organogeny."
Thus speaks Serres. And in another place:
"The whole animal kingdom appears only like one animal in the course of formation in the different organisms. It stops here sooner, there later, and thus at the time of each interruption determines, by the state in which it then is, the distinctive and organized characters of classes, families, genera, and species."
II.
THIS OPINION REFUTED BY PHILOSOPHICAL REASONS.
The futility of the above doctrine is manifest, in the first place, from the weakness of the foundation on which it rests. That foundation is no other than a kind of likeness which appears at first sight between the rudimental forms which, in the first steps of its development, are assumed by the human embryo, and the forms of some inferior animals. For the germ, by the very reason that it has not, as it was once believed, all the organism of the human body in microscopic proportions, but in order to acquire it must pass from potential to actual existence—by that very reason, is [{73}] subjected to continual metamorphoses, that is, to successive transformations, which give it different aspects, from that of a little disc to the perfect human figure. Now, it is clear that, in this gradual transition from the mere power to the act of perfect organization, a kind of analogy or likeness to some of the numberless forms of inferior organizations of the animal kingdom may, and must, be found in its intermediate and incomplete state.
But, evidently, between analogy and identity there is an immense difference; and the fact of there being an analogy with some of those forms, gives us no right to infer that there is one with all. Hence this theory is justly despised by the most celebrated naturalists as the whim of an extravagant fancy.
"According to Lamarck," says Frédault, in speaking of this, theory, "all the animals are but inferior grades at which the human germ stopped in its development, and man is but the result of the last efforts of a nature which has passed successively through the grades of its novitiate, and has arrived at the last term of its perfection. Presented in this view, the doctrine of epigenesis raised against itself the most simple and scientific common sense, as being manifestly erroneous. Numerous works on the development of the germ have demonstrated that appearances were taken for realities, and that imagination had created a real romance. It has been proved that if, at certain epochs of its development, the human germ has a distant resemblance either to a worm or a reptile, such resemblance is very remote, and that on this point we must believe as much as we would believe of the assertion of a man who, looking at the clouds, should say that he could discover the palaces and gardens of Armida, with horsemen and armies, and all that a heated imagination might fancy."
However, laying aside all that, the opinion which we are now examining originates, with those who uphold it, in a total absence of philosophical conceptions. That strange idea of the unity of type and of its stages, in order to establish the forms of inferior animals, would never have risen in the mind of any one who had duly considered the immutability of essences and the reason of the formation of a thing. The act of making differs from the thing made only as the means differs from the end. Both belong to the same order—one implies movement, the other rest. Their difference lies only in this: that what in the term is unfolded and complete, in its progress toward the term is found to be only sketched out, and having a tendency to formation. Hence it follows that, whatever the point of view from which we consider the embryo of each animal, it is nothing else but the total organism of the same in the course of formation; and, therefore, it differs as substantially from every other organism as the term itself toward which it proceeds. And what we affirm of the whole organism must be said of each of its parts, which are essentially related to the whole and follow the nature of the whole. The first rudiments, for instance, of the hands of man could not properly be compared to the wings of a bird. As they are hands after being made, so they are hands in the process of formation; as their structure is different, so is their being immutable.
Whatever may be the likeness between the first appearances of the human embryo and the forms of lower animals, they are not the effect of a stable existence, but of a transitory and shifting existence, which does not constitute a species, but is merely and essentially a movement toward the formation of the species. On the contrary, the forms presented by animals already constituted in their being belong to a stable and permanent existence, which diversifies one species from another. The difference, then, between the former and the latter is interior and substantial, and cannot be changed into exterior and accidental, as it would be if it consisted in [{74}] stopping or in travelling further on. The movement or tendency which takes place in the germ to become another thing until the said germ assumes a perfect organization relative to the being it must produce, is not a quality which can be discarded, since it is intimately combined with the subject itself in which it is found. The essence itself must be changed in it in order to obtain stability and consistency. But if the essence be changed, we are out of the question, since in that case we should have, not the human embryo arrested at this or that stage on its road, but a different being substituted for it; of analogous exterior appearance, perhaps, but substantially different, which would constitute an annual of inferior degree.
In short, each animal is circumscribed in its own species, like every other being in nature. If to reach to the perfection required by its independent existence it needs development, every step in that journey is an inchoation of the next, and cannot exist but as such. To change its nature and to make it a permanent being, is as impossible as to change one essence into another.
Again: From the opinion we are refuting it would follow that all animals, man excepted, are so many monsters, since they are nothing else but deviations, for want of ulterior development, from what nature really intends to do as a term of its action. Thus anomaly is converted into law, disorder into order, an accidental case into a constant fact.
Finally, in that hypothesis we should have to affirm not only that the inferior and more imperfect species appeared on earth before the nobler and the more akin to the unique and perfect type, but also that on the appearance of a more perfect species the preceding one had disappeared; being inferior in the scale of perfection. For what other reason could be alleged for nature's stopping at a bird when it intends to make a man, but that the causes are not properly disposed, or that circumstances are not quite favorable to the production of that perfect animal? Then when the causes are ready, and the circumstances propitious, it is necessary that man be fashioned and that the bird disappear. Now all that is contrary to experience. For all the species, together with the type, are of the same date, and we see them born constantly in the same circumstances which are common to all, either of temperature or atmosphere or latitude, etc.
The theory, then, of the unity of type in the animal kingdom and of stages of development falls to the ground, if we only look at it from a philosophical point of view.
III.
IT IS REFUTED BY PHYSIOLOGICAL REASONS.
However, physiological arguments have more force in this matter than the philosophical; since they are more closely connected with the subject, and have in their favor the tangible evidence of fact.
We shall take our arguments from three celebrated naturalists as the representatives of an immense number, whom want of space forbids us to quote.
Flourens shows the error of that opinion by referring to the diversity of the nervous system. The nervous system is the foundation of the animal organism; it is the general instrument of vital functions, of sensation, and of motion. If then one archetypal idea presides over the formation of the different organisms, only one nervous system ought to appear in each, more or less developed or arrested. But experience teaches us the contrary. It shows nervous systems differing in different animals ordained to different functions, each perfect in its kind. "Is there a unity of type?" asks this celebrated naturalist. "To say that there is but one type is to say that there is but one form of [{75}] nervous system; because the form of the nervous system determines the type; that is, it determines the general form of the animal. Now, can we affirm that there is but one form of nervous system? Can we hold that the nervous system of the zoophyte is the same as that of the mollusk, and this latter the same as that of the articulata, or this again the same as that of the vertebrata? And if we cannot say that there is only one nervous system, can we affirm that there is only one type?"
He speaks likewise of the unity of plan. Every creature is built differently, and the difference is especially striking between members of the several grand divisions of the animal kingdom. The plan then of each is different, and so is the typical idea which prescribes its formation. No animal can then be considered as the proof or outline of another.
"Is there a unity of plan? The plan is the relative location of the parts. One can conceive very well the unity of plan without the unity of number; for it is sufficient that all the parts, whatever their number may be, keep always relatively to each other the same place. But can one say that the vertebrate animal, whose nervous system is placed above the digestive canal, is fashioned after the same plan as the mollusk, whose digestive canal is placed above the nervous system? Can one say that the crustacean, whose heart is placed above the spinal marrow, is fashioned after the same pattern as the vertebrate, whose spinal marrow is placed above the heart? Is the relative location of the parts maintained? On the contrary, is it not overthrown? And if there is a change in the location of parts, how is there a unity of plan?"
Müller draws nearer to the consideration of the development of the human embryo, and forcibly illustrates the falsehood of the pretended theory. "It is not long since it was held with great seriousness that the human foetus, before reaching its perfect state, travels successively though the different degrees of development which are permanent during the whole life of animals of inferior classes. That hypothesis has not the least foundation, as Baer has shown. The human embryo never resembles a radiate, or an insect, or a mollusk, or a worm. The plan of formation of those animals is quite different from that of the vertebrate. Man then might at most resemble these last, since he himself is a vertebrate, and his organization is fashioned after the common type of this great division of the animal kingdom. But he does not even resemble at one time a fish, at another a reptile, a bird, etc. The analogy is no greater between him and a reptile or a bird, than it is between all vertebrate animals. During the first stages of their formation, all the embryos of vertebrate animals present merely the simplest and most general delineations of the type of a vertebrate; hence it is that they resemble each other so much as to render it very difficult to distinguish them. The fish, the reptile, the bird, the mammal, and man are at first the simplest expression of a type common to all; but in proportion as they grow, the general resemblance becomes fainter and fainter, and their extremities, for instance, after being alike for a certain time, assume the characters of wings, of hands, of feet, etc."
Mr. Milne-Edwards takes the same view of embryonic generation:
"I agree with Geoffrey Saint Hilaire, that often a great analogy is observed between the final state of certain parts of the bodies of some inferior animals, and the embryonic state of the same parts of other animals belonging to the same type the organism of which is further developed, and with the same philosopher, I call the cause of the state of permanent inferiority arrests of development. But I am far from thinking with some of his disciples that the embryo of man or of mammals exhibits in its different degrees of formation the species of the less perfect of animate creation. No! a [{76}] mollusk or an anhelid is not the embryo of a mammal, arrested in its organic development, any more than the mammal is a kind of fish perfected. Each animal carries within itself, from the very origin, the beginning of its specific individuality, and the development of its organism, in conformity to the general outline of the plan of structure proper to its species, is always a condition of its existence. There is never a complete likeness between an adult animal and the embryo of another, between one of its organs and the transitory state of the same in the course of formation; and the multiplicity of the products of creation could never be explained by a similar transmutation of species. We shall see hereafter, that in every zoological group composed of animals which seem to be derived from a common fundamental type, the different species do not exhibit at first any marked difference, but soon begin to be marked by various particularities of constructure always growing and numerous. Thus each species acquires a character of its own, which distinguishes it from all others in the way of development, and each of its organs becomes different from the analogous part of every other embryo. But the changes which the organs and the whole being undergo after they have deviated from the common genesiac form, are generally speaking the less considerable in proportion as the animal is destined to receive a less perfect organism, and consequently they retain a kind of resemblance to those transitory forms."
Reason then and experience, theory and fact, philosophy and physiology, agree in protesting against the arbitrary doctrine of the unity of type in the animal kingdom; a doctrine which has its origin in an absence of sound scientific notions and a superficial observation of the phenomena of nature. Through the former defect men failed to consider that if the end of each animal species is different, different also must be its being, and therefore a different type must preside as a rule and supreme law over the formation of the being. By the latter, some very slight and partial analogies have been mistaken for identity and universality, and mere appearances have been assumed as realities.
From Blackwood's Magazine.
DOMINE, QUO VADIS? [Footnote 6]
BY P. S. WORSLEY.
[Footnote 6: See Mrs. Jameson's "Sacred and Legendary Art," p. 180.]
There stands in the old Appian Way,
Two miles without the Roman wall,
A little ancient church, and grey:
Long may it moulder not nor fall!
There hangs a legend on the name
One reverential thought may claim.
'Tis written of that fiery time,
When all the angered evil powers
Leagued against Christ for wrath and crime,
How Peter left the accursed towers,
Passing from out the guilty street,
And shook the red dust from his feet.
[{77}]
Sole pilgrim else in that lone road,
Suddenly he was 'ware of one
Who toiled beneath a weary load,
Bare-headed, in the heating sun,
Pale with long watches, and forespent
With harm and evil accident.
Under a cross his weak limbs bow,
Scarcely his sinking strength avails.
A crown of thorns is on his brow,
And in his hands the print of nails.
So friendless and alone in shame,
One like the Man of Sorrows came.
Read in her eyes who gave thee birth
That loving, tender, sad rebuke;
Then learn no mother on this earth,
How dear soever, shaped a look
So sweet, so sad, so pure as now
Came from beneath that holy brow.
And deeply Peter's heart it pierced;
Once had he seen that look before;
And even now, as at the first,
It touched, it smote him to the core.
Bowing his head, no word save three
He spoke—"Quo vadis, Domine?"
Then, as he looked up from the ground,
His Saviour made him answer due—
"My son, to Rome I go, thorn-crowned,
There to be crucified anew;
Since he to whom I gave my sheep
Leaves them for other men to keep."
Then the saint's eyes grew dim with tears.
He knelt, his Master's feet to kiss—
"I vexed my heart with faithless fears;
Pardon thy servant, Lord, for this."
Then rising up—but none was there—
No voice, no sound, in earth or air.
Straightway his footsteps he retraced,
As one who hath a work to do.
Back through the gates he passed with haste,
Silent, alone and full in view;
And lay forsaken, save of One,
In dungeon deep ere set of sun.
[{78}]
Then he who once, apart from ill,
Nor taught the depth of human tears,
Girded himself and walked at will,
As one rejoicing in the years,
Girded of others, scorned and slain,
Passed heavenward through the gates of pain.
If any bear a heart within,
Well may these walls be more than stone,
And breathe of peace and pardoned sin
To him who grieveth all alone.
Return, faint heart, and strive thy strife;
Fight, conquer, grasp the crown of life.
From The Month.
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
CHAPTER I.
I had not thought to write the story of my life; but the wishes of those who have at all times more right to command than occasion to entreat aught at my hands, have in a manner compelled me thereunto. The divers trials and the unlooked-for comforts which have come to my lot during the years that I have been tossed to and fro on this uneasy sea—the world—have wrought in my soul an exceeding sense of the goodness of God, and an insight into the meaning of the sentence in Holy Writ which saith, "His ways are not as our ways, nor his thoughts like unto our thoughts." And this puts me in mind that there are sayings which are in every one's mouth, and therefore not to be lightly gainsayed, which nevertheless do not approve themselves to my conscience as wholly just and true. Of these is the common adage, "That misfortunes come not alone." For my own part, I have found that when a cross has been laid on me, it has mostly been a single one, and that other sorrows were oftentimes removed, as if to make room for it. And it has been my wont, when one trial has been passing away, to look out for the next, even as on a stormy day, when the clouds have rolled away in one direction and sunshine is breaking overhead, we see others rising in the distance. There has been no portion of my life free from some measure of grief or fear sufficient to recall the words that "Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward;" and none so reft of consolation that, in the midst of suffering, I did not yet cry out, "The Lord is my shepherd; his rod and his staff comfort me."
I was born in the year 1557, in a very fair part of England, at Sherwood Hall, in the county of Stafford. For its comely aspect, commodious chambers, sunny gardens, and the sweet walks in its vicinity, it was as commendable a residence for persons of moderate fortune and contented minds as can well be thought of. Within and without this my paternal home nothing was wanting which might please the eye, or minister to [{79}] tranquillity of mind and healthful recreation. I reckon it amongst the many favors I have received from a gracious Providence, that the earlier years of my life were spent amidst such fair scenes, and in the society of parents who ever took occasion from earthly things to lead my thoughts to such as are imperishable, and so to stir up in me a love of the Creator, who has stamped his image on this visible world in characters of so great beauty; whilst in the tenderness of those dear parents unto myself I saw, as it were, a type and representation of his paternal love and goodness.
My father was of an ancient family, and allied to such as were of greater note and more wealthy than his own. He had not, as is the manner with many squires of our days, left off residing on his own estate in order to seek after the shows and diversions of London; but had united to a great humility of mind and a singular affection for learning a contentedness of spirit which inclined him to dwell in the place assigned to him by Providence. He had married at an early age, and had ever conformed to the habits of his neighbors in all lawful and kindly ways, and sought no other labors but such as were incidental to the care of his estates, and no recreations but those of study, joined to a moderate pursuit of field-sports and such social diversions as the neighborhood afforded. His outward appearance was rather simple than showy, and his manners grave and composed. When I call to mind the singular modesty of his disposition, and the retiredness of his manners, I often marvel how the force of circumstances and the urging of conscience should have forced one so little by nature inclined to an unsettled mode of life into one which, albeit peaceful in its aims, proved so full of danger and disquiet.
My mother's love I enjoyed but for a brief season. Not that it waxed cold toward me, as happens with some parents, who look with fondness on the child and less tenderly on the maiden; but it pleased Almighty God to take her unto himself when I was but ten years of age. Her face is as present to me now as any time of my life. No limner's hand ever drew a more faithful picture than the one I have of her even now engraved on the tablet of my heart. She had so fair and delicate a complexion that I can only liken it to the leaf of a white rose with the lightest tinge of pink in it. Her hair was streaked with gray too early for her years; but this matched well with the sweet melancholy of her eyes, which were of a deep violet color. Her eyelids were a trifle thick, and so were her lips; but there was a pleasantness in her smile and the dimples about her mouth such as I have not noticed in any one else. She had a sweet womanly and loving heart, and the noblest spirit imaginable; a great zeal in the service of God, tempered with so much sweetness and cordiality that she gave not easily offence to any one, of howsoever different a way of thinking from herself; and either won them over to her faith through the suavity of her temper and the wisdom of her discourse, or else worked in them a personal liking which made them patient with her, albeit fierce with others. When I was about seven years of age I noticed that she waxed thin and pale, and that we seldom went abroad, and walked only in our own garden and orchard. She seemed glad to sit on a bench on the sunny side of the house even in summer, and on days when by reason of the heat I liked to lie down in the shade. My parents forbade me from going into the village; and, through the perverseness common to too many young people, on account of that very prohibition I longed for liberty to do so, and wearied oftentimes of the solitude we lived in. At a later period I learnt how kind had been their intent in keeping me during the early years of childhood from a knowledge of the woeful divisions which the late changes in religion had wrought in our country; which I might easily have heard from [{80}] young companions, and maybe in such sort as to awaken angry feelings, and shed a drop of bitter in the crystal cup of childhood's pure faith. If we did walk abroad, it was to visit some sick persons, and carry them food or clothing or medicines, which my mother prepared with her own hands. But as she grew weaker, we went less often outside the gates, and the poor came themselves to fetch away what in her bounty she stored up for them. I did not notice that our neighbors looked unkindly on us when we were seen in the village. Children would cry out sometimes, but half in play, "Down with the Papists!" but I witnessed that their elders checked them, especially those of the poorer sort; and "God bless you, Mrs. Sherwood!" and "God save you, madam!" was often in their mouths, as she whom I loved with so great and reverent an affection passed alongside of them, or stopped to take breath, leaning against their cottage-palings.
Many childish heartaches I can even now remember when I was not suffered to join in the merry sports of the 1st of May; for then, as the poet Chaucer sings, the youths and maidens go
"To fetch the flowers fresh and branch and bloom,
And these, rejoicing in their great delight,
Eke each at other throw the blossoms bright."
I watched the merry wights as they passed our door on their way to the groves and meadows, singing mirthful carols, and bent on pleasant pastimes; and tears stood in my eyes as the sound of their voices died away in the distance. My father found me thus weeping one May-day, and carried me with him to a sweet spot in a wood, where wild-flowers grew like living jewels out of the green carpet of moss on which we sat; and there, as the birds sang from every bough, and the insects hovered and hummed over every blossom, he entertained me with such quaint and pleasant tales, and moved me to merry laughter by his witty devices; so that I set down that day in my book of memory as one of the joyfullest in all my childhood. At Easter, when the village children rolled pasch eggs down the smooth sides of the green hills, my mother would paint me some herself, and adorned them with such bright colors and rare sentences that I feared to break them with rude handling, and kept them by me throughout the year, rather as pictures to be gazed on than toys to be played with in a wanton fashion.
On the morning of the Resurrection, when others went to the top of Cannock Chase to hail the rising sun, as is the custom of those parts, she would sing so sweetly the psalm which speaketh of the heavens rejoicing and of the earth being glad, that it grieved me not to stay at home; albeit I sometimes marvelled that we saw so little company, and mixed not more freely with our neighbors.
When I had reached my ninth birthday, whether it was that I took better heed of words spoken in my hearing, or else that my parents thought it was time that I should learn somewhat of the conditions of the times, and so talked more freely in my presence, it so happened that I heard of the jeopardy in which many who held the Catholic faith were, and of the laws which were being made to prohibit in our country the practice of the ancient religion. When Protestants came to our house—and it was sometimes hard in those days to tell who were such at heart, or only in outward semblance out of conformity to the queen's pleasure—I was strictly charged not to speak in their hearing of aught that had to do with Catholic faith and worship; and I could see at such times on my mother's face an uneasy expression, as if she was ever fearing the next words that any one might utter.
In the autumn of that year we had visitors whose company was so great an honor to my parents, and the occasion of so much delight to myself, that I can call to mind every little circumstance of their brief sojourn under our roof, even as if it had taken place but [{81}] yesterday. This visit proved the first step toward an intimacy which greatly affected the tenor of my life, and prepared the way for the direction it was hereafter to take.
These truly honorable and well-beloved guests were my Lady Mounteagle and her son Mr. James Labourn, who were journeying at that time from London, where she had been residing at her son-in-law the Duke of Norfolk's house, to her seat in the country; whither she was carrying the three children of her daughter, the Duchess of Norfolk, and of that lady's first husband, the Lord Dacre of the North. The eldest of these young ladies was of about my own age, and the others younger.
The day on which her ladyship was expected, I could not sit with patience at my tambour-frame, or con my lessons, or play on the virginals; but watched the hours and the minutes in my great desire to see these noble wenches. I had not hitherto consorted with young companions, save with Edmund and John Genings, of whom I shall have occasion to speak hereafter, who were then my playmates, as at a riper age friends. I thought, in the quaint way in which children couple one idea with another in their fantastic imaginations, that my Lady Mounteagle's three daughters would be like the three angels, in my mother's missal, who visited Abraham in his tent.
I had craved from my mother a holiday, which she granted on the score that I should help her that forenoon in the making of the pasties and jellies, which, as far as her strength allowed, she failed not to lend a hand to; and also she charged me to set the bed-chambers in fair order, and to gather fresh flowers wherewith to adorn the parlor. These tasks had in them a pleasantness which whiled away the time, and I alternated from the parlor to the store-room, and the kitchen to the orchard, and the poultry-yard to the pleasure-ground, running as swiftly from one to the other, and as merrily, as if my feet were keeping time with the glad beatings of my heart. As I passed along the avenue, which was bordered on each side by tall trees, ever and anon, as the wind shook their branches, there fell on my head showers of red and gold-colored leaves, which made me laugh; so easy is it for the young to find occasion of mirth in the least trifle when their spirits are lightsome, as mine were that day. I sat down on a stone bench on which the western sun was shining, to bind together the posies I had made; the robins twittered around me; and the air felt soft and fresh. It was the eve of Martinmas-day—Hallowtide Summer, as our country folk call it. As the sun was sinking behind the hills, the tread of horses' feet was heard in the distance, and I sprang up on the bench, shading my eyes with my hand to see the approach of that goodly travelling-party, which was soon to reach our gates. My parents came out of the front door, and beckoned me to their side. I held my posies in my apron, and forgot to set them down; for the first sight of my Lady Mounteagle, as she rode up the avenue with her son at her side, and her three grand-daughters with their attendants, and many richly-attired serving-men beside, filled me with awe. I wondered if her majesty had looked more grand on the day that she rode into London to be proclaimed queen. The good lady sat on her palfry in so erect and stately a manner, as if age had no dominion over her limbs and her spirits; and there was something so piercing and commanding in her eye, that it at once compelled reverence and submission. Her son had somewhat of the same nobility of mien, and was tall and graceful in his movements; but behind her, on her pillion, sat a small counterpart of herself, inasmuch as childhood can resemble old age, and youthful loveliness matronly dignity. This was the eldest of her ladyship's grand-daughters, my sweet Mistress Ann Dacre. This was my first sight of her who was hereafter to hold so great a place in my heart and [{82}] in my life. As she was lifted from the saddle, and stood in her riding-habit and plumed hat at our door, making a graceful and modest obeisance to my parents, one step retired behind her grandam, with a lovely color tinging her cheeks, and her long lashes veiling her sweet eyes, I thought I had never seen so fair a creature as this high-born maiden of my own age; and even now that time, as it has gone by, has shown me all that a court can display to charm the eyes and enrapture the fancy, I do not gainsay that same childish thought of mine. Her sisters, pretty prattlers then, four and six years of age, were led into the house by their governess. But ere our guests were seated, my mother bade me kiss my Lady Mounteagle's hand and commend myself to her goodness, praying her to be a good lady to me, and overlook, out of her great indulgence, my many defects. At which she patted me on the cheek, and said, she doubted not but that I was as good a child as such good parents deserved to have; and indeed, if I was as like my mother in temper as in face, I must needs be such as her hopes and wishes would have me. And then she commanded Mistress Ann to salute me; and I felt my cheeks flush and my heart beat with joy as the sweet little lady put her arms round my neck, and pressed her lips on my cheek.
Presently we all withdrew to our chambers until such time as supper was served, at which meal the young ladies were present; and I marvelled to see how becomingly even the youngest of them, who was but a chit, knew how to behave herself, never asking for anything, or forgetting to give thanks in a pretty manner when she was helped. For the which my mother greatly commended their good manners; and her ladyship said, "In truth, good Mistress Sherwood, I carry a strict hand over them, never suffering their faults to go unchastised, nor permitting such liberties as many do to the ruin of their children." I was straightway seized with a great confusion and fear that this was meant as a rebuke to me, who, not being much used to company, and something overindulged by my father, by whose side I was seated, had spoken to him more than once that day at table, and had also left on my plate some victuals not to my liking; which, as I learnt at another time from Mistress Ann, was an offence for which her grandmother would have sharply reprehended her. I ventured not again to speak in her presence, and scarcely to raise my eyes toward her.
The young ladies withdrew early to bed that night, and I had but little speech with them. Before they left the parlor, Mistress Ann took her sisters by the hand, and all of them, kneeling at their grandmother's feet, craved her blessing. I could see a tear in her eye as she blessed them; and when she laid her hand on the head of the eldest of her grand-daughters, it lingered there as if to call down upon her a special benison. The next day my Lady Mounteagle gave permission for Mistress Ann to go with me into the garden, where I showed her my flowers and the young rabbits that Edmund Genings and his brother, my only two playmates, were so fond of; and she told me how well pleased she was to remove from London unto her grandmother's seat, where she would have a garden and such pleasant pastimes as are enjoyed in the country.
"Prithee, Mistress Ann," I said, with the unmannerly boldness with which children are wont to question one another, "have you not a mother, that you live with your grandam?"
"I thank God that I have," she answered; "and a good mother she is to me; but by reason of her having lately married the Duke of Norfolk, my grandmother has at the present time the charge of us."
"And do you greatly love my Lady Mounteagle?" I asked, misdoubting in my folly that a lady of so grave aspect and stately carriage should be loved by children.
"As greatly as heart can love," was her pretty answer.
"And do you likewise love the Duke of Norfolk, Mistress Ann?" I asked again.
"He is my very good lord and father," she answered; "but my knowledge of his grace has been so short, I have scarce had time to love him yet."
"But I have loved you in no time," I cried, and threw my arms round her neck. "Directly I saw you, I loved you, Mistress Ann."
"Mayhap, Mistress Constance," she said, "it is easier to love a little girl than a great duke."
"And who do you affection beside her grace your mother, and my lady your grandam, Mistress Ann?" I said, again returning to the charge; to which she quickly replied:
"My brother Francis, my sweet Lord Dacre."
"Is he a child?" I asked.
"In truth, Mistress Constance," she answered, "he would not be well pleased to be called so; and yet methinks he is but a child, being not older, but rather one year younger than myself, and my dear playmate and gossip."
"I wish I had a brother or a sister to play with me," I said; at which Mistress Ann kissed me and said she was sorry I should lack so great a comfort, but that I must consider I had a good father of my own, whereas her own was dead; and that a father was more than a brother.
In this manner we held discourse all the morning, and, like a rude imp, I questioned the gracious young lady as to her pastimes and her studies and the tasks she was set to; and from her innocent conversation I discovered, as children do, without at the time taking much heed, but yet so as to remember it afterward, what especial care had been taken by her grandmother—that religious and discreet lady—to instill into her virtue and piety, and in using her, beside saying her prayers, to bestow alms with her own hands on prisoners and poor people; and in particular to apply herself to the cure of diseases and wounds, wherein she herself had ever excelled. Mistress Ann, in her childish but withal thoughtful way, chide me that in my own garden were only seen flowers which pleased the senses by their bright colors and perfume, and none of the herbs which tend to the assuagement of pain and healing of wounds; and she made me promise to grow some against the time of her next visit. As we went through the kitchen-garden, she plucked some rosemary and lavender and rue, and many other odoriferous herbs; and sitting down on a bench, she invited me to her side, and discoursed on their several virtues and properties with a pretty sort of learning which was marvellous in one of her years. She showed me which were good for promoting sleep, and which for cuts and bruises, and of a third she said it eased the heart.
"Nay, Mistress Ann," I cried, "but that must be a heartsease;" at which she smiled, and answered:
"My grandam says the best medicines for uneasy hearts are the bitter herb confession and the sweet flower absolution."
"Have you yet made your first communion, Mistress Ann?" I asked in a low voice, at which question a bright color came into her cheek, and she replied:
"Not yet; but soon I may. I was confirmed not long ago by the good Bishop of Durham; and at my grandmother's seat I am to be instructed by a Catholic priest who lives there."
"Then you do not go to Protestant service?" I said.
"We did," she answered, "for a short time, whilst we stayed at the Charterhouse; but my grandam has understood that it is not lawful for Catholics, and she will not be present at it herself, or suffer us any more to attend it, neither in her own house nor at his grace's."
While we were thus talking, the two little ladies, her sisters, came from the house, having craved leave from the governess to run out into the [{84}] garden. Mistress Mary was a pale delicate child, with soft loving blue eyes; and Mistress Bess, the youngest, a merry imp, whose rosy cheeks and dimpling smiles were full of glee and merriment.
"What ugly sober flowers are these, Nan, that thou art playing with?" she cried, and snatched at the herbs in her sister's lap. "When I marry my Lord William Howard, I'll wear a posy of roses and carnations."
"When I am married," said little Mistress Mary, "I will wear nothing but lilies."
"And what shall be thy posy, Nan?" said the little saucy one again, "when thou dost wed my Lord Surrey?"
"Hush, hush, madcaps!" cried Mistress Ann. "If your grandam was to hear you, I doubt not but the rod would be called for."
Mistress Mary looked round affrighted, but little Mistress Bess said in a funny manner, "Prithee, Nan, do rods then travel?"
"Ay; by that same token, Bess, that I heard my lady bid thy nurse take care to carry one with her."
"It was nurse told me I was to marry my Lord William, and Madge my Lord Thomas, and thee, Nan, my Lord Surrey, and brother pretty Meg Howard," said the little lady, pouting; "but I won't tell grandam of it an it would be like to make her angry."
"I would be a nun!" Mistress Mary cried.
"Hush!" her elder sister said; "that is foolish talking, Madge; my grandmother told me so when I said the same thing to her a year ago. Children do not know what Almighty God intends them to do. And now methinks I see Uncle Labourn making as if he would call us to the house, and there are the horses coming to the door. We must needs obey the summons. Prithee, Mistress Constance, do not forget me."
Forget her! No. From that day to this years have passed over our heads and left deep scars on our hearts. Divers periods of our lives have been signalized by many a strange passage; we have rejoiced, and, oftener still, wept together; we have met in trembling, and parted in anguish; but through sorrow and through joy, through evil report and good report, in riches and in poverty, in youth and in age, I have blessed the day when first I met thee, sweet Ann Dacre, the fairest, purest flower which ever grew on a noble stem.