BOOKS RECEIVED.
CAPE COD. By Henry D. Thoreau. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1865. 12mo., pp. 252.
COMPLETE WORKS OF THE MOST REV. JOHN HUGHES, D.D., late Archbishop of New York. Comprising his Sermons, Letters, Lectures, Speeches, etc. Carefully compiled from the best sources, and edited by Lawrence Kehoe. Two vols. 8vo., pp. 670 and 810. New York: Lawrence Kehoe.
PASTORAL LETTER OF THE MOST RET. J. B. PURCELL, D.D., Archbishop of Cincinnati, to the Clergy and Laity of the archdiocese, on the late Encyclical Letter of his Holiness Pius IX. promulgating the Jubilee of 1865, with the Bull of Pius IX. authorizing the Jubilee of 1846. Printed at the "Cincinnati Catholic Telegraph" Office.
NATURAL HISTORY. A Manual of Zoology for Schools, Colleges, and the General Reader, by Sanborn Tenney, A.M. Illustrated. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 12mo., pp. 540.
From D. & J. Sadlier and Co., New York, we have received the following: BANIM'S COMPLETE WORKS. PARTS 1, 2, 3, AND 4; THE OLD HOUSE BY THE BOYNE, by Mrs. Sadlier; CATHOLIC ANECDOTES. Part 1. Translated from the French by Mrs. Sadlier; THE LIVES OF THE POPES, from the French of Chevalier d'Artaud, Parts 1 and 2; CAECILIA, a Roman Drama, and THE SECRET, a Drama, by Mrs. J. Sadlier.
THE CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL, II., NO. 8.—NOVEMBER, 1865,
From Revue Générale, Bruxelles.
REV. DEMETRIUS AUGUSTIN GALLITZIN,
AND THE CATHOLIC SETTLEMENTS IN PENNSYLVANIA.
The events of which the United States have, during late years, been the theatre of action, have revived in the recollection of the editors of the Historisch-politische Blätter of Munich the name of Loretto, a small and unpretending town of Pennsylvania, the founder of which was Prince Demetrius Angustin Gallitzin, the son of the remarkable woman of whom Germany has a right to be proud. The occasion has suggested to them a biographical sketch, which, full of interest and appositeness, will unquestionably be read in Belgium and France with as much avidity as in Germany.
Twenty years have elapsed since Prince Gallitzin, who had exchanged the luxuries of princely courts for the poverty of those who herald the glad tidings, slept in the Lord, after forty years of apostleship in the wild regions of the Alleghany mountains. The work set up by the pious missionary yet remains, marked by all the elements of thrifty life, and the little oasis will long continue to be what it was at its origin—the cradle of a Christian civilization, which will go on spreading its blessings to the remotest boundaries, still retaining the unobtrusive modesty which moved its founder's thought. Indeed, had the matter rested with Gallitzin's own wishes, his very name would have passed into vague tradition in those extended regions. It might even have slept in oblivion; for the prince, so careful was he to avoid anything that could attract the attentions of the world, lived and exercised his holy ministry for many years under the borrowed name of Schmidt.
In Father Lemcke, however, and fortunately too, a canon of the abbey of the Benedictines of St. Vincent in Pennsylvania, was found a man who, better than any other, had it in his power to preserve the reminiscences of the noble missionary, and accurately to depict for us the traits of his manly character. Not only did the biographer of the prince know him personally, but he was also his friend, his confidant, his confessor, and his co-laborer in the missions. After Gallitzin's death, Father Lemcke came into possession of his papers, letters, and memoranda, which supplied him with desirable data on the period of life preceding their ministerial connection. He, and he alone, therefore, was in a condition to write a true biography of the prince, and he deemed it a duty to [{146}] rescue from oblivion the memory of this distinguished man. In connection with this subject, Father Lemcke indulges in a judicious remark: "The life of Gallitzin," says he, "is so intimately inwoven with the events which occurred during his own times, that it holds out to future generations an interest like to that which is offered to us in the life of a Bonifacius or of an Ansgarius, by reason of the facts which have characterized the epochs in which they lived."
Gallitzin belonged to the phalanx of missionaries who, in the United States, scattered the seeds of spiritual life. When the prince stepped on the soil of that vast territory, there was but one prelate, Rt. Rev. John Carroll of Baltimore, the first bishop of the United States, who, from the circumstances of the Church, had been obliged to seek Europe for his episcopal consecration. [Footnote 23] He had been but two years installed—from 1790—and had but uncertain and broken intercourse with his flock. His surroundings, restricted in numbers, but devoted to the holy cause, were mainly composed of, French priests. In this infant church Gallitzin was the second priest consecrated by the Bishop of Baltimore, and missioned, as a true pioneer of civilization, to carry the cross through the untouched forests of the New World, There is an unvarying likeness in all great undertakings; yet it required but a short time—a relatively short time—considerably to increase the number of those men who had devoted themselves to the task. In contrast with the bishop, who, in the course of five years, could ordain and rely on two priests only to feed the flock of the Lord, "The Catholic Almanac" of the day exhibits to us, for the United States, seven archbishops, thirty-six bishops, and four apostolic vicars, with the ministry of two thousand priests, with the addition of convents of various orders, of seminaries, of colleges, of numberless benevolent institutions, with over 4,000,000 of Catholics living under the protection of the laws, in the practice and enjoyment of their faith.
[Footnote 23: There are new details on this distinguished man in a recently published work: "Die Katholische Kirche in den Vereinigten Staatm von Nord Amerika," etc., etc. Regensburg. 1864.]
The Germans delight in recalling to mind that one of those who helped to lay the foundations of the Church in North America was the offspring of a princely house of the Fatherland. Gallitzin was a German on the maternal side; and the noble parent could well claim both the spiritual and natural motherhood of her son, the latter of which was, perhaps, glory enough. How magnificent a mission was that of Princess Amelia Gallitzin! While gathering around her circle the choice spirits which seemed destined to keep bright the torch of faith in Germany, and its living convictions in the midst of a superficial society without belief and without its guiding lights, the princess was rearing for the New World a son who was about to turn aside from a career which his birth and his wealth justly reserved for him, and take up the arduous and thankless labors of the apostleship. This very son it was who, through the work of faith, was destined to be the founder and civilizer of a now flourishing colony.
Strangely enough, nothing in young Gallitzin gave earnest of such a vocation. His almost feminine nature had marked him for a timid, shrinking child; but what was still worse, and a source of deep anxiety to his mother, to this was added a lack of decision, which seemed so deeply rooted in him that not even the iron will of the princess could, during the course of many years, draw out any perceptible results. We have a letter of the princess of the date of 1790, two years before the departure of Demetrius for America, in which she reiterates on this ground her former complainings, her exhortations, and her admonitions. It is proper, however, to advert that the incipient [{147}] method of training pursued by the princess herself was not free from defect; for, daring the nonage of her son, she herself wavered and hesitated between various systems of philosophy—a course which necessarily must have drawn her into many an error.
There was, therefore, a defectiveness in the main foundation of the training of young Gallitzin, who was reared in a sort of religious indifferentism. But a complete revulsion took place when, after leaving Münster, the princess was led to rest her convictions, not on this or the other system of philosophy, but on the rock of Christian faith—when, from her relations with such men as Furstenberg and Overberg, she herself had gained a greater degree of firmness and steadfastness. This reacted on the education of the son, in the greater decision and authority exerted by the mother; and it was not without fit intention that Demetrius, in the sacrament of confirmation, received the surname of Angustin.
Born on the 22d of December, 1770, at the Hague, where his father, a favorite of the Empress Catherine, was accredited as ambassador of Russia, young Gallitzin saw before him the opening of a career bound to lead to the highest dignities of either military or administrative service. Nothing, therefore, was spared in giving him a complete education, according to the requirements of the world. This education, developed and closed under his mother's eyes, must be perfected by travel; but whither to direct it was a question of moment. The aristocratic banks of the Rhine were ravaged by the revolutions and war had converted Europe into a vast battle-field. It opportunely happened, at that time, that a young priest, by the name of Brodius, whom the princess had known through the family of the Droste, and who had been admitted to her circle, was about crossing the Atlantic as a missionary to America. The princess had had occasions to value the rare endowments of this priest, and knew how justly her confidence in him could extend. She therefore proposed to him the companionship of her son in a journey which seemed to her to be the only practicable one warranted by the times. The princess, fortunately, met with no opposition on the part of the prince, her husband. An admirer of Washington, and still more so of the philosophic Jefferson, he readily agreed that his son should devote a couple of years to a visit to the United States, so as to judge for himself of the institutions all that country. He earnestly charged him to be introduced to these two great men; while the princess on her part armed him with a letter of recommendation to the Right Reverend Bishop Carroll.
In August, 1792, when twenty-two years of age, young Gallitzin took ship at Rotterdam on his way to America. No one could, certainly, have then stirred him with the idea that the land of America was marked out as a theatre for the evolutions of his existence. Was there a presentiment in that parting hour which, he could not know, was to mark an eternal farewell? Was it a last return of the original indecision of character which made him linger at the roadstead to which his mother had accompanied him? No one can now tell; but what we can say is that when, on the crests of the foaming billows, he caught sight of the yawl which was to carry him on board, his heart failed him, and he turned back to retrace his steps. Then did his mother turn back to him and, with a look of disappointment, "Dimitri," said she, "I blush for thee"—and, grasping his arm, she urged him on to the boat. In a moment, and how no one could tell, the young prince was engulfed in the waves. As quick as thought the practised hands of the sailors fished him up from the waters, and wafted him to the vessel that was to bear him away. Such was his farewell to Europe; but this sea baptism had regenerated him into a new man, as, at a later period, he told the story to his biographer.
On the whole, a noted change had taken place in young Gallitzin. In him every weakness and every irresolution had disappeared, and made room for a firmness, a determination, and an inflexibility which, to his family, became a source of greatest astonishment. Two months had hardly passed by in the intimacies of life with the Bishop of Baltimore, when he already felt, within himself, what soon became a clearly defined resolve. With the close of the year 1792 he wrote to Münster that he had devoted himself, body and soul, to the service of God and to the salvation of souls in America. He wrote that this resolution had been determined by the urgent call for laborers in the vineyard of the Lord; for in the country in which he was then sojourning, his priests had to travel over a hundred and fifty miles of territory, and more, to bring to the faithful the word and the means of salvation.
These were the first news of him received in Münster, and they were disseminated with the rapidity of lightning. From all sides sprang up objections, doubts, and remonstrances against the scheme of the young prince and the boldness of his undertaking. His mother, however, who had at first been alarmed and steeped in agony at the idea of such a vocation, soon reasserted her unerring judgment, and looked into the matter with her wonted greatness of soul. From the moment that, from letters of distinguished persons, and especially from those of the Bishop of Baltimore, as well as from those of her son, she became satisfied that his was a real and substantial calling, she felt perfectly secure, and all human considerations vanished from her sight. She therefore wrote to Dimitri that if, after having tried himself, he was sure that he had really obeyed his vocation, she willingly accepted the reproaches and troubles which could not fail to shower upon him; and that, for herself, she could not desire a consummation dearer to her heart—a greater reward—than to see the child of her affections a minister at the altar of God. And, indeed, not light was the burden of reproaches and afflictions which she had to bear for the love of that son—especially on the part of her husband, it was anything but light. Her letters to Overberg more than amply inform us on that subject Gallitzin, however, seemed to have left his European friends to the indulgence of their astonishment. Heedless of his former social relations, in firmness and resoluteness he trod the path which he had marked for himself, and prosecuted his theological studies with such fervency that his superiors, in view of his failing health, deemed it their duty to interpose. After two years of study, however, he became a sub-deacon, and, on the sixteenth of March, 1795, he was ordained to the priesthood.
There was no lack of labor, however, in the vineyard of the Lord, and the young Levite, the second one who came out of the first Catholic seminary in North America, was immediately put to work. At Port Tobacco, on the Potomac, Gallitzin entered his apostolical career. His fervor, no doubt, carried him too far into those proverbially malarial regions; for, stricken down by a spell of fever, he was ordered by his bishop to return to Baltimore, where Gallitzin was subsequently directed to ascend the pulpit and preach to the German population which had settled that portion of the state of Maryland.
The democratic spirit of American manners, which, with its innumerable abuses, had permeated even religions existence itself, was diametrically opposed to the just conceptions of the priesthood and of the organization of the Church which Gallitzin had formed in his mind. For the primitive morals of which he was then in quest he turned to the unsettled portions of Pennsylvania. "I went there," he tells us at a later period, "to avoid the trustees and all the irregularities which they beget. For success, I had [{149}] no other warrant than the building of something new, that could escape the routine of inveterate custom. Had I settled where the hand had already been put to the plough, my work would have been endangered, for it had been soon assailed by the spirit of Protestantism."
In the apostolic trips which frequently took him into the then far West, on the table lands of the Alleghany range, near Huntington, where the waters of the Ohio fork away from those of the Susquehanna, Gallitzin had alighted on a settlement made up of a few Catholic families. In the midst of this Catholic nucleus he resolved to establish a permanent colony, which he destined in his mind as the centre of his missions. Several poor Maryland families, whose affections he had won, resolved to follow him; and, with the consent of his bishop, he took up his line of march with them in the summer of 1799, and travelled from Maryland with his face turned to the ranges of the Alleghany mountains. And a rough and trying journey it was;—hewing their way through primitive forests, burdened at the same time with all their worldly goods. So soon as the small caravan had reached its new home, Gallitzin took possession of this, as it were, conquered land; and, without loss of time, all the settlers addressed themselves to the work before them, and worked so zealously that, before the end of the year, they had already erected a church. The following is Father Lemcke's account of the humble origin of this establishment:
"Out of the clearings of these untrodden forests rose up two buildings, constructed out of the trunks of roughly hewn trees; of these, one was intended for a church—the other, a presbytery for their pastor. On Christmas eve of the year 1799, there was not a winking eye in the little colony. And well there might not be! The new church, decked with pine and laurel and ivy leaves, and blazing with such lights as the scant means of the faithful could afford, was awaiting its consecration to the worship of God! There Gallitzin offered up the first mass, to the great edification of his flock, that, although made up of Catholics, had never witnessed such a solemnity, and to the great astonishment of a few Indians, who, wrapped up in the pursuit of the chase, had never, in their life, dreamed of such a pageantry. Thus it was that, on a spot in which, scarcely a year previous, silence had reigned over vast solitudes, a prince, thenceforward cut off from every other country, had opened a new one to pilgrims from all nations, and that, from the wastes, which echoed no sounds but the howlings of the wild beast, welled up the divine song which spoke: 'Glory to God in the highest, and peace, on earth, to men of good will!'"
The cost of this spiritual and material colonization was at first individually borne by Gallitzin. Captain McGuire, an Irishman, one of the early settlers of the country, had acquired 400 acres of land, which he intended for the Church. These he conveyed to Gallitzin, who divided into small tracts the lands, which he had purchased with his own means, and distributed them among the poorer members of his colony, on condition of reimbursement, by instalments, at long periods—a condition, however, which, in a majority of cases, never was complied with.
The wilderness soon put on a new aspect. The settlers followed the impulses of the indefatigable missionary, who kept steadfastly in view the improvement of his work. His first care was to set up a grist-mill; then arose numerous out-buildings; additional lands were purchased, and in a short time the colony was notably enlarged.
In carrying out his work, Gallitzin received material assistance from Europe. In its origin, sums of money were regularly remitted to him by his mother; for he kept up a correspondence, which his devotion to her made [{150}] dear to his heart In these relations his father took little, if any, interest, as the determination of his son—his only son—had proved to him a source of bitter disappointment. Still he anxiously desired to see him return to Europe. So engrossed, however, was the young missionary by his work, that such a trip seemed next to an impossibility. Several years had thus glided by, when the idea of visiting Europe earnestly engaged his mind.
In the month of June, 1803, he wrote to his mother, in apology for a long silence; telling her that he is seriously contemplating seeing her once more, but that he is trammelled in his desire by the want of a priest to take his place;—indeed, that his work has so grown under his hands, that he doubts whether he will ever again be privileged to clasp his mother in his arms. "I may not think of it," he adds; "my heart is fraught with affection for you, and it seems to me that I should absolutely see you once more, so as to borrow courage to follow the path which is marked out for me in this perverse world." The letters from Overberg are witnesses of the tears shed by the mother, so anxious again to look upon her son, as well as of the unmurmuring mournfulness of her resignation.
The announcement of his father's death again brought up the subject of his visit to Europe. Indeed, his presence was required in the settlement of his inheritance; but now, as before, the joy of once more treading his native soil, and the happiness of embracing his mother, had to yield to what he considered his duty to his infant colony. The just and plausible reasons which he alleges to his mother for his course, allow us at the same time fairly to appreciate the extent of his work, and the hopes built upon its success. Hence he suggests the consideration due to those families that his advice had influenced, for the greater honor of religion, to follow him in the wilderness;—the money obligations, contracted with various friends, who had trusted him with large sums to speed the development of his scheme, and whose confidence, therefore, might be seriously wronged by his departure;—the interests of so many others, who had committed all their worldly hopes into his hands and whom his absence might leave an easy prey to heartless speculators;—and, finally, the pending questions, started by the scheme of erecting into a county the territory to which the lands of the colony belonged. All these motives, to which others were added, were sufficiently weighty to press on the conscience of Demetrius the duty Of remaining at his post. This final resolution his mother learned with the firmness of Christian heroism. She wrote to the prince: "Whatever sorrow may have panged my motherly heart at the idea of renouncing a hope that a while seemed within reach, I owe it to truth to tell thee that thy letter has afforded me the greatest consolation that I can look for upon earth." It is a touching picture to behold, in the sequel, this zealous mother continuing her interest in the mission founded by the prince, and providing for its success in keeping with the inspirations of her heart. Thus it was that, through the channel of the Bishop of Baltimore, she transmitted to her son a bill of exchange for a considerable amount, a box of books—a treasure in those days—rosaries for the settlers, linen for himself and friends, garments, and even baby-clothes, for the poorer members of the settlement, sacerdotal vestments, embroidered by the princess herself, by her daughter, and by Countess de Stolberg, and, lastly, a magnificent present, which the missionary during his life valued beyond all price, and with which, in accordance with his wishes, he was laid to slumber in the tomb.
In the meantime Gallitzin's colony, settled in the midst of those wild wastes, had expanded and become a town, to which he gave the name of Loretto, the beginning of which are [{151}] thus described by our missionary's successor: "The colony was composed of individuals who generally purchased considerable tracts, varying from one to four hundred acres in extent, which they cleared and converted to cultivation. In proportion as the population increased, they gradually emerged from the savagery of the earlier periods, and soon experienced the wants of a growing civilization. The indication of those wants suggested to Gallitzin's mind the necessity of converting the humble settlement into a town. Mechanics, of every useful trade, rapidly gathered around the nucleus—blacksmiths, millers, carpenters, shoemakers, with even storekeepers, and Loretto soon assumed the position which its founder had designed.
"Here, then, stands the town; but, with its new dignity, came a host of vexations. It marked for Gallitzin a period of struggle against every imaginable difficulty, which brought his firmness to the sorest trials, and which indeed might have jeoparded the very existence of his work. In fact, the means of reducing, under the control of a single hand, the heterogeneous components of such a colony was no easy problem to be solved. Gallitzin efforts to bring it under a normal organization had to meet many an antagonizing element, whilst the peculiar American spirit, which had even then permeated those solitudes, reared up obstacles to his scheme. Gallitzin, however, proved unshakable, and exhibited an unbending energy of character. At one time there was an actual crisis in the prospects of the colony. A member of the community, with a fair allotment of the goods of this world, with the excitable American brain and a marked tendency to speculation, suddenly conceived the idea to set up a competition with the growing colony and to lay the foundations of a rival one in the neighborhood. He went to work accordingly, and, with the assistance of a few Irishmen, actually laid the foundations of village, which he named Munster, after one of the provinces of Ireland. This rival of Loretto immediately became the headquarters of the propagators of light, in other words, of those who had little relish for the zeal of Gallitzin and the inconvenient discipline of the Church. Satisfied not only with putting the prosperity of Loretto in evident peril, the seceders also assailed the character of Gallitzin, and through these means derived an unexpected help. It happened fitly for their purposes that at the time two German vagabonds—one a priest of most questionable character, and the other a nobleman, whom the crime of forgery had driven from the Old World—presented themselves to Gallitzin, and anything but pleased, no doubt, with the welcome which they received, resolved to swell the party of malcontents. With cunning malice, they soon disseminated reports injurious to their countryman, gave a pretended substance to unfounded suspicions, feeding the animosities of the common herd. The fact, also, of Gallitzin's having assumed a borrowed name was a means of shaking the settlers and sowing distrust in their minds. Things went on from bad to worse, and a catastrophe seemed to be imminent, when came the upshot, so much the more ludicrous because the less expected. The Gordian knot, after the expeditious American fashion, was cut by an Alexander who rejoiced in the name of John Wakeland. He was an Irishman, a giant in stature and strength, famed in the settlement as a wolf and bear killer; and in reality one of the kindest men in the world, and one of the hardest to stir from his natural proprieties. These miserable intrigues and base machinations aroused his indignation, and he immediately came to the conclusion to put an end to them by the interposition of the logic of the strong hand. The agitators had concocted a plan, which was devised to extort from Gallitzin some sort of an assent, and the [{152}] prince could hardly have escaped their intended violence had he not sought sanctuary in the chapel of Loretto. But the mob had merely adjourned their intended excesses; and they were preparing for extreme means to achieve their ends when John Wakeland, brandishing a sturdy hickory in the midst of the infatuated mob, declared that, he would "settle," on the spot, any one who durst threaten the good priest. There was a magical spell in the hickory. The timidly good men, who there, as everywhere else, had shrunk into a circle of impassive inaction, feeling the influence of a sturdy support, borrowed courage from the hour; and had it not been for the interference of Gallitzin, his detractors, to use an American phrase, would have had 'a rough time of it' From that moment, a complete revulsion of feeling took place in behalf of the missionary; while the bishop succeeded in ultimately restoring order and peace in the little parish. He carefully inquired into all the facts, and then addressed to the parishioners a letter which was posted at the church door, and recalled the faithful to the regular order of things.
"Difficulties, however, of another kind, and of a more serious import, waited on Gallitzin. From the death of his father, he had been suddenly cut off from the pecuniary assistance which he had periodically received from Europe. He himself, as a Catholic priest, had been, by the laws of Russia, excluded from his paternal heritage; while his mother, who had exhausted her means in litigations, was compelled to forego the assistance which, from time to time, she had extended to her son. In satisfying his boundless charities, and in the achievements of his plans, the founder of Loretto had somewhat relied on this inheritance, which thus passed away from his hands. This disappointment, therefore, brought upon him a new burden of anxiety and cares. Destitution and poverty might have been easily borne by him; but he could not make up his mind to give up the idea of founding an imposing Catholic colony—to abandon the undertaking which he had initiated—to be compelled to relinquish lands which had been reclaimed by so much toil and so much care—and, especially, to face impatient creditors, who might accuse him of thoughtlessly going into debt, and from such an accusation justify their expression of contempt."
As a crowning development to all of these tribulations, the European mail brought to Gallitzin the news of his beloved mother's death. On the 17th of April, 1806, in the city of Münster, the excellent princess had closed her eyes for ever, comforting her disappointment that she had not been permitted to see her son on earth by the hope that she would surely meet him in heaven. The narrative of the last moments of the Princess Gallitzin, received, by the stout-hearted missionary, through the letters of his sister, of Overberg, and of Count de Stolberg, supplied a fund of inexpressible comfort; but from that hour the temporal claims and requirements of his position bore terribly on his endurance. It required unheard-of efforts to save his undertaking from the burden of indebtedness, and if, at the hour of his death, he quit-claimed the property of the Church and left it free from all and every charge, the blessed consummation came with the sunset of life only, and that, too, after miracles of constant energy. And here, especially, looms up the secondary phase of Gallitzin's character, which had not escaped his father's more searching eye. In fact, and in answer to a letter of his wife, in which she bitterly complained of the inertness of their son, then sixteen years of age, he wrote to her that "deep waters run still; that, to his mind, she misconceives the disposition of Demetrius, and that he is ever running against wind and tide." And indeed, to struggle against the torrent of time and of events was the whole work of his life. And against this torrent he heaved up the bulk of [{153}] his writings that have come down to us. It is easy to conceive that it required no common reason to induce a man of his temper of mind to write. We have the motive of this reason in the fact that a Presbyterian preacher of Huntington had thought fit to assail and calumniate the Catholic Church as an institution dangerous to the country and to its liberties. Gallitzin immediately took up the pen in answer, and the necessities of the controversy turned him into a polemica writer.
There are in America, no less than in other countries, fanatical sectarians who follow their congenial instincts in sounding the alarm-cry whenever the Catholic Church marks out new limits of lawful conquest. In this instance, the state was declared to be in peril; but Gallitzin lost no time in confounding the slanderers of Catholicity by the publication of his "Defense of Catholic Principles," which appeared in Pittsburgh in the year 1816. This work, written in English—for the author wielded the English with as much facility as he did the German language, his mother tongue—was, on both shores of the ocean, greeted with success. Father Lemcke made a German translation of the "Defense of Catholic Principles," of which two editions were published in Ireland and four in the United States, ranking "in popularity with 'Cobbett's History of the Reformation,' to which it bears a resemblance in putting a probing finger on the plague-spot of Protestantism."
The start being once made, Gallitzin followed up his first work with other publications of an entirely practical character, directed against certain prevalent moral diseases of the day, which mark an epoch in the monography of American ideas. Gallitzin was perfectly familiar with the mode of treatment of the feverish exuberance of American notions, and he handled them with all the cautious skill of a prudent practitioner. Everything which he published on these matters, both in elucidation of his views and as a muniment against the evils which he denounced, is written in the winning and popular style which was familiar to his pen. Hence his works were crowned with success, even amongst the higher classes of society. "Gallitzin's publications," says his biographer, "exerted an immense influence in the period when he lived, but especially so among the humbler members of the community, for whom they were destined. They were found, and they may still be found, in the form of unpretending pamphlets, in the hotels and steamboats of the West, for he had them printed at his own expense and distributed as the Protestant colporteurs disseminate their Bibles and tracts. The curiosity of the readers enlarged their circulation everywhere; and I myself have found them as perfectly thumbed as any spelling-book in spots where I never dreamed of meeting with them."
In the meantime, Gallitzin, who had hitherto labored under the protecting shadow of his humility, had begun to attract the attention of the American world around him. The manner in which he had marked his entrance in social life—not so much by the power of genius as by that integrity of character which commanded the respect of public opinion—had carried his reputation far beyond the limits of the frontiers, and secured for him an esteem, the proofs of which came back to him in numerous testimonials gathering from all sides. It was at this time that he published various pamphlets signed with his real name: "Demetrius Augustin Gallitzin, Catholic curate of Loretto."
It was natural, when the question of creating a new bishopric came up, that all eyes should turn to such a man as Gallitzin. There was a desire, therefore, more than once expressed to see him called to the episcopal chair; but he persistently repelled the intended dignity, and exerted his every power to counteract the efforts of [{154}] those who were anxious to have it conferred upon him. He asked for one favor only—that of remaining at Loretto; and, with this view, he consented to accept the functions of vicar-general to the Bishop of Philadelphia, which had been recently raised into a diocese.
Since the earlier period when Gallitzin entered on the discharge of the holy ministry, those regions had witnessed a great development of the Catholic faith. From all sides arose new parishes, while the field of labor went on enlarging under the tireless zeal of our missionary. "It may be safely affirmed," says his biographer, "that during the protracted years through which he administered to the district of country which now constitutes the sees of Pittsburg and Erie, he filled the place and discharged the duties of a bishop." In order to form a correct judgment as to the importance of his labors, we must go back, in imagination, to the exordium of the Catholic Church in those countries, where the pastors were cut off from all sustaining advice—from all diocesan organization—and where elements the most discrepant, and prejudices the most stubborn, were found in daily conflict. How many difficulties, therefore, to be encountered and overcome in the discrimination, in certain cases, between falsehood and truth! What prudence of action was required! How many and delicate problems presented to the decisions of a tender conscience! Gallitzin, however, was the man for the situation. "The writings," says his friend, "which his charge as vicar-general had compelled him from time to time to publish, bear witness not only to his vigilance and zeal, but also to the great charity which characterized the performance of his duties." His was a peculiar solicitude for the persecuted and the oppressed, because he knew from experience how readily, in America, they may be made the sport of falsehood, of malevolence, and of that thirst of revenge which exists everywhere. Hence the not inconsiderable number of persons, both ecclesiastics and laymen, who looked up to him for protection, and who might, but for its interpositions, have been for ever lost. His benevolent bearing won for him the confidence of the other priests who, like himself, had consecrated their lives to the salvation of souls. The pastor who from among them became at a later period the archbishop of Baltimore, having been in 1830 appointed coadjutor and administrator to the diocese of Philadelphia, immediately wrote to Gallitzin—whom he styled the propagandist of the faith—to ask the assistance of his experience and of his prayers, and to advise him that he not only confirmed his existing powers, but that he also authorized him to use, without the necessity of any previous application, those with which, as coadjutor, he was himself invested. These two men were bound till death by the closest ties of friendship.
All of Gallitzin's actions were stamped with the characteristics of candor and uprightness. Should the honor of the Church, or the dignity of her priesthood, be called into question, he knew no such word as compromise. He shrank from familiarity with that species of half education of which presumption is a leading feature; and ever, and everywhere, stood unshaken in his love and assertion of truth—a persistency which, on more than one occasion, called down upon him the imputation of an aristocratic and domineering spirit. Those, however, who, admitted to the closer intimacies of his life, were best qualified to judge, soon became convinced of the futility of the charge. If there were any note of distinction about him, it was to be traced in the loftiness of his conceptions; for he had long cast off all princely frippery; and the privileged society in which he especially delighted was that of the poor and the lowly, with whom he would kindly converse after possessing himself of their wishes and needs. [{155}] In the circuit of his missions, it was his pleasure to pass by the dwellings of opulence and seek the hospitalities of the humble cottage. There would the prince sit down to rest, surrounded by joyous children, distributing pictures among them and sharing in their humble fare.
Such was Gallitzin, shepherd of souls, polemic and vicar-general, at Loretto, whence the peaceful work of Christian civilization went on quietly progressing and gradually enlarging the circle of its benefits. Years had thus passed on, and the pioneer could already mark the slanting shadows of declining life, when a young missionary came over from Europe to share in his toils. This was Father Lemcke, a Benedictine, who, after having been his assistant, became his successor. Gallitzin was then sixty-four years of age. Father Lemcke has left us a picturesque account of his first meeting with the venerable missionary. He had set out from Philadelphia, and after several days of rough traveling reached Münster, where an Irish family gave him hospitality. From that village he procured a guide, and at this point of his narrative we find him with an Irish lad piloting him to Loretto. "As we had gone," says he, "a couple of miles through the woods, I caught sight of a sled, drawn by a pair of vigorous horses; and in the sled a half recumbent traveler, on every lineament of whose face could be read a character of distinction. He was outwardly dressed in a sort of threadbare overcoat; and, on his head, a peasant's hat, so worn and dilapidated that no one would have rescued it from the garbage of the streets. It occurred to me that some accident had happened to the old gentleman, and that he was compelled to resort to this singular mode of conveyance Whilst I was taxing my brains for a satisfactory solution of the problem, Tom, my guide, who was trotting ahead, turned round and, pointing to the old man, said: "Here comes the priest" I immediately coaxed up my nag to the sled. "Are you, really, the pastor of Loretto?" said I. "I am, sir." "Prince Gallitzin?" "At your service, sir," he said with a laugh. "You are probably astonished"—he continued, after I had handed him a letter from the Bishop of Philadelphia—"at the strangeness of my equipage? But there's no help for it. You have no doubt already found out that in these countries you need not dream of a carriage-road. You could not drive ten yards without danger of an overturn. I am prevented, since a fall which I have had, from riding on horseback, and it would be impossible for me now to travel on foot Beside, I carry along everything required for the celebration of holy mass. I am now going to a spot where I have a mission, and where the holy sacrifice has been announced for to-day. Go to Loretto and make yourself at home, until my return to night; unless, indeed, you should prefer to accompany me. You may be interested in the visit."
Father Lemcke accordingly followed Gallitzin, and after a ride of several miles they reached a sort of a hamlet, where there stood a good Pennsylvania farm, in which all the Catholics of the vicarage had gathered as on a festive day. The cabin had been transformed into a chapel, and the good people were there, crowding; some standing, others kneeling under the projecting shed; and others again, in small huts or under the foliage of the grand old trees, were awaiting the appointed hour. All had their prayer-books in their hands. At a sign from Gallitzin, Father Lemcke proceeded within to receive the confessions of the faithful; after which the prince celebrated mass, preached, and administered the sacrament of baptism. For his pious and good people it was a very festive day. The dinner which followed, and in which all shared, was a repast marked by the cheerfulness and the charity of the agapae of the primitive Christians.
By nightfall both priests had reached Loretto. On The Sunday following, Gallitzin introduced his assistant to his German parishioners, and then, with a quizzical smile, invited him, without any further ceremony, to ascend the pulpit. Father Lemcke had to undergo the ordeal, and it proved not to his disfavor. He had naturally supposed that the same roof which sheltered Gallitzin would also protect him. The old priest, however, could not see things in that light; and a few days after, he took him to Ebensburg, the principal county town, and there installed him as the pastor of the parish.
Each of the two missionaries who had thus halved the goodly work still had a respectable circuit to perform. There were stations fifty and even seventy miles apart, and over this immense extent of territory, which now constitutes the Pittsburg and Erie bishoprics, there were, with them, but three or four priests to attend to the work of the Lord. To Gallitzin was reserved the deep gratification of witnessing the branching off, from Loretto, of various Catholic parishes, which were formed in the very manner in which Loretto had been. Twelve miles north of the primitive colony, up to the head-waters of the Susquehanna, where lay cheap and rich lands, some of the more prosperous members of his parish purchased tracts for themselves and their families, and there laid the grounds of a settlement, to which they gave the name of St. Joseph, borrowed from the invocation of the church which Gallitzin had consecrated on that spot. It is now known on the maps as Carrollton. Among the early settlers and the heads of families were sturdy John Wakeland, whom the reader may not have forgotten, and his six sons, as tall and as stalwart as himself, and all, like him, devoted to the Catholic faith. On the very road to Loretto, and before the death of the prince, sprang up a rural parish under the name of St. Augustin. Another was formed with the appellation of Gallitzin—after the death of the missionary, be it understood; for his humility during his lifetime never could have consented to this endowment.
In 1836, Father Lemcke fixed his residence at St Joseph—urged somewhat to this course by Gallitzin, whose favorite idea had, for some time, been to witness on that spot the rise and growth of another Loretto. The old priest, growing into closer intimacy with the younger missionary, periodically came in his sled to St. Joseph, rejoicing to behold "a second edition of what he himself had created thirty years before." So thoroughly had he become linked to this new friend from far-off Europe, that he never but reluctantly parted from him, and even shed bitter tears on once hearing that the bishop contemplated changing Father Lemcke's residence.
Thus was it given to Gallitzin, in the decline of life, to behold trackless forests converted into fruitful fields. The transient cares and annoyances of life had disappeared, and a numerous Catholic population grew around him in the joys of contented toil. The early settlers who with him had shared the sweat and borne the burden of the day, had long bidden farewell to their humbler log-cabins. Well appointed farms, substantial barns, commodious dwellings, surrounded by beautiful gardens and smiling meadows, wooed the eye as the rewarding product of their privations and their toils.
In 1839 the old missionary's health began to fail. The load of years much less than the thousand hardships inseparably connected with the devotions of apostolic life, weighed heavily on a frame attenuated indeed, but still erect and resisting. Yet the burden went on pressing still—the body gradually bent—the step unsteady—the divine fire which always kindled still animated him; but the voice would refuse the assistance of its sounds, and the close of his sermons turn into a peroration of silent [{157}] tears a thousand times more eloquent then his spoken words. And yet, with all these warnings, he rejected every suggestion of precaution and care of himself. To this he would answer, in his own energetic language, that "as the days had gone by when, by martyrdom, it was possible for us to testify to God's glory upon earth, it was our duty, like the toil-worn ox, to remain hitched to the plough in the field of the Lord." And the event harmonized with his wish. On Easter Sunday, 1840, Gallitzin, being then seventy years of age, had early in the morning taken his seat in the confessional. After the discharge of its duties, he had braced up the remnants of his strength to ascend the altar for holy sacrifice. He was, however, compelled to forego the sermon of the day to betake himself to his bed, from which he was destined never again to rise. The attentive care of Dr. Rodriguez, his intimate friend, prolonged his existence for a few weeks; but it was soon ascertained that the noble missionary was fast sinking under exhausted energies. With the rapidity of lightning, the sad news was carried abroad. From far and near, old and young gathered around his dwelling, once more to receive the blessing of the man whom they revered. So great was the affluence of the people, that in order to secure a few quiet moments for the glorious veteran of faith, absorbed in the last meditations and prayers of earth, it became necessary to warn away the increasing throng of visitors—and this without his knowledge; for it was his wish to receive every one of them, and to each to speak the last farewell which welled up from his loving heart. Yet some did come for whom no such words passed his lips, which on the contrary moved in utterances of reproof and blame. Among others came in one of the parishioners, to whom the dying pastor had been particularly kind. He, however, had proved ungrateful, and had, indeed, been a cause of much annoyance to the missionary by habits of drunkenness and other excesses of an unregulated life. As he entered the room, the venerable pastor turned to him with a reproachful look and shook his head. This silent sermonizing produced a deeper impression than had any previous admonition of Gallitzin. The self-accusing culprit fell upon his knees, melted to tears, confessed his errors, and promised thenceforward to amend. The evidence of his sincerity is found in the statement of Gallitzin's successor, who informs us that he stoutly held to his promise.
The last scene of this eventful life closed on the sixth of May, when the missionary prince left this world, accompanied by the prayers of his parishioners gathered around him; for every apartment of the house, and every portion of the chapel attached to it, was literally thronged by a wailing, weeping, and praying community. This supreme hour revealed the depth and the sincerity of the love which dwelt in every heart for this man of God. On the day of his burial, whole populations swarmed from every point—from distances ranging fifty and sixty miles—to pay to the good father a last tribute of that affectionate respect which had attended him through life.
The most respectable men of the parish contended for the honor of bearing his body to the cemetery. In the body of the church, it was a perfect contest among the congregation to look for the last time on the feature of him who was thenceforward for ever lost to earth. Those who were lucky enough, through the pressure of the crowd, to reach the coffin, kissed in tearful love the icy hands of the missionary; while the attendants were compelled to resort to force in order to close the coffin for the final rites of the Church.
It were no easy task, without reference to the work of his biographer—an ocular witness of Gallitzin's labors—to convey a just conception of their bearing and extent "When," he says, "we come to consider the [{158}] theatre on which Gallitzin inaugurated his immense labors in so obscure and modest a manner, we realize the amount of substantial good that can be achieved by an apostolic missionary in America when, like Gallitzin, he conceives the practical sense of things and leads them on to their crowning development with the zeal and perseverance which marked his course. The small county of Cambria, in Pennsylvania, created in 1807, which is indebted to Gallitzin for a majority of its settlers, is everywhere, and with every reason, characterized as the Catholic county. Indeed, when the traveller on business, or the tourist for pleasure, strikes this point from other districts of Pennsylvania more controlled by Protestant influences, it seems to him that he has passed from a comparative desert into a smiling oasis. This may be easily understood. For all their journeyings for whole days, over counties twice and thrice more opulent than this little Catholic county, there is no indication to tell them what religion is there professed. Not till they have pressed the soil of Cambria county do they feel that they are in a truly Christian land, as they catch sight of ten Catholic churches and three monasteries—all of which cropped out of Loretto under Gallitzin's creative and fostering hands."
From all these results we can frame an accurate judgment of the prince's career, which was but one continuous struggle—a glorious struggle, teeming with usefulness. When Gallitzin opened his mission, the vicar of Christ was persecuted and proscribed. A prisoner, torn away from his spiritual family, Pius VI. heard the voices of a philosophic world applauding his abduction, as, ten years later, it applauded the violence inflicted on the person of Pius VII. It was just at that dark period which overshadowed the Holy See that the Church inaugurated her peaceful labors in the United States, and, at the end of ten years, had marked her beneficent influences by a progress so rapid that its result could not escape the eye of even the least observant. While Europe was organizing a settled persecution of the papal power, the Church in America was growing up and expanding in influence. Her very adversaries were compelled to bear even reluctant witness to her triumphs. In one of the meetings of a Bible society some years ago. Lord Barclay exhibited a summary, in which he lamented the spread of Catholicity in a country in which he said that in the year 1790 there was not even a bishop. "Strange," he said, "that while, in Europe, the power of the see of Rome is overthrown, the Pope is a prisoner, and Rome is declared to be the second city of the French empire—strange, I say, that, at this very moment, the power of the Pope should be rooted in America in this still stranger manner." Ay! strange indeed, my Lord Barclay; but in no way strange for those who know that martyrdom is the life of the Church, and that she woos triumph in persecution. Gallitzin's life is a living, convincing proof of her triumphs and her hopes.
From The Sixpenny Magazine.
"DUM SPIRO SPERO."
(AN APOLOGUE.)
My soul was restless, and I sought
The elf's wild haunt, and breath'd sweet airs:
I track'd the river's devious route:—
In vain!—my heart was vext with cares.
I wandered from the noble park,
The trimly gay parterre to view;
Thence pluck'd a rose, without one mark
To rob it of its faultless hue;
And, home returning, quaintly placed
My trophy in a tiny tray
Of antique silver curious traced;
Then, charg'd with odor, turn'd away.
* * * * *
I enter'd yestermorn the room
Where, all forgotten, dwelt my flower
Unhappy fate! that tender bloom
Fell, fainting for the genial shower.
Vanish'd all vigor had; and now—
The perfume fled—the tints grown dull—
It had been sin, I did allow,
For this so choice a bud to pull.
Then, with sore heart, I brought a stream
Of clearest water to its cup.
What wonder if new life 'gan gleam,
And care restored what hope gave up?
Lo! leaf by leaf was slowly raised,
Till olden flashes came at length:
Each plaintive petal oped, and gazed.
And thank'd me with its growing strength.
* * * * *
Our hearts are like thee, little Rose;
They quicken what time love-beams shine;
But under dismal clouds of woes
How can they choose but droop and pine?
If sympathy with lute attend
To lull with some resistless psalm,
Misfortune's darts can never rend:
Friends soothe, hope cheers, and heaven anoints with balm!
From The Month.
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
CHAPTER XV.
Then methought was witnessed (I speak of the time when Sir Hammond l'Estrange made the savage speech which caused his lady and me to exchange affrighted looks) a rare instance of the true womanly courage which doth sometimes lie at the core of a timid heart. The meek wife, which dared not so much as to lift up her eyes to her lord if he did only frown, or to oppose his will in any trifling matter; whose color I had seen fly from her cheek if he raised his voice, albeit not in anger against herself, now in the presence of those at table, with a face as pale as ashes, but a steady voice, and eyes fixed on him, thus addressed her husband:
"Sir, since we married I have never opposed your will, or in anything I wot of offended you, or ever would if I could help it. Do not, therefore, displeasure me so much, I beseech you, in this grave instance, as to make me an instrument in the capture. And God knoweth what should follow of one which came to me for help, and to whom the service I rendered him would prove the means of his ruin if you persist therein."
"Go to, madam, go to," cries Sir Hammond; "your business doth lie with poor people, mine with criminals. Go your way, and intrude not yourself in weightier matters than belong to your sex."
"Sir," she answers, braving his frowning looks, albeit her limbs began to tremble, "I humbly crave your patience; but I will not leave you, neither desist from my suit, except thereunto compelled by force. I would to God my tongue had been plucked out rather than that it should utter words which should betray to prison, yea, perhaps to death, the poor man whose wounds I tended."
The cloud on Sir Hammond's brow waxed darker as she spoke. He glanced at me, and methinks perceived my countenance to be as much disturbed as his lady's. A sudden thought, I ween, then passed through his mind; and with a terrible oath he swore that he misliked this strenuous urging in favor of a vile popish priest, and yet more the manner of this intercession.
"Heaven shield, madam," he cried, "you have not companied with recusants so as to become infected with a lack of zeal for the Protestant religion!"
The color returned for a moment to Lady l'Estrange's cheeks as she answered:
"Sir, I have never, from the time my mother did teach me my prayers, been of any other way of thinking than that wherein she then instructed me, or so much as allowed myself one thought contrary to true Protestant religion; or ever lent an ear, and with God's help never will, to what papists do advance; but nevertheless, if this priest do fall into any grievous trouble through my speeches, I shall be a most unhappy woman all my life."
And then the poor soul, rising from her seat, went round to her husband's side, and, kneeling, sought to take his hands, beseeching him in such moving and piteous terms to change his purpose as I could see did visibly affect some present. But I also noticed in Sir Hammond's face so resolved an intent as if nothing in earth or heaven should alter it. A drowning wretch [{161}] would as soon have moved a rock to advance toward him as she succeeded in swerving his will by her entreaties.
A sudden thought inspired me to approach her where she had sunk down on her knees at her husband's feet, he seeking angrily to push her away. I took her by the hand and said:
"I pray you, dear lady, come with me. These be indeed matters wherein, as Sir Hammond saith, women's words do not avail."
Both looked at me surprised; and she, loosing her hold of him, suffered me to lead her away. We went into the parlor, Mrs. l'Estrange following us. But as I did try to whisper in her ear that I desired to speak with her alone, the bell in the dining-room began to ring violently; upon which she shuddered and cried out:
"Let me go back to him, Mistress Sherwood. I'll warrant you he is about to send for the constables; but beshrew me if I die not first at his feet; for if this man should be hung, peace will be a stranger to me all my life."
Mistress l'Estrange essayed to comfort her; but failing therein, said she was very foolish to be so discomposed at what was no fault of hers, and she should think no more thereon, for in her condition to fret should be dangerous; and if people would be priests and papists none could help if they should suffer for it. And then she left the parlor somewhat ruffled, like good people sometimes feel when they perceive their words to have no effect. When we were alone, "Lady l'Estrange," I said, "where is Master Rugeley's house?"
"One mile, or thereabouts, across the heath," she answered.
"And the way to it direct?" I asked.
"Yea, by the footpath," she replied; "but much longer by the high road."
I went to the window and opened the shutter and the lattice also. The moon was shining very brightly.
"Is it that cottage near to the wood?" I inquired, pointing to a thatched roof nigh unto the darksome line of trees against the sky.
"Yea," she answered, "how near it doth seem seen in this light! Constance, what think you to do?" she exclaimed, when I went to her cupboard and took out the keys she had showed me that morning opened the doors of the kitchen garden and the orchard.
"Did you not say," I answered, "that the gentleman now in so great peril did lodge with Master Rugeley?"
"Would you go there?" she said, looking aghast. "Not alone; you durst not do it!"
"Twenty times over," I answered, "for to save a man's life, and he—he a—" But there I stopped; for it was her fellow-creature she desired to save. Her heart bled not like mine for the flock which should be left without a shepherd; and albeit our fears were the same, we felt not alike. I went into the hall, and she pursued me—one-half striving to stay me from my purpose, one-half urging me to fulfil it; yet retracting her words as soon as uttered.
"When I issue from the door of the orchard unto the heath," I said, the while wrapping round me a cloak with a hood to it, "and pursue the path in front, by what token may I find Master Rugeley's house if the moon should be obscured?"
"Where two roads do meet," she said, "at the edge of the heath, a tall oak doth stand near to a gate; a few steps to the right should then lead to it. But verily, Mistress Constance, I be frightened to let you go; and oh, I do fear my husbands's anger."
"Would you, then, have a man die by your means?" I asked, thinking for to cure one terror by another, as indeed it did; for she cried,
"Nay, I will speed you on your way, good Constance; and show so brave a face during your absence as God shall help me to do; yea, and open the door for you myself, if my husband should kill me for it!"
Then she took the keys in her hand, and glided like unto a pale ghost before me through the passage into the hall, so noiselessly that I should have doubted if aught of flesh and blood could have moved so lightly, and undid the bars of the back door without so much as a sound. Then she would fetch some thick shoes for me to wear, which I did entreat her not to stay me for; but nothing else would content the poor soul, and, as she had the keys in her hand, I was forced to wait her return with so much impatience as may be guessed. I heard the voices of the gentlemen still carousing after supper; and then a servant's below in the hall, who said the constables had been sent for, and a warrant issued for the apprehension of a black papist at Master Rugeley's. Then Milicent returned, and whilst I put on the shoes she had brought, and she was tying with trembling fingers the hood of my cloak, the rustling of Mrs. l'Estrange's silk gown was heard on the stair above our heads, from whence we were like to be seen; and, fear awakening contrivance, I said aloud,
"Oh, what a rare pastime it should be to dress as a ghost, and frighten the good lady your sister-in-law! I pray you get me some white powder to pale my face. Methinks we need some kind of sport to drive away too much thinking on that dismal business in hand."
The steps over our head sounded more hurried, and we heard the door of the parlor close with a bang, and the lattice also violently shut.
"Now," I whispered, "give me the keys, good Lady l'Estrange, and go to your sister yourself. Say I was ashamed to have been overheard to plan so rank a piece of folly (and verily you will be speaking no other than the truth), and that you expect I shall not so much as show my face in the parlor this evening; and lock also my chamber-door, that none may for a surety know me for to be absent."
"Yea," answered the poor lady, with so deep a sigh as seemed to rend her heart; "but, God forgive me, I never did think to hide anything from my husband! And who shall tell me if I be doing right or wrong?"
I could not stay, though I grieved for her; and the sound of her voice haunted me as I went through the garden, and then the orchard, unto the common, locking the doors behind me. When this was done, I did breathe somewhat more freely, and began to run along the straight path amidst the heath. I wot not if my speed was great—the time seemed long; yet methinks I did not slacken my pace once, but rather increased it, till, perceiving the oak, and near it the gate Lady l'Estrange had mentioned, I stopped to consider where to turn; and after I had walked a little to the right I saw a cottage and a light gleaming inside. Then my heart beat very fast; and when I knocked at the door I felt scarce able to stand. I did so three times, and no answer came. Then I cried as loudly as I could, "Master Rugeley, I beseech you open the door." I heard some one stirring within, but no one came. Then I again cried out, "Oh, for our Blessed Lady's sake, some one come." At last the lattice opened, and a man's head appeared.
"Who are you?" he said, in a low voice.
"A friend," I answered, in a whisper; "a Catholic. Are yon Master Rugeley?"
"Yea," he answered.
"Oh, then, if Mr. Tunstall is here, hide him quickly, or send him away. I am a friend of Lady l'Estrange's and staying in her house. Sir Hammond hath received tidings that a priest is in this neighborhood, and a warrant is issued for to apprehend him. His lady unwittingly, and sorely troubled she is thereat, showed by her speeches touching your guest, that he is like to be Mr. Tunstall; and the constables will soon be here."
"Thank you," he replied whom I was addressing; "but Mr. Tunstall is not the name of my friend."
Then I feared he did take me for a spy, and I cried out, greatly moved, "As I do hope to go to heaven one [{163}] day, and not to hell, Master Rugeley, I speak the truth, and my warning is an urgent one."
Then I heard some one within the house, who said, "Open the door, Master Rugeley. I should know that voice. Let the speaker in."
Methought I, too, knew the voice of the person who thus spoke. The door was opened, and I entered a room dimly lighted by one candle.
"Oh, for God's sake," I cried, "if a priest is here, hide him forthwith."
"Are you a Catholic, my child?"
I looked up to the person who put this question to me, and gave a sudden cry, I know not whether of terror or joy; for great as was the change which the lapse of years, and great inward and outward changes, had wrought in his aspect, I saw it was my father.
"I am Constance," I cried; "Constance Sherwood! Oh, my dear father!" and then fell at his feet weeping.
After an instant's, astonishment and fixed gazing on my face, he recognized me, who was, I doubt not, more changed than himself, and received me with a great paternal kindness and the tenderest greeting imaginable, yet tempered with reserve and so much of restraint as should befit one who, for Christ's sake, had dissevered himself from the joys, albeit not from the affections, of the natural heart.
"Oh, my good child, my own dear Constance," he said; "hath God in his bounty given thy poor father a miraculous sight of thee before his death, or art thou come verily in flesh and blood to warn him of his danger?"
"My dear and honored father," I replied, "time presses; peril is indeed at hand, if you and Mr. Tunstall are the same person."
"The wounds in my hands," he answered, "must prove me such, albeit now healed by the care of that good Samaritan, Lady l'Estrange. But prithee, my good child, whence comest thou?"
"Alas!" I said; "and yet not alas, if God should be so good to me as by my means to save you, I am Sir Hammond's guest, being a friend of his lady's. I came there yesterday."
"Oh, my good child, I thought not to have seen thee in these thy grown-up years. Master Rugeley," he added, turning to his host, "this is the little girl I forsook four years ago, for to obtain the hundredfold our Lord doth promise."
"My very dear father," I said, "joy is swallowed up in fear. God help me, I came to warn a stranger (if so be any priest in these times should be a stranger to a Catholic), and I find you."
"Oh, but I am mightfully pleased," quoth he, "to see thee, my child, even in this wise, and to hear thee speak like a true daughter of Holy Church. And Lady l'Estrange is then thy friend?"
"Yea, my dear father; but for God and our lady's sake hide yourself. I warrant yon the constables may soon be here. Master Rugeley, where can he be concealed, or whither fly, and I with him?"
"Nay, prithee not so fast," quoth he. "Flight would be useless; and in the matter of hiding, one should be more easily concealed than two; beside that, the hollow of a tree, which Master Rugeley will, I ween, appoint me for a bed-chamber to-night, should hardly lodge us both with comfort."
"Oh, sir," said Rugeley, "do not tarry."
"For thy sake, no; not for more than one minute, Thomas; but ere I part from this wench, two questions I must needs ask her."
Then he drew me aside and inquired what facilities I continued to have in London for the exercise of Catholic religion, and if I was punctual in the discharge of my spiritual duties. When I had satisfied him thereon, he asked if the report was true which he heard from a prisoner for recusancy in Wisbeach Castle, concerning my troth-plight with Mr. Rookwood.
"Yea," I said, "it is true, if so be you now do add your consent to it."
He answered he should do so with all his heart, for he knew him to be a good Catholic and a virtuous gentleman; and as we might lack the opportunity to receive his blessing later, he should now give it unto me for both his most dear children. Which he did, laying his hand on my head with many fervent benisons, couched in such words as these, that he prayed for us to be stayed up with the shore of God's grace in this world; and after this transitory life should end, to ascend to him, and appear pure and unspotted before his glorious seat. Then he asked me if it was Lady l'Estrange who had detected him; whereupon I briefly related to him what had occurred, and how sore her grief was therein.
"God bless her," he answered; "and tell her I do thank her and pray for her with all mime heart."
And more he would have added, but Master Rugeley opened the door impatiently. So, after kissing once more my father's hand, I went away, compelled thereunto by fears for his safety, if he should not at once conceal himself.
Looking back, I saw him and his guide disappear in the thicket, and then, as I walked on toward Lynn Court, it did almost seem to me as if the whole of that brief but pregnant interview should have been a dream; nor could I verily persuade myself that it was not a half habitant of another world I had seen and spoken with rather than mine own father; and in first thinking on it I scarcely did fully apprehend the danger he was in, so as to feel as much pain as I did later, when the joy and astonishment of that unexpected meeting had given way to terrifying thoughts. Ever and anon I turned round to gaze on the dark wood wherein his hopes of safety did lie, and once I knelt down on the roadside to pray that the night should be also dark and shield his escape. But still the sense of fear was dulled, and woke not until the sound of horses' feet on the road struck on my ear, and I saw a party of men riding across the common. The light in the cottage was extinguished, but the cruel moon shone out then more brightly than heretofore. Now I felt so sick and faint that I feared to sink down on the path, and hurried through the orchard-door and the garden to the house. When I had unlocked the back door and stood in the hall where a lately kindled fire made a ruddy light to glow, I tried again to think I had been dreaming, like one in a nightmare strives to shake off an oppressive fancy. I could not remain alone, and composed my countenance for to enter the parlor, when the door thereof opened and Mrs. l'Estrange came out, who, when she perceived me standing before her, gave a start, but recovering herself, said, good-naturedly:
"Marry, if this be not the ghost we have been looking for; now ashamed, I ween, to show itself. I hope, Mistress Sherwood, you do not haunt quiet folks in their beds at night; for I do, I warn you, mislike living ghosts, and should be disposed to throw a jug of water at the head of such a one." And laughing, she took my hand in a kind manner, which when she did, almost a cry broke from her: "How now, Milicent! she is as cold as a stone figure. Where has she been chilling herself?"
Milicent pressed forward and led me to my chamber, wherein a fire had been lighted, and would make me drink a hot posset. But when I thought of the cold hollow of a tree wherein my father was enclosed, if it pleased God no worse mishap had befallen him, little of it could I force myself to swallow, for now tears had come to my relief, and concealing my face in the pillow of the bed whereon for weariness I had stretched myself, I wept very bitterly.
"Is that poor man gone from Rugeley's house?" Milicent whispered.
Alas! she knew not who that poor man was to me, nor with what anguish I answered: "He is not in the [{165}] cottage, I hope; but God only knoweth if his pursuers shall not discover him." The thought of what would then follow overcame me, and I hid my face with mine hands.
"Oh, Constance," she exclaimed, "was this poor man known to thee, that thy grief is so great, whose conscience doth not reproach thee as mine doeth?"
I held out my hand to her without unshading my face with the other, and said: "Dear Milicent! thou shouldst not sorrow so mach for thine own part in this sore trial. It was not thy fault. He said so. He blest thee, and prays for thee."
Uncomforted by my words, she cried again, what she had so often exclaimed that night, "If this man should die, my happiness is over."
Then once more she asked me if I know this priest, and I was froward with her (God forgive me, for the suspense and fear overthrew better feelings for a moment), and I cried, angrily, "Who saith he is a priest? Who can prove it?"
"Think you so?" she said joyfully; "then all should be right."
And once more, with some misdoubting, I ween, that I concealed somewhat from her, she inquired touching my knowledge of this stranger. Then I spoke harshly, and bade her leave me, for I had sorrow enough without her intermeddling with it; but then grieving for her, and also afraid to be left alone, I denied my words, and prayed her to stay, which she did, but did not speak much again. The silence of the night seemed so deep as if the rustling of a leaf could be noticed; only now and then the voices of the gentlemen below, and some loud talking and laughter from some of them was discernible through the closed doors. Once Lady l'Estrange said: "They be sitting up very late; I suppose till the constables return. Oh, when will that be?"
The great clock in the hall then struck twelve; and soon after, starting up, I cried, "What should be that noise?"
"I do hear nothing," she answered, trembling as a leaf.
"Hush," I replied, and going to the window, opened the lattice. The sound in the road on the other side of the house was now plain. On that we looked on naught was to be seen save trees and grass, with the ghastly moonlight shining on them. A loud opening and shutting of doors and much stir now took place within the house, and, moved by the same impulse, we both went out into the passage and half way down the stairs. Milicent was first. Suddenly she turned round, and falling down on her knees, with a stifled exclamation, she hid her face against me, whisperings "He is taken!"
We seemed both turned to stone. O ye which have gone through a like trial, judge ye; and you who have never been in such straits, imagine what a daughter should feel who, after long years' absence, beholdeth a beloved father for one instant, and in the next, under the same roof where she is a guest, sees him brought in a prisoner and in jeopardy of his life. Every word which was uttered we could hear where we sat crouching, fearful to advance—she not daring to look on the man she had ruined, and I on the countenance of a dear parent, lest the sight of me should distract him from his defence, if that could be called such which he was called on to make. They asked him touching his name, if it was Tunstall. He answered he was known by that name. Then followed the murtherous question, if he was a Romish priest? To which he at once assented. Then said Sir Hammond:
"How did you presume, sir, to return into England contrary to the laws?"
"Sir," he answered, "as I was lawfully ordained a priest by a Catholic bishop, by authority derived from the see of Rome" (one person here exclaimed, "Oh, audacious papist! his [{166}] tongue should be cat out;" but Sir Hammond imposed silence), "so likewise," he continued, "am I lawfully sent to preach the word of God, and to administer the sacraments to my Catholic countrymen. As the mission of priests lawfully ordained is from Christ, who did send his apostles even as his Father sent him, I do humbly conceive no human laws can justly hinder my return to England, or make it criminal; for this should be to prefer the ordinances of man to the commands of the supreme legislator, which is Christ himself."
Loud murmurs were here raised by some present, which Sir Hammond again silencing, he then inquired if he would take the oath of allegiance to the queen? He answered (my straining ears taking note of every word he uttered) that he would gladly pay most willing obedience to her majesty in all civil matters; but the oath of allegiance, as it was worded, he could not take, or hold her majesty to possess any supremacy in spiritual matters. He was beginning to state the reasons thereof, but was not suffered to proceed, for Sir Hammond, interrupting him, said he was an escaped prisoner, and by his own confession condemned, so he should straightway commit him to the gaol in Norwich. Then I lost my senses almost, and seizing Lady l'Estrange's arm, I cried, "Save him! he is mine own father, Mr. Sherwood!" She uttered a sort of cry, and said, "Oh, I have feared this, since I saw his face!" and running forward, I following her, affrighted at what should happen, she called out, "It shall not be! He shall not do it!" and with a face as white as any smock, runs to her husband, and perceiving the constables to be putting chains on my father's hands and feet, which I likewise beheld with what feelings you who read this may think, she falls on her knees and gasps out these words in such a mournful tone, that I shuddered to hear her, "Oh, sir! if this man leaves this house a chained prisoner, I shall never be the like of my-self again. There shall be no more joy for me in life." And then faints right away, and Sir Hammond carries her in his arms out of the hall. Mine eyes the while met my father's; who smiled on me with kind cheer, but signed for me to keep away. I stretched my arms toward him, and with his chained hand he contrived yet once more for to bless me; then was hurried out of my sight. Far more time than I ever did perceive or could remember the length of I remained in that now deserted hall, motionless, alone, near to the dying embers, the darkness still increasing, too much confused to recall at once the comforts which sacred thoughts do yield in such mishaps, only able to clasp my hand and utter broken sentences of prayer, such as "God, ha' mercy on us," and the like; till about the middle of the night, Sir Hammond comes down the stairs, with a lamp in his hand, and a strange look in his face.
"Mistress Sherwood," he says, "come to my lady. She is very ill, and hath been in labor for some time. She doth nothing but call for you, and rave about that accursed priest she will have it she hath murthered. Come and feign to her he hath escaped."
"O God!" I cried, "my words may fall on her ear, Sir Hammond, but my face cannot deceive her."
He looked at me amazed and angry. "What meaneth this passion of grief? What is this old man to you, that his misfortune should thus disorder you?" And as I could not stay my weeping, he asked in a scornful manner, "Do papists so dote on their priests as to die of sorrow when they get their deserts?" This insulting speech did so goad me, that, unable to restrain myself, I exclaimed, "Sir Hammond, he whom you have sent to a dungeon, and perhaps to death also (God pardon you for it!), is my true father!—the best parent and the noblest gentleman that ever breathed, which for many years I had not seen; and here under your roof, myself your guest, I [{167}] have beheld him loaded with chains, and dared not to speak for fear to injure him yet further, which I pray God I have not now done, moved thereunto by your cruel scoffs."
"Your father!" he said amazed; "Mr. Sherwood! These cursed feignings do work strange mishaps. But he did own himself a priest."
Before I had time to answer, a serving woman ran into the hall, crying out, "Oh, sir, I pray you come to my lady. She is much worse; and the nurse says, if her mind is not eased she is like to die before the child is born."
"Oh, Milicent! sweet Milicent!" I cried, wringing my hands; and when I looked at that unhappy husband's face, anger vanished and pity took its place. He turned to me with an imploring countenance as if he should wish to say, "None but you can save her." I prayed to Our Lady, who stood and fainted not beneath the Rood, to get me strength for to do my part in that sick chamber whither I signed to him to lead the way. "God will help me," I whispered in his ear, "to comfort her."
"God bless you!" he answered in a hoarse voice, and opened the door of the room in which his sweet lady was sitting in her bed, with a wild look in her pale blue eyes, which seemed to start out of her head.
"Sir," I heard her say, as he approached, "what hath befallen the poor man you would not dismiss?"
I took a light in my hand, so that she should see my face, and smiled on her with such good cheer, as God in his mercy gave me strength to do even amidst the two-fold anguish of that moment. Then she threw her arms convulsively round my neck, and her pale lips gasped the same question as before. I bent over her, and said, "Trouble yourself no longer, dear lady, touching this prisoner. He is safe (in God's keeping, I added, internally). He is where he is carefully tended (by God's angels, I mentally subjoined); he hath no occasion to be afraid (for God is his strength), and I warrant you is as peaceful as his nearest friends should wish him to be."
"Is this the truth?" she murmured in my ear.
"Yea," I said, "the truth, the very truth," and kissed her flushed cheek. Then feeing like to faint, I went away, Sir Hammond leading me to my chamber, for I could scarce stand.
"God bless you!" he again said, when he left me, and I think he was weeping.
I fell into a heavy, albeit troubled, sleep, and when I awoke it was broad daylight. When the waiting-maid came in, she told me Lady l'Estrange had been delivered of a dead child and Sir Hammond was almost beside himself with grief. My lady's mind had wandered ever since; but she was more tranquil than in the night. Soon after he sent to ask if he could see me, and I went down to him into the parlor. A more changed man, in a few hours, I ween, could not be seen, than this poor gentleman. He spoke not of his lady; but briefly told me he had sent in the night a messenger on horseback to Norwich, with a letter to the governor of the gaol, praying him to show as much consideration, and allow so much liberty as should consist with prudence, to the prisoner in his custody, sent by him a few hours before, for that he had discovered him not to be one of the common sort, nor a lewd person, albeit by his own confession amenable to the laws, and escaped from another prison. Then he added, that if I wished to go to Norwich, and visit this prisoner, he would give me a letter to the governor, and one to a lady, who would conveniently harbor me for a while in that city, and his coach should take me there, or he would lend me a horse and a servant to attend me. I answered, I should be glad to go, and then said somewhat of his lady, hoping she should now do well. He made no reply for a moment, and then only said,
"God knoweth! she is not like herself at the present."
The words she had so mournfully [{168}] spoken the day before came into my mind, "I shall never be like myself again, and there shall be no more joy in this house." And, methinks, they did haunt him also.
I sat for some time by her bedside that day. She seemed not ill at ease, but there was something changed in her aspect, and her words when she spoke had no sense or connection. And here I will set down, before I relate the events which followed my brief sojourn under their roof, what I have heard touching the sequel of Sir Hammond and his wife's lives.
In that perilous and sorely troubled childbirth understanding was alienated, and the art of the best physicians in England could never restore it. She was not frantic; but had such a pretty deliration, that in her ravings there was oftentimes more attractiveness than in many sane persons' conversation. They mostly ran on pious themes, and she was wont to sing psalms, and talk of heaven, and that she hoped to see God there; and in many things she showed her old ability, such as fine embroidery and the making of preserves. One day her waiting-woman asked her to dress a person's wounds, which did greatly need it, and she set herself to do it in her accustomed manner; but at the sight of the wounds, she was seized with convulsions, and became violently delirious, so that Sir Hammond sharply reprehended the imprudent attendant, and forbade the like to be ever proposed to her again. He gave himself up to live retired with her, and ceased to be a magistrate, nor ever, that I could hear of, took any part again in the persecution of Catholics. The distemper which had estranged her mind in all things else, had left her love and obedience entire to her husband; and he entertained a more visible fondness, and evinced a greater respect for her after she was distempered than he had ever done in the early days of their marriage. Methinks, the gentleness of her heart, and delicacy of her conscience, which till that misfortune had never, I ween, been burdened by any, even the least, self-reproach, and the lack of strength in her mind to endure an unusual stress, made the stroke of that accidental harm done to another through her means too heavy for her sufferance, and, as the poet saith, unsettled reason on her throne. For mine own part, but let others consider of it as they list, I think that had she been a Catholic by early training and distinct belief, as verily I hope she was in rightful intention, albeit unconsciously to herself (as I make no doubt many are in these days, wherein persons are growing up with no knowledge of religion except what Protestant parents do instill into them), that she would have had a greater courage for to bear this singular trial; which to a feeling natural heart did prove unbearable, but which to one accustomed to look on suffering as not the greatest of evils, and to hold such as are borne for conscience sake as great and glorious, would not have been so overwhelming. But herein I write, methinks, mine own condemnation, for that in the anguish of filial grief I failed to point out to her during those cruel moments of suspense that which in retrospection I do so clearly see. And so, may God accept the blighting of her young life, and the many sufferings of mine which I have still to record, as pawns of his intended mercies to both her and to me in his everlasting kingdom!
When I was about to set out for Norwich, late in the afternoon of that same day, Sir Hammond's messenger returned from thence with a letter from the governor of the gaol; wherein he wrote that the prisoner he had sent the night before was to proceed to London in a few hours with some other priests and recusants which the government had ordered to be conveyed thither and committed to divers prisons. He added, that he had complied with Sir Hammond's request, and shown so much favor to Mr. Tunstall as to transfer him, as soon as he [{169}] received his letter, from the common dungeon to a private cell, and to allow him to speak with another Catholic prisoner who had desired to see him. Upon this I prayed Sir Hammond to forward me on my journey to London, as now I desired nothing so much as to go there forthwith; which he did with no small alacrity and good disposition. Then, with so much speed as was possible, and so much suffering from the lapse of each hour that it seemed to me the journey should never end, I proceeded to what was now the object of my most impatient pinings—the place where I should bear tidings of my father, and, if it should be possible, minister assistance to him in his great straits. At last I reached Holborn; and, to the no small amazement of my uncle, Mrs. Ward, and Muriel, revealed to them who Mr. Tunstall was, whose arrival at the prison of Bridewell Mrs. Ward had had notice of that morning, when she had been to visit Mr. Watson, which she had contrived to do for some time past in the manner I will soon relate.
CHAPTER XVI.
One of the first persons I saw in London was Hubert Rookwood, who, when he heard (for being Basil's brother I would not conceal it from him) that my father was in prison at Bridewell, expressed so much concern therein and resentment of my grief, that I was thereby moved to more kindly feelings toward him than I had of late entertained. He said that in the houses of the law which he frequented he had made friends which he hoped would intercede in his behalf, and therein obtain, if not his release, yet so much alleviation of the hardships of a common prison as should render his condition more tolerable, and that he would lose no time in seeking to move them thereunto; but that our chief hope would lie in Sir Francis Walsingham, who, albeit much opposed to papists, had always showed himself willing to assist his friends of that way of thinking, and often procured for them some relief, which indeed none had more experienced than Mr. Congleton himself. Hubert commended the secrecy which had been observed touching my father's real name; for if he should be publicly known to be possessed of lands and related to noble families, it should be harder for any one to get him released than an obscure person; but nevertheless he craved license to intimate so much of the truth to Sir Francis as should appear convenient, for he had always observed that gentlemen are more compassionate to those of their own rank than to others of meaner birth. Mr. Congleton prayed him to use his own discretion therein, and said he should acquaint no one himself of it except his very good friend the Portuguese ambassador, who, if all other resources failed, might yet obtain of the queen herself some mitigation of his sentence. Thereupon followed some days of weary watching and waiting, in which my only comfort was Mistress Ward, who, by means of the gaoler's wife, who had obliged her in the like manner before, did get access from time to time to Mr. Watson, and brought him necessaries. From him she discovered that the prisoner in the nearest cell to his own was the so-called Mr. Tunstall, and that by knocks against the wall, ingeniously numbered so as to express the letters of the alphabet, as one for a, two for b, and so to the end thereof, they did communicate. So she straightway began to practice this management; but time allowed not of many speeches to pass between them. Yet in this way he sent me his blessing, and that he was of very good cheer; but that none should try for to visit him, for he had only one fear, which was to bring others into trouble; and, for himself, he was much beholden to her majesty, which had provided him with a quiet lodging and time to look to his soul's welfare; [{170}] which evidence of his cheerful and pious spirit comforted me not a little. Then that dear friend which had brought me this good comfort spoke of Mr. Watson, and said she desired to procure his escape from prison more than that of any other person in the same plight, not excepting my father. "For, good Constance," quoth she, "when a man is blest with a stout heart and cheerful mind, except it be for the sake of others, I pray you what kind of service do you think we render him by delaying the victory he is about to gain, and peradventure depriving him of the long-desired crown of martyrdom? But this good Mr. Watson, who as you well know was a zealous priest and pious missioner, nevertheless, some time after his apprehension and confinement in Bridewell, by force of torments and other miseries of that place, was prevailed upon to deny his faith so far as to go once to the Protestant service—not dragged there by force as some have been, but compelled thereunto by fear of intolerable sufferings, and was then set at liberty. But the poor man did not thus better his condition; for the torments of his mind, looking on himself as an apostate and traitor to the Church, he found to be more insupportable than any sufferings his gaolers put upon him. So, after some miserable weeks, he went to one of the prisons where some other priests were confined for to seek comfort and counsel from them; and, having confessed his fault with great and sincere sorrow, he received absolution, and straightway repaired to that church in Bridewell wherein he had in a manner denied his faith, and before all the people at that time therein assembled, declared himself a Catholic, and willing to go to prison and to death sooner than to join again in Protestant worship. Whereupon he was laid hold of, dragged to prison, and thrown into a dungeon so low and so straight that he could neither stand up in it nor lay himself down at his full length to sleep. They loaded him with irons, and kept him one whole month on bread and water; nor would suffer any one to come near him to comfort or speak with him."
"Alas!" I cried, "and is this, then, the place where my father is confined?'
"No,", she answered; "after the space of a month Mr. Watson was translated to a lodging at the top of the house, wherein the prisoners are leastways able to stretch their limbs and to see the light; but he having been before prevailed on to yield against his conscience touching that point of going to Protestant worship, no peace is left to him by his persecutors, which never cease to urge on him some sort of conformity to their religion. And, Constance, when a man hath once been weak, what security can there be, albeit I deny not hope, that he shall always after stand firm?"
"But by what means," I eagerly asked, '"do you forecast to procure his escape?"
"I have permission," she answered, "to bring him necessaries, which I do in a basket, on condition that I be searched at going in and coming out, for to make sure I convey not any letter unto him or from him; and this was so strictly observed the first month that they must needs break open the loaves or pies I take to him lest any paper should be conveyed inside. But they begin now to weary of this strict search, and do not care at ways to hearken when I speak with him; so he could tell me the last time I did visit him that he had found a way by which if he had but a cord long enough for his purpose, he could let himself down from the top of the house, and so make his escape in the night."
"Oh," I cried, "dear Mistress Ward, but this is a perilous venture, to aid a prisoner's escape. One which a daughter might run for her father, oh, how willingly, but for a stranger—"
"A stranger!" she answered. "Is he a stranger for whom Christ died, and whose precious soul is in danger. [{171}] even if not a priest; and being so, is he not entitled to more than common reverence, chiefly in these days when God's servants minister to us in the midst of such great straits to both soul and body?'
"I cry God mercy," I said; "I did term him a stranger who gave ghostly comfort to my dear mother on her death-bed; but oh, dear Mistress Ward, I thought on your peril, who, he knoweth, hath been as a mother to me for these many years. And then-if you are resolved to run this danger, should it not be possible to save my father also by the same means? Two cords should not be more difficult to convey, methinks, than one, and the peril not greater."
"If I could speak with him," she replied, "it would not be impossible. I will tell Muriel to make two instead of one of these cords, which she doth twine in some way she learnt from a Frenchman, so strong as, albeit slight, to have the strength of a cable. But without we do procure two men with a boat for to fetch the prisoners when they descend, 'tis little use to make the attempt. And it be easier, I warrant thee, Constance, to run one's self into a manifest danger than to entice others to the like."
"Should it be safe," I asked, "to speak thereon to Hubert Rookwood? He did exhibit this morning much zeal in my father's behalf, and promised to move Sir Francis Walsingham to procure his release."
"How is he disposed touching religion? she asked, in a doubtful manner.
"Alas!" I answered, "there is a secrecy in his nature which in more ways than one doth prove unvestigable, leastways to me; but when he comes this evening I will sound him thereon. Would his brother were in London! Then we should not lack counsel and aid in this matter."
"We do sorely need both," she answered; "for your good uncle, than which a better man never lived, wanes feeble in body, and hence easily overcome by the fears such enterprises involve. Mr. Wells is not in London at this tune, or he should have been a very palladium of strength in this necessity. Hubert Rookwood hath, I think, a good head."
"What we do want is a brave heart," I replied, thinking on Basil.
"But wits also," she said.
"Basil hath them too," I answered, forgetting that only in mine own thinking had he been named.
"Yea," she cried, "who doth doubt it? but, alas! he is not here."
Then I prayed her not to be too rash in the prosecution of her design. "Touching my father," I said, "I have yet some hope of his release; and as long as any remaineth, flight should be methinks a too desperate attempt to be thought of."
"Yea," she answered, "in most cases it would be so." But Mr. Watson's disposition she perceived to be such as would meet a present danger and death itself, she thought, with courage, but not of that stamp which could endure prolonged fears or infliction of torments.
Since my coming to London I had been too much engaged in these weighty cares to go abroad; but on that day I resolved, if it were possible, to see my Lady Surrey. A report had reached me that the breach between her and her husband had so much deepened that a separation had ensued, which if true, I, which knew her as well almost as mine own self, could judge what her grief must be. I was also moved to this endeavor by the hope that if my Lord Arundel was not too sick to be spoken with, she should perhaps obtain some help through his means for that dear prisoner whose captivity did weigh so heavily on my heart.
So, with a servant to attend on me, I went through the city to the Chapter-house, and with a misgiving mind heard from the porter that Lady Surrey lodged not there, but at Arundel House, whither she had removed soon after her coming to London. [{172}] Methought that in the telling of it this man exhibited a sorrowful countenance; but not choosing to question one of his sort on so weighty a matter, I went on to Arundel House, where, after some delay, I succeeded in gaining admittance to Lady Surrey's chamber, whose manner, when she first saw me, lacked the warmth which I was used to in her greetings. There seemed some fear in her lest I should speak unadvisedly that which she would be loth to hear; and her strangeness and reserve methinks arose from reluctance to have the wound in her heart probed,—too sore a one, I ween, even for the tender handling of a friend. I inquired of her if my Lord Arundel's health had improved. She said he was better, and like soon to be as well as could be hoped for now-a-days, when his infirmities had much increased.
"Then you will return to Kenninghall?" I said, letting my speech outrun discretion.
"No," she replied; "I purpose never more to leave my Lord Arundel or my Lady Lumley as long as they do live, which I pray God may be many years."
And then she sat without speaking, biting her lips and wringing the kerchief she held in her hands, as if to keep her grief from outbursting. I dared not to comment on her resolve, for I foresaw that the least word which should express some partaking of her sorrow, or any question relating to it, would let loose a torrent weakly stayed by a mightful effort, not like to be of long avail. So I spoke of mine own troubles, and the events which had occasioned my sudden departure from Lynn Court. She had heard of Lady l'Estrange's mishap, and that the following day I had journeyed to London; but naught of the causes thereof, or of the apprehension of any priest by Sir Hammond's orders. Which, when she learnt the manner of this misfortune, and the poor lady's share therein, and that it was my father she had thus unwittingly discovered, her countenance softened, and throwing her arms round my neck, she bitterly wept, which at that moment methinks did her more good than anything else.
"Oh, mine own good Constance," she said, "I doubt not nature riseth many passionate workings in your soul at this time; but, my dear wench, when good men are in trouble our grief for them should be as noble as their virtues. Bethink thee what a worst sorrow it should be to have a vile father, one that thou must needs love,—for who can tear out of his heart affection strong as life?—and he should then prove unworthy. Believe me, Constance, God gives to each, even in this world, a portion of their deserts. Such griefs as thy present one I take to be rare instances of his favor. Other sorts of trials are meet for cowardly souls which refuse to set their lips to a chalice of suffering, and presently find themselves submerged in a sea of woes. But can I help thee, sweet one? Is there aught I can do to lighten thy affliction? Hast thou license for to see thy father?"
"No, dear lady," I answered; "and his name being concealed, I may not petition as his daughter for this permission; but if my Lord Arundel should be so good a lord to me as to obtain leave for me to visit this prisoner, without revealing his name and condition, he should do me the greatest benefit in the world."
"I will move him thereunto," my lady said. "But he who had formerly no equal in the queen's favor, and to whom she doth partly owe her crown, is now in his sickness and old age of so little account in her eyes, that trifling favors are often denied him to whom she would once have said: 'Ask of me what thou wilt, and I will give it unto thee.' But what my poor endeavors can effect through him or others shall not be lacking in this thy need. But I am not in that condition I was once like to have enjoyed." Then with her eyes cast on the ground she seemed for to doubt if she should [{173}] speak plainly, or still shut up her grief in silence. As I sat painfully expecting her next words, the door opened, and two ladies were announced, which she whispered in mine ear she would fain not have admitted at that time, but that Lord Arundel's desire did oblige her to entertain them. One was Mistress Bellamy, and the other her daughter, Mistress Frances, a young gentlewoman of great beauty and very lively parts, which I had once before seen at Lady Ingoldsby's house. She was her parents' sole daughter, and so idolized by them that they seemed to live only to minister to her fancies. Lord Arundel was much bounden to this family by ancient ties of friendship, which made him urgent with his granddaughter that she should admit them to her privacy. I admired in this instance how suddenly those which have been used to exercise such self-command as high breeding doth teach can school their exterior to seem at ease, and even of good cheer, when most ill at ease interiorly, and with hearts very heavy. Lady Surrey greeted these visitors with as much courtesy, and listened to their discourse with as much civility and smiles when called for, as if no burthensome thoughts did then oppress her.
Many and various themes were touched upon in the random talk which ensued. First, that wonted one of the queen's marriage, which some opined should verily now take place with Monsieur d'Alençon; for that since his stealthy visits to England, she did wear in her bosom a brooch of jewels in a frog's shape.
"Ay," quoth Mistress Frances, "that stolen visit which awoke the ire of the poor soul Stubbs, who styled it 'an unmanlike, unprincelike, French kind of wooing,' and endeth his book of 'The Gaping Gulph' in a loyal rage: 'Here is, therefore, an imp of the crown of France, to marry the crowned nymph of England,'—a nymph indeed well stricken in years. My brother was standing by when Stubbs' hand was cut off; for nothing else would content that sweet royal nymph, albeit the lawyers stoutly contended the statute under which he suffered to be null and void. As soon as his right hand is off, the man takes his hat off with the left, and cries 'God bless the queen!'"
"Here is a wonder," I exclaimed; "I pray you, what is the art this queen doth possess by which she holdeth the hearts of her subjects in so great thrall, albeit so cruel to them which do offend her?"
"Lady Harrington hath told me her majesty's own opinion thereon," said Mrs. Bellamy; "for one day she did ask her in a merry sort, 'How she kept her husband's good-will and love?' To which she made reply that she persuaded her husband of her affection, and in so doing did command his. Upon which the queen cries out, 'Go to, go to, Mistress Moll! you are wisely bent, I find. After such sort do I keep the good wills of all my husbands, my good people; for if they did not rest assured of some special love toward them, they would not readily yield me such good obedience.'"
"Tut, tut!" cried Mistress Frances; "all be not such fools as John Stubbs; and she knoweth how to take rebukes from such as she doth not dare to offend. By the same token that Sir Philip Sydney hath written to dissuade her from this French match, and likewise Sir Francis Walsingham, which last did hint at her advancing years; and her highness never so much as thought of striking off their hands. But I warrant you a rebellion shall arise if this queen doth issue such prohibitions as she hath lately done."
"Of what sort?" asked Lady Surrey.
"First, to forbid," Mrs. Bellamy said, "any new building to be raised within three thousand paces of the gates of London on pain of imprisonment, and sundry other penalties; or for more than one family to inhabit in one house. For her majesty holds it [{174}] should be an impossible thing to govern or maintain order in a city larger than this London at the present time."
Mistress Frances declared this law to be more tolerable than the one against the size of ladies' ruffs, which were forsooth not to exceed a certain measure; and officers appointed for to stand at the comers of streets and to clip such as overpassed the permitted dimensions, which sooner than submit to she should die.
Lady Surrey smiled, and said she should have judged so from the size of her fine ruff.
"But her majesty is impartial," quoth Mrs. Bellamy; "for the gentlemen's rapiers are served in the same manner. And verily this law hath nearly procured a war with France; for in Smithfield Lane some clownish constables stayed M. de Castelnau, and laid hands on his sword for to shorten it to the required length. I leave you to judge. Lady Surrey, of this ambassador's fury. Sir Henry Seymour, who was tidying the air in Smithfield at the time, perceived him standing with the drawn weapon in his hand, threatening to kill whosoever should approach him, and destruction on this realm of England if the officers should dare to touch his sword again; and this with such frenzy of speech in French mixed with English none could understand, that God knoweth what should have ensued if Sir Henry had not interfered. Her majesty was forced to make an apology to this mounseer for that her officers had ignorantly attempted to clip the sword of her good brother's envoy."
"Why doth she not clip," Mistress Frances said, "if such be her present humor, the orange manes of her gray Dutch horses, which are the frightfullest things in the world?"
"Tis said," quoth Mrs. Bellamy, "that a new French embassy is soon expected, with the dauphin of Auvergne at its head."
"Yea," cried her daughter, "and four handsome English noblemen to meet them at the Tower stairs, and conduct them to the new banqueting-house at Westminster,—my Lord Surrey, Lord Windsor, Sir Philip Sydney, and Sir Fulke Greville. Methinks this should be a very fine sight, if rain doth not fall to spoil it."
I saw my Lady Surrey's countenance change when her husband was mentioned; and Mrs. Bellamy looked at her daughter forasmuch as to check her thoughtless speeches, which caused this young lady to glance round the room, seeking, as it seemed, for some other topic of conversation.
Methinks I should not have preserved so lively a recollection of the circumstances of this visit if some dismal tidings which reached me afterward touching this gentlewoman, then so thoughtless and innocent, had not revived in me the memory of her gay prattle, bright unabashed eyes, and audacious dealing with subjects so weighty and dangerous, that any one less bold should have feared to handle them. After the pause which ensued on the mention of Lord Surrey's name, she took for her text what had been said touching the prohibitions lately issued concerning ruffs and rapiers, and began to mock at her majesty's favorites; yea, and to mimic her majesty herself with so much humor that her well-acted satire must have needs constrained any one to laugh. Then, not contented with these dangerous jests, she talked such direct treason against her highness as to say she hoped to see her dethroned, and a fair Catholic sovereign to reign in her stead, who would be less shrewish to young and handsome ladies. Then her mother cried her, for mercy's sake, to restrain her mad speech, which would serve one day to bring them all into trouble, for all she meant it in jest.
"Marry, good mother," she answered, "not in jest at all; for I do verily hold myself bound to no allegiance to this queen, and would gladly see her get her deserts."
Then Lady Surrey prayed her not to speak so rashly; but methought in [{175}] her heart, and somewhat I could perceive of this in her eyes, she misliked not wholly this young lady's words, who then spoke of religion; and oh, how zealous therein she did appear, how boldly affirmed (craving Lady Surrey's pardon, albeit she would warrant, she said, there was no need to do so, her ladyship she had heard being half a papist herself) that she had as lief be racked twenty times over and die also, or her face to be so disfigured that none should call her ever after anything but a fright—which martyrdom she held would exceed any yet thought of—than so much as hold her tongue concerning her faith, or stay from telling her majesty to her face, if she should have the chance to get speech with her, that she was a foul heretic, and some other truths beside, which but once to utter in her presence, come of it what would, should be a delicious pleasure. Then she railed at the Catholics which blessed the queen before they suffered for their religion, proving them wrong with ingenious reasons and fallacious arguments mixed with pleasantries not wholly becoming such grave themes. But it should have seemed as reasonable to be angry with a child babbling at random of life and death in the midst of its play, as with this creature, the lightest of heart, the fairest in face, the most winsome in manner, and most careless of danger, that ever did set sail on life's stream.
Oh, how all this rose before me again, when I heard, two years afterward, that for her bold recusancy—alas! more bold, as the sequel proved, than deep, more passionate than fervent—this only cherished daughter, this innocent maiden, the mirror of whose fame no breath had sullied, and on whose name no shadow had rested, was torn by the pursuivants from her parents' home, and cast into a prison with companions at the very aspect of which virtue did shudder. And the unvaliant courage, the weak bravery, of this indulged and wayward young lady had no strength wherewith to resist the surging tides of adversity. No voice of parent, friend, or ghostly father reached her in that abode of despair. No visible angel visited her, but a fiend in human form haunted her dungeon. Liberty and pleasure he offered in exchange for virtue, honor, and faith. She fell; sudden and great was that fall.
There is a man the name of which hath blenched the cheeks and riven the hearts of Catholics, one who hath caused many amongst them to lose their lands and to part from their homes, to die on gibbets and their limbs to be torn asunder—one Richard Topcliffe. But, methinks, of all the voices which shall be raised for to accuse him at Christ's judgment-seat, the loudest will be Frances Bellamy's. Her ruin was his work; one of those works which, when a man is dead, do follow him; whither, God knoweth!
Oh, you who saw her, as I did, in her young and innocent years, can you read this without shuddering? Can you think on it without weeping? As her fall was sudden, so was the change it wrought. With it vanished affections, hopes, womanly feelings, memory of the past; nay, methinks therein I err. Memory did yet abide, but linked with hatred; Satan's memory of heaven. From depths to depths she hath sunk, and is now wedded to a mean wretch, the gaoler of her old prison. So rank a hatred hath grown in her against recusants and mostly priests, that it rages like a madness in her soul, which thirsts for their blood. Some months back, about the time I did begin to write this history, news reached me that she had sold the life of that meek saint, that sweet poet, Father Southwell, of which even an enemy, Lord Mountjoy, did say, when he had seen him suffer, "I pray God, where that man's soul now is, mine may one day be." Her father had concealed him in that house where she had dwelt in her innocent days. None but the family knew the secret of its hiding-place. [{176}]so will be ready in Ireland She did reveal it, and took gold for her wages! What shall be that woman's death-bed? What trace doth remain on her soul of what was once a share in the divine nature? May one of God's ministers be nigh unto her in that hour for to bid her not despair! If Judas had repented, Jesus would have pardoned him. Peradventure, misery without hope of relief overthrew her brain. I do pray for her always. 'Tis a vain thought perhaps, but I sometimes wish I might, though I see not how to compass it, yet once speak with her before she or I die. Methinks I could say such words as should touch some old chord in her dead heart. God knoweth! That day I write of, little did I ween what her end would be. But yet it feared me to hear one so young and of so frail an aspect speak so boastfully; and it seemed even then to my inexperienced mind, that my Lady Surrey, who had so humbly erewhile accused herself of cowardice and lamented her weakness, should be in a safer plight, albeit as yet unreconciled.
The visit I have described had lasted some time, when a servant came with a message to her ladyship from Mr. Hubert Rookwood, who craved to be admitted on an urgent matter. She glanced at me somewhat surprised, upon which I made her a sign that she should condescend to his request; for I supposed he had seen Sir Francis Walsingham, and was in haste to confer with me touching that interview; and she ordered him to be admitted. Mrs. Bellamy and her daughter rose to go soon after his entrance; and whilst Lady Surrey conducted them to the door he asked me if her ladyship was privy to the matter in hand. When I had satisfied him thereof, he related what had passed in an interview he had with Sir Francis, whom he found ill-disposed at first to stir in the matter, for he said his frequent remonstrances in favor of recusants had been like to bring him into odium with some of the more zealous Protestants, and that he must needs, in every case of that sort, prove it to be his sole object to bring such persons more surely, albeit slowly, by means of toleration, to a rightful conformity; and that with regard to priests he was very loth to interfere.
"I was compelled," quoth Hubert, "to use such arguments as fell in with the scope of his discourse, and to flatter him with the hope of good results in that which he most desired, if he would procure Mr. Sherwood's release, which I doubt not he hath power to effect. And in the end he consented to lend his aid therein, on condition he should prove on his side so far conformable as to suffer a minister to visit and confer with him touching religion, which would then be a pretext for his release, as if it were supposed he was well disposed toward Protestant religion, and a man more like to embrace the truth when at liberty than if driven to it by stress of confinement. Then he would procure," he added, "an order for his passage to France, if he promised not to return, except he should be willing to obey the laws."
"I fear me much," I answered, "my father will not accept these terms which Sir Francis doth offer. Methinks he will consider they do involve some lack of the open profession of his faith."
"It would be madness for one in his plight to refuse them," Hubert exclaimed, and appealed thereon to Lady Surrey, who said she did indeed think as he did, for it was not like any better could be obtained.
It pained me he should refer to her, who from conformity to the times could not well conceive how tender a Catholic conscience should feel at the least approach to dissembling on this point.
"Wherein," he continued, "is the harm for to confer with a minister, or how can it be construed into a denial of a man's faith to listen to his arguments, unless, indeed, he feels himself to be in danger of being shaken by them?"
"You very well know," I exclaimed [{177}] with some warmth, "that not to be my meaning, or what I suppose his should be. Our priests do constantly crave for public disputations touching religion, albeit they eschew secret ones, which their adversaries make a pretext of to spread reports of their inability to defend their faith, or willingness to abandon it. But heaven forbid I should anyways prejudge this question; and if with a safe conscience—and with no other I am assured will he do it—my father doth subscribe to this condition, then God be praised for it!"
"But you will move him to it, Mistress Constance?" he said.
"If I am so happy," I answered, "as to get speech with him, verily I will entreat him not to throw away his life, so precious to others, if so be he can save it without detriment to his conscience."
"Conscience!" Hubert exclaimed, "methinks that word is often misapplied in these days."
"How so?" I asked, investigating his countenance, for I misdoubted his meaning. Lady Surrey likewise seemed desirous to hear what he should say on that matter.
"Conscience," he answered, "should make persons, and mostly women, careful how they injure others, and cause heedless suffering, by a too great stiffness in refusing conformity to the outward practices which the laws of the country enforce, when it affects not the weightier points of faith, which God forbid any Catholic should deny. There is often as much of pride as of virtue in such rash obstinacy touching small yieldings as doth involve the ruin of a family, separation of parents and children, and more evils than can be thought of."
"Hubert," I said, fixing mine eyes on him with a searching look he cared not, I ween, to meet, for he cast his on a paper he had in his hand, and raised them not while I spoke, "'sit is by such reasonings first, and then by such small yieldings as you commend, that some have been led two or three times in their lives, yea, oftener perhaps, to profess different religions, and to take such contradictory oaths as have been by turns prescribed to them under different sovereigns, and God each time called on to witness their perjuries, whereby truth and falsehood in matters of faith shall come in time to be words without any meaning."
Then he: "You do misapprehend me, Mistress Constance, if you think I would counsel a man to utter a falsehood, or feign to believe that which in his heart he thinketh to be false. But, in heaven's name, I pray you, what harm will your father do if he listens to a minister's discourse, and suffers it to be set forth he doth ponder thereon, and in the meantime escapes to France? whereas, if he refuses the loophole now offered to him, he causeth not to himself alone, but to you and his other friends, more pain and sorrow than can be thought of, and deprives the Church of one of her servants, when her need of them is greatest."
I made no reply to this last speech; for albeit I thought my father would not accede to these terms, I did not so far trust mine own judgment thereon as to predict with certainty what his answer should be. And then Hubert said he had an order from Sir Francis that would admit me on the morrow to see my father; and he offered to go with me, and Mistress Ward too, if I listed, to present it, albeit I alone should enter his cell. I thanked him, and fixed the time of our going.
When he had left us, Lady Surrey commended his zeal, and also his moderate spirit, which did charitably allow, she said, for such as conformed to the times for the sake of others which their reconcilement would very much injure.
Before I could reply she changed this discourse, and, putting her hands on my shoulders and kissing my forehead, said,
"My Lady Lumley hath heard so much from her poor niece of one [{178}] Mistress Constance Sherwood, that she doth greatly wish to see this young gentlewoman and very resolved papist." And then taking me by the arm she led me to that lady's chamber, where I had as kind a welcome as ever I received from any one from her ladyship, who said "her dear Nan's friends should be always as dear to her as her own," and added many fine commendations greatly exceeding my deserts.
[TO BE CONTINUED.] [Page 304]
From The London Quarterly Review.
GLEANINGS FROM THE NATURAL HISTORY OF THE TROPICS.
ART. VI.—1. A Narrative Of Travels on the Amazon and Rio Negro, etc.By Alfred R. Wallace. London: 1853.
2. Himalayan Journals; or, Notes of a Naturalist in Bengal, the Sikkim, and Nepal Himalayas. By Joseph D. Hooker, M.D., R.N., F.R.S. London: 1854.
3. Three Visits to Madagascar during the Years1853, 1854, 1856, with Notices of the Natural History of the Country, etc. By the Rev. W. Ellis, F.H.S. London: 1859.
4. The Tropical World: A Popular Scientific Account of the Natural History of the Animal and Vegetable Kingdoms. By Dr. G. Hartwig. London: 1863.
5. The Naturalist on the River Amazons: A Record of Adventures, Habits of Animals, etc., during eleven Years of Travel. By Henry Walter Bates. London: 1863.
The naturalist will never have to complain, with Alexander, that he has no more worlds to conquer, so inexhaustible is the wide field of nature, and so numerous are the vast areas which as yet have never at all, or only partially, been explored by travellers. What may not be in store for some future adventurer in little known regions; what new and wonderful forms of animals and plants may not reward the zealous traveller, when no less than eight thousand species of animals new to science have been discovered by Mr. Bates during his eleven years' residence on the Amazons? Nor is it alone new forms of animated nature that await the enterprise of the naturalist; a whole mine of valuable material, the working of which is attended with the greatest pleasure, lies before him in the discovery of new facts with regard to the habits, structure, and local distribution of animals and plants. It is almost impossible to exaggerate the importance to the philosophic naturalist of such studies in these days of thought and progress. The collector of natural curiosities may be content with the possession of a miscellaneous lot of objects, but the man of science pursues his investigations with a view of discovering, if possible, some of those wonderful laws which govern the organic world, some of the footprints of the Creator in the production of the countless forms of animal and vegetable life with which this beautiful world abounds.
We purpose in this article to bring before the reader's notice a few gleanings from the natural history of the tropics, merely surmising that we shall linger with more than ordinary pleasure over the productions of tropical [{179}] South America, of which Mr. Bates has charmingly and most instructively written in his recently published work, whose title is given at the head of this article; we shall pause to admire, with Dr. Hooker, some of the productions of the mighty Himalayan mountains; and we may also visit Madagascar in company with so trustworthy a traveller as Mr. Ellis.
The ancients, before the time of Alexander's Indian expedition, were unacquainted with any tropical forms of plants, and great was their astonishment when they first beheld them:
"Gigantic forms of plants and animals," as Humboldt says, "filled the imagination with exciting imagery. Writers from whose severe and scientific style any degree of inspiration is elsewhere entirely absent, become poetical when describing the habits of the elephant,—the height of the trees, 'to the summit of which an arrow cannot reach, and whose leaves are broader then the shields of infantry,'—the bamboo, a light, feathery, arborescent grass, of which single joints (internodia) served as four-oared boats,—and the Indian fig-tree, whose pendant branches take root around the parent stem, which attains a diameter of twenty-eight feet, 'forming,' as Onesicritus expresses himself with great truth to nature, 'a leafy canopy similar to a many-pillared tent.'" [Footnote 24]
[Footnote 24: "Cosmos," vol. ii., p. 155. Sabine's translation ]
It is not possible for language to describe the glory of the forests of the Amazon, and yet the silence and gloom of the Brazilian forests, so often mentioned by travellers, are striking realities. Let us read Mr. Bates's impressions of the interior of a primeval forest:
"The silence and gloom," he says, "are realities, and the impression deepens on a longer acquaintance. The few sounds of birds are of that pensive and mysterious character which intensifies the feeling of solitude rather than imparts a sense of life and cheerfulness. Sometimes in the midst of the stillness a sudden yell or scream will startle one; this comes from some defenceless fruit-eating animal which is pounced upon by a tiger-cat or stealthy boa-constrictor. Morning and evening the howling monkeys make a most fearful and harrowing noise, under which it is difficult to keep up one's buoyancy of spirit. The feeling of inhospitable wildness which the forest is calculated to inspire is increased tenfold under this fearful uproar. Often even in the still hours of mid-day a sudden crash will be heard resounding afar through the wilderness, as some great bough or entire tree falls to the ground. There are beside many sounds which it is impossible to account for. I found the natives generally as much at a loss in this respect as myself. Sometimes a sound is heard like the clang of an iron bar against a hard hollow tree, or a piercing cry rends the air; these are not repeated, and the succeeding silence tends to heighten the unpleasant impression which they make on the mind. With the natives it is always the curupira, the wild man, or spirit of the forest, which produces all noises they are unable to explain."
Mr. Bates has some exceedingly interesting observations on the tendency of animals and plants of the Brazilian forests to become climbers. Speaking of a swampy forest of Pará he says:
"The leafy crowns of the trees, scarcely two of which could be seen together of the same kind, were now far away above us, in another world as it were. We could only see at times, where there was a break above, the tracery of the foliage against the clear blue sky. Sometimes the leaves were palmate, at others finely cut or feathery like the leaves of mimosae. Below, the tree trunks were everywhere linked together by sipos; the woody, flexible stems of climbing and creeping trees, whose foliage is far away above, mingled with that of the latter [{180}] independent trees. Some were twisted in strands like cables, others had thick stems contorted in every variety of shape, entwining snake-like round the tree-trunks, or forming gigantic loops and coils among the larger branches; others again were of zigzag shape or indented like the steps of a staircase, sweeping from the ground to a giddy height."
Of these climbing plants he adds:
"It interested me much afterward to find these climbing trees do not form any particular family or genus. There is no order of plants whose especial habit is to climb, but species of many of the most diverse families, the bulk of whose members are not climbers, seem to have been driven by circumstances to adopt this habit. The orders Leguminosae, Guttifenae, Bignoniaceae, Moraceae, and others, furnish the greater number. There is even a climbing genus of palms (Desmoncus), the species of which are called in the Tupí language Jacitára. These have slender, thickly-spined, and flexuous stems, which twine about the latter trees from one to the other, and grow to an incredible length. The leaves, which have the ordinary pinnate shape characteristic of the family, are emitted from the stems at long intervals, instead of being collected into a dense crown, and have at their tips a number of long recurved spines. These structures are excellent contrivances to enable the trees to secure themselves by in climbing, but they are a great nuisance to the traveller, for they sometimes hang over the pathway and catch the hat or clothes, dragging off the one or tearing the other as he passes. The number and variety of climbing trees in the Amazon forests are interesting, taken in connection with the fact of the very general tendency of the animals also to become climbers."
Of this tendency amongst animals Mr. Bates thus writes:
"All the Amazonian, and in fact all South American monkeys, are climbers. There is no group answering to the baboons of the old world, which live on the ground. The gallinaceous birds of the country, the representatives of the fowls and pheasants of Asia and Africa, are all adapted by the position of the toes to perch on trees, and it is only on trees, at a great height, that they are to be seen. A genus of Plantigrade Carnivora, allied to the bears (Cercoleptes), found only in the Amazonian forests, is entirely arboreal, and has a long flexible tail like that of certain monkeys. Many other similar instances could be enumerated, but I will mention only the Geodephaga, or carnivorous ground beetles, a great proportion of whose genera and species in these forest regions are, by the structure of their feet, fitted to live exclusively on the branches and leaves of trees."
Strange to the European must be the appearance of the numerous woody lianas, or air-roots of the parasitic plants of the family Araceae of which the well-known cuckoo-pint, or Arum maculatum, of this country is a non-epiphytous member, which sit on the branches of the trees above, and "hang down straight as plumb-lines," some singly, others in leashes; some reaching half-way to the ground, others touching it, and taking root in the ground. Here, too, in these forests of Pará, beside palms of various species, "some twenty to thirty feet high, others small and delicate, with stems no thicker than a finger," of the genus Bactris, producing bunches of fruit with grape-like juice, masses of a species of banana (Urania Amizonica), a beautiful plant with leaves "like broad sword-blades," eight feet long, and one foot broad, add fresh interest to the scene. These leaves rise straight upward alternately from the top of a stem five or six feet high. Various kinds of Marants, a family of plants rich in amylaceous qualities (of which the Maranta arundinacea, though not an American plant, yields the best arrowroot of commerce), clothe the ground, conspicuous for their [{181}] broad glossy leaves. Ferns of beautiful and varied forms decorate the tree-trunks, together with the large fleshy heart-shaped leaves of the Pothos plant. Gigantic grasses, such as bamboos, form arches over the pathways. "The appearance of this part of the forest was strange in the extreme, description can convey no adequate idea of it. The reader who has visited Kew, may form some notion by conceiving a vegetation like that in the great palm-house spread over a large tract of swampy ground, but he must fancy it mingled with large exogenous trees, similar to our oaks and elms, covered with creepers and parasites, and figure to himself the ground encumbered with fallen and rotting trunks, branches, and leaves, the whole illuminated by a glowing vertical sun, and reeking with moisture!" Amid these "swampy shades" numerous butterflies delight to flit. An entomologist in England is proud, indeed, when he succeeds in capturing the beautiful and scarce Camberwell beauty (Vanessa antiopa) or the splendid purple emperor (Apatura iris), but these fine species do not exceed three inches in expanse of wing, while the glossy blue-and-black Morpho Achilles measure six inches or more. The velvety black Papiloio Sesostris, with a large silky green patch on its wings, and other species of this genus, are almost exclusively inhabitants of the moist shades of the forest. The beautiful Epicalea ancea, "one of the most richly colored of the whole tribe of butterflies, being black, decorated with broad stripes of pale blue and orange, delights to settle on the broad leaves of the Uraniae and other similar plants." But like many other natural beauties, it is difficult to gain possession of, darting off with lightning speed when approached. Mr. Bates tells us that it is the males only of the different species which are brilliantly colored, the females being plainer and often so utterly unlike their partners that they are generally held to be different species until proved to be the same. The observations of this admirable naturalist on other points in the history of the butterflies of the Amazons, are highly important and deeply interesting. We must recur to this subject by-and-by.
We cannot yet tear ourselves away from these forests of Pará. We can well understand the intense interest with which Mr. Bates visited these different scenes month after month, in different seasons, so as to obtain something like a fair notion of their animal and vegetable productions. It is enough to make a naturalist's mouth water for a week together to think of the many successful strolls which Mr. Bates took amid the shades of these forests. For several months, he tells us, he used to visit this district two or three days every week, and never failed to obtain some species new to him of bird, reptile, or insect:
"This district," he says, "seemed to be an epitome of all that the humid portions of the Pará forest could produce. This endless diversity, the coolness of the air, the varied and strange forms of vegetation, the entire freedom from mosquitoes and other pests, and even the solemn gloom and silence, combined to make my rambles through it always pleasant as well as profitable. Such places are paradises to a naturalist, and if he be of a contemplative turn there is no situation more favorable for his indulging the tendency. There is something in a tropical forest akin to the ocean in its effects on the mind—man feels so completely his insignificance there and the vastness of nature. A naturalist cannot help reflecting on the vegetable forces manifested on so grand a scale around him."
Mr. Wallace and Mr. Bates are well-known advocates of Mr. Darwin's theory of natural selection. The former gentleman was Mr. Bates's companion in travel for four years, and he has published a very interesting account of his voyage on his return to England. Whatever differences of opinion there may be with respect to [{182}] the celebrated work which Mr. Darwin gave to the world four or five years ago, unbiassed and thoughtful naturalists must recognize the force with which the author supports many of his arguments, and the fairness with which he encounters every difficulty. The competition displayed by organized beings is strikingly manifested in the Brazilian forests. So unmistakable is this fact, that Burmeister, a German traveller, was painfully impressed with the contemplation of the emulation and "spirit of restless selfishness" which the vegetation of a tropical forest displayed. "He thought the softness, earnestness, and repose of European woodland scenery were far more pleasing, and that these formed one of the causes of the superior moral character of European nations;" a curious question, which we leave to the consideration of moral philosophers. The emulation displayed by the plants and trees of the forests of Pará is thus spoken of by Mr. Bates:
"In these tropical forests each plant and tree seems to be striving to outvie its fellow, struggling upward toward light and air—branch, and leaf, and stem—regardless of its neighbors. Parasitic plants are seen fastening with firm grip on others, making use of them with reckless indifference as instruments for their own advancement. Live and let live is clearly not the maxim taught in these wildernesses. There is one kind of parasitic tree very common near Pará which exhibits this feature in a very prominent manner. It is called the Sipó Matador, or the Murderer Liana. It belongs to the fig order, and has been described by Von Martins in the 'Atlas to Spix and Martius's Travels.' I observed many specimens. The base of its stem would be unable to bear the weight of the upper growth; it is obliged, therefore, to support itself on a tree of another species. In this it is not essentially different from other climbing trees and plants, but the way the matador sets about it is peculiar, and produces certainly a disagreeable impression. It springs up close to the tree on which it intends to fix itself, and the wood of its stem grows by spreading itself like a plastic mould over one side of the trunk of its supporter. It then puts forth from each side an arm-like branch, which grows rapidly, and looks as though a stream of sap were flowing and hardening as it went. This adheres closely to the trunk of the victim, and the two arms meet on the opposite side and blend together. These arms are put forth at somewhat regular intervals in mounting upward, and the victim when its strangler is full grown becomes tightly clasped by a number of inflexible rings. These rings gradually grow larger as the murderer flourishes, rearing its crown of foliage to the sky mingled with that of its neighbor, and in course of time they kill it by stopping the flow of its sap. The strange spectacle then remains of the selfish parasite clasping in its arms the lifeless and decaying body of its victim, which had been a help to its own growth. Its ends have been served—it has flowered and fruited, reproduced and disseminated its kind; and now when the dead trunk moulders away, its own end approaches; its support is gone, and itself also falls."
The strangling properties of some of the fig-tree family are indeed very remarkable, and may be witnessed not only in South America, but in India, Ceylon, and Australia. Frazer observed several kinds of Ficus, more than 150 feet high, embracing huge ironbark trees in the forests at Moreton Bay. The Ficus repens, according to Sir Emerson Tennent, is often to be seen clambering over rocks, like ivy, turning through heaps of stones, or ascending some tall tree to the height of thirty or forty feet, while the thickness of its own stem does not exceed a quarter of an inch. The small plants of this family, of which the Murdering Liana is one species, grow and reproduce their kind from seeds [{183}] deposited in the ground; but the huge representatives of the family, such as the banyan-tree, whose
"Bended twigs take root, and daughters grow
About the mother tree;"
and the Peepul, or sacred Bo-tree of the Buddhists (Ficus religiosa), originate from seeds carried by birds to upper portions of some palm or other tree. Fig-trees, as Sir E. Tennent has remarked, are "the Thugs of the vegetable world; for, though not necessarily epiphytic, it may be said that, in point of fact, no single plant comes to perfection or acquires even partial development without the destruction of some other on which to fix itself as its supporter." The mode of growth of these trees is well described by the excellent writer just mentioned, and we shall make use of his own language:
"The family generally make their first appearance as slender roots hanging from the crown or trunk of some other tree, generally a palm, among the moist bases of whose leaves the seed carried thither by some bird which had fed upon the fig begins to germinate. This root, branching as it descends, envelops the trunk of the supporting tree with a net-work of wood, and at length, penetrating the ground, attains the dimensions of a stem. But, unlike a stem, it throws out no buds or flowers; the true stem, with its branches, its foliage, and fruit, springs upward from the crown of the tree whence the root is seen descending; and from it issue the pendulous rootlets, which on reaching the earth fix themselves firmly, and form the marvellous growth for which the banyan is so celebrated. In the depth of this grove the original tree is incarcerated till, literally strangled by the folds and weight of its resistless companion, it dies and leaves the fig in undisturbed possession of its place." [Footnote 25]
[Footnote 25: "Ceylon," i., p. 95]
But not trees alone do these vegetable garrotters embrace in their fatal grasp, ancient monuments are also destroyed by these formidable assailants. Sir E. Tennent has given an engraving of a fig-tree on the ruins at Pollanarrua, in Ceylon, which had fixed itself on the walls—-a curious sight, indeed—"its roots streaming downward over the ruins as if they had once been fluid, following every sinuosity of the building and terraces till they reach the earth." An extremely interesting series of drawings is now to be seen in the Linnean Society's room at Burlington House, illustrating the mode of growth of another strangling or murdering tree, of New Zealand, belonging to an entirely different order from that to which the figs belong (Urticaceae), namely, to one of the Myrtaceae. The association of garrotting habits with those of the stinging nettle family is apt enough, we may be inclined to think; but it is rather disappointing to meet with these disagreeable peculiarities in the case of the myrtle group; but such is the fact: the Rata, or Metrosideros robusta—as we believe is the species—-climbs to the summits of mighty trees of the forest of Wangaroa, and kills them in its iron grasp. But, notwithstanding these unpleasant impressions which "the reckless energy of the vegetation might produce" in the traveller's mind, there is plenty in tropical nature to counteract them:
"There is the incomparable beauty and variety of the foliage, the vivid color, the richness and exuberance everywhere displayed, which make the richest woodland scenery in northern Europe a sterile desert in comparison. But it is especially the enjoyment of life manifested by individual existences which compensates for the destruction and pain caused by the inevitable competition. Although this competition is nowhere more active, and the dangers to which each individual is exposed nowhere more numerous, yet nowhere is this enjoyment more vividly displayed."
Mr. Bates mentions a peculiar feature in some of the colossal trees which here and there monopolize a large [{184}] space in the forests. The height of some of these giants he estimates at from 180 to 200 feet, whose "vast dome of foliage rises above the other forest trees as a domed cathedral does above the other buildings in a city." In most of the large trees of different species is to be seen "a growth of buttress-shaped projections around the lower part of their stems. The spaces between these buttresses—which are generally thin walls of wood—form spacious chambers, and may be compared to stalls in a stable; some of them are large enough to hold half-a-dozen persons." What are these buttresses, how do they originate, and what is their use? We have already seen how great is the competition amongst the trees of a primeval forest, and how every square inch is eagerly battled for by the number of competitors. In consequence of this it is obvious that lateral growth of roots in the earth is a difficult matter. "Necessity being the mother of invention," the roots, unable to expand laterally, "raise themselves ridge-like out of the earth, growing gradually upward as the increasing height of the tree required augmented support." A beautiful compensation, truly, and full of deep interest! As Londoners add upper stories to their houses where competition has rendered lateral additions impossible, so these gigantic trees, in order to sustain the massive crown and trunk, strengthen their roots by upper additions.
One of the most striking features in tropical scenery is the suddenness with which the leaves and blossoms spring into full beauty. "Some mornings a single tree would appear in flower amidst what was the preceding evening a uniform green mass of forest,—a dome of blossom suddenly created as if by magic." In the early mornings, soon after dawn, the sky is always without a cloud, the thermometer marking 72° or 73° Fahr. Now all nature is fresh, and the birds in the full enjoyment of their existence, the "shrill yelping" of the toucans being frequently heard from their abode amongst the wild fruit-trees of the forest; flocks of parrots appear in distinct relief against the blue sky, always two by two, chattering to each other, the pairs being separated by regular intervals, too high, however, to reveal the bright colors of their plumage. The greatest heat of the day is about two o'clock, by which time, the thermometer being 92° or 93° Fahr., "every voice of bird or mammal is hushed; only in the trees is heard at intervals the harsh whirr of a cicada. The leaves, which were so fresh and moist in early morning, now become lax and drooping, and the flowers shed their petals. The Indian and mulatto inhabitants sleep in their hammocks, or sit on mats in the shade, too languid even to talk."
Mr. Bates has given a graphic picture of tropical nature at the approach of rain:
"First, the cool sea-breeze which commenced to blow about ten o'clock, and which had increased in force with the increasing power of the sun, would flag and finally die away. The heat and electric tension of the atmosphere would then become almost insupportable. Languor and uneasiness would seize on every one; even the denizens of the forest betraying it by their motions. White clouds would appear in the east and gather into cumuli, with an increasing blackness along their lower portions. The whole eastern horizon would become almost suddenly black, and this would spread upward, the sun at length becoming obscured. Then the rush of a mighty wind is heard through the forest, swaying the tree-tops; a vivid flash of lightning bursts forth, then a crash of thunder, and down streams the deluging rain. Such storms soon cease, leaving bluish-black motionless clouds in the sky until night. Meanwhile all nature is refreshed; but heaps of flower petals and fallen leaves are seen under the trees. Toward evening life revives again, and the ringing uproar is resumed from bush and tree. [{185}] The following morning the son again rises in a cloudless sky, and so the cycle is completed; spring, summer, and autumn, as it were, in one tropical day."
With regard to animal life in the Amazonian forests, it appears that there is a great variety of mammals, birds, and reptiles, but they are very shy, and widely scattered. Brazil is poor in terrestrial animals, and the species are of small size. "The huntsman would be disappointed who expected to find here flocks of animals similar to the buffalo herds of North America, or the swarms of antelopes and herds of ponderous pachyderms of southern Africa."
It has already been observed that the mammals of Brazil are, for the most part, arboreal in their habits; this is especially the case with the monkeys, or Cebidae, a family of quadrumamous animals peculiar to the new world. The reader may observe the habits of some species of this group in the monkey-house of the Zoological Society's Gardens in Regent's Park. The strong muscular tail, with its naked palm under the tip, which many of the Cebidae possess, renders them peculiarly well adapted to a forest life. Mr. Bates states that thirty-eight species of this family of monkey inhabit the Amazon region, and considers the Coaitás, or spider-monkeys, "as the extreme development of the American type of apes." The flesh of one species of Coaitás is much esteemed as an article of food by the natives in some parts of the country. The Indians, we are told, are very fund of Coaitás as pets.
Some of our readers are doubtless acquainted with the name of Madame Maria Sibylla Merian, a German lady who was born about the middle of the seventeenth century. She was much devoted to the study of natural history, and travelled to Surinam for the purpose of making drawings of its animal productions; many of these drawings are now in the British Museum. This estimable lady, amongst other curiosities of natural history, affirmed the two following ones:—1. The lantern-fly (Fulgora lanternaria) emits so strong a light from its body as to enable a person in the night-time to read a newspaper by it. 2. The large spider (Mygale) enters the nests of the little humming-birds, and destroys the inmates. It would occupy too much time to tell of the mass of evidence which was adduced in denial of these recorded facts, but, suffice it to say that Madame Merian was set down as an arch-heretic and inventor, and that no credit was attached to her statements. With regard to the first-named heresy, the opinion of modern zoologists is, that there is nothing at all improbable in the circumstance of the Fulgora emitting a strong light, as luminous properties are known to exist in other insects, but that the fact has been rather over-colored by the imagination of the worthy lady. As to the second question, about the bird-destroying propensities of the Mygale, let us hear the testimony of so thoroughly trustworthy a witness as Mr. Bates:
"In the course of our walk" (between the Tocantins and Cameta) "I chanced to verify a fact relating to the habits of a large hairy spider of the genus Mygale, in a manner worth recording. The species was M. avicularia, or one very closely allied to it; the individual was nearly two inches in length of body, but the legs expanded seven inches, and the entire body and legs were covered with coarse grey and reddish hairs. I was attracted by a movement of the monster on a tree-trunk; it was close beneath a deep crevice in the tree, across which was stretched a dense white web. The lower part of the web was broken, and two small birds, finches, were entangled in the pieces; they were about the size of the English siskin, and I judged the two to be male and female. One of them was quite dead, the other lay under the body of the spider not quite dead, and was smeared with the filthy liquor or [{186}] saliva exuded by the monster. I drove away the spider and took the birds, but the second one soon died. The fact of species of Mygale sallying forth at night, mounting trees, and sucking the eggs and young of humming-birds, has been recorded long ago by Madame Merian and Palisot de Beauvois; but, in the absence of any confirmation, it has come to be discredited. From the way the fact has been related it would appear that it had been merely derived from the report of natives, and had not been witnessed by the narrators. Count Langsdorff, in his 'Expedition into the Interior of Brazil,' states that he totally disbelieved the story. I found the circumstances to be quite a novelty to the residents here about. The Mygales are quite common insects; some species make their cells under stones, others form artistical tunnels in the earth, and some build their dens in the thatch of houses. The natives call them Aranhas carangueijeiras, or crab spiders. The hairs with which they are clothed come off when touched, and cause a peculiar and almost maddening irritation. The first specimen that I killed and prepared was handled incautiously, and I suffered terribly for three days afterward. I think this is not owing to any poisonous quality residing in the hairs, but to their being short and hard, and thus getting into the fine creases of the skin. Some Mygales are of immense size. One day I saw the children belonging to an Indian who collected for me with one of these monsters secured by a cord round its waist, by which they were leading it about the house as they would a dog."
The name of "ant" has only to be mentioned, and the strange habits of the various species immediately suggest themselves to the mind of the naturalist, who is always interested in, and amply repaid by, watching these insects with the closest scrutiny. Brazil abounds in ants, one species of which, the Dinoponera grandis, is an inch and a quarter in length; but by far the most interesting to the naturalist, as well as one of the most destructive to the cultivated trees of the country, is the leaf-carrying ant (AEcodoma cephalotes). In some districts, we are told, it is so abundant that agriculture is almost impossible, and everywhere complaints are heard of the terrible pest. This insect derives its specific name of cephalotes from the extraordinary size of the heads belonging to two of the orders, which, with a third kind, constitute the colony. The formicarian establishment consists of: 1. Worker minors; 2. Worker majors; 3. Subterranean workers. The first-named kind alone does the real active work. The two last contain the individuals with the enormous heads; their functions are not clearly ascertained. In color they are a pale reddish-brown, and the thorax of the true worker, which is the smallest of the orders, is armed with three pairs of sharp spines; the head is provided with a pair of similar spines proceeding from the cheeks behind. This ant, known by the native name of Saüba, has long been celebrated for its habit of clipping off and carrying away, large quantities of leaves:
"When employed in this work," Mr. Bates says, "their processions look like a multitude of animated leaves on the march. In some places I found an accumulation of such leaves, all circular pieces, about the size of a sixpence, lying on the pathway, unattended by the ants, and at some distance from any colony. Such heaps are always found to be removed when the place is revisited next day. In course of time I had plenty of opportunities of seeing them at work. They mount the tree in multitudes, the individuals being all worker minors. Each one places itself on the surface of a leaf, and cuts with its sharp scissor-like jaws, and by a sharp jerk detaches the piece. Sometimes they let the leaf drop to the ground, where a little heap accumulates until carried off by another relay of workers; but generally each marches off [{187}] with the piece it has operated upon and as all take the same road to their colony, the path they follow becomes in a short time smooth and bare, looking like the impression of a cart-wheel through the herbage."
The Saüba ant is peculiar to tropical America, and, though it is injurious to the wild native trees of the country, it seems to have a preference to the coffee and orange trees and other imported plants. The leaves which the Saüba cuts and carries away are used to "thatch the domes which cover the entrances to their subterranean dwellings, thereby protecting from the deluging rains the young broods in the nests beneath." The insects proceed according to a most orderly method, "the heavily-laden workers, each carrying its segment of leaf vertically, the lower edge secured in its mandibles, troop up, and cast their burdens on the hillock; another body of laborers place the leaves in position, covering them with a layer of earthy granules, which are brought one by one from the soil beneath." The labors of this curious insect are immense, and no obstacles stop their excavations. An allied species of Rio de Janeiro worked a tunnel under the bed of the river Parabyba, at a place where it is as broad as the Thames at London Bridge. These ants are sad rogues, being household plunderers and robbers of the farinha, or mandioca meal, of the poor inhabitants of Brazil; and Mr. Bates was obliged to lay trains of gunpowder along their line of march to blow them up, which in the end resulted in scaring the burglars away. We have already alluded to the massive heads possessed by the major and subterranean kinds of neuters, and stated that the work is done by the worker minor or small-headed kind. With regard to the function of the large-headed worker major, Mr. Bates was unable to satisfy himself:
"They are not the soldiers or defenders of the working portion of the community, like the armed class in the termites, or white ants, for they never fight. The species has no sting, and does not display active resistance when interfered with. I once imagined they exercised a sort of superintendence over the others; but this function is entirely unnecessary in a community where all work with a precision and regularity resembling the subordinate parts of a piece of machinery. I came to the conclusion, at last, that they have no very precisely defined function. They cannot, however, be entirely useless to the community, for the sustenance of an idle class of such bulky individuals would be too heavy a charge for the species to sustain. I think they serve in some sort as passive instruments of protection to the real workers. Their enormously large, hard, and indestructible heads may be of use in protecting them against the attacks of insectivorous animals. They would be, on this view, a kind of pièces de résistance serving as a foil against onslaughts made on the main body of workers."
But the third order, the subterranean kind, we are told, is the most curious of all:
"If the top of a small, fresh hillock, one in which the thatching process is going on, be taken off, a broad cylindrical shaft is disclosed, at a depth about two feet from the surface. If this be probed with a stick, which may be done to the extent of three or four feet without touching bottom, a small number of colossal fellows will slowly begin to make their way up the smooth sides of the mine. Their heads are of the same size as those of the other class (worker major); but the front is clothed with hairs instead of being polished, and they have in the middle of the forehead a twin ocellus, or simple eye, of quite different structure from the ordinary compound eyes on the side of the head. This frontal eye is totally wanting in the other workers, and is not known in any other kind of ant. The apparition of these strange creatures from [{188}] the cavernous depths of the mine reminded one, when I first observed them, of the Cyclopes of Homeric fable. They were not very pugnacious, as I feared they would be, and I had no difficulty in securing a few with my fingers. I never saw them under any circumstances than those here related, and what their special functions may be I cannot divine."
The naturalist traveller, in the midst of much that interests and delights him, has to put up with a great deal that is annoying, and Mr. Bates proved no exception to the rule. The first few nights when at Caripí, he was much troubled with bats; the room where he slept had not been occupied for several months, and the roof was open to the tiles and rafters:
"On one night," he says, "I was aroused about midnight by the rushing noise made by vast hosts of bats sweeping about the room. The air was alive with them; they had put out the lamp, and when I relighted it, the place appeared blackened with the impish multitudes that were whirling round and round. After I had lain about well with a stick for a few minutes they disappeared amongst the tiles, but when all was still again they returned, and once more extinguished the light. I took no further notice of them and went to sleep. The next night several got into my hammock; I seized them as they were crawling over me, and dashed them against the wall. The next morning I found a wound, evidently caused by a bat, on my hip."
Bats remind us of the vampire, a native of South America, concerning whose blood-sucking properties so much discussion has been from time to time raised. The vampire bat was very common at Ega; it is the largest of the South American species. Of this bat Mr. Bates writes:
"Nothing in animal physiognomy can be more hideous than the countenance of this creature when viewed from the front; the large leathery ears standing out from the sides and top of the head, the erect, spear-shaped appendage on the tip of the nose, the grin, and glistening black eyes, all combining to make up a figure that reminds one of some mocking imp of fable. No wonder that imaginative people have inferred diabolical instincts on the part of so ugly an animal. The vampire, however, is the most harmless of all bats, and its inoffensive character is well known to residents on the banks of the Amazon."
That much fable has attached itself to the history of this curious creature we are perfectly convinced, and that its blood-sucking peculiarities have been grossly exaggerated we must allow. When this bat has been said to perform the operation of drawing blood "by inserting its aculeated tongue [Footnote 26] into the vein of a sleeping person with so much dexterity as not to be felt, at the same time fanning the air with its large wings, and thus producing a sensation so delightfully cool that the sleep is rendered still more profound," it is clear that the mythical element exists to a great extent in the narrative; but our author's assertion that "the vampire is the most harmless of all bats" does not tally with the statements of other naturalists of considerable note. Mr. Wallace says he saw the effects of the vampire's operations on a young horse, and that the first morning after its arrival the poor animal presented a most pitiable appearance, large streams of clotted blood running down from several wounds on its back and sides:
[Footnote 26: An Expression used by Mr. Wood in his "Zoögraphy.' It is enough to remark that no known bat has an aculeated.]
"The appearance," Mr. Wallace adds, "was, however, I dare say, worse than reality, as the bats have the skill to bleed without giving pain, and it is quite possible the horse, like a patient under the influence of chloroform, may have known nothing of the matter. The danger is in the attacks being repeated every night till the loss of blood becomes serious. To prevent this, red peppers are usually rubbed [{189}] on the parts wounded and on all likely places; and this will partly check the sanguinivorous appetite of the bats, but not entirely, as in spite of this application the poor animal was again bitten the next night in fresh places." [Footnote 27]
[Footnote 27: "Travels on the Amazon," p. 44.]
Both Mr. Darwin and Mr. Waterton, if we remember rightly, have borne similar testimony in favor of the opinion that the vampire does suck blood. A servant of the former gentleman, when near Coquimbo, in Chili, observed something attached to the withers of one of his horses, which was restless, and on putting his hand upon the place he secured a vampire bat. Mr. Waterton, however, could not induce the vampires to bite him, notwithstanding the now veteran naturalist [Footnote 28] slept many months in an open loft which the vampires frequented; but an Indian boy who slept near him had his toes often "tapped," while fowls were destroyed, and even an unfortunate donkey was much persecuted, looking, as Mr. Waterton says, "like misery steeped in vinegar."
[Footnote 28: Since this article was in type this excellent naturalist and kind-hearted gentleman has passed away from amongst us.]
While at Villa Nova, on the lower Amazons, our naturalist was subjected to another annoyance, in the shape of ticks. The tracts thereabouts "swarmed with carapátos, ugly ticks, belonging to the genus Ixodes, which mount to the tops of the blades of grass, and attach themselves to the clothes of passers-by. They are a great annoyance. It occupied me a full hour to pick them off my flesh after my diurnal ramble."
Mr. Bates's stay at Ega, on the upper Amazons, and his expeditions in search of scarlet-faced monkeys, owl-faced night-apes, marmosets, curl-crested toucans, blind ants, and hundreds of other interesting animals, must have been particularly enjoyable, if we except the presence of an abominable gad-fly, which fixes on the flesh of man as breeding-places for its grub, and causes painful tumors. "Ega was a fine field for a natural history collector," and Mr. Bates ticketed with the name of this town more than 3,000 new species of animals.
It is an old and a true saying that you "can have too much of a good thing." A London alderman would soon grumble had he to dine every day on turtle only. "The great fresh-water turtle of the Amazons grows in the upper river to an immense size, a full-grown one measuring nearly three feet in length by two in breadth, and is a load for the strongest Indian. . . . . The flesh is very tender, palatable, and wholesome; but it is very cloying. Every one ends sooner or later by becoming thoroughly surfeited." Our traveller adds that he became so sick of turtle in the course of two years that he could not bear the smell of it, although at the same time nothing else was to be had, and he was suffering actual hunger. The pools about Ega abound in turtles and alligators, and the Indians capture a great number of the former animals by means of sharp steel-pointed arrows, fitted into a peg which enters the tip of the shaft. This peg is fastened to the arrow-shaft by means of a piece of twine; and when the missile—which the people hurl with astonishing skill—pierces the carapace, the peg drops out and the struck turtle dives to the bottom, the detached shaft floating on the surface serving to guide the sportsman to his game. So clever are the natives in the use of the bow and arrow, that they do not wait till the turtle comes to the surface to breathe, but shoot at the back of the animal as it moves under the water, and hardly ever fail to pierce the submerged shell.
One of the most curious and interesting facts in natural history is the assimilation in many animals of form and color to other objects, animate or inanimate. Thus the caterpillars termed, from their mode of progression, "geometric" bear so close a resemblance to the twigs of the trees or bushes upon which they rest that it is no easy thing to distinguish them at a [{190}] glance; the buff-tip moth, when at rest, looks just like a broken bit of lichen-covered branch, the colored tips of the wings resembling a section of the wood. The beautiful Australian parakeets, known as the Batcherrygar parrots, look so much like the leaves of Eucalpyti, or gum-trees, on which they repose, that, though numbers may be perched upon a branch, they are hardly to be seen so long as they keep quiet. Some South American beetles (of the family Cassidae) closely resemble glittering drops of dew; some kinds of spiders mimic flower-buds, "and station themselves motionless in the axils of leaves and other parts of plants to wait for their victims." Insects belonging to the genera of Mantis, Locusta, and Phasma, often show a wonderful resemblance to leaves or sticks. Examples of "mimetic analogy" may also be found amongst birds; but perhaps the most remarkable cases of imitation are to be found among the butterflies of the valley of the Amazon recently made known to us by Mr. Bates. There is a family of butterflies named Heliconidae, of a slow flight and feeble structure, very numerous in this South American region, notwithstanding that the districts Abound with insectivorous birds. Now, Mr. Bates has observed that where large numbers of this family are found they are always accompanied by species of a totally distinct family which closely resemble them in size, form, color, and markings. So close is the resemblance that Mr. Bates often found it impossible to distinguish members of one family from those of the other when the insects were on the wing; and he observed, moreover, that when a local variety of a species of the Heliconidae occurred, there was found also a butterfly of another family imitating that local variety. There is no difficulty at all in distinguishing the imitators from the imitated, for the latter have all a family likeness, while the former depart from the normal form and likeness of the families to which they respectively belong. What is the meaning of this curious fact? It is this: the Heliconidae, or imitated butterflies, are not persecuted by birds, dragon-flies, lizards, or other insectivorous enemies, while the members of the imitating families are subject to much persecution. The butterflies imitated are said to owe their immunity from persecution to their offensive odor, while no such fortunate character belongs to the imitating insects. But how, we naturally ask, has this change of color and form been effected? Mr. Darwin and Mr. Bates explain it on the principle of natural selection. Let us suppose that a member of the persecuted family gave birth to a variety—and there is a tendency in all animals to produce varieties—exhibiting a very slight resemblance to some species of Heliconidae. This individual, in consequence of this slight resemblance, would have a better chance of living and producing young than those of its relatives which bear no resemblance whatever to the unmolested family. Some of the offspring of this slightly favored variety would very probably show more marked resemblance to the unpersecuted butterflies; and thus the likeness between insects of totally distinct groups would in course of time be, according to the law of inheritance, quite complete. This is the explanation which Mr. Bates gives of this natural phenomenon. The phenomenon itself is an undoubted one; whether it is or is not satisfactorily accounted for, cannot at present be determined; we must wait for further investigation.
We had intended to speak of some of the South American palms, those wondrous and valuable productions of tropical countries, the India-rubber trees, and other vegetable productions of the Amazons, but we must linger no longer with the excellent naturalist from whose volumes we have derived so much pleasure. Mr. Bates has written a book full of interest, with the spirit of a real lover of nature and with the pen of a philosopher.
Leaving, then, the new world, let us cast a glance, in company with one of the greatest botanists of the day, at what we may call the tropical features of the Sikkim Himalayas. Though this region is not strictly speaking within the tropics, yet the vegetation at the base is of a tropical character. In this wonderful district the naturalist is able to wander through every zone of vegetation, from the "dense deep-green dripping forests" at the base of the Himalaya, formed of giant trees, as the Duabanga and Terminalia, with Cedrela and Gordonia Wallichii, mingled with innumerable shrubs and herbs, to the lichens and mosses of the regions of perpetual snow. The tropical vegetation of the Sikkim extends from Siligoree, a station on the verge of the Terai, "that low malarious belt which skirts the base of the Himalaya from the Sutlej to Brahma-Koond, in Upper Assam."
"Every feature," writes Dr. Hooker, "botanical, geological, and zoological, is new on entering this district. The change is sudden and immediate: sea and shore are hardly more conspicuously different; nor from the edge of the Terai to the limit of perpetual snow is any botanical region more clearly marked than this which is the commencement of Himalayan vegetation." The banks of the numerous tortuous streams are richly clothed with vines and climbing convolvuluses, with various kinds of Cucurbitaceae and Bignoniaceae. The district of the Terai is very pestilential, and, though fatal to Europeans, is inhabited by a race called the Mechis with impunity. As our traveller proceeded to the little bungalow of Punkabaree, about 1,800 feet in elevation, the bushy timber of the Terai was found to be replaced by giant forests, with large bamboos cresting the hills, numerous epiphytical orchids and ferns, with Hoya, Seitamineae, and similar types of the hottest and dampest climates. All around Punkabaree the hills rise steeply 5,000 or 6,000 feet; from the road at and a little above the bungalow the view is described by Dr. Hooker as superb and very instructive:
"Behind (or north) the Himalaya rise in steep confused masses. Below, the hill on which I stood, and the ranges as far as the eye can reach east and west, throw spurs on the plains of India. These are very thickly wooded, and enclose broad, dead-flat, hot, or damp valleys, apparently covered with a dense forest. Secondary spurs of clay and gravel, like that immediately below Punkabaree, rest on the bases of the mountains and seem to form an intermediate neutral ground between flat and mountainous India. The Terai district forms a very irregular belt, scantily clothed, and intersected by innumerable rivulets from the hills, which unite and divide again on the flat, till, emerging from the region of many trees, they enter the plains, following devious courses, which glisten like silver threads. The whole horizon is bounded by the sea-like expanse of the plains, which stretch away into the region of sunshine and fine weather, as one boundless flat. In the distance the courses of the Teesta and Cosi, the great drainers of the snowy Himalayas, and the recipients of innumerable smaller rills, are with difficulty traced at this the dry season. The ocean-like appearance of this southern view is even more conspicuous in the heavens than on the land, the clouds arranging themselves after a singularly sea-scape fashion. Endless strata run in parallel ribbons over the extreme horizon; above these scattered cumuli, also in horizontal lines, are dotted against a clear grey sky, which gradually, as the eye is lifted, passes into a deep cloudless blue vault, continuously clear to the zenith; there the cumuli, in white fleecy masses, again appear; till, in the northern celestial hemisphere, they thicken and assume the leaden hue of nimbi, discharging their moisture on the dark forest-clad hills around. The breezes are south-easterly, bringing that [{192}] vapor from the Indian ocean which is rarefied and suspended aloft over the heated plains, but condensed into a drizzle when it strikes the cooler flanks of the hills, and into heavy rain when it meets their still colder summits. Upon what a gigantic scale does nature here operate! Vapors raised from an ocean whose nearest shore is more than 400 miles distant are safely transported without the loss of one drop of water, to support the rank luxuriance of this far distant region. This and other offices fulfilled, the waste waters are returned by the Cosi and Teesta to the ocean, and again exhaled, exported, expended, recollected, and returned."
Many travellers complain of the annoyance caused to them by leeches. Legions of these pests abound in the water-courses and dense jungles of the Sikkim, and though their bite is painless, it is followed by considerable effusion of blood. "They puncture through thick worsted stockings, and even trousers; and when full roll in the form of a little soft ball into the bottom of the shoe, where their presence is hardly felt in walking."
A thousand feet higher, above the bungalow of Punkabaree, the vegetation is very rich, the prevalent timber being of enormous size, "and scaled by climbing Leguminosae, as Bauhinias and Robinias, which sometimes sheathe the trunks or span the forest with huge cables, joining tree to tree." Their trunks are also clothed with orchids; and still more beautifully with pothos, peppers, vines, and convolvuli.
"The beauty of the drapery of the pothos leaves (Scindapsus) is pre-eminent, whether for the graceful folds the foliage assumes or for the liveliness of its color. Of the more conspicuous smaller trees the wild banana is the most abundant; its crown of very beautiful foliage contrasting with the smaller-leaved plants amongst which it nestles; next comes a screwpine (Pandanus) with a straight stem and a tuft of leaves, each eight or ten feet long, waving on all sides. Araliaceae, with smooth or armed slender trunks, and Mappa-like Euphorbiaceae spread their long petioles horizontally forth, each terminated with an ample leaf some feet in diameter. Bamboo abounds everywhere; its dense tufts of culms, 100 feet and upward high, are as thick as a man's thigh at the base. Twenty or thirty species of ferns (including a tree fern) were luxuriant and handsome. Foliaceous lichens and a few mosses appeared at 2,000 feet. Such is the vegetation of the roads through the tropical forests of Outer Himalaya."
As we ascend about 2,000 feet higher, we find many plants of the temperate zone mingling with the tropical vegetation, amongst which "a very English-looking bramble," bearing a good yellow fruit, is the first to mark the change; next, mighty oaks with large lamellated cups and magnificent foliage succeed, till along the ridge of the mountain to Kursiong, at an elevation of about 4,800 feet, the change in the flora is complete. Here the vegetation recalls to mind home impressions: "the oak flowering, the birch bursting into leaf, the violet, Chrysosplenium, Stellaria and Arum, Vaccinium, wild strawberry, maple, geranium, bramble. A colder wind blew here; mosses and lichens carpeted the banks and roadsides; the birds and insects were very different from those below, and everything proclaimed the marked change in the vegetation." And yet even at this elevation we meet with forms of tropical plants, "pothos, bananas, palms, figs, pepper, numbers of epiphytal orchids, and similar genuine tropical genera."
The hill-station of Darjiling, the well-known sanitarium, where the health of Europeans is recruited by a temperate climate, is about 370 miles to the north of Calcutta. The ridge "varies in height from 6,500 to 7,500 feet above the level of the sea, 8,000 feet being the elevation at which the mean temperature most nearly coincides with that of London, viz., 50°." [{193}] The forests around Darjiling are composed principally of magnolias, oaks, laurels, with birch, alder, maple, holly. Dr. Hooker draws especial attention to the absence of Leguminosae, "the most prominent botanical feature in the vegetation of the region," which, he says, is too high for the tropical tribes of the warmer elevation, too low for the Alpines, and probably too moist for those of temperate regions; cool, equable, humid climates being generally unfavorable to the above-named order. "The supremacy of this temperate region consists in the infinite number of forest trees, in the absence (in the usual proportion, at any rate) of such common orders as Compositae, Leguminosae, Cruciferae and Ranunculaceae, and of grasses amongst Monocotyledons, and in the predominance of the rarer and more local families, as those of rhododendron, camellia, magnolia, ivy, cornel, honeysuckle, hydrangea, begonia, and epiphytic orchids."
We regret that want of space prevents us dwelling longer on the scenes of tropical Himalaya, so graphically described by Dr. Hooker. We will conclude this imperfect sketch with our traveller's description of the scenery along the banks of the great Rungeet, 6,000 feet below Darjiling:
"Leaving the forest, the path led along the river bank and over the great masses of rock which strewed its course. The beautiful India-rubber fig was common. . . . On the forest skirts, Hoya, parasitical Orchidiae, and ferns abounded; the Chaulmoogra, whose fruit is used to intoxicate fish, was very common, as was an immense mulberry-tree, that yields a milky juice and produces a long, green, sweet fruit. Large fish, chiefly cyprinoid, were abundant in the beautifully clear water of the river. But by far the most striking feature consisted in the amazing quantity of superb butterflies, large tropical swallow-tails, black, with scarlet or yellow eyes on their wings. They were seen everywhere, sailing majestically through the still, hot air, or fluttering from one scorching rock to another, and especially loving to settle on the damp sand of the river; where they sat by thousands, with erect wings, balancing themselves with a rocking motion, as their heavy sails inclined them to one side or the other, resembling a crowded fleet of yachts on a calm day. Such an entomological display cannot be surpassed. Cicindelae and the great Cicadeae were everywhere lighting on the ground, when they uttered a short sharp creaking sound, and anon disappeared as if by magic. Beautiful whip-snakes were gleaming in the sun; they hold on by a few coils of the tall round a twig, the greater part of their body stretched out horizontally, occasionally retracting and darting an unerring aim at some insect. The narrowness of the gorge, and the excessive steepness of the bounding hills, prevented any view except of the opposite mountain-face, which was one dense forest, in which the wild banana was conspicuous."
One of the most remarkable botanical discoveries of modern days is that of a very curious and anomalous genus of plants, named by Dr. Hooker Welwitschia in honor of its discoverer. Dr. Frederic Welwitsch, who first noticed this singular plant in a letter to Sir William Hooker, dated August, 1860. "I have been assured," says Dr. Hooker in his valuable memoir of this plant, "by those who remember it, that since the discovery of the Rafflesia Arnoldii, no vegetable production has excited so great an interest as the subject of the present memoir." We well remember this singular plant, having seen a specimen in the Kew Herbarium soon after its arrival in this country. The following is Dr. Hooker's account of its appearance and prominent characters:
"The Welwitschia is a woody plant, said to attain a century in duration, with an obconic trunk about two feet long, of which a few inches rise [{194}] above the soil, presenting the appearance of a flat, two-lobed depressed mass, sometimes (according to Dr. Welwitsch) attaining fourteen feet in circumference (!) and looking like a round table. When full grown, it is dark brown, hard, and cracked over the whole surface (much like the burnt crust of a loaf of bread); the lower portion forms a stout tap-root, buried in the soil and branching downward at the end. From deep grooves in the circumference of the depressed mass two enormous leaves are given off, each six feet long when full grown, one corresponding to each lobe. These are quite flat, linear, very leathery, and split to the base into innumerable thongs that lie curling upon the surface of the soil. Its discoverer describes these same two leaves as being present from the earliest condition of the plant, and assures me that they are in fact developed from the two cotyledons of the seed, and are persistent, being replaced by no others. From the circumference of the tabular mass, above but close to the insertion of the leaves, spring stout dichotomously branched cymes, nearly a foot high, bearing small erect scarlet cones, which eventually become oblong and attain the size of those of the common spruce fir. The scales of the cones are very closely imbricated, and contain when young and still very small solitary flowers, which in some cases are hermaphrodite (structurally but not functionally), in others female."
After describing these flowers in botanical terms. Dr. Hooker adds, "The mature cone is tetragonous, and contains a broadly winged scale. Its discoverer observes that the whole plant exudes a resin, and that it is called 'tumbo' by the natives. It inhabits the elevated sandy plateau near Cape Negro (lat 14° 40' S. to 23° S.) on the south-west coast of Africa." Dr. Hooker regards the Welwitschia as "the only perennial flowering-plant which at no period has other vegetative organs than those proper to the embryo itself,—the main axis being represented by the radicle, which becomes a gigantic caulicle and develops a root from its base, and inflorescences from its plumulary end, and the leaves being the two cotyledons in a very highly developed and specialized condition." [Footnote 29]
[Footnote 29: "Transactions of the Linnean Society," vol. xxiv., part i.]
Few countries present more objects of interest to the naturalist than the island of Madagascar, amongst the botanical treasures of which island the water yam or lace-leaf (Ouviranidra fenestralis) claims especial notice. This beautiful and singular plant, which belongs to the natural order Naiadaceae, was first made known to the scientific world by du Petit Thouars in 1822. Horticulturists are indebted to Mr. Ellis, the well-known author of "Polynesian Researches," for the introduction of this singular plant into England, specimens of which may be seen in the Royal Gardens at Kew and elsewhere:
"This plant," says Mr. Ellis, "is not only extremely curious, but also very valuable to the natives, who, at certain seasons of the year, gather it as an article of food—the fleshy root when cooked yielding a farinaceous substance resembling the yam. Hence its native name, ouvirandrano, literally, yam of the water;—ouvi in the Malagasy and Polynesian languages signifying yam, and rano in the former and some of the latter signifying water. The ouvirandra is not only a rare and curious, but a singularly beautiful plant, both in structure and color. From the several crowns of the branching root, growing often a foot or more deep in the water, a number of graceful leaves, nine or ten inches long and two or three inches wide, spread out horizontally just beneath the surface of the water. The flower-stalks rise from the centre of the leaves, and the branching or forked flower is curious; but the structure of the leaf is peculiarly so, and seems like a living fibrous skeleton rather than an entire leaf. The [{195}] longitudinal fibres extend in curved lined along its entire length, and are united by thread-like fibres or veins, crossing them at right angles from side to side, at a short distance from each other. The whole leaf looks as if composed of fine tendrils, wrought after a most regular pattern, so as to resemble a piece of bright-green lace or open needlework. Each leaf rises from the crown on the root like a short delicate-looking pale green or yellow fibre; gradually unfolding its feathery-looking sides and increasing its size as it spreads beneath the water. The leaves in their several stages of growth pass through almost every gradation of color, from a pale yellow to a dark olive-green, becoming brown or even black before they finally decay; air-bubbles of considerable size frequently appearing under the full-formed and healthy leaves. It is scarcely possible to imagine any object of the kind more attractive and beautiful than a full-grown specimen of this plant, with its dark green leaves forming the limit of a circle two or three feet in diameter, and in the transparent water within that circle presenting leaves in every stage of development, both as to color and size. Nor is it the least curious to notice that these slender and fragile structures, apparently not more substantial than the gossamer and flexible as a feather, still possess a tenacity and wiriness which allow the delicate leaf to be raised by the hand to the surface of the water without injury."
No natural order of plants has created or continues to create a greater degree of interest amongst travellers and botanists than the Orchidaceae, of which more than three thousand species have been described; the anomalous structure of their reproductory parts, the singularity in form of the floral envelopes, the grotesque resemblance which many kinds bear to some object or other of the animal world, the rarity, beauty, and delicious fragrance of some forms—all combine to render these plants of great value and interest. As inhabitants of hot and damp localities, orchids are in general epiphytes, as in the Brazilian forests, in the lower portions of the Himalayan mountains, and in the islands of the Indian archipelago; when they occur in temperate regions they are terrestrial in their mode of growth; in extremely dry or cold climates, orchidaceous plants are unknown. Two rare and beautiful epiphytal orchids, the Angraecum sesquipedale and A. superbum, were obtained by Mr. Ellis in Madagascar and Mauritius, and introduced into this country. Of the former, the largest flowered of all the orchids, Dr. Lindley has given the following description:
"The plant forms a stem about eighteen inches high, covered with long leathery leaves in two ranks, like Venda tricolor and its allies; but they have a much more beautiful appearance, owing to a drooping habit, and a delicate bloom which clothes their surface. From the axils of the uppermost of these leaves appear short stiff flower-stalks, each bearing three and sometimes five flowers, extending seven inches in breadth and the same in height. They are furnished with a firm, curved, tapering, tail-like spur, about fourteen inches long. When first open, the flower is slightly tinged with green except the tip, which is almost pure white; after a short time the green disappears, and the whole surface acquires the softest waxy texture and perfect whiteness. In this condition they remain, preserving all their delicate beauty, for more than five weeks. Even before they expand, the greenish buds, which are three inches long, have a very noble appearance."
To the scientific naturalist few subjects are more full of deep interest than the question of the geographical distribution of animals. Dr. Sclater, the active secretary of the Zoological Society of London, has contributed an instructive paper, "On the Mammals of Madagascar," to the second, number [{196}] of the "Quarterly Journal of Science," from which we gather the following facts: As a general rule, it is found that the faunae and florae of such countries as are most nearly contiguous do most nearly resemble one another, while, on the other hand, those tracts of land which are furthest asunder are inhabited by most different forms of animal and vegetable life. Now, Madagascar, with the Mascarene islands, is a strange exception to the rule; for the forms of mammalia which are found in these islands are very different from the forms which occur in the contiguous coast of Africa, although the channel between Madagascar and the continent is in one place not more than 200 miles: "The numerous mammals of the orders Ruminantia, Pachydermata, and Proboscidea, so characteristic of the Ethiopian fauna, are entirely absent from Madagascar. The same is the case with the larger species of carnivora which are found throughout the African continent, but do not extend into Madagascar. Again, the highly organized types of Quadrumana which prevail in the forests of the mainland are utterly wanting in the neighboring island; their place being there occupied by several genera of the inferior family of Lemurs," Dr. Sclater shows that this anomaly is not confined to the orders already enumerated, but that similar irregularities prevail to a greater or lesser extent in every part of the mammalian series, and that, in short, the anomalies presented to us of the forms of life prevalent in the island of Madagascar "are so striking that claims have been put forward in its favor to be considered as a distinct primary geographical region of the earth." Dr. Sclater also draws attention to the very curious fact, "quite unparalleled, as far as is hitherto known, in any other fauna, that nearly two-thirds of the whole number of known species of the mammals of this island are members of one peculiar group of Quadrumana." The family of Lemuridae contains no less than eight generic types, all different from those found in Africa and India, although this group is also represented in Africa by the abnormal form Perodicticus, and in India by Nycticebus and Loris, two allied genera. The celebrated Aye Aye (Chiromys Madagascariensis), a specimen of which anomalous animal is at present in the new monkey-house in the Zoological Society's Gardens, Regent's Park, is considered by Prof. Owen to be more nearly allied to some of the African Galagos than to any other form of animal. Of insectivora, the genera Centetes, Ericulus, and Echinogale, small animals resembling hedge-hogs in outward appearance, are thought to be most nearly allied to an American genus. From the anomalies in the mammalian fauna of this island. Dr. Sclater arrives at the following deductions, which, however, as they are based upon the hypothesis of the derivative origin of species, cannot at present be deemed altogether conclusive:
"1. Madagascar has never been connected with Africa, as it at present exists. This would seem probable from the absence of certain all-pervading Ethiopian types in Madagascar, such as Antelope, Hippopotamus Felis, etc. But, on the other hand, the presence of Lemurs in Africa renders it certain that Africa as it at present exists, contains land that once formed part of Madagascar.
"2. Madagascar and the Mascarene islands (which are universally acknowledged to belong to the same category) must have remained for a long epoch separated from every other part of the globe, in order to have acquired the many peculiarities now exhibited in their mammal fauna—e.g., Lemur, Chiromys, Eupleres, Centetes, etc.—to be elaborated by the gradual modification of pre-existing forms.
"3. Some land-connection must have existed in former ages between Madagascar and India, whereon the original stock, whence the present Lemuridae of Africa, Madagascar, and India, are descended, flourished.
[{197}]
"4. It must be likewise allowed that some sort of connection must also have existed between Madagascar and land which now forms part of the new world—in order to permit the derivation of the Centetinae from a common stock with the Solenodon, and to account for the fact that the Lemuridae, as a body, are certainly more nearly allied to the weaker forms of American monkeys than to any of the Simiidae of the old world.
"The anomalies of the mammal fauna of Madagascar can best be explained by supposing that, anterior to the existence of Africa in its present shape, a large continent occupied parts of the Atlantic and Indian oceans, stretching out toward (what is now) America on the west, and to India and its islands on the east; that this continent was broken up into islands, of which some became amalgamated with the present continent of Africa, and some possibly with what is now Asia—and that in Madagascar and the Mascarene islands we have existing relics of this great continent."
We fain would have lingered on the natural products of this interesting island, to drink of the refreshing liquid furnished by the traveller-tree, and to admire the sago palms and other vegetable forms, but space forbids our dwelling longer on the natural productions of the tropics. [Footnote 30] We could have spoken of the aspects of tropical nature as it appears in Borneo, Java, Sumatra, and other islands of the Pacific ocean, but we must stop. We ought not, however, to conclude these gleanings without a brief notice of Dr. Hartwig's popular book, whose title we have placed at the head of this article. There are those who look with contempt on popular science of all kinds, and regard with undisguised aversion such compilations as the one before us. We do not share these feelings in the least degree; on the contrary, we welcome most heartily such introductions to the study of natural history. True, they may be sometimes of little scientific value, but they are very useful stepping-stones to something more solid. They are more especially intended for the young, but those of mature years may derive much profit by a perusal of many of these works, and even the naturalist may read them with pleasure and instruction. The numerous beautifully illustrated and carefully compiled works on natural history, such as the book before us, together with "The Sea and its Living Wonders," by the same writer, with Routledge's admirable "Natural History," and several of the Christian Knowledge Society's publications, which have appeared within the last few years, are an encouraging sign of the growing interest which the rising generation takes in the study of the great Creator's works, and we heartily wish them "God-speed."
[Footnote 30: In our own territory of the Seychelles Islands, 4° to 5° S., 300 miles N. E. of the great island Just alluded to, we see one of the strangest of vegetable productions, the double cocoa-nut, or Lodoicea, which was fully described by Mr. Ward in the "Journal of the Linnean Society, 1864:" "The shortest period before the tree puts forth its buds is 30 years, and 100 years must elapse before it attains its full growth. One plant in the garden at Government House, planted 15 years ago, is quite in its infancy, about 16 feet in height, but with no stem yet visible, the long leaves shooting from, the earth like the Traveler's Palm (Urania specioea), and much resembling it in shape, but much larger. Unlike the cocoa-nut trees, which bend to every gale and are never quite straight, the coco-de-mer trees are as upright as iron pillars. At the ago of 30 the trees first put forth blossoms. The female tree alone produces the nut, and is 6 feet shorter than the male, which attains a height of 100 feet. From fructification to full maturity a period of nearly 10 years elapses." But the remarkable point is the arrangement of the roots, unlike any other tree. "The base of the trunk is of a bulbous form, and this bulb fits into a natural bowl or socket about 2-1/2 feet in diameter and 1-1/2 foot in depth, narrowing to the bottom. This bowl is pierced with hundreds of small oval holes about the size of thimbles, with hollow tubes corresponding on the outside, through which the roots penetrate the ground on all sides, never, however, becoming attached to the bowl, their partial elasticity affording an almost imperceptible, but very necessary play to the parent stem when struggling against the force of violent gales. This bowl is of the same substance as the shell of the nut, only much thicker. As far as can be ascertained, it never rots or wears out. It has been found quite perfect and entire in every respect 60 years after the tree has been cut down. At Curiense many sockets are still remaining which are known to have belonged to trees cut down by the first settlers in the Island (1742)." One of these sockets is to be seen in the Museum of woods at Kew.]
From Chamber's Journal.
WINTER SIGNS.
Links upon the forehead come—
Strokes alike of time and grief,
Branches from the heart beneath
That will never bear a leaf.
Come the summer, come the spring,
Still they keep their wintry hue;
Deepening, stretching o'er the brow.
Shadows lift them into view.
Straight and crooked, right and left.
On the strong and on the weak—
Upward to the hoary head.
Downward to the hollow cheek.
Shadows from the life within,
Tarrying ere they pass away,
Plant these stems of sorrow there,
Growing in the night and day.
Light that fills the eye afresh
From some inward moving grace,
Casting from it, as a sun.
Quiet rays upon the face—
Makes these ruts of time appear
Winding, widening in their space,
Drawing loving eyes and thoughts
All their history to trace.
Whilst upheaved by a smile,
Radiant in the breast of light,
These eternal scores of grief
Tell of many an inner night.
Stories come up from their roots.
Half unfolded in their course,
Showing how a hundred pangs
Long ago became their source.
From The Lamp.
ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.
BY ROBERT CURTIS.
CHAPTER XV.
Any help which old Murdock was in the habit of getting from his son upon the farm, and it was at no time of much value, either in labor or advice, had latterly dwindled down to a mere careless questioning as to how matters were going on, and his father began to fear that he was "beginning to go to the bad." Poor old man, how little of the truth he knew!
There was now always something cranky and unpleasant in Tom's manner. He was often from home for days together, and, when at home, often out at night until very late; and if questioned in the kindest manner by his father upon the subject, his answers were snappish and unsatisfactory. Poor old Mick—deluded Mick—laid down both his wanderings and his crankiness to the score of his love for Winny Cavana, and the uncertainty of his suit.
From one or two encouraging and cheery expressions his father had addressed to him, Tom knew this to be the view his father had taken of his case, and he was quite willing to indulge the delusion. Now that matters had come to an open rupture between him and Winny—for notwithstanding his father's hopes, he had none—it was convenient for him that his father should continue of the same mind—nay, more, his father himself had suggested a step, which, if he could manage with his usual ability, might turn to his profit, and relieve to a certain extent some of the perplexities by which he was beset.
Old Mick had spent a long and fatiguing day, not merely in his peregrinations through the farm, but from anxiety and watching, having observed Winny go out earlier than usual, and seeing that Tom soon after had followed her down the road. He was rather surprised in about an hour afterward to see Winny return alone, and at not having seen Tom for nearly two hours later in the day, when he returned cross and disappointed, as we have seen. The "untoward circumstances," detailed in the conversation after dinner with his son, had not the same depressing effects upon the old man as upon Tom; for he really believed that they were not only not past cure, but according to his notions of how such matters generally went on, that they were on a fair road to success. He therefore enjoyed a night's sound sleep, while Tom lay tossing and tumbling, and planning and scheming,—and occasionally cursing Edward Lennon, whom he could not persuade himself was not, as his father said, at the bottom of all this. It was near morning, therefore, before he had fretted himself to sleep.
Early the next day old Mick determined to ascertain the actual state of facts. He was up betimes, and having seen what was necessary to be done for the day upon the farm, he set the operations going, and returned to breakfast. Tom had not yet stirred; and as Nancy had told the old masther that she "heered him struggling with the bed-clothes, an' talkin' to himself until nearly morning," he would not allow her to call him, but went to breakfast by himself, telling her to have a fresh pot of tay, an' a dacent breakfast for him when he got up. "Poor fellow," he said to himself, "I did not think that girl had so firm a hoult of him."
Old Mick's anticipations of how matters really stood, and his confidence in Ned Cavana's firmness, were doomed to be shaken, if not altogether disappointed. Old Ned saw him hanging "about the borders" with a watchful look directed toward his house. He took it for granted that Tom had mentioned something of what had occurred to him, and he knew at once what he was lingering about for.
Ned had undoubtedly led old Murdock to suppose that he would be "as stout as a bull" with Winny about marrying his son; but when Ned had spoken thus sternly upon the subject, he had not anticipated any opposition upon Winny's part to the match. He did not see how she could object, nor did he see why. Mick had imbibed some slight idea of the kind from what Tom had told him; but Ned had combated this idea with great decision, and some sternness; more by way of showing his neighbor how he could exercise his parental authority, than from any great dread that he would ever be called on to assert it.
But Ned Cavana knew not the nature Class his own heart. He had miscalculated the extent of his love for Winny, or the influence her affectionate and devoted life could exercise over that love, in a case where such a dispute might come between them. Thus we have seen him yield to that influence almost without argument, and certainly without a harsh or angry word. When it came to the point that he had to confront her tears, where was the fury with which he met old Murdock's insinuations and suggestions?—where the threats of cutting her off, not with but without a shilling, and leaving it all to the Church?—where the steady determination with which he had resolved to "bring her to her senses?"—all, all lost in the affectionate smile which beamed upon her pleading love.
Ned Cavana knew now that old Murdock was on the watch for him. He believed that Tom had told him what had taken place between him and Winny; and although he did not dread any alteration in his promise to his daughter, he felt that he could deal more stoutly with old Murdock with the recollection of Winny's tears fresh on her cheeks, than if the matter were to lie over for any time. He therefore strolled through the farmyard, and out on the lane we have already spoken of, and turned down toward the fields at the back of his garden. This movement was not, of course, unnoticed by the man who was on the watch for some such, and accordingly he sloped down toward the gate, at which he and his son had held the conversation—a conversation which had confirmed Winny in her preconceived opinion of Tom Murdock's character and motives.
The two old men thus met once again at the same spot at which the reader first saw them together.
"I'm glad you cum out, Ned," said Murdock, "for I was watin to see you, to tell you about Tom. He done his part yesterda' illegant, an' you may spake to the little girl now as soon as you plaise."
"I have spoken to her, Mick. She tould me all about it herself, last night."
"Well, she didn't resave Tom at all the way he thought she would, nor the way she led him to think she would, aidher. I hope she tould the thruth to you, Ned, and didn't make b'lief to be shy an' resarved, as she did to Tom. Poor boy, he's greatly down about it."
"She did; she tould me the whole thruth, Mick avic, and it's all no use; she won't marry Tom—that's the long an' the short of it."
"Why, then, she mightn't be cosherin wid him the way she was, Ned, and ladin the poor young boy asthray as to her intintions when she brought him to the point."
"My little girl never done anything of the kind, Mick; she'd scorn to do it."
"Well, no matther; she done it now, Ned; and as for Tom, he's the [{201}] very boy that i'd nather humbug a little girl, nor allow her to humbug him. Did you spake stout to her, Ned?"
"I said all that was necessary, Mick awochal: but I seen it was no use, an' I wouldn't disthress the crathur."
"Disthress the crathur, aniow! Athen may be it's what you don't much care how that poor boy 'ithin there is disthressed through her mains."
"As for that, Mick, it needn't, nor it won't, disthress Tom a bit. There's many a fine girl in the parish that i'd answer Tom betther nor my little girl; and when I find that she's not for him, Mick awochal, I tell you I won't disthress the colleen by harsh mains, so say no more about it."
"Athen, Ned, I think you tuck it aisy enugh afther all you tould me d'other day; you'd do this, an' you'd do that, an' you'd cut her off wid a shillin', an' you'd bring her to her senses, an' what wouldn't you do, Ned? I tould you to be studdy, or she'd cum over you wid her pillaver; and I tell you now what I tould you then, that it is all through the mains of that pauper Lennon she has done this—a purty scauhawn for her to be wastin' your mains an' your hard earnin's upon. Arrah, Ned, I wondher you haven't more sense than to be deludhered by that beggarman out of your little girl an' your money."
"No, Mick, young Lennon has nothing to say to it; if he never was born, Winny wouldn't marry Tom. I would not misbelieve Winny on her word, let alone her oath; an' she tould me she tuck her oath to Tom that she'd never marry him. He taxed her wid young Lennon, an' so did I; an' she declared, an' I believe her there too, Mick, that there never was a word between them on such a subject; an' let there be no more now between us. It can't be helped. But I will not disthress my little girl by spakin' to her any more about Tom."
"Oh, very well, Ned; that'll do. But, be the book, Tom's not the boy that'll let himself be med a fool of by any one; an' I'm the very fellow that is able an' willin' to back him up in it."
"Athen what do you mane, Mick?—for the devil a wan of me can undherstan' that threat, af it beant the law you mane, an' sure the gandher in the yard beyant id have more sense than to think iv that. My little girl never held out the smallest cumhither upon Tom; but, instead iv that, she tells me that she always med scarse iv herself wheen he was to the fore. So af it be law you mane, Mick, you may do your worst."
"No, it isn't the law I mane, Ned. Law is dear at best, an' twiste as dear at worst; but I mane to say that I'll back up poor Tom 'ithin there, that's brakin' his heart about Winny; an' if you have any regard for her, you'll do the same thing; an' you'll see we'll bring the thing round, as we ought; that's what I mane. The girl can't deny but what she med much iv Tom, until that other spalpeen cum across her. Tom's no fool, an' knows what a girl mains very well."
"She does deny it, Mick, an' so she can. But there's no use, I tell you, in sayin' any more about it. I can see plane an' aisy enough that Winny isn't for him. I tould her I wouldn't strive to force her likin' or dislikin', an' I won't; so just tell Tom that the girl is in earnest. She tould him so herself, an' you may tell him the same thing. He can't think so much about her, Mick, as you let on, for there never was any courting betune them from first to last. I'll spake to you no more about it, Mick, an' you needn't spake to me."
With this final resolve, Ned turned his back completely round upon his neighbor, and walked with a hasty but firm step into the house.
Old Mick stood for some moments looking after him in a state of perplexed surprise. He had some fears, though they were not very great, that Winny's influence over her father was sufficiently strong to determine him according to her wishes, if she was really averse to a match with his son; but this latter was a point upon which he had scarcely any fears at all; except such as were suggested by the hints his son himself had thrown out about young Lennon. Upon this part of the case he had spoken to Ned in such a way as to make him determined to be very strict and decided in his opposition to any leaning on his daughter's part in that quarter.
Old Mick, as he stood and looked, was perplexed on both these parts of the case. If he believed that Winny Cavana had really and decidedly refused to marry his son, he could only do so upon the supposition that young Lennon was the mainspring of the whole movement. And, again, to suppose she had preferred a "secret colloguing with that pauper," behind her father's back, to an open and straight-forward match with a rich young man, and what he called a handsomer man than ever Lennon was, or ever would be, and with her father's full consent, was what he could not bring himself to believe of any sensible girl. But this he did believe, that if "that young whelp" was really not at the bottom of Winny's refusal, a marriage with his son, be it brought about by what means it could, would end in a reconciliation, not only of Winny to so great a match, but of old Ned, as a necessary consequence, to his daughter's acquiescence.
With these thoughts, and counter-thoughts, he too turned toward his house, where he found Tom just going to his breakfast, in no very good humor with the past, the present, or the future.
His father "bid him the time of day," and said "he had to look after a cow that was on for cavin'," an' that he'd be back by the time he had done his breakfast. This was a mere piece of consideration upon old Mick's part.
Loss of appetite and uneasiness of manner in a handsome young man of two-and-twenty is unhesitatingly set down by the old crones of a parish to his being "in love," and they are seldom at a loss to supply the colleen dhass to whom these symptoms are attributable. In Tom's case, however, there were other matters than love which were accountable for the miserable attempt at breakfast he had made, notwithstanding the elaborate preparations Nancy Feehily had made to tempt him. His father was surprised to find him so soon following him to the fields. But Tom, knowing his father's energy of action when a matter was on his mind, suspected he had not been to that hour of the day without managing an interview with old Cavana, and was on the fidgets to know what passed. But love—as love—had nothing whatever to say to his want of relish for so good a breakfast as had been set before him.
He met his father returning toward the house, not far from the celebrated gate already so often mentioned in this story. The spot where they now met was a little more favorable for a conference than the gate in question, for, unlike it, there was no private bower for eavesdroppers to secrete themselves in.
"Well, father," said Tom, breaking into the subject at once, "have you seen the old fogie about Winny?"
"I have, Tom, an' matthers is worse nor I thought. She has cum round him most complately; for the present anyhow."
"I told you how it would be, father, and be d—!"
"Whist, Tom, don't be talking that way; there's wan thing I'm afther being purty sure of, an' that is, that that spalpeen has nothin' to say to it. It's all perverseness just for a while, an' she'll cum round afther a bit."
"Well, father. I'll cut my stick for that bit, be it long or short; so tell me, what can you do for me about money? You know if she was never in the place, it's nothing to keep me here stravaging about the road."
"Thrue for you, Tom avic. It isn't easy, however, layin' a man's [{203}] hand upon what you'd want wid you for a start; but sure my credit is good in the bank, an' sure I'll put my name upon a bill-stamp for you for twenty or thirty pounds. Take my advice an' don't go past your aunt's in Armagh. Tom, she's an illigant fine woman, an' will resave you wid a ceade mille a faltha, an' revive you out an' out afore you put a month over you. There's not a man in Armagh has a betther thrade than her husband, Bill Wilson the carpenter—cabinet-maker, I b'lieve they call him—an' b'lieve my words, she'll make the most of her brother's son. Who knows, Tom avic? Arrah, maybe you'd do betther down there nor at home. Any way Winny won't be gone afore you come back, an' if we can't manage wan thing maybe we would another—thig um, thee?"
"Well, I hope so; but, father, I'll be off before Sunday, and this is Wednesday."
"You'll have lashins of time, Tom; but the sorra wan but I'll be very lonely; for although, Tom, you do be wandhering from home by day, and stopping out late sometimes by night, sure I know you're not far off, an' I always hear you lettin' yourself in betune night an' mornin'. Though Caesar doesn't bark at you, I hear him whinin' an' shufflin' when you're coming to the back doore?"
"No matter about that now, father; I suppose I can get the money tomorrow or after, and start for my aunt's?"
"Any minute, Tom. I'm never without a bill-stamp in the house in regard of the fairs. Come in, and I'll dhraw it out at wanst, an' I'll engage they'll give you the money on it at the bank; don't be the laste taste aleared of that, Tom."
Whether Tom then intended to be guided by his father's advice, and not go past his aunt's in Armagh, it is not easy to say; but at all events he "let on" that he would not do so. When he got his heels loose, with a trifle of cash in his pocket, he could turn his steps in any direction he wished.
They then returned to the house, and old Mick, putting on his spectacles, opened a table-drawer in the parlor, where he kept his writing materials, accounts, receipts, etc. After some discussion, which had well-nigh ended in an argument, as to whether the amount should be twenty or thirty pounds, a bill was ultimately drawn by the son upon the father for the former sum, at three months. Tom had, other reasons than the mere increase of ten pounds in the amount, for wishing to have the word thirty instead of twenty written in the bill; however, he could not screw more than the latter sum out of the old man, which he said was ample to take him to his aunt's in Armagh, where he'd get lashins an' lavins of the best of everything. Tom knew that for this purpose it would be ample, and therefore failed to bring forward any arguments to sustain his view as to the necessity of making it thirty; but as it was he himself who wrote it out, he patted the blotting-paper over it in great haste—a matter which was not, of course, observed by the old man, nor if it had been would he have supposed there was anything unusual, much less for a purpose, in the act. The father having read it carefully over, and seeing that it was all correct, wrote his name with some dignity of manner across the bill. This portion of the writing Tom took care to let dry without any blotting at all, for he held it to the fire instead. Neither did the old man observe this unusual course, the manifest mode being to have used the blotting-paper, as in the first instance.
The matter being now thus far perfected, Tom asked his father if he could have Blackberry—one of the farm horses—to go into C. O. S. early next morning.
"An' welcome, Tom, if he was worth a hundred pounds," said the old man, locking the drawer.
CHAPTER XVI.
Tom spent the remainder of that day very quietly, most of it in his own room. His first employment, whatever it may have been, was over an old portfolio, where he kept his own writing materials. What were the chief subjects of his caligraphy is not known. Perhaps love-letters to such of his numerous enamoratas as could read may have formed a portion, nor is it impossible but the police might have given a trifle to have laid their hands upon some others. Neither were likely to see the light, however, as Tom Murdock kept that old portfolio carefully locked up in his box.
The next morning at an unusually early hour for him Tom proceeded upon Blackberry, fully caparisoned with the best saddle and bridle in the place, to C. O. S.; where, after ten o'clock, he found no difficulty in procuring cash upon his father's acceptance.
Now, although in the first instance Tom had no notion of stopping at his aunt's in Armagh, or perhaps of going there at all, upon reflection he changed his mind altogether upon the subject. He had some congenial spirits there beside his aunt—spirits with whom he occasionally had had personal communication as well as more frequent epistolary correspondence. Beyond Armagh, therefore, upon second thoughts, he resolved not to go upon this occasion. As to any depression of spirits on account of Winny Cavana, he had none, except the loss of her fortune, which would have stood to him so well in his present circumstances. And here he remembered that his father had told him the interest of "that same" was all he could have touched, and even that at only three per cent.; so that for the mere present he had done as well, if not better. What he had drawn out of the bank upon his father's credit, would settle the two harassing and intricate cases, which two different attorneys, on the part of those whom he had most grievously wronged, had threatened to expose in a court of law. He would have some over—he took care of that—to take him to Armagh and back, where he could not manage this time to go at the expense of "the fund." He did not purpose, however, to stop very long at his aunt's. He would tell Winny when he came back that her refusal of him had driven him away—he knew nor cared not whither; but that he found it impossible to live without sometimes seeing her, if it was only from his own door to hers: yes, he would follow that business up the moment he returned. In the meantime it might not be without some good effect his being absent for a short time.
Such were the thoughts and plans with which Tom, after he had settled with the attorneys, left his poor old father, we may say completely alone; for after the rather sharp words which had taken place between the two old men, he could hardly continue his customary visits, or half-casual, half-projected meetings with Ned Cavana, by their respective mearings. Hitherto in this respect, more than in actual visits, the intercourse between these two old men had been habitual, indeed it may be said of daily occurrence, mutually watched for. If one saw the other overlooking his men, either sowing or reaping, or planting or digging, according to the time of the year, the habit almost amounted to a rule, that, whichever saw the other first, quit his own men, and sloped over toward his neighbor to have a look at what was going on, and having there exhausted the pros and cons of whatever the work might be, a general chat was kept up and the visit returned on the spot.
Now, however, matters were to a great extent changed. This "untoward circumstance" between Tom Murdock and Winny Cavana, together with the subsequent conversation upon the subject between the fathers, rendered this friendly [{205}] intercourse impossible. From all his son had told him, old Mick thought Winny Cavana had treated him badly, and he considered that old Ned had "gone back of his word" to himself. He was a plucky, proud old cock, and his advice to Tom would be "to see it out with the pair of them, without any pillaver. "
What he meant by "seeing it out" he hardly knew himself, for he had repudiated the law in a most decided manner when taxed with it by Ned. What, then, could he mean by "seeing it out?" Perhaps Tom would not require his advice upon the subject.
From this day forth, however, old Mick was not the man he used to be. A man at his age, however well he may have worn—ay, even to have obtained the name of an evergreen—generally does so having his mind at ease as well as his body in health—the one begets the other; and so an old man thrives, and often looks as well at seventy as he did at sixty. But these old evergreens sometimes begin to fail suddenly if the cold wind of disappointment blows roughly upon their hitherto happy hearts; and Tom Murdock was not three weeks away, when the remarks of the people returning from the chapel, respecting old Mick, were that "they never saw a man so gone in the time." And the fact was so.
Old Mick Murdock had been all his life a cheerful, chatty man, one with whom it was a comfort to "be a piece of the road home." Moreover, he had always been erect in person, with a pair of cheeks like a scarlet Crofton apple—not the occasional smooth flush of delicacy, but the constant hard rough tint of health. There were many young men in the parish whom a walk alongside of old Mick Murdock for a couple of miles would put out of breath, while you would not see a heave, however slight, out of old Mick's chest.
Look on him now: "he has not a word to throw to a dog," as the saying has it; he is beginning to stoop in his gait, and more than once already he has struck his heel against the ground in walking. As yet it is not a drag, and those indications of a break-up in his constitution are comparatively slight. Ere long, however, you will see him with a stick, and you will be hardly able to recognize him as the Mick Murdock of a few months before.
Tom, as we have seen, having settled with the attorneys, started for his aunt's; where, as his father had predicted, he was received with open arms, and a joyful clapping of hands and a ceade mille a faltha. "Oh, then, Tom, avic macree, but it's you that's welcome; an' shure I needn't ax you how you are. Oh, but it's you that's grown the fine young man since I seen you last. An' let me see—how long ago is that now, Tom agra? It'll be four years coming Easthre Sunda' next since I was down in Rathcashmore. An' how is Mick a wochal? an' how's herself, Tom, the 'colleen dhass' you know?" And she gave him a poke with her finger between the ribs. "Ah, Tom avic, yon needn't look so shy; shure I know all about it, an' why wouldn't I? It'll be an illigant match for the pair iv ye; as good for the wan as for the other—coming Shraft, Tom, eh? In troth Winny will be a comfort to you, as well as a creedit; that's what she will, won't she, Tom?"
"Let me alone now, aunt; I'm tired after the journey; and it's not of her I'm thinking."
"See that now—arra na bocklish, Tom, don't be afther telling me that; shure didn't Mick himself write to me two or three times to let me know how matthers was going on, and the grand party he gev on Hallow-Eve, and the fun ye all had, and how you danced wid her a'most the whole night."
"Nonsense, aunt! Did he tell you how anybody else danced?"
"No, the sorra word he said about any wan that was there, barrin' yourself an' herself."
"Well, never heed her now. I'll [{206}] tell you more about her to-morrow or next day, and maybe ask your advice upon the subject at the same time."
Their conversation was here interrupted, as Tom thought very opportunely, by the entrance of Bill Wilson, whose welcome for his wife's nephew was as hearty, in a manner, as that which he had received from herself. The conversation, of course, now "became general;" and Bill Wilron, although he had never been out of Armagh, seemed to have everybody down about Tom's country pat by heart, for he asked for them all by name, not forgetting, although he left her to the last, to ask for Winny Cavana. It was evident to Tom, from his manner, that he was up to the project in that quarter; and as evident that, like his aunt, he knew nothing of how matters up to this had turned out, or how they were likely to end. He answered his uncle's questions, however, with reasonable self-possession; and his aunt, having perceived from his last observation to herself that there was "a screw loose," turned the conversation very naturally to the subject of Tom's physical probabilities, saying,
"Athen, Tom jewel, maybe it's what you're hungry, an' would like to take something to eat afore dinner; shure an' shure it's the first question I ought to have asked you."
"No, aunt, I thank you kindly, I'll take nothing until your dinner; there's a friend of mine lives in the skirts of the town; I want to see him, and I'll be back in less than an hour."
"A friend of yours, Tom? athen shure if he is, he ought to be a friend of ours; who is he, Tom a wochal?"
"Oh, no, aunt, you never heard of him. He's a boy I have a message to from, a friend in the country."
"Why, then, Tom, you'll be wanting to know the way in this strange place, an' shure I'll send the girl wid you to show you. Shure how could you know, an' you never in Armagh afore?"
"No, aunt, I say, I have a tongue in my head, and I'm not an onshiough. I'll find him out without taking your girl from her business."
"Athen, Tom jewel, whoever bought you for an onshiough would lay out his money badly, I'm thinking; an' although you were never in this big city afore, the devil a bit afeared I am but you'll find your way, an' well have lashins iv everything that's good for you, and a ceade mille a faltha when you come back."
Tom then left them, bidding them a temporary good-bye. He he did not think it at all necessary to enlighten his aunt to the fact that he had paid periodical visits to Armagh from time to time, and had on these occasions passed her very door. But these visits were of short duration, and have been only hinted at. They were sufficient, however, to familiarize him with the portions of the city to which he now directed his steps. But as we are not aware of the precise spot to which he went, nor acquainted with those whose society he sought, we shall not follow him.
His aunt, after he had left, was in no degree sparing in her praise of him to her husband, who had never seen him before, but who indorsed every word she said with the greatest promptitude and good-humor, "as far as he could see."
Bill Wilson was no fool. He gave his wife's nephew a hearty and a sincere welcome, and he knew it would be an ungracious thing not to acquiesce in all that she said to his advantage; but it was an indiscreet slip to add the words "as far as he could see." It implied a caution on his part which did not say much for the confidence he ought to have felt in his wife's opinion, and went merely to corroborate her praises of his personal appearance.
"As far as you can see,' Bill! Well, indeed, that far you can find no fault at all, at all; that's shure an' sartin. Where would you find the likes iv him, as far as that same goes, William Wilson?—not in Armagh, let me tell you. I ax you did you [{207}] ever see a finer head iv hair, or a finer pair iv ejes in a man's head, or a handsomer nose, or a purtier mouth? An' the whiskers, Bill!—ah, them's the dark whiskers from Slieve-dhu; none of your moss-colored whiskers that you see about here, Bill. Look at the hoith iv him! He's no leprahaun, Bill Wilson; an' I say if you go out an' walk the town for three hours, you'll not meet the likes iv him till you come back again to where he is himself'."
"Faix, an' I won't try that, Mary, for I believe every word you're afther sayin'. But, shure, I didn't mane to make Little of the young man at all."
"You said 'as far as you could see,' Bill; an' shure we all know how far that is. But amn't I tellin' you what is beyant your sight,—what he is to the backbone, for larnin', an' everythin' that's good, manly, an' honest? There now, Bill, I hope you don't misdoubt me,—'as far as you can see,' indeed!"
"Well, Mary, I meant nothing against him by that; indeed I believe, and I am shure, he's as good as he's handsome. But I must go out now to the workshop to look after the men. Let me know when he comes back."
Tom was not so long away as he had intended. The person whom he went to look for was not at home, and he returned to his aunt at once. He had not many acquaintances in Armagh, and they were such as might be better pleased with a visit after dark than so early in the day.
Before "the dinner" was prepared, Tom had another chat with his aunt, and, as a matter of course, she could not altogether avoid the subject of Winny Cavana. She had been given to understand by her brother that a successful courtship was carrying on between Tom and her. But the humor in which Tom had received her first quizzing upon the subject at once told that intelligent lady of the "loose screw" on some side of the question. Upon so important a matter, a married woman, and own aunt to such a fine young man, one of the parties concerned, Mrs. Wilson could not permit herself to remain ignorant. Her direct questions in the first instance, and her dexterous cross-examination afterward, showed Tom the folly of hoping to evade a full confession of his having been refused; and it may be believed that he set forth in no small degree how ill-treated he had been by the said Winny Cavana and her father.
His aunt consoled him, so far as she could, with hopes that matters might not be so bad as he apprehended; reminding him at the same time of the extent of the sea, and the number of good fishes which must still be in it uncaught. That shrewd woman could also perceive, from Tom's manner, under his confession, as well as his first ill-humor, that the loss of Winny Cavana's fortune, and the reversion of her fat farm, were more matters of regret to him than the loss of herself.
"And why not?" she thought, under the impression of Winny's ill-treatment of such a fine han'som' young fellow as her nephew. "Shure, couldn't he have his pick an' choice of any girl in that, or in any other parish; ay, or among her acquaintances in Armagh, for that matter? But as for young Lennon! she was sartin shure Winny couldn't be such a born idgiot as to make much of the likes of him where Tom was to the fore."
She thus encouraged her nephew, taking much the same view of his case as old Mick had done, and giving him pretty much the same advice— "not to dhraw back at all, but to persavare an' get a hoult in her by hook or by crook, an' thrust to a reconciliation aftherwards. He might take her word for it, it was more make b'lief than anything else. Don't give it up, Tom; them sort of girls like persavarince; I know I did, a wochal, in my time. What's on her mind is, [{208}] that it's afther her money you are, an' Not hersel'."
"The devil a much she's out there, aunt; but I wish I could make her think otherwise."
"Lissen here, Tom; 'a council's no command,' they say, an' my advice is this. Let on when you go back that you could get an illigant fine girl in Armagh wid twiste her fortune; but that nothing would tempt you to forsake your own little girl at home, that was a piece iv your heart since ye were both the hoith of a creepeen; do you see? an' I'll back you up in it. Tell her she may bestow her fortune upon Kate Mulvey or any one she likes; that herself is all you want. You know she won't do that when it comes to the point."
"Not a bad plan, aunt. But sure I should let on to my father, and to every one in the neighborhood; and they'll be asking me who she is, and about her father and her mother, and all about her; and I should have answers ready, if I mean the thing to look like the truth."
"An' won't I give you all that as pat as A, B, C? Don't I know the very girl that'll answer to a T, Tom?"
"Why then, aunt dear, mightn't you bring me across her in earnest?"
"Faix, an' I could not, Tom, for a very good reason—that I'm not acquainted wid her, except to see her sometimes; an' I know her name, an' who she is, an' her father's name, an' how he med his money. They're as proud as paycocks, I can tell you; an nayther the wan nor the other would look the same side iv the street wid the likes iv us, Tom; but they don't know that at Rathcash; an' shure, if Winny thries to find out about them, she'll find that you're tellin' the truth as far as the names an' money goes, an I'll let on to be as thick as two pickpockets wid them."
Tom was silent. The closing words of his aunt's speech made him wish that he could pick some of their pockets of about a hundred pounds.
The plan, however, seemed a good one, and had the effect of putting Tom Murdock into good humor; and when Bill Wilson joined them at dinner Tom was so agreeable and chatty, that Bill thought his wife, although she was Tom's aunt, had not said a word too much for him; and he regretted more than ever that he had used the words "so far as he could see." He anticipated—nay, he dreaded—that they would be brought up to him again that night with greater force than ever.
CHAPTER XVII.
The most part of ready cash, whatever the sum may have been, which Tom had received at the bank, having been, as he called it, "swallowed up by them cormorants, the attorneys," he had, after all, but a trifling balance in his pocket. He was determined, therefore, to live quietly for some time at his aunt's upon "the lashins and lavins," taking her advice, and arranging with her his plan of operations upon his return to Rathcashmore. And his aunt's advice, in a prudent and worldly point of view, was not to be controverted, if anything could tend toward the attainment of his object; that was the question.
It was impossible, however, that Tom could rest altogether satisfied with the company of his aunt and her husband, and three or four children between ten and seventeen years of age; particularly as the eldest of his cousins was a long-necked boy with big, stuck-out ears, who worked in his father's shop, instead of a graceful girl with dark hair and fine eyes, whose domestic duties must keep her in the house as her mother's assistant, or perhaps enable her, when she could be spared, to guide him through the principal parts of the town, of which he would have feigned the most profound ignorance. But the eldest child just past seventeen, as we have seen. [{209}] happened to be a boy, not a girl, and Tom did not consider this the best arrangement that could be wished. In consequence, he sometimes spent an evening from home, with one or other, or perhaps with all the congenial spirits with whom, as a delegate—for the truth may be confessed—from another county, he could claim brotherhood. On this occasion, however, he was not on official business in Armagh; and whatever intercourse took place between them was of a purely social nature.
Tom was not altogether such a mauvais sujet as perhaps the reader has set him down in his own mind to be, from the inuendos which have been thrown out respecting him, as well as the actual portions of his character which have made themselves manifest. It must be confessed—nay, I believe it has been admitted not many lines above—that he was a Ribbonman; and although that includes all that is murderous and wicked, when a necessity arises, yet in the absence of such necessity a Ribbonman may not be altogether void of certain good points in his character. It is the frightful obligation which he labors under that makes a villain of him, should circumstances require the aid of his iniquity. Apart from this, and from what is termed an agrarian grievance, a Ribbonman may not be a bad family-man, although the training he undergoes in "The Lodge" is ill calculated to nourish his domestic sympathies.
Tom had now been upward of a month enjoying the hospitality of his aunt; and notwithstanding that she had done all in her power to entertain him, and "make much" of him, he was beginning to tire of the eternal smoke and flags, and stacks of chimneys, which were always the same to the eye: no bright "blast of sun," no sudden dark cloud, made any difference in them; there they were, always the same dark color, no matter what light shone upon them. No wonder, then, Tom Murdock began once more to long for the fresh breeze that blew about the wild hills of Rathcashmore, the green fields of his father's farm, and the purple heather of Slieve-dhu, with the white rocks of Slieve-bawn by her side.
Absence too had done more really to touch Tom's heart with respect to Winny Cavana than to wean him from the "saucy slut," as he had called her in pique on his departure. He had "come across,"—this is the Irish mode of expressing, "had been introduced,"—through his aunt's assistance, several of what she called illigant fine girls, nieces of her husband's and others, and his heart confessed that none of them "were a patch" upon Winny Cavana, after all. He thus became fidgety, and began to speak of returning home. Of course the aunt opposed her hospitality to such a step, for the present at least: "Just as we were beginning to enjoy you, Tom avic," said she; and of course her husband made a show of joining her, although he knew there had been more beer drunk in the house in the last month than in the six preceding ones; neither did the cold meat turn out to half the account. He knew this by his pocket, not by his knowledge of the cookery. Tom, however, made no promise of further sojourn than "to put the following Sunday over him," and it was now Thursday. But the next morning's post hurried matters. It brought him a letter from his father, which prevented his aunt from pressing his stay beyond the following day, when it was finally settled by Tom that he would start for home. "It ran thus," as is the common mode of introducing a letter in a novel or story:
"DEAR TOM,—This comes to you hoppin' to find you in good health, which I am sorry to say it does not lave me at present; but thank God for all his mercies. I was very lonesum entirely afther you left me; an the more, dear Tom, as I had not my ould neighbor Ned Cavana to spake to, as used to be the case afore that [{210}] young chisel of a daughter of his cam round him to brake wid us. She's there still, seemingly as proud as ever; but she'll be taken down a peg wan of these days, mark my words. I have wan piece of good news for you, Tom avic; an' that is, that young Lennon never darkened their doore since you went; and more be token, she never spoke a word to him on Sunda's after mass, but went straight home with her father from the chapel. This I seen myself; for although I have been very daunny since you left me, I med bowld wid myself not to lose prayers any Sunda' wet or dhry, for no other purpose but to watch herself an' that chap. So, dear Tom, you needn't be afeared of him. I think, indeed; I seen him going down the road the three Sunda's wid Kate Mulvey; so I think Winny tould the truth to her father about him. Dear Tom, I have not been well at all at all for the last three weeks, an' I am not able to be out all day as I used to be, an' I hardly know how matthers are goin' on upon the farm. I see old Ned a'most every day from the doore or the garden, where I sometimes go out when it's fine; I see him wandherin' about his farm as brisk an' as hard as ever. I think nothin' would give that man a brash. Dear Tom, I did not like writin' to you to say I was lonesum or unwell until you had taken a turn out of yourself at your aunt's; but I am not gettin' betther, an' I think the sight iv you would do me good. Tell your aunt to let you cum home to me now. Indeed, dear Tom, I'm too long alone; an' havin' no wan to spake to makes me fret, though I wouldn't interfere wid you for a while afther you went. If ould Ned Cavana was the man I tuck him to be, he wouldn't let the few words that cum betune us keep him away from me all this time, an' I not well; but he never put to me, nor from me, since you left, nor I to him. Dear Tom, cum back to me as soon as you can, an' maybe we'll get the betther of him an' Winny, afther all. Hopin' your aunt, an' the childer, an' Bill himself, is all in good health, I remain your father till death,
"Michael Murdock."
Tom, as I have hinted, was not without his good points, and, as he read over the above letter from his poor lonely father, his heart smote him for having been so long away, and where, to tell the truth to himself, he had no great fun or pleasure. His conscience, moreover, accused him of one glaring act of ingratitude and villany, he might call it, toward the poor old man. There was something tender and self-sacrificing in the letter, yet it was not without a complaining tone all through, that brought all Tom's better feelings uppermost in his heart; and he resolved to start for home early the next morning. He now felt that he had business at home, which at one time he had never contemplated taking the smallest trouble about, beside keeping his poor old father better company than he had hitherto done. Yet, with all this softening of his disposition, he was never more determined to carry out his object with respect to Winny Cavana, by fair means—or by foul!
What his father had said about young Lennon gave him hopes that, in the end, a scheme which he had planned for the latter might not be necessary.
Tom knew there could be no use in writing to his father to say he would so soon be home with him. The nearest post-town was seven miles from Rathcashmore; and although any person "going in had orders" to call at the post-office, and bring out all letters for the neighbors of both the Rathcashes, yet were he to write now, his letter was sure to lie there for some days, and he would undoubtedly be home before its receipt. Thus he argued, and therefore endeavored to content himself with the resolution he had formed to make no delay; and whatever "his traps" may have been, they were got together and locked in his box at once.
He had engaged to meet a particular friend on the following evening, Friday, partly on business previous to returning to his own part the country. But he would now anticipate this visit by going there at once, so as to enable him to leave for home early next morning. He hoped to find his father better than his letter might lead him to suppose; and he had no doubt his presence and society, which he was determined should be more constant and sympathizing than heretofore, would serve to cheer him.
Nothing, then, which his aunt could say, and certainly nothing which her husband had added to what she did say, had any effect toward altering Tom's resolution to start for home on the following morning. By this means he hoped to reach his father on the evening of the second day,—railways had not been then established in any part of Ireland, not even the Dublin and Kingstown line,—and he would save the poor old man from the lonesome necessity of going to church on Sunday, "be it wet or dry."
He carried out his determination without check or hindrance, and arrived at the end of the lane leading up to Rathcashmore house soon after dusk in the evening of Saturday. He travelled by car from C—k; and the horse being neither too spirited, nor too fresh, after his journey, stood quietly on the road, with his head down, and his off fore-leg in the "first position," until the driver returned, having left Tom Murdock's box above at the house.
The meeting between old Mick and his son was as tender and affectionate on the old man's part as could well be, and as much so on Tom's as could well be expected. Old Mick had some secret anticipations—presentiment, perhaps, I should have called it—that they would never part again in this world, until they parted for the last time. Daily he felt an increasing weakness of limb, weariness of mind, which whispered to his heart that that parting was not far distant. His son's arrival, however, had the effect which he had promised to himself. He seemed to improve both in spirits and in health. If he had not thrown away the stick,—which the reader was forewarned he would adopt,—he made more use of it cutting at the kippeens, and whatever else came in his way, than as a help to his progress.
[TO BE CONTINUED.] [Page 377]
From The St. James' Magazine.
THE INVENTOR OF THE STEAM-ENGINE.
In 1828 the learned Arago, a Frenchman, published a remarkable work on the history of the steam-engine. It contains much information that had hitherto been little known on the scientific labor and discoveries of Salomon de Caus. He cites the work of the latter, entitled "Les Raisons des Forces Mouvantes," which was first published at Frankfort in 1615, and reprinted at Paris in 1624; and M. Arago draws from it the conclusion that Salomon de Caus was the original inventor of the steam-engine.
Six years after this notice of the life and labor of the French engineer, there appeared in "Le Musée des Familles" a letter from Marion Delorme, supposed to have been written on the 3d of February, 1641, to her lover Cinq-Mars, in which she tells him that she is doing the honors of Paris to an English lord, the Marquis of Worcester, and showing him all [{212}] the curiosities of that city. She goes on to say that among other institutions she had taken milord to Bicêtre, where a madman was confined for insisting on a wonderful discovery he had made on the application of steam from boiling water; that the superintendent of the asylum had shown a book to the marquis written on the subject by this lunatic; and that after reading a few pages the English nobleman begged for an interview with Salomon de Caus, from which he returned in a grave and pensive mood, declaring that this man was one of the greatest geniuses of his age.
Such is the substance of the letter of Marion Delorme; and the editor of "Le Musée des Familles" adds that the Marquis of Worcester appropriated the discovery to himself, and recorded it in his work entitled "Century of Inventions," thus causing himself to be looked upon by his countrymen as the inventor of the steam-engine.
The anecdote became very popular, and was copied into standard works, represented in engravings, etc., etc. At length some incredulous authors examined more closely into the matter, and found that not only had Salomon de Caus never been confined in a lunatic asylum, but that he had held the appointment of engineer and architect to Louis XIII. up to his death in 1630, while Marion Delorme is asserted to have visited Bicêtre in 1641!
On tracing this mystification to its source, we find that M. Henri Berthoud, a literary man of some repute, and a constant contributor to "Le Musée des Familles," confesses that the letter imputed to Marion Delorme was in fact written by himself!
But the most curious part of the story is that the world refused to believe in M. Berthoud's confession, so great a hold had the anecdote taken on the public mind; and a Paris newspaper went so far even as to declare that the original autograph of this letter was to be seen in a library in Normandy, in which province Salomon de Caus was born. M. Berthoud wrote again denying its existence, and offered a million to any one who would produce the letter. From that time the affair was no more spoken of, and Salomon de Caus was allowed to remain in undisputed possession of his fame, as having been the first to point out the use of steam in his work, "Les Raisons des Forces Mouvantes. " He had previously been employed as engineer to Henry, Prince of Wales, son of James I., and he published a volume in folio, in London, "La perspective avec les Raisons des Ombres et Miroirs. "
In his dedication of another work to the queen of England, 15th of September, 1614, we find some allusion made to the construction of hydraulic machines. On his return to France he, as before said, was appointed engineer to Louis XIII., and was doubtless patronized by Cardinal Richelieu, that great promoter of the arts and letters.
The writings of Salomon de Caus were held in much estimation among learned men during the whole of the seventeenth century. He had, however, been anticipated in the discovery of steam for the propelling of large bodies, for on the 17th of April, 1543, the Spaniard, Don Blasco de Garay, launched a steam-vessel at Barcelona, in presence of the Emperor Charles V. It was an old ship of 200 tons, called the Santissima Trinidad, which had been fitted up for the experiment, and which moved at the rate of ten miles an hour.
The inventor of this first steamer was merely looked upon as an enthusiast, whose imagination had run mad; and his only encouragement was a donation of 200,000 maravedis from his sovereign, but the emperor no more dreamt of using the discovery than did Napoleon I., three centuries later, when the ingenious Fulton suggested to him the application of steam to navigation. It is well known that Fulton was not even permitted to make an essay of this new [{213}] propelling force before the French emperor. So then, we must date the fact of the introduction of steam navigation as far back as 1543; anterior to the discovery of Salomon de Caus in 1615; to the Marquis of Worcester in 1663; to Captain Savary in 1693; to Dr. Papin in 1696; and to Fulton and others, who all lay claim to the original idea.
But perhaps we may be wrong in denying originality to these men, for we have no proof that either of them had any knowledge of the discoveries of his predecessor.
It was only on the 18th of March, 1816, that the first steam-vessel appeared in France, making her entrance into the seaport of Havre; she was the Eliza, which had left Newhaven, in England, on the previous day.
From The Fortnightly Review.
THE CLOUDS AND THE POOR.
No one can write upon the clouds without some reference to Mr. Ruskin's labors. Few will forget the four chapters in the first volume of "Modern Painters," dealing first with men's apathy for those forms of beauty which daily flit around us, and ending with the magnificent contrast between Turner and Claude, showing with what difference they had rendered the calm of the mist and the shock of the tempest, the crimson of the dawn and the fire of sunset We are, indeed, all of us too apathetic, and the summer and the winter clouds are alike unheeded by us. And yet our grey English clouds have impressed themselves upon even our language and our daily speech. Our word "sky" has nothing in common with the ciel of the French and the cielo of the Italians, which through the Latin coelum refer to the clear blue chasm of the air. Our "sky" is connected with the Old-English seua, and literally means "the place of shadows." Our "welkin" is connected with wolcen, "a cloud," and is derived from a root which points to the incessant, rolling, billowy motion of the clouds.
But if we have failed to notice the clouds and their beauty, others have not failed. Men, seeing their power, feeling their blessings, have worshipped them. Upon them our Scandinavian ancestors built their creeds, and from them created their gods and goddesses. The beauty and the delicacy of the early Aryan mythology is interwoven with the storm-cloud, which alike inspires the story of the Odyssey and solves the mystery of OEdipus. Mr. Ruskin has already quoted from Aristophanes. We could wish that he had supplemented the Athenian poet, who gives merely the latter sensuous mythological view of the clouds, with passages from the fathers, who so deeply penetrated into both their beauty and their moral aspect. With them the clouds appear no longer puissant goddesses, daughters of Father Ocean, thronging in troops from Maeotis and Mimas, their golden pitchers filled with the waters of the Nile. Their fleecy forms told them of him who "giveth snow like wool, and scattereth the hoar frost like ashes," of him who "maketh the clouds his chariots, and rideth on the wings of the wind." They could not feel the whirlwind's blast without remembering that it had borne Elijah heavenward, nor hear the thunder without remembering the thunder and lightning which clothed God on Sinai, [{214}] nor watch the evening rack without remembering that the clouds, such perhaps as they were gazing at, had received their Master out of his disciples' sight, and that again from them he should descend at his second coming. In these days of atmospheric laws, of measurements of rainfalls, and weather forecasts, we cannot by the utmost effort of the imagination place ourselves in their position. To them, as to the first Christians, heaven was directly above their heads, divided from the earth only by the screen of clouds. They must have regarded those white ethereal shadows, those dark rolling masses, in much the same way as the early sacred painters,—peopled each flake with cherubs and angels, and heard the air rustle with wings.
Be this as it may. Even if religion inspired them with such thoughts, they certainly were not insensible to the beauty which daily blossoms in the sky. "There is," cries St. Chrysostom, "a meadow on the earth and a meadow, too, in the sky. There are the various flowers of the stars, the rose below, the rainbow above." [Footnote 31] "Look up to heaven," he says, "and see how much more beautiful it is than the roof of palaces. The pavement of the palace above is much more grand than the roof below." [Footnote 32] His writings are full of metaphors drawn from the sky and the clouds. He speaks of "snow-storms of miracles," and "thick-falling showers of cares," and cries, "When God doth comfort, though sorrows come upon thee by thousands like snow-flakes, thou shalt be above them all." He reproaches men for looking down like swine to the earth, and not up to the sky, [Footnote 33] which he declares is the fairest of roofs, guiding them by its beauty to their Maker. [Footnote 34] And filled with that democratic spirit which so burns in all his writings, he cries to the poor man, "Seest thou this heaven here, how beautiful, how vast it is, how it is placed on high? This beauty the rich man enjoyeth not more than thou, nor is it in his power to thrust thee aside, and make it all his own; for as it was made for him, so it was, too, for thee. . . . . . Do not all enjoy it equally—rich and poor? . . . . . Yea, rather, if I must speak somewhat marvellously, we poor enjoy it more than they. . . . . The poor more than any enjoy the luxury of the elements." [Footnote 35]
[Footnote 31: "Homilies on the Statues." The Oxford Translation.]
[Footnote 32: "Homilies on 1 Thessalonians iv. 12." ]
[Footnote 33: "Homilles on St. Matthew." Part II. ]
[Footnote 34: "Homilles on St. John." Part II.]
[Footnote 35: "Homilles on 2 Corinthians." ]
The passage is full of the deepest interest. Mr. Ruskin has shown us with what mixed feelings the Greeks loved the clouds, and how the mediaevalist feared them. It would be well to know how they have been and are still viewed in England by the lower classes. For, as we before said, the upper classes care little about the clouds. The (
(changeful days) of England pass by unnoticed, except to fill up a gap in a conversation. St. Swithin is our national saint, but we are not enthusiastic devotees. Only when a picnic or a cricket match is involved do we trouble ourselves about the clouds. Then the barometer is studied, and the weathercock becomes an object of interest. In short, only when our pleasures are at stake do we care whether the day is wet or fine. On the other hand, life with the poor, man depends on the weather. Three continuous wet days in London throw no less than twenty thousand people out of employment. Fine weather is the poor man's bread-winner, his comforter, his physician. He may therefore be pardoned if, with Ulysses, he in the first place regards it from an economical point of view. Thus the laborers in the north midland counties speak of showery weather as "rich weather,"—that is, not only enriching the crops, but themselves. On the contrary, as producing a different effect on their calling, the sailors on the north-east [{215}] coast speak of such weather as "shabby weather," and call rain—useless to them—"dirt." This indeed must be the case. In the lowest as in the earliest stages of society, this utilitarian spirit—not necessarily base, but co-existent with even a passionate love of beauty—must prevail. The laborer whose day's wage depends on the clouds, and the fisherman whose meal rests with the winds, will naturally first think of them as subservient to the needs of life. Badly clothed, and ill-fed, they cannot possibly appreciate Mr. Kingsley's admiration of the east wind. The fisherman only knows it as producing a dearth of fish. To the midland peasant it is his "red wind,"—just as Virgil spoke of nigerrimus Auster, and as the Greeks called the north wind "the black wind," still the bise of the Mediterranean. In the east of England the nightingale is not the bird of song, not Ben Jonson's "dear good angel of the spring," but the "barley-bird," because it arrives when the barley is sown. For, on the whole, barley is more important to the peasant than song, and therefore the bird is thus called. Nevertheless the song may be highly prized, but it is still secondary. Thus we stumble upon a curious explanation of the utilitarian spirit observed in Homer and the earliest painters. And the terms of our country-people throw a plain light upon the Homeric epithets "fruitful" (
), and "loamy" (
), applied to the earth; and the phrases of our fishermen curiously illustrate the terms "barren" (
), and "teeming with fish" (
), as applied to the sea. Society in the same or parallel stage ever gives the same utterance.
The reality, too, of the elements, as Lear and Jacques would say, touches the poor to the quick. Hence in the north they simply call rain "waters," just in the same way as the Greeks used
whilst in the midland counties they nearly as often say "it is wetting" as "it is raining." Their proverbs, too, smack of the fierceness of men who have struggled with the storm. So the Anglian countryman sings of the first three days of March,
"First comes David, then comes Chad.
Then comes Winnol blowing like mad."
Their vocabulary, too, teems with words expressive of every shade and variety of weather. Our skies and clouds have entered far more into the composition of popular phrases than we are commonly aware. Such trivial expressions as "being under a cloud," "laying up for a rainy day," unconsciously reflect the character of our weather. Its power overshadows even the altar and the grave in the common rhyme:
"Happy the bride whom the sun shines on.
Happy the dead whom the rain rains on."
And the rhyme at one time really exercised a spell. You find it used by lovers amongst our Elizabethan dramatists, who so faithfully reflected the spirit of the day. Thus, in Webster's Duchess of Malfy, Ferdinand cries to the duchess about her lover:
"Let not the sun
Shine on him till he's dead."
Act iii. Sc. 2
But the poor possess an abundance of such expressions. And as life is real to them, so their sayings are quickened with reality. Thus, "to be born in a frost" is in Yorkshire an euphemism for being foolish. In the same county, "to obtain anything under the wind" means to obtain it secretly. In Norfolk the ploughman says "there is a good steward when the wind-frost blows." Just consider, too, the richness of their vocabulary of weather-terms, and the observation which it implies. Take Yorkshire alone, and there we shall find "dag," "douk," "pell," "pelse," "rouk," "rag," "sops," all standing for different kinds and degrees of rain and showers. There the white winter-mist is the "hag" the hoar-frost the "rind," the snow-flakes "clarts of snow," and the summer heat-mist the "gossamer," as Wedgwood [{216}] notices, the Marien fäden of Germany. Go into the eastern counties, and the dialect is as rich. The sea-mist is the "sea-fret" and the "sea-roke." The heavy rain, which soaks into the earth, is the "ground-rain." The light rain is the "smur" in Suffolk, the "brange" in Essex, and the "dag" in Norfolk, from which last word the various corruptions "water-dogs" and "sun-dogs" are formed.
Passing, however, from words, let us note a few of the weather-rhymes and weather-proverbs which show what accurate observers necessity has made our peasants. There is not a village where the local phenomena of mists and clouds are not preserved in some rhyme. From Cumberland to Devonshire the land echoes with these weather-saws. In the former county we have—
"If Skiddaw hath a cap,
Criffel wots full well of that."
In the latter, the rhyme—this time really a rhyme—runs:
"When Haldon wears a hat,
Let Kenton beware of a skat."
The Warwickshire and Worcestershire peasants in the Vale of Evesham repeat a similar couplet about their own Bredon, and the Leicestershire and Lincolnshire churls about their Belvoir. Weather-rhymes lie treasured up throughout the midland counties about
"The green-blue mackerel sky,
Never holds three days dry;"
in the northern counties about "mony haws, mony snaws," and in the eastern of the "near bur, rain fur."' In England we, too, can rhyme about la journée du pèlerin. For centuries the village poet has sung of "mare's tails" and "hen-scrattins," and the great "Noah's Ark cloud," and the "weather-head," of the changes of the moon, how
"Saturday change, and Sunday full,
Never did good, nor never wull."
For the peasant in his rude fashion is a meteorologist and has studied the ways of the clouds, "water wagons," as in some counties he calls them. From him Aratus might have filled another Diosemeia, and Virgil improved his first Greorgic. Our Elizabethan dramatists have borrowed some of their most life-like touches from the peasant's weather-lore. Thus Cunningham, in Beaumont and Fletcher's Wit at Several Weapons, says of wrangling:
"It never comes but, like a storm of hail,
'Tis sure to bring fine weather in the tail on't."
Act. iii., Sc. 1.
And Webster, borrowing from the sailor, makes Silvio say of the cardinal that he
"Lifts up hit nose like a fool porpoise before storm."
Duchess of Malfy, Act, iii., Sc. 3.
Shakespeare borrows from both peasant and sailor. His finest descriptions of cloud scenery, as we shall show, are based upon popular phrases. Two of his most beautiful similes illustrate the villager's weather lore. Thus Lucrece is described:
"And round about her tear-distrained eye.
Blue circles streamed like rainbows in the sky.
Those water-galls in her dim element,
Foretell new storms to those already spent."
And again, in All's Well that Ends Well, the countess says to Helena:
"What's the matter
That this distempered messenger of wet,
The many-colored Iris, rounds thine eye?"
Act. i., Sc. 3.
And the peasant's rhymes and sayings undoubtedly contain some germs of truth, or they could never have so long held their ground. Admiral Fitzroy, in his "Weather Book," has rightly given a collection of such saws, though it might with advantage be greatly enlarged. Science has before now been forestalled by some bold guess of the vulgar. And often has some happy intuition outstripped the slow labor of the inductive process.
But with the English peasant a sense of the beautiful accompanies that of the useful. Living ever out of doors, he names his clouds after natural objects. He thus gives a [{217}] reality to them which is unknown to scientific nomenclature. The "lamb storms" of Derbyshire, and the "pewit storms" in Yorkskire, significantly mark the time of year when the lambs are yeaned in the cloughs, and the pewits return to the moors to breed. His symbolism is always true. The peasant in the eastern counties talks of "bulfinch skies" to express the lovely warm vermilion tints of sunset clouds. Tennyson's "daffodil sky" is not truer, nor Homer's
more poetical. In Devonshire the peasan has his "lamb's-wool sky" the tenuia lanae vellera of Virgil. In parts of the midland counties he has his "sheep clouds" the schäffchen am himmel of the German, the same clouds which the Norfolk peasant boy has described with so perfect a touch:
"Detached in ranges through the air,
Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair.
Scattered immensely wide from east to west,
The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest."
The Derbyshire countryman knows the hard stratified masses of cloud (cumulo-strati) by the happy name of "rock clouds" and the great white rolling avalanches (cumuli) as "snow packs" and "wool packs" the former being rounder than the latter, which lie in folds pressed and packed upon one another. Further living amongst hills and mountains, watching them, as Wordsworth says, "grow" at night, enlarging with the darkness, he finely calls the great hill at the entrance to Dovedale, Thorpe Cloud. He had seen it apparently shift and move with the changes of light and atmosphere, and he could only liken it to a cloud. Perhaps, even at times, some faint glimmering might flit across his mind of the instability of the hills, and the rack to him thus became a symbol of the world's unsubstantial pageant.
The midland counties peasant, too, employs such old-world phrases as the sun is "wading" when it is straggling through a heavy scud, and the sun is "sitting" when her dark side is turned toward the earth. The poets themselves may be in vain searched for a finer expression than the first. The beginning of Sidney's sonnet, which Wordsworth has adopted,
"With how sad steps,
O moon, thou climb'st the sky,"
and Milton's description,
"As if her head she bow'd
Stooping through a fleecy cloud,"
are somewhat parallel. But the peasant's expression is equally fine. Most readers of "Modern Painters" will remember Mr. Ruskin's vivid description of what he so well calls the "helmet cloud," which rests on the peaks of mountains. But long before Mr. Ruskin wrote, the Westmoreland and Cumberland dalesman named the cloud that at times floats round the tor of Cross Fell by the still better names "helm cloud" and "helm bar."
We could indeed wish that Mr. Ruskin had more deeply studied peasant life and peasant habits. The meaning of the clouds in Turner^s "Salisbury" and "Stonehenge" would have then been more thoroughly appreciated. Fine and poetical as is Mr. Ruskin's interpretation, yet we venture to think that he misses the truth when, in this case, he refers Turner's inspiration to Greek sources. To those who have lived near the Plain, and have mixed with the shepherds, the meaning and the symbolism come far nearer home, and more closely touch the heart. Turner was here no Greek, except as all men who love beauty are Greeks. Here he was, at all events, intensely English. Sprung like so many great poets and painters from the lower class, he could sympathize with the shepherds of the Plain. To them, as to the shepherd in the "Iliad," standing on the hill-top facing the sea, shepherding their flocks, far away from any village, on the vast treeless down, the clouds become a constant source of fear or joy. Their hearts gladden as the light white clouds roll up from the English Channel, and then, as they say, "purl round" and retreat. [{218}] In spring and summer they joyfully hail the "water dogs," the "gossamer" of the Yorkshire peasant, which herald the fine weather. They, above all other English peasants, solitary on that wide plain, watch with fear the "sun-galls," Shakespeare's "water-galls," as the broken bits and patches of rainbows are called, hanging glorious, but wrathful, in the far horizon. They mark with dread "the messengers" and "water streamers," and at night, too, anxiously note the amber "wheel-cloud" round the moon.
With all this, like a true poet, Turner sympathized. He entered into the reality of shepherd life upon the Plain; its joys and its dangers. In one picture, therefore, he has given us the rain-clouds showering their blessings upon man, and in the other revealed the dread fatalistic power that ever darkens the background of life.
But we must leave the peasant, and turn to the fisherman. More even than the peasant, he naturally regards the weather in its effects upon his calling. The rain with him—we are speaking more especially now of the North Country fisherman—is "dirt," and a rainy sky a "dirty sky." The "water-galls" of the Salisbury shepherd, from which Shakespeare took those most exquisite similes, have with him lost their beauty, and are changed into "sea-devils," evil prophets of tempest. The flying clouds, that herald the storm, are with him "the flying devil and his imps." He realizes the danger, and therefore christens the clouds with rough names.
He too, like the peasant, is learned in weather-lore, and keeps an almanac of weather-rhymes in his memory. In such fishing villages as Staithes and Runswick, on the north-east Yorkshire coast, a large collection might easily be formed. They partake of the roughness and the truthfulness of the inhabitants. Such jingles as:
"When wind comes before rain
Then let your topsails remain:
But if the wind follows rain.
Then you may close reef again,"
are certainly more accurate in sense than rhythm. Again, the couplet:
"When the sun crosses line, and wind's in the east.
It will hand (hold) that way meast, first quarter at least,"
contains a warning not always to be despised. The riddle of the "brough," that amber halo of clouds seen sometimes round the moon, which the shepherds of Salisbury Plain call "the wheel," and the midland peasants "the burr," is solved by the rhyming adage:
"A far off brough
Means a near hand rough."
But we must not be too critical, and demand both sense and rhythm. It is something if in poetry we obtain truth. At all events, the Yorkshire fishermen's rhymes are quite as good as a great many of those in which Apollo formerly conveyed his prophecies to mankind. And we think that Admiral Fitzroy might have profitably added some of them to his collection.
Many a time have we seen at some little fishing village the fishermen all detained by some "breeder," or "flyer," whose meaning their eyes alone could read. If the threatened storm has not visited the coast, yet the heavy sea tumbling in without a breath of air has shown that the gale has broken not far distant. Still mistakes arise. Life is constantly sacrificed. But the glory and the pride of science is, that, whilst serving the sublimest ends, it still helps the humblest. We may be unable to control the elements. But we shall triumph over the law by obeying the law. The day will come when the notion of chance will be altogether eliminated, and the law by which the clouds are governed recognized. And in the blessings of science all men are partakers. Alike shall the fisherman steer his craft with a firmer faith in the essential goodness of all things, and the hand of the artist gain strength and his eye see a [{219}] deeper beauty when each knows that the clouds are as regular in their movements as the stars.
Of course men living by the sea, daily watching the clouds, life itself hanging upon a knowledge, however uncertain, of the meaning of their color and their shapes, have naturally named them in a rude fashion. Landsmen, who only now and then gaze at the clouds, are apt to regard them as ever changing. But not "a wisp" flies in the highest air, not "a creeper" rises out of the sea, whose shapes are not moulded by a definite law. Day by day the same forms repeat themselves with unceasing regularity. The clouds might be mapped out like the land and sea over which they fly. More than half a century has passed since Howard first gave them names. After him Forster wrote, and like him illustrated his theory with diagrams of the principal cloud-forms. And now Admiral Fitzroy has so improved upon their nomenclature, that there is not a cloud that cannot be scientifically named and defined. But our sailors and fishermen have long ago known these facts. Not a stray waif of film flecks the heavens which they have not christened. They know all kinds and shapes, from the "crow-nests," those tiny white spots (cirriti) dotting the sky, up to the glorious "Queen Anne's feather," waving far away into the horizon its soft downy plume, rippled and barred by the wind.
Thus to take a few examples. The North Yorkshire fisherman has his "dyer's neif," a small dark purple cloud, so called from its supposed resemblance to the black grained fist (neif) of a dyer. Some three thousand years ago, Elijah's servant, on Mount Carmel, cried that he saw a little cloud rising out of the sea like a man's hand. And still on the Yorkshire coast the fisherman utters the same language, and knows that cloud still as the forerunner of storm and rain. Quite as striking, too, is the way in which his names of clouds throw a light upon Shakespeare. All readers will remember the passage between Hamlet and Polonins, ending with "Very like a whale;" a phrase which has passed into a proverb for anything very improbable. And no actor can utter it on the stage without producing a peal of laughter. Yet the proverb and the laughter are equally inappropriate. The names of the clouds in the passage are all real names. The "dromedary cloud," or, as Shakespeare calls it, "the camel cloud," is well known to sailors. It is a species of cumulus, a white, packed, humped cloud, and when seen in the southern hemisphere is said to foretell heat; but, in the northern, cold. It is also called the "hunchback cloud." "See, there's the hunchback; look at its pads," North Country fishermen will say. The "weasel-cloud" also is known, though not so well, and is more often called "the hog-cloud" and the "wind-bog," from its being the forerunner of wind. But the "whale-cloud" is as well known to sailors, especially those employed in the Greenland trade, as the "bridge-cloud," or "feather-cloud," or any other well recognized form. "We shall hae a bit o' a puff, lads. See that sea-devil; and yonder's a regular finner to the norrard," have we heard North Sea captains say. A "finner," it should be explained, is a small whale. If ever there was a realist, Shakespeare was. He drew direct from nature. But, like a true artist, he knew how to mould and shape mere barren naturalism by the vitalizing power of the imagination. In its white heat he fused all things. And so, noting the common names of clouds as daily used in conversation by sailors and fishermen and seafaring folk, he could rise from the satire of Hamlet to the high pathetic pitch of Antony's speech:
"Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish;
A vapor, sometime, like a bear or lion,
A towered citadel, a pendent rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory.
With trees upon't, that nod into the world,
And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast these signs;
They are black vesper's pageants.
Eros. Ay, my lord.
Antony.
That which is now a horse, even with a thought
The rack dislimns; and makes it indistinct
As water is in water.
Eros. It does, my lord.
Antony.
My good knave, Eros, now thy captain is
Even such a body."
Anthony and Cleopatra, Act iv, Sc. 12.
Here the whole scene is colored by the imagination and ennobled by human pathos, such as no other man ever possessed. But the basis of the thought is the simplest naturalism, such as other men had seen and observed a thousand times before. The Flying Dragon is mentioned as far back as the latter part of the sixteenth century by Hyll in his "Contemplation of Mysteries," where the first rude ideas of weather forecasts may be found. The "pendent rock" and "forked mountain" are nothing more than the "rock-clouds" of the Derbyshire peasant, concerning which a local rhyme runs:
"When clouds appear like rocks and towers,
The earth's refreshed by fragrant showers."
We must not, however, lose sight of our North Country fisherman. If to him the sky is at times black with terror, yet it is also splendid with beauty. In fine weather it is his garden, the heavenly "meadow," as St. Chrysostom would say, blossomed over with flakes and garlands of cloud-bloom, white and peach-colored. He has his names for them, his "crow buds," and his "cherry flowers," and the great "tree cloud" with its purple branches. It is, too, his fairyland full of loveliest shapes flying and wandering here and there, "pigeons," as he calls those white detached winged "flyers," "flying fish," "streamers," and pencilled "plumes."
Thus far of the peasant and the sailor. They certainly more than any one else recognize the terror and the beauty of cloud scenery. The well-to-do man knows the clouds only as they affect his pleasures. Life is not dependent upon them, and he therefore misses that true enjoyment which springs from reality. On the whole, he thinks with the Epicurean that rain ought to fall by night, whilst his wife sighs for Italy and blue skies. But let us, on the contrary, love the grey cloud, and rather hold with that fine old skipper, who, after enduring six months of unbroken weather in the Bay of Naples, cried out on seeing a cloud, "Turn out, boys, turn out; here's weather as is weather; none of your everlasting blue sky." Let us rather love the storm-rack that beats against our island. This it is that gives the color to the cheeks of our maidens; this that has moulded our features, and deepened the lines of our faces, and hardened the national character.
Let us be thankful, with Mr. Raskin, that nowhere can the swiftness of the rain-cloud be seen as in England, nowhere in such perfection as among the Derbyshire hills; nowhere the keenness of the storm be felt as on a Yorkshire wold. [Footnote 36] But in these days even the power of the elements is threatened. We have seen in Derbyshire, when the west wind blows, the cloughs filled, not with troops of clouds dashing slantwise up the valleys, but choked with dull rolling Lancashire smoke; seen, under this canopy of fog, the snow on the Edges turn yellow and brown. One by one, too, the blast furnaces are burning up the Yorkshire moors. And instead of white wreaths of clouds crowning the wolds, a pillar of fire lights them up by night, and a cloud of smoke darkens them by day.
[Footnote 36: "Modern Painter," vol v., part vii., chap. iv., § 14.]
Luckily the sea-coast still remains unpolluted. And if any one really wishes to study the clouds, let him go to the North Yorkshire and Northumberland coasts in winter. Then will he understand something of their majesty and power; then will he see the true purple wind-tints, see the sky a wilderness full of strange weird creatures—"wild hogs," those purple hump-backed clouds running one after another in a line, and the "Flying Devil and his imps" marshalling the storm, which is banking up out of the German ocean; see, too, the "Norway bishop" rise—a man's figure clothed [{221}] in white, with outstretched arms, under whose ban many a fisherman from Staithes and Runswick has sunk; see the figure melt and disappear in a mist of sleet and snow and hail; and then, last of all, see "the weather-gleam," when all objects loom against the one pale rift of sky, as ships loom in an east wind.
These sights have never been painted, and never can. Even Turner cannot give them. For who can give that which is the greatest pleasure in watching the clouds, the feeling of change? Yon cannot paint the movement of the rack, as the vapor shifts from form to form, now a mountain, now a dragon, now a fish, each change answering to the changes of the spirit. Only the poets can paint the clouds and their lessons—only Shelley and Shakespeare. But put away even Shakespeare himself. Love them, study them from nature. And, as St. Chrysostom says, the poor man, more than any one else, enjoys "the luxury of the elements." The lawyer may hold cujus solum ejus ad coelum; but he who most enjoys the clouds, as with all things else, is their real possessor. And the artist and the poor man, though they may not have a rood of ground to call their own, here reign over an empire.
Translated from the German.
MALINES AND WÜRZBURG.
A SKETCH OF THE CATHOLIC CONGRESSES HELD AT MALINES AND WÜRZBURG.
BY ANDREW NIEDERMASSER.
CHAPTER II.
ART.
The Catholic reunions, both in Belgium and in Germany, have taken a special interest in Christian art; for religion is at once the source and the end of true art. "Religion," says Lasaulx, "is the soul of every useful measure, the vivifying principle in the life of nations, the permanent basis of true philanthropy. In its infancy, as well as during its most flourishing periods, at all times and among all nations, art has ever been the handmaid of religion. What is the last and highest aim of architecture? The erection of churches. How has sculpture won its noblest triumphs? In pagan antiquity, by representations of the heathen deities; since the dawn of Christianity, by presenting to the admiration of the world statues of our Saviour and his saints. In like manner the noblest subjects of painting have been furnished by religion, and by history, both sacred and profane. And do we not meet with the same phenomenon in music and religions poetry? Hence we may safely conclude that art is the barometer of a nation's civilization, and above all of its religious status. A people animated with a lively faith will not hesitate to manifest it outwardly, sparing neither trouble nor expense, and art affords the most suitable means of giving expression to its feelings. If, on the other hand, art is neglected by a nation, it is a certain sign that its mental and spiritual condition is abnormal; that it must be under the influence of some disturbing agency.
Art, in its relations to religion and the Church, is one of the subjects that have claimed the attention of the Catholic congresses; they discussed the principles of religious architecture, painting, sculpture, and of church music; they considered the subject of decorating the sanctuaries of religion in all its branches, and examined the highest and most important problems of art.
Art, as cultivated during the first [{222}] ages of Christianity and during the middle ages, is a subject complete in itself, for we can trace its use, its progress, and decay, as well as the development of the ideas which gave it life. Between Christian and pagan art there is no doubt a connecting link; in fact, we may safely assert that in this respect, no less than in all others, there is a great unbroken chain that unites the present age with antiquity. Still, no one can deny that there is a great and immense difference between Christian nations and those of antiquity. For, since the birth of Christianity, we may trace in history a new, active, and all-pervading principle. What the greatest minds of the pagan world scarcely suspected, has become the common property of all nations and of all men. Christianity is built on foundations very different from those on which rested the cumbrous fabric of paganism. It has impressed an original character on art, in every branch of which it has produced results of undoubted excellence, worthy of our admiration. Christian art suffers not by comparison with the masterpieces of antiquity. Narrow-minded and prejudiced persons only will maintain that the Greeks alone excelled in the arts. The independence and excellence of Christian art, compared with that of classic Greece and Rome, is by no means generally admitted; for many are unwilling to allow to the Church the credit, which it may justly claim, of promoting and patronizing the arts. During the last century art has lacked its proper basis—truth, for art is founded on truth. But since nations have been led astray by the erroneous idea that art was revived at Florence, and thence spread over all Europe, it has lost its independence, confined itself to mere imitations of the Greeks and Romans, and gradually decayed more and more. In the history of art no period appears darker than the so-called age of renaissance, and since then Christian art has been either misunderstood or entirely despised. Not long ago the masterpieces of Gothic architecture were looked upon as barbarous; paintings on wood which had for ages graced the European temples were removed, broken to pieces, and burnt, and alters of the most elaborate workmanship were treated as mere rubbish. To level to the ground the noble cathedrals of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was considered a service to art. And this was done, not by the ignorant, but by the protectors of learning; nay, by artists themselves, who were foremost in the work of destruction. A French architect published an essay to prove that it would advance the interests of art to turn the cathedral of Spires into a warehouse. On the cathedrals of Cologne and Strasbourg, also, French architects, living at the beginning of the nineteenth century, had pronounced sentence of condemnation. No later than 1825, when Charles X. was crowned in the cathedral of Rheims, the heads of two hundred statues were struck off, through fear that the statues might be thrown down on occasion of the royal salute. No one seems to have thought of fastening the images; in fact, why should they trouble themselves about the workmanship of barbarians? During the revolution of 1789, the French had unfortunately acquired too much skill in smashing the statues that crowned their grandest cathedrals.
During the period of which we speak, how false was the appreciation of what is beautiful in art! To man's proud spirit it is humiliating, indeed, to know his own weakness; to know that for years he may remain in the darkness of error, without having the strength to burst the chains that fetter him.
At the beginning of the present century more correct ideas on this subject were entertained and spread by several eminent German artists, and for the last thirty years justice has been done to the claims of the middle ages. Actively co-operating with this [{223}] movement, the Catholic conventions of Germany and Belgium have achieved many desirable results.
At Malines, in 1864, the section for Christian art was very numerously attended; more than a hundred archaeologists and artists from every country in Europe had there met to take part in lively and interesting debates on Christian art, whilst seventy musicians, professionals, and amateurs held their sessions in another part of the building. Several years ago, I was present at the general meeting of the German architects at Frankfort, but I own that in interest their discussions fell far below those to which I listened at Malines. In 1857, at the general reunion of the Christian art associations in Germany, which met at Regensburg, several hundred commissioners were present, and on that occasion were displayed the same enthusiasm, the same freshness and interest, which distinguished the discussions at Malines. But this zeal has long died out; the Christian art associations of Germany never met again; and at Würzburg, Frankfort, and Aix-la-Chapelle, the Catholic conventions scarcely deigned to notice Christian art.
The chairman of the section for Christian art at Malines was Viscount du Bus de Ghisignies. The viscount's appearance is noble and striking; he seems to have been born to command. In the heat of the combat du Bus never loses his self-possession; his clear and steady eye watches the battle; not a word escapes his notice; fair and unprejudiced, he deals out equal justice to all. If the opinions of a speaker clash with his own, he twirls his martial moustache with more than ordinary vigor; but he allows to every one the rights he may justly claim. As chairman, his duties are not unattended with difficulty. Romans and Teutons, Frenchman and Britons, Dutchmen and Belgians, meet alternately in friendly strife; many a blow is exchanged, principle clashes with principle, and deeply-seated prejudices are uprooted. Convinced that the harmony of mind, as that of sounds, is the product of contrast, du Bus acted in accordance with his convictions and nobly fulfilled the task assigned him. The debates of his section were more animated and more instructive than those of any other.
At the right of du Bus sat the vice-president of the section. Professor Cartuyvels, of Louvain, a man well-versed in parliamentary usage, in which he was excelled by no one except, perhaps, by A. Reichensperger. A young clergyman from Brabant, Cartuyvels displays a master mind; equally skilled in aesthetics and in the philosophy and history of art, the value of these acquirements is enhanced by his knowledge of the liturgy, of canon law, and of holy writ. He is thoroughly acquainted with the works of the great masters of Germany and Italy. His words proclaim the enthusiasm with which he devotes all the faculties of his soul to the service of Christian art.
Always prepared to speak, he boldly upholds the principles which he deems correct. He defends them with ardor and confidence of success, and he seldom fails to carry his point; few are able to cope with him. It was a glorious sight to see A. Reichensperger and Cartuyvels engaged in discussion; for
"Sublimest beauty comes to light
When powerful extremes unite!"
James Weale was a representative of England and English art at Malines. For many years Weale has made Bruges his home, and exerted considerable influence on Belgian art; nevertheless, he is a thorough Englishman. He is a convert and a disciple of Canon Oakley. By becoming a Catholic, as is often the case in England, Weale incurred pecuniary losses; but this sacrifice has only purified and strengthened his love for the Church. The trials he has undergone have unveiled the heroic qualities of his heart The greater number of English converts (and this no one who has had [{224}] the happiness of personal acquaintance with them will dispute) are men distinguished for their great learning and affable manners, and Weale is no exception to this rule. His principles of art are rigorous, I had almost said exclusive, but he is convinced of their correctness. In his views he is unique and definite; he propounds them with uncommon clearness and precision. When opposing false principles, he is not very choice in his expressions, generally preferring the strongest. Weale is the uncompromising enemy of all sham and equivocation. In the domain of art fails attainments are immense. He knows England, the Netherlands, Germany, France, and Italy. His quick eye instantly discovers the merits of a painting. That the clergy may become familiar with every branch of Christian art, is his most ardent desire. At Bruges Weale publishes "Le Beffroi," an archaeological journal; he would have been the most suitable candidate for the newly founded chair of archaeology at Louvain.
Having spoken of Weale, we are now led to notice his friend Bethune, of Ghent. He is a painter, but confines himself chiefly to painting on glass. Brought up in the school of the celebrated English architect, Welby Pugin, who, though only forty years of age when he died, in 1852, had already built more than two hundred churches and chapels, his figures are distinguished by purity of style; he carries out in practice the theories of Weale. However, he does not by any means reject everything modern, but judiciously seeks to combine the beauties of the modern with those of the ancient style of art. Bethune is remarkable both for his piety and his learning, and this accounts for the charm and instructiveness of his conversation. He admires Germany and German art, without being blind to its defects; on the contrary, his criticisms on the best productions of modern German painting are severe, not to say harsh. His paintings on glass are in marked contrast to the productions of the Munich school. He does not delight in great historical paintings on glass, which tend to make us forget that we are looking at a window, but seeks to attain unity of design by subordinating his picture to the plan of the architect. In the debates at Malines, Bethune did not take so prominent a part as Weale. Another active member of the section of Christian art was Bethune's brother, Canon F. A. L. Bethune, professor of archaeology in the seminary at Bruges. Among the French members, Lavedan deserves to be mentioned in the first instance. He is a well-known French journalist, who seems to have a great taste for the fine arts. With untiring ardor he spoke on every question discussed, and, in spite of being somewhat prolix, his remarks were always listened to with pleasure. Although noted rather for wit and polite literature than for depth of learning, he was master of the situation, and to unhorse him was not an easy task. He pleaded eloquently for the establishment of a permanent art exhibition. Whilst Lavedan, like Weale, applies himself to the theory of art, Jaumot, like Bethune, is a practical artist. Of the few artists that France can boast of, Jaumot is one of the best; but he was not permitted to exhibit his cartoons, and has not met with the encouragement so indispensable to the artist Jaumot complainant of this at Malines, and maintained that the Belgian clergy are much better acquainted with the principles of Christian art than the clergy of France. The Abbe Carion attracted attention by his profound knowledge of archaeology; all his remarks proved that he understands thoroughly the subject he treated, though he does not present his ideas in so pleasing a manner as others. Any seminary may justly be proud of such professors as Messrs. Carion, Bethune, and Cartuyvels. No one contributed more to the merriment of the assembly than Van Schendel, of Antwerp, [{225}] an old painter, who delights in sketches of Dutch family life. He railed at everything, and at times he became quite sarcastic. To find fault seemed to be his sole purpose; whether justly or not, was of little consequence. He succeeded most admirably in boring the chairman. Van Schendel seems to dislike the French language, for he always preferred to speak Dutch. I might speak of many more, but I shall only mention Delbig, a German painter, residing at Liege; Alfred Geelhand, Leon de Monge, Martin, Isard, Mommaerts, of Brussels; Bordeau; de Fleury, an enthusiastic admirer of Flandrin, the great French painter; Van de Necker, the Abbé Huguet, and the Abbé Van Drival.
I cannot forbear speaking of A. Reichensperger, of Cologne. For almost a quarter of a century Reichensperger has been the champion of Christian art, not only in Germany, where he is looked upon as the foremost defender of German art during the middle ages, but also in France and England. In Cologne he had been at the head of the society for completing the cathedral. In the Prussian chambers at Berlin he has always exerted himself in favor of true art. He was president of the general meeting of the Christian art unions, held at Regensburg in 1857, and distinguished himself as an orator at the congress of artists that assembled at Antwerp some years ago. He was also present at Malines, and his presence was of great advantage to the Romanic delegates. Reichensperger is delighted to meet with opposition; nay, he calls it forth, for without it he appears dissatisfied. In fact, a debate is impossible without opposition. At Malines, it is true, opponents were not wanting, but he vanquished them all. Manfully upholding his German principles, he convinced many of their correctness. Reichensperger has often earned applause, he has been the hero of many a parliamentary triumph, during the twelve years that he has been considered one of the five best speakers in the Prussian parliament, but in the Petit Seminaire at Malines he gained his most brilliant successes. His French may not at all times be classical; but his pointed expressions charmed his French audience. His style is not florid, but his speeches sparkle with wit, humor, and sarcasm. His ready logic completely astounded his adversaries. All his remarks called forth thundering applause, which finally grew so noisy that the chairman of the first section, "Les OEuvres Religieuses" deemed it necessary to interfere and request a little more moderation.
But what was the subject of all these learned deliberations? Many questions were discussed, and variety constituted one of the principal charms of the proceedings, AEthetics were treated in the first place; the learned speakers philosophized concerning the ideas of truth, of goodness, and of beauty. One hundred and two years have rolled by since Baumgarten, the father of aesthetics, died. In 1750 and 1758 he published the two volumes of his celebrated work entitled "AEsthetica. " For more than a hundred years, therefore, aesthetics have been cultivated with more or less zeal, but with very little success; the science seems to stagnate because the principles on which it is based are unsound. Hence most books on aesthetics are loathed. The best among the recent works on this subject was written by Lasaulx; but a philosophy of art, from a Catholic point of view, we do not yet possess, for Dursch's "AEsthetics" has many defects. Jacobs' "Art and the Church" might, if completed, have supplied a want long felt.
The discussions on the beautiful led to no important results. Of more practical consequence was the resolution condemning French pictures. Mommaerts made an attempt to establish in Brussels a society whose object was to be the diffusion of pictures artistically unobjectionable. At Paris Meniolle, assisted by German artists, [{226}] intends to do the same for France, where hitherto Schulgen, of Düsseldorf, has, so to say, held a monopoly. I hope that both projects may be successful, and escape the fate of many similar enterprises, which are nipped in the bud. In all likelihood no similar society will do so much good, and extend its influence so far, as the Düsseldorf association for the diffusion of good pictures.
Much time was spent in discussing the establishment of museums like those of Sydenham and Kensington, near London, and in listening to speeches on fresco paintings, on the stations of the cross, on exhibitions of works of art, and on the encouragement of artists. On motion of Weale, a resolution was adopted to found a Belgian national museum at Louvain, and Reichensperger prevailed on the assembly to pledge itself to further the completion of St. Rombaut's cathedral at Malines.
Let this suffice. The musicians would complain, perhaps, were we to pass them unnoticed. At the request of the general committee at Brussels, Canon Devroye and Chevalier H. Van Elewyk had prepared eight theses for discussion. These propositions treat of choral music, of the education of organists, of the influence of religious music, of the establishment of societies for the promotion of church music, and the like. It was proposed to found a musical academy, in which a special department for religious music is to be established.
Canon Devroye presided; his interesting remarks were always listened to with pleasure. Dr. Paul Alberdingk-Thijm, of Amsterdam, formerly of Louvain, was vice-president. He is well acquainted with Gregorian music and church music in general—of German music also; even of our most common popular songs he has a thorough practical knowledge; many of our German songs he renders with exquisite taste. We shall see more of him hereafter. Verooitte, of Paris, was chosen to be honorary vice-president. He is well known in France. He founded the academy for religious music in Paris, which has been in successful operation for some time, and has contributed materially to raise the character of religious music in that country. Chevalier Van Elewyk has done all in his power to establish in Louvain a society for the promotion of church music, and his exertions were not in vain. A society having the same object in view was formed at Amsterdam. At Malines there were also several organ-builders, whose practical advice was of great advantage to the musical section; the foremost among them were Cavaillé-Coll, of Paris; Mercklin, of Brussels; and Loret, of Malines.
One of the most remarkable personages at the congress was F. Hermann, prior of the Carmelites in London. F. Hermann Cohen, the pianist is a native of Hamburg, and greatly esteemed by the Catholics of Germany. The manner of his conversion was most wonderful and in many of its features resembled that of Alphonsus Ratisbonne. Whenever I saw F. Hermann, in his fine Carmelite habit, I thought of another great musician, Liszt, whom I had seen and admired at Rome, and of the Franciscan, F. Singer, who invented the wonderful instrument to the tones of which I had the pleasure of listening at the general convention held at Salzburg in 1857. True, F. Hermann is not only an eminent musician—God has gifted him with many other endowments; as an orator, especially, he is overpowering, able to move the most unfeeling. Another monk, a fine and imposing figure and a master of religious music, the Franciscan friar Egidius, of Jerusalem, offered very valuable advice. Friar Julian, of Brussels, who has supplied three nations with organists, took an active part in the debates. Beside these I shall mention, Arthur de la Croix, of Tournay, who has written several works on religious music; the Abbé Loth, of Rouen, who deserves honorable mention as one of [{227}] the most zealous promoters of church music; Lemmens, editor of "L'Organiste Catholique;" Emile Laminne, of Tongres, who most eloquently insists on the cultivation of music in seminaries, and on the appointment of a special committee for music in every diocese. F. Faa di Bruno, of St. Peter's, in London, spoke on oratorios; the Abbé Deschutter, of Antwerp, on sacred music at concerts, Edmund Duval presented a paper on the accompaniment of plain chant. L'Abbé de Mayer, Prof. Deyoght, and Hafkenscheid, of Amsterdam, also made important suggestions. On motion of Dr. Paul Alberdingk-Thijm, the most eminent authorities on sacred music were appointed corresponding members. The following were elected: Meluzzi, musical director at St. Peter's, Rome; Dandini, secretary of the academy of St. Cecilia at Rome; Don Hilarion Eslava, of Madrid; the Duke de San Clemente, of Florence; John Lambert, of London; Tornan, archaeologist at Paris; Charles Verooitte, of Paris; the Abbé Loth, of Rome; Friar Egidius, of Jerusalem; F. Hermann, of London; T. J. Alberdingk-Thijm, publisher at Amsterdam; and F. Stein, pastor of St. Ursula's, Cologne.
Hitherto very little has been done for the reformation of church music; in Germany, as elsewhere, there still exist many reasons for complaining. Nevertheless, the Gregorian chant is no more antiquated than the ceremonies of the Church, her liturgy, her liturgical language, or the vestments used at her offices. Who is there that does not admire the melody of the sacred hymns, their perfect form, their solemnity, and their dignity? Moreover, the plain chant demands no violent exertion on the part of the singer. The voice is strained neither by difficult figures nor by unnatural intervals, nor does it require the same compass as the modern music. Unlike instrumental music, choral music does not stun the hearer by its noisy effect, so unbecoming divine service.
Nor has sufficient attention been paid to several other points; to the more thorough study of the liturgy, and of the sacred hymns of the Church, and to the cultivation of popular music.
Lastly, we must briefly notice the exhibition connected with the congress of Malines. It was very interesting, and formed a pleasing feature of the first and particularly of the second congress. Those who contributed most towards its success were, James Weale, of Bruges, Bethune, of Ghent, Canon de Bleser, and Abbé Deloigne. Many weeks of patient research, under the most favorable circumstances, would not enable us to meet with so many specimens of mediaeval art; in fact, the collection was of great importance to the student of archaeology.
The works of living masters, too, were on exhibition, and many of them called forth our especial interest and admiration. They proved conclusively that the attempts recently made to restore Christian art to its pristine purity have not been altogether fruitless. In many places our artisans have again begun to study the medieval art, and many of them rival in the excellence of their productions the masters of the middle ages. How beautiful were many pieces of bronze statuary, of jewelry, and of embroidery, that we found at Malines! The bronze chandeliers, candelabra, and desks sent by Hart, of London, surpassed in purity of style and beauty the best works of the old Belgian masters. The Romanic and Gothic ciboria, chalices, remonstrances, chandeliers, reliquaries, censers, crosses, croziers, and the like, contributed by such artists as Bourdon de Bruyne, of Ghent, Martin Vogeno, of Aix-la-Chapelle, Hellner, of Kempen-on-the-Rhine, rivalled the most admired productions of the middle ages; the three artists above-mentioned fully deserved the prizes awarded them by the congress. Among the sculptors whose statuary graced the exhibition, well-merited praise was bestowed on de Broeck and Van Wint, of Antwerp, and [{228}] Pieckerey, of Bruges. The paintings on glass, also, exhibited by Westlake, of London, met with general approbation. The committee which awarded the premiums consisted of Voisin, of Tournay; von Bock, of Aix-la-Chapelle; Van Drival, of Arras; Felix Bethune and John Bethune, of Ghent; Cartuyvels, of Liege; Weale, of Bruges; and Helbeig, of Liege.
Lambotte, of Liege, Reinhold Aasters, of Aix-la-Chapelle, John Goyers, of Malines, and several others had sent samples of workmanship in gold. The silk embroideries of Von Lambrechts-Martin, of Louvain, attracted considerable attention, as did also the sculptures of Champigneulle, of Metz, and of Phyffers, a Belgian sculptor living in London. Many other names I have forgotten; but on the whole the English and Germans excelled the French and Belgians. J.F. Casaretto, of Crefeld, had brought to Malines a number of vestments, banners, chasubles, copes, etc, and displayed them to advantage at the Hotel Liederkercke. They attracted the notice of the Belgian bishops no less than of the foreign clergy, and their excellence was acknowledged by all, especially by Bishop Dupanloup, of Orleans. In Germany, for the last twelve years, Casaretto has enjoyed the patronage of the bishops and clergy. Though there were at Malines many excellent samples of workmanship, there was also much that did not soar above mediocrity, and much that fell beneath it. Even many experienced artisans are guilty of gross mistakes; some goldsmiths, for instance, manufacture patens entirely unfit for use. The paten should be perfectly smooth and even, without any ornament. In Malines there were many chalices whose feet were so made that it would be next to impossible to hold them firmly without injuring the hand of the celebrant. In many of the remonstrances and other sacred vessels, also, serious defects were noticeable, a proof that there is still room for improvement. To attain a proper degree of perfection, there should be a closer union of the mechanical and the fine arts and of both with science. Let our artisans be acquainted with the principles of art, let them be thoroughly instructed in the rules laid down by the Church for the guidance of the artist, let them come into closer contact with men of science; in fine, let them, thus instructed, be penetrated by the spirit of faith, purified and ennobled thereby, and they will certainly produce workmanship worthy of our admiration. On this subject many useful suggestions were made by Cardinal Wiseman in 1863, in his well-known lecture on the "Connection between Science and Art."
The results of the debates of the section on art were, as we stated above, the establishment of a professorship of ecclesiastical archaeology at Louvain and the foundation of a national museum at the same place. Considering the many reasons as eloquently urged in its favor, we doubt not that active and immediate measures will be taken for the completion of the cathedral of Malines. On the success of the German artists at the Malines exhibition we lay the more stress because, at the same time, Ittenbach, of Düsseldorf, surpassed all his competitors at the Antwerp exhibition of paintings, and the historical painter, Edward Steinle, of Frankfort-on-the-Main, by his cartoons, exhibited at Brussels, gained new triumphs for true Christian art. To the latter fact, Güffers and Swerts, the best Belgian painters, cheerfully bore witness. In the debates at Malines the superiority of German art was repeatedly acknowledged by representatives of all nations.
To return to our fatherland. At the head of the movement for the regeneration of art in Germany, which distinguished the first half of the nineteenth century was a Catholic prince, King Louis I. of Bavaria. It was he, also, who, partly by renovating the cathedrals of Regensburg, Bamberg, and Spires, and partly by erecting so [{229}] many beautiful temples at Munich, rescued Christian art from the disrepute into which it had fallen. Rarely has so much been done for art in so short a time as in Bavaria under Louis I.; few monarchs have been more liberal patrons of every department of art. Many are of opinion that King Louis' protection should have been confined to German art, but his great soul scorned such narrow-minded ideas, and he extended his care to ancient classical art. Foremost among those who, since 1842, strove to regenerate Christian art in its purely German form was King Louis' friend, Cardinal Geissel, of Cologne. The association for completing the cathedral of Cologne called forth great artistic activity; in that famous edifice was seen the symbol of the Catholic Church in Germany, and of the final return of all Germany to the one true faith.
To their exertions we must ascribe the advancement of Christian art previous to the meeting of the first Catholic general convention. These conventions have always upheld the claims of Christian art. At Linz, in 1850, was founded the "Christian Art Union of Germany." In a few years this society spread over every part of our country. The Rhenish art unions were the most active, and exercised considerable influence on those of southwestern Germany; the latter, however, have proved more lasting and have accomplished more important results.
When once fairly established, the Christian art union held several general meetings, the first of which took place at Cologne in September, 1856. The beginning was insignificant, for scarcely a hundred delegates assembled, and many of these hailed from the Rhenish provinces. In spite of this drawback, the transactions were far more interesting than those of many so-called "historical associations," that busied themselves with Celtic, Roman, and German antiquities. Nay, considering the merit of the speeches delivered, they compare favorably with those of the German architectural society. A still more brilliant future, however, was in store for the Christian art union. In 1857, the second general meeting was held at Regensburg, at which the number of archaeologists and artists amounted to several hundred. For three days they assembled in the splendid church of St. Ulric, discussed some most important questions, and listened to several brilliant speeches. The treasures of mediaeval art, sent from every part of the diocese of Regensburg, formed a magnificent collection, for, among all the cities of Germany, Regensburg is one of the richest in monuments of mediaeval times, whilst its cathedral is one of the finest in the world. A. Reichensperger, the chairman, enforced strict order in debate; next to him sat Dr. F. Streber, professor at Munich. As a successful student of numismatics, his fame was European; in fact he was a man of superior learning. His best work is his "History of Christian Art," which was not published previous to his death, but whose excellence no one will undervalue. If an illustrated edition were published, it would supplant all other class-books on the same subject, and be a sure guide and basis of all future researches. And no wonder, for no man had a clearer and more general knowledge of everything relating to the history of art than Streber. We hope soon to see this history grace every collection of the Catholic classics of Germany.
Another eminent member of the assembly was Dr. Zarbl, canon of the cathedral at Munich. An eloquent speaker, a writer who recounted his travels in an interesting manner, and a zealous pastor of souls, the canon was a patron of Christian art, and intimately acquainted with its literature. His residence resembled a museum of mediaeval curiosities. He was president of the Regensburg art union, and well was he fitted to fulfil his duties. When he walked up the aisles of his cathedral, his appearance was majestic [{230}] His words were impressive and his actions cautious and well considered. Overtopping most men, and inspiring all with respect, strangers looked up to him with a feeling akin to awe, whilst to those who knew him he was a kind and esteemed friend. Canon Zarbl departed this life long ago, to receive the reward of his virtues. A Benedictine of the abbey at Metten, on the Danube, a man whose memory is cherished by thousands of his pupils, F. Ildephonsus Lehner, was the soul of the Regensburg art union in 1857. As director of the seminary he labored successfully to imbue his students with an ardent love of Christian art, the principles of which he had mastered at an early age. This he effected not so much by aesthetic: theories as by practical instruction. At Metten he founded a museum of mediaeval art, he formed a school which was frequented by many talented young men, and assisted by several friends he founded the Regensburg diocesan art union, and encouraged artistic literature. Foremost among his disciples is George Dengler, of Regensburg, who bids fair to attain considerable eminence in architecture. At the Würzburg general convention, in 1864, F. Ildephonsus was chosen chairman of the section of Christian art, and in an eloquent address he urged the German clergy to study the Catholic liturgy and the regulations of the Church regarding Christian art.
We must not forget to mention G. Jacob. He was associated for a long time with Dr. Amberger, one of the first theologians of the present age, and Grillmaier, the most pious priest that I have ever met with, in the direction of the seminary at Regensburg, where he was professor of the history of art. At the suggestion of the Regent Dirschedl, of Regensburg, and of F. Ildephonsus, Jacob wrote his work on art in the service of the Church, which was published at the time of the Regensburg congress. It is a truly admirable work, especially as a manual for theologians and priests.
In a few weeks it spread all over Germany, and during the last seven years nothing has been written equal to it in its kind. The publication of Streber's "History of Art" and a new edition of Jacob's "Handbook" would be of great service to the German clergy, and would greatly promote the study of Christian art.
Sighart, of Freising, who had just published his "Albertus Magnus," also spoke at Regensburg. He is the most distinguished of the many writers on the history of art of whom Bavaria justly boasts; twelve years have elapsed since he began the long series of his valuable works by his history of the cathedral of Freising. His "History of Plastic Art in Bavaria," published in 1863, was the crowning effort of his genius and labors. No other German country can boast of so complete and perfect a history. He also called into existence a museum of mediaeval art, and brought to the notice of the learned all the artistic treasures of the archdiocese. His example has been imitated in several Bavarian dioceses.
Himioben, of Mayence, was the representative of the art union founded by him in that diocese. In fact Himioben was one of the firmest stays of the Catholic association in Mayence, and a prominent orator at all the general conventions. His appearance was striking, and predisposed all in his favor. His sparkling eyes, his fine flowing hair, his noble figure, his sonorous voice, and his youthful ardor and enthusiasm, made him the favorite of all who had the pleasure of listening to him. "I have seen the seed germinate, and the flowers bud; you will see them in full bloom, and reap the fruit." Such were his words to a younger friend in the fall of 1860, and well do they express his ideas concerning the regeneration of religious life in the nineteenth century. Himioben used all his influence in favor of renovating the cathedral of Mayence, though he did not live to see the repairs completed. Would that he had witnessed [{231}] the twentieth of November, 1864, when the Catholic cause acquired new strength by the confederation of the Rhenish cities!
Stein, of Cologne, spoke on church music; Professor Reischl, of Regensburg, on hymnology; Dr. Durch, of Rottweil, on aesthetics; whilst Wiest urged the renovation of the cathedral at Ulm. But I cannot mention all who addressed the assembly at Regensburg. But though there were many and distinguished orators at Regensburg, the palm of superior success belongs to a musician, J. Mettenleiter, who edited the "Musica Divina" in connection with Canon Proske, and who at Regensburg gave a practical proof of what true church music is. All were transported by the magical power of harmony. Regensburg possesses the best school of church music in Germany, and the choir of its cathedral rivals that of the Sistine chapel. Besides Mettenleiter and Proske, we must mention Schrems, Wesselack, and Witt.
The zeal displayed at Regensburg was short-lived; the German art union never met again in general convention. Since 1858 it has again become a mere section of the general conventions of the Catholic societies in Germany. At the Munich convention, in 1861, considerable interest was taken in Christian art; but at Aix-la-Chapelle, Frankfort, and Würzburg it had few any friends. At Aix-la-Chapelle, Professor Hutmacher was chairman of the section of art, at Frankfort Prof. Steinle, whilst at Würzburg the most active members were F. Ildephonsus and Dean Schwarz, of Böhmenkirch, in Wirtemberg.
But though much has been done for Christian art by the establishment of art unions and their general meetings, it has likewise been promoted in many other ways. The members of the Catholic art unions not only devoted themselves to the study of art, but also encouraged others to make researches on this subject, and it is but just to add that during the past twelve years much has been accomplished that deserves unqualified praise. To the Bozen art union we owe the "History of the Development of Religious Architecture in the Tyrol," the second part of which was published a year ago by Karl Atz. The Linz art union, after commissioning Florian Wiener to write directions for researches on religious monuments, is now preparing a history of art in the diocese of Linz. Many years ago Giefers rendered a similar service to Paderborn, Schwarz and Laib to Rottenburg, and Reichensperger to the Rhenish dioceses. Besides establishing the Diocesan museum, the richest collection of this kind in Germany, the Cologne art union founded the "Journal of Christian Art." The Regensburg union published the work of Jacob mentioned above, and distributed it among its members. Sighart made researches in the archdiocese of Munich; whilst Adalbert Grimm, of Augsburg, wrote a history of his native diocese. Great services were rendered to Eichstädt by Maitzl, to Bamberg by Kotschenreuter, to Würzburg by Wieland, to Limburg on the Lahn by Ibach, to Spires by Remling and Molitor, and to Münster by Zeke. By the advice of Prof. Alzog, the Freiburg union commenced in 1862 the publication of an art journal. To the Rottenburg art union we are indebted for an important work on altars, by Dean Schwarz and Pastor Laib. One of the most active societies is that of Luxemburg, which has published an art journal since 1861. These researches were based on those of the historical associations and on some valuable essays, some of which had been written long before. Almost every cathedral in Germany can boast of its historian. Thus Geissel wrote the history of the Imperial cathedral (1826-8); Wetter and Werner that of the cathedral at Mayence (1835); Boisserée that of the Cologne cathedral (1821-3); and Giefers that of the cathedral at Paderborn. To Perger we owe a sketch of St. Stephen's at [{232}] Vienna; to Himmelstein, one of the Cathedral at Würzburg; whilst Grimm and Allioli published an incomplete sketch of the cathedral at Augsburg, and the histories of the Hildesheim, Xanten, and Freising cathedrals were written by Kratz, Zehe, and Sighart. One of the most instructive works lately published is Schreegraf's history of the cathedral at Regensburg, in three volumes. Every diocese in Germany has not yet done its duty, and much can and should still be done by the German clergy. Let us not think lightly of these laborious researches; their usefulness and importance to science will one day be made evident to all. Catholics and Protestants must aid alike in gathering the voluminous materials, which must be placed at the disposition of him whom God will call to write a national history of German art. The labors of these societies have already enabled several prominent men to undertake more extensive works, among which I will mention Sighart's "History of Art in Bavaria," Lübke's "History of Art in Westphalia," Heideloff-Lorenz' "Suabian Art during the Middle Ages," Heider-Eitelberger's "Mediaeval Monuments of the Austrian Empire," Haas' "History of Styrian Art," Ernst aus dem 'Werth's "Monuments of the Lower Rhine," and Hassler's "Ancient Monuments of Wirtemberg." A year ago, Lotz published an excellent work, in two volumes, entitled, "Art-Topography of Germany," whilst Otte's "History of German Architecture" is on the point of appearing. Schnaase, too, in his "History of Art" has profited by the labors of the Catholic art unions, and the same may be said of Müller-Klunzinger and Nagler, of Munich, in their cyclopedias of art.
Let us not grow languid in our investigations concerning German art during the middle ages, until the last monument has been discovered and the last inscription deciphered. Many years must elapse before we shall arrive at this point. When, in his wanderings throughout Europe, Böhmer, the author of the great work on imperial decrees, found an undiscovered document, his joy was indescribable. Equally great was the delight of the editors of the "Monumenta Germaniae" when they brought to light some annals that were supposed to have perished. The same pleasure awaits any one who has the good fortune of discovering a Roman basilica, a remarkable arch, or any other important monument; who deciphers and explains an old inscription, and adds to the stock of our knowledge.
As appears from what has been said above, the religions art unions also established journals and museums. The chief of the periodicals is the "Journal of Christian Art," edited, since 1851, by Baudri. Among the contributors to this publication, which does not meet with the patronage it deserves, are A. Reichensperger, Ernst Weyden, of Cologne, the learned Dr. van Endert, Canon von Bock, of Aix-la-Chapelle, and, occasionally, Münzenberger, of Düsseldorf. Baudri's journal is to Germany what J.N. Alberdingk-Thijm's "De dietsche Warande" is to Holland, what James Weale's "Le Beffroi" is to Belgium, and what Didron's "Annales" are to France. The claims of church music are put forth by the "Caecilia," published in Luxemburg by Oberhoffer. Pastor Ortlieb, whose premature death we mourn, made a similar attempt, but failed. In fine, the organ of the altar societies is "Der Kirchenschmuck," a monthly publication, published in Stuttgart by Schwarz and Laib. These altar societies may now be found in every part of Germany, and their silent influence is great. Some societies, those of Vienna and Pesth, for instance, number thousands of members. The Brussels and Paris societies, beside attending to their own wants, work for foreign missions. The most recent of these societies is the one founded in November, 1864, at Frankfort-on-the-Main, as the Diocesan society of Limburg. The ladies of Germany have furnished splendid [{233}] pieces of embroidery in the form of sacred vestments.
I cannot speak of altar societies without mentioning Kreuser, of Cologne. Kreuser, with his hoary hair and his mighty snuff-box—a man full of sparkling wit and endless humor—is known to all of us, for up to 1861 we never missed him at the general conventions. Since the Munich convention, however, we have not seen him; he was absent at Aix-la-Chapelle, at Frankfort, and at Würzburg, and we know not the reason of his absence. To speak concisely is very difficult, and few speakers from the Rhenish provinces can boast of this virtue; still, most Germans, and especially the German ladies, listened with pleasure to old Kreuser; and no wonder, for Kreuser never failed to do justice to the ladies of Germany. When Kreuser spoke in a city, his speech was followed immediately by the establishment of an altar society. He carried everything by storm, and the impression made by his speeches was not merely transient, but produced lasting fruits. Kreuser is a poet, also, a happy improvisatore, able to cope with the most daring rhymster. He is one of the best read men in Germany, and deserves our gratitude for his exertions in the cause of Christian art. Twenty years have rolled by since he published his "Letters on the Cologne Cathedral," and during the last twelve years his work on architecture has been studied again and again. That Kreuser's style is deficient in grace and harmony we will not dispute, still much benefit may be derived from the perusal of his works.
Francis von Bock, also, deserves our notice. He is the author of a "History of the Liturgic Vestments," in two vols., illustrated with two hundred colored engravings. Boldly he demands the use of appropriate workmanship; fearlessly measures swords with every opponent, and often his impetuosity is crowned with success. To him Casaretto, of Crefeld, is indebted for valuable suggestions. He was also one of the founders of the school of art under the direction of the Sisters of the Infant Jesus, at Aix-la-Chapelle. Dr. von Bock has visited every country in Europe, Turkey excepted, which he intends shortly to visit for the purpose of continuing his researches. Where can be found an ancient vestment whose texture he did not scrutinize, and a piece of which he has not begged for still closer examination? At Gran, at Malines, in Bohemia, in Sicily, at Rome, at Paris, at Vienna—everywhere Dr. von Bock has left traces of his unwearying activity. The Rhenish goldsmiths owe him a debt of gratitude. He has written papers on the church at Kaiserswerth, on the Benedictine church at Munchen-Gladbach, on Cologne, and on the relics at Gran and Aix-la-Chapelle. His principal work is on the "Insignia of the Holy Roman Empire." It is a magnificently illustrated specimen of typography, equal in every respect to any similar work published in England or France. At Malines every one spoke loudly in its praise, and in 1864 the author received from the Emperor Francis Joseph the Cross of the Iron Crown. Von Bock's style reminds me of the chimes I have heard in Holland; it consists in a constant repetition of the same pleasing melody.
Von Bock stands in odd contrast to Dean Schwarz, of Böhmenkirch, the able editor of the "Kirchenschmuck." He is the personification of repose and dignity, a deep thinker, and a first-class archaeologist. For many years he has wielded great influence with the clergy.
Whilst the altar societies are displaying greater activity every day, the Christian art unions, it is said, are daily becoming less zealous. In some places, no doubt, this is true; but in many dioceses they have been changing into associations for furthering the completion of the diocesan cathedral. To mention but a few instances, this was the case in Regensburg. Since his accession to the episcopal see [{234}] Bishop Ignatius von Senestrey applied himself with energy to the completion of his cathedral. King Louis I. having furnished the means, we have no doubt that in a few years architect Denzinger will finish the two towers. At Mayence, likewise, everything is being done for the completion and decoration of the cathedral. The work has been intrusted to the skill of Metternich, and Director Veit, assisted by Lasinsky Settegast and Hermann, is frescoing the walls and the vaults. Since the fall of the partition between the sanctuary and the nave in the Cologne cathedral, and since the great festival of October 15th, 1868, the building has been steadily progressing, and the cathedral lottery promises to furnish the means for completing the towers within seven years. Schmidt has added a new pyramid to St. Stephen's cathedral in Vienna, which has now the highest spire in the world. After rivalling the English architect Welby Pugin by planning almost two hundred churches and chapels, Statz is now building a cathedral at Linz. Archbishop Gregory von Scheer has given a new appearance to the metropolitan Church of Our Lady at Munich, whilst the bishop of Passau, Henry von Hofstätter, has proved his devotion to the interests of art by renovating many churches in his diocese. Among all the German prelates none have built more churches than Cardinal Geissel, of Cologne, and Bishop Müller, of Münster.
Is it not an encouraging sign that we are completing the immense edifices of the middle ages? Is it not a proof of vital energy that the Catholics of all countries are building the grandest churches in the most correct style? As architectural science progresses, a like advance must take place in mechanics, and, notwithstanding many blunders, every branch of art is daily more and more perfected. Not many years hence all our temples will be completed and adorned with the splendor becoming the divine service. Let every one do his duty, fulfilling the task allotted him by divine Providence.
Let us conclude our rapid survey by calling to mind the men who have begun and directed this movement. Among the Germans, Joseph von Görres, F. von Schlegel, and Sulpitius Boisserée will head our list. France justly boasts of de Caumont, Didron, Montalembert, Viollet le Duc, Cahier, and the Abbé Martin. Oudin must not be forgotten, nor Bossi, the historian of the catacombs. The merits of Seroux d'Agincourt, Waagen, Guilhabaud, Schnaase, Kugler, Passavant, Stieglitz, Geyer, Kallenbach, Forster, Moller, Heideloff, Otte, Springer, Hefner-Alteneck, Krieg von Hochfelden, von Quast, Jacob Schmitt, and many others known to every votary of art. To us is assigned the task of reaping the fruits of their labors.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
From The St. James Magazine.
PROPERZIA ROSSI.
Properzia Rossi, a female artist, celebrated for her misfortunes, though more for her proficiency in sculpture, painting, and music, died of a broken heart, just as Pope Clement VII. had invited her to Rome, to show his admiration for her masterpiece in the church of San Petronio at Bologna.
Too late—oh, far too late! Praise comes in vain
To lull the fever'd agonies of pain.
I am no more the artist idly proud,
But the gaunt mortal waiting for a shroud.
No more the songstress, whose impassioned lay
O'er taste and feeling held unrivalled sway;
But a weak woman, desolate and worn,
Her pulses throbbing, and her heart-strings torn,
Looking above—sad, humbled, and alone—
Where mercy dwells with Jesus on his throne—
Ay, fondly hoping for one smile of light
From the meek Man of sorrows and of might,
Who from sin's thrall is powerful to save,
Died on the cross, and triumphed o'er the grave!
What though the light of genius fired mine eye,
That radiant meteor leaves us when we die,
And conscience whispers that the gifts of heaven
Were of misused. I thirst to be forgiven.
Panting I turn from streams once deeply quaff'd.
And crave the Rock's sole vivifying draught!
Ay, as I kneel and supplicate for grace,
I veil in lowliness my tear-bathed face;
Implore for pardon with intense distress,
And spurn the gauds of earthly happiness!
Oh, what avails it that aerial forms.
And colors vivid as the bow of storms.
Hang o'er my fancy with bewitching spell?
Say, have I used these varied talents well?
Oh, what avails it that my hands would mould
Beautiful models from the marble cold?
Have the rich sculptures in the hallow'd fane
Brought one soil'd spirit to her God again?—
Recall'd a virtuous feeling to the heart,
And by religion consecrated art?
Have the fair features and bright hues I wove'
In one dark breast illumed the spark of love?
Or lured the soul from sin's deceptious toys
To pure devotion's memorable joys?
Oh, have the gifts of music and of song
Soothed one sad being of the human throng?—
Angelic thoughts—submissive, hopeful, kind—
Breathed o'er a mournful or a shattered mind?
And has my genius, with a potent sway,
Gilded the road to heaven—that straight and narrow way?
God has been very bounteous; he has given
Much to enhance the blessedness of heaven.
The threefold cords [Footnote 37] of talismanic power
Were meant to yield employment for the hour—
Life's potent hour of labor, want, and pain—
Brief as the April drops of sunny rain;
And yet by mercy recompensed above,
If well improved in hope, and faith, and love.
But conscience whispers, and in these dark days
That voice grows louder as my strength decays,—
Of wasted talents, of forgotten crime,
And of a judgment awfully sublime!
Of duties unfulfill'd, of gifts misspent.
Of future pangs, of fitting punishment!
[Footnote 37: Music, painting, and sculpture.]
I muse no longer on the present—no—
My life is with the future or the past,
And both are mingling in a magic flow,
Like turbid waters in a fountain cast.
The past—-oh, whether fair, or dark, or both,
Is but a picture mirror'd on the wave.
The moral sicknesses—guile, anger, sloth—
Arise as spectres from a yawning grave;
What boots it that misfortune paled my cheek.
That penury and pain obscured my way?
Sorrow is voiceless; 'tis remorse that speaks
In awful tones of merited decay,
And of the worm that dieth not—the vale
Of never-ending, still-beginning death.
Methinks I hear the harsh, continuous wail,
The sobs and catchings of convulsive breath.
Guilt unatoned for—thoughts and words of sin—
How do they rise up, burning as on glass!
The evil pent the wishful heart within
Asking for vengeance! O the hideous mass
Of wickedness heap'd up, long, long conceal'd!
But now as by a lightning flash reveal'd.
Woe! woe! the Eternal Judge's fiery dart
Hath pierced the labyrinthine cells within,
Where underneath the pulses of my heart
Dwells the mysterious form of crouching sin.
Thoughts, baneful wishes,—ay, as well as deeds,
Against me in strong phalanx are array'd.
In vain these tears—in vain this bosom bleeds:
I look upon myself, and am dismay'd,
Powerless, and weak, and agonized I cry,—
And hear the words, "Lost sinner, thou must die!"
Clouds roll around me, and from an abyss,
Drear, dark, profound, behold a hideous form!
Closer and closer serpents coiling hiss,
And thunders boom along a sky of storm.
There is no deed to offer thee of good,
Thou mocking fiend! laugh on without restraint!
I seem as borne along a sulphurous flood,
Too meteorically wild to paint.
The couch heaves under me, my sight is gone,—
I am with the accuser, and alone!
Alone! alone! O tell me not 'tis so.
That I must grapple powerless with the foe.
Jesus, thou Lamb of God, arise! arise!
Arrest these doubts, these daring blasphemies.
It was for sinners thou didst shed thy blood,
For guilty mortals, not for angels' good.
Listen! attend! a sinner asks for aid,—
For me that blood was spilt, for me thou wast betrayed.
As when a night of storms has sped away.
And robed in florid hues appears the day,
Stealingly, gently lighting up the skies
With gleams, as from a seraph's smiling eyes,
Thus o'er my spirit breeds a gracious calm,
O'er my deep wounds is poured a healing balm.
Methinks the mild Redeemer stands above,
And pleads his righteousness, his cross, his love;
While angels' voices wafted straight from heaven
Proclaim, "Thy Savior calls! thou art forgiven!"
From The Hibernian Magazine.
THE CAPUCHIN OF BRUGES.
"Three monks sat by a bogwood fire—
Bare were their crowns, and their garments grey,
Close sat they by that bogwood fire.
Watching the wicket till break of day."
Ballad Poetry.
Saving the color of their garments, which, instead of grey, were of a dark brown, and the omission of any allusion to their long flowing beards, the above lines convey as accurate an idea as any words could of the parties that occupied the spacious guest-chamber of the Capuchin convent of Bruges on the last night of October, 1708.
Seated round the capacious hearth, on which, without aid of grate, cheerfully blazed a pile of dark gnarled logs dug up from the fens, which, in the days of Caesar, were shaded by the dense forests of Flanders, three lay-brothers of the order kept watch for any wayfarer that might require hospitality or information on the evening in question. Their convent stood—and a portion of it still stands—at the southern extremity of the town, close beside the present railway station. But Bruges was not, a century and a half ago, what it is today. War, and the recent decline of its ancient commerce, rendered it, at [{238}] the period of which we write, anything but a safe or attractive locality for either tourist or commercial traveller to visit. There was no "Hotel de Flandre," or "Fleur de Blé," or even "Singe d'Or,'" for the weary itinerant to seek refreshment or lodging. Neither were there gens-d'armes in the streets, nor affable shopkeepers in their gas-lit magasins, as at present, to whom the benighted stranger might apply for information regarding the locality in which his friends resided. The convents and monasteries, however, with which Belgium was then, as now, studded, were ever open to the traveller, be his rank or condition what it might, and pre-eminent for their hospitality were the Capuchin fathers.
The night was a wild one; and the dying blasts of October seemed bent on a vigorous struggle ere they expired.
"What an awful storm!" exclaimed Brother Anselm, rising to secure the huge oak window shutters that seemed, as if in terror, every moment ready to start from their strong iron fastenings.
"God preserve us I but 'tis fearful," replied one of his companions. Brother Bonaventure, "and what dreadful lightning!"
Peal after peal of thunder resounded through the spacious hall and adjoining corridors; and then, again, came the wind beating the rain, in torrents, against door and casement, and completely drowning the chimes of the Carillon, though the market-place, where the belfry stood, was close beside them. Still not a word escaped their third companion, Brother Francis, a venerable old man who sat nearer than his younger brethren to the ample fireplace. He continued silently reciting "Ave" after "Ave" on the beads of the large rosary attached to his girdle, and seemed, in the excess of his devotion, utterly unconscious of the storm that howled without.
A loud knocking at the outer gate followed quickly by the ringing of the stranger's bell, at length announced the arrival of some guest. In an instant, the old man let his beads fall to their accustomed place by his side—for the rule of St. Francis gave charity toward the neighbor a first place among its spiritual observances—and hastened, as eagerly as his younger brothers, to admit the poor traveller, who must be sore distrait, on such an awful night.
Lighting a lantern, they proceeded through the court to the outer porch, and drawing back the slide that covered a small grated aperture in the wicket, demanded who the wayfarer might be. The gleam of the lamp fell upon the uniforms of two military men, who seemed engaged in supporting a third between them, while their horses stood neighing in terror, and pawing the ground beside them. In a second the gate was unbarred, and three of Vendôme's troopers entered the court-yard; two of them still supporting their comrade, who had been badly wounded in a skirmish with Marlborough's troops, near Audenarde, that morning. Leaving Anselm with the two other soldiers to look after the horses, brothers Francis and Bonaventure led the wounded man into the convent. He seemed weak and faint; but the cheerful blase of the fire, and the refreshment speedily administered by the good brothers, soon restored him somewhat, though he still suffered acutely from his wound, and was utterly unable to stand without the aid of support.
For the first time Brother Francis broke silence. From the moment he caught a distinct view of the stranger's face, as he sat in the light of the fire, his gaze seemed riveted upon him; and an observer might have noticed the old man's lip quiver and his face grow paler, might have even observed a tear steal down his cheek, as he continued for a while to gaze in silence on the pallid features of the young soldier. At length he addressed him, not in French or [{239}] Flemish, but in a language which to Brother Bonaventure was foreign.
The stranger's face brightened at the sound of his own tongue, and he readily made answer to the few hurried questions put him by the old monk. Their conversation was of very brief duration; but its result seemed astounding. For when Anselm returned with the soldiers, he found Bonaventure and the stranger chafing the old man's temples as he lay in a swoon on the bench before them.
To their inquiries as to the cause of this strange occurrence, Anselm could give no definite answer. All he knew was, that although he could not understand what passed between Brother Francis and their comrade, the conversation seemed to produce a wonderful effect on the former. He trembled from head to foot, and then smiled, and seemed about to grasp the stranger in his arms, when he suddenly fell back on the bench as they now saw him. The young soldier—he was almost a boy, and strikingly handsome—was equally puzzled. Brother Francis had merely asked him if he were Irish; and when he answered "Yes;"—if his name was Herbert, and if it was Gerald Herbert, and if his father and grandfather were Irish;—and when he replied that his name was Gerald Walter Herbert, and that his grandfather was not Irish, but English, the old man muttered something which he could not catch, and fainted. That was all he could tell them; but what that had to do with Brother Francis's fit still remained a mystery.
For a considerable time the aged monk lay senseless and almost motionless, the only symptoms of animation he presented being those afforded by the convulsive throbbing of his heart, and an occasional deep-drawn sigh. His brothers seemed deeply afflicted, and sought by every means in their power to restore him; for Francis, though few knew anything of his history, was, notwithstanding, the favorite of the whole community.
Toward midnight the old man revived, and his first inquiry was for the young soldier. He now embraced him, and, as he pressed him again and again to his heart, with tears and blessings called him "his son," "his dear child." Brothers Anselm and Bonaventure looked at each other in mute astonishment. They feared that their dear old friend, the patriarch of the lay-brothers, was losing his reason. They knew that, for thirty years at least, he had been an inmate of the cloister, while the party whom he thus lovingly called his son could at furthest number twenty birthdays, if indeed he could count so many. Still greater, however, was their surprise, when, on a closer scrutiny, they could not fail to observe a market family likeness between their aged brother and the individual on whom all his affections seemed now centred.
But this was no time for the indulgence of curiosity. The two troopers, drenched and travel-stained, must be attended to, and the wound of their comrade looked after. Fortunately their convent numbered among its inmates one of the best leeches in all West Flanders. He had been already summoned to the aid of Brother Francis, and now that he no longer required his services, he directed his attention to the other invalid, whose case seemed the less urgent of the two. In a short time his skilful hand extracted a spent ball from the sufferer's knee, and, by the application of a soothing poultice, restored him to comparative ease. Nor were Brothers Anselm and Bonaventure idle meanwhile. Piles of well-buttered tartines made of wholemeal bread baked in the convent, with plentiful dishes of rashers and omelets, and a flagon or two of foaming Louvain beer, soon covered the table. Cold meats, too, of various kinds, were served up in abundance; and the two dragoons were soon busily engaged in satisfying appetites good at all times, but now considerably sharpened by a hard ride and a long fast. [{240}] It was the first peaceful meal they enjoyed since the Duke of Burgundy got command; and they blessed their stars for having been selected to escort young Herbert to the rear. Having completed the bandaging of his wound, and administered such medicine as he deemed best calculated to make up for his patient's loss of blood, the infirmarian led him to the chamber prepared for his reception; and Brother Francis begged to be allowed to take charge of him. His request was granted, but on the sole condition that no conversation of an exciting nature should take place between him and the invalid till such time as all feverish and inflammatory symptoms had subsided. Day after day, and night after night, the old man watched, in strict silence, beside the stranger's couch; and all were in amazement at such assiduity and attention on the part of one who, as long as any remembered him, seemed utterly detached from all earthly affections. They even saw him mingle tears with his prayers, as he knelt beside the pillow of the sleeper. It was whispered that the guardian knew something about the matter; for he, too, now came frequently, and looked with evident interest on the invalid. No one else ventured to speak to Brother Francis on the subject, for though generally kind and gentle, and communicative as a child, there were times when he became sad and reserved—and this seemed one of them.
Ten days passed on, and the invalid made such rapid progress that the infirmarian and his staff pronounced him quite out of danger, in no further need of medical treatment, and only requiring the aid of the cook to recover completely his wonted vigor. The interdict was now removed, and Brother Francis seemed happy. He could, henceforth, speak as he pleased to his young protégé. The latter felt equally delighted; for he felt, he knew not why, a sort of unaccountable attachment—it was certainly more than mere gratitude—toward the old man growing daily stronger and stronger within him. And then Brother Francis called him "my son"—but perhaps, as an old man, that was the name by which he addressed all youngsters. At all events, he loved the old monk as a child loves a father, and always felt sad when the duties of his rule obliged his venerable friend to leave him for a time.
"And so you tell me you have no recollection of your father?" said Brother Francis, with a sigh, as they sat together one evening—it was the eve of St. Martin—in the same apartment where we first introduced them to our readers.
"None whatever," replied his companion; "he left France as a volunteer with d'Usson's division, and was killed at Limerick when I was but three years old. So I often heard my mother say."
The speaker did not remark the shudder that ran through the old man's frame at mention of Limerick; but only paid attention to his next question, which rapidly followed.
"And your father's father?"
"Was, as I have already said, an Englishman—but he, too, died in the wars long ago. They say he fell in Spain."
The old man could no longer restrain his feelings. Bursting into tears, and clasping his young companion to his bosom, as he had done on the night of their first meeting, he said:
"No, my child—your grandfather, Walter Herbert, is not dead, but yet survives to give you that blessing which your own poor father could not bestow on you with his parting breath—he stands before you."
It was a touching scene to witness—that old Capuchin monk, with his long white beard, and coarse dark gown, and leathern cincture, and bare sandalled feet, locked in the fond embrace of the young soldier of "the Brigade," on that eve of St. Martin, in the old convent of Bruges! We do not mean to intrude on the sacred [{241}] privacy of domestic feeling, but leaving parent and child to commune with each other in the fulness of their hearts, will, with our readers' kind permission, assume, for the nonce, the province of the Senachie, and briefly relate as much of their history as we have ourselves learned, Outre Mer—and is still oftentimes related on long winter evenings by the brothers who have succeeded—literally stepped into the sandals of—Brother Francis and his comrades.
THE CAPUCHIN'S STORY.
Walter Herbert, or, as he was called in religion, Brother Francis, was the only child of an ancient family in Nottinghamshire. Entering the army at an early age, he found himself stationed with his regiment in Limerick, when the army of the "Confederates" sat down before that city in the summer of sixteen hundred and forty-two. He was then in his twentieth year. Forming part of Courtenay's company, when the city opened its gates to Garret Barry and Lord Muskerry, he retired with his commander to King John's castle, where, though closely besieged, they resolutely held out till St. John's eve, when Conrtenay was obliged to capitulate. In the course of the attack on the castle, a mine was sprung by the besieging party, and a turret, in which Herbert was stationed, fell to the ground with a terrific crash. For weeks he lay delirious; and when at length he awoke to consciousness, he found himself the occupant of a handsomely-fitted chamber looking out on the church of St. Nicholas. His host was a middle-aged, gentlemanly-looking person, of grave yet affable manners. He was a widower, and his household consisted of himself, an aged housekeeper, two sons, and an only daughter. The latter—Eily O'Brien—was the sick man's principal nurse, and no Sister of Mercy could have bestowed more care on a suffering invalid than she did on Walter Herbert—stranger though he was to her creed and her country. From lengthened and almost continual intercourse, a feeling of mutual affection sprang up between the young people. Gratitude on the one hand, and sympathy for the sufferings of the handsome young officer on the other, heightened this feelings till it grew into deep and lasting love. Like Desdemona, she loved him "for the dangers he had passed;" and he loved her "that she did pity them." But an insurmountable obstacle to their union lay in their difference of religion. Herbert was a Protestant; and old Connor O'Brien would never hear of any child of his being united to one of that creed which, in its struggle for ascendency, he believed to be the cause of so much suffering to his country, even though no other impediment whatever existed. A private marriage was thus their only alternative, and to this, in an evil hour, poor Eily consented.
Months rolled on—months of bliss to Walter and Eily—but their separation was at hand. Important letters called Herbert away, almost at a moment's notice. He hoped, however, that his absence would be of no lengthened duration, and that he would soon return to publicly claim his own Eily as his wife. But alas! his hopes were doomed to sad and bitter disappointment. On his arrival in England, he found the entire country in arms; and as it became impossible to remain neutral, or return to Ireland, he was forced to join the newly-formed corps just raised in his native county by Henry Ireton, his father's landlord. Once under military discipline there was no retreating; and though all his thoughts were turned to Ireland, he was doomed to maddening suspense regarding her who alone made Ireland dear to him. All communication between the two countries was now suspended. At Edgehill and Newbury he retreated before the king's troops—and at Marston Moor and Naseby had a share in defeating them. But victory or defeat was alike void of [{242}] interest to him. It was even with indifference he heard of his promotion for having saved his general's life at Naseby. The sole engrossing thought of his existence was how to get back to Limerick. That long-sought for opportunity at last arrived; but when it did, it scarcely brought joy to Herbert. He was ordered to join in the invading Parliamentary force; and, when he called to mind the fierce fanatics who were to be his fellow-soldiers, love made him tremble for the Irishry.
The fourteenth of June saw him on the battle-field of Naseby—the following autumn found him sailing up the Shannon—and, ere the close of the year, he was gazing on the steeple of St. Mary's and the towers of Limerick from the battlements of Bunratty, which had fallen into the hands of the Parliamentarians. He fancied he could even see the very house in which he had spent so many happy days. But beyond fancy he could not go. To reach the city was utterly impossible. All he could learn, from an Abbey fisherman whom they had taken prisoner, was that Connor O'Brien was still alive, and that his daughter was married and had a beautiful little boy. Who her husband was his informant could not say; but he thought he was an officer in Earl Glamorgan's army. Herbert, however, well knew who he was, and he would have risked worlds to have sent back his prisoner in safety, with even one line to Limerick. But Lord Inchiquin's troops were too vigilant to allow of any communication with the city. Even this intelligence, scanty though it was, afforded him some consolation. He knew his wife was safe, and unable any longer to endure the Tantalus-like position in which he was placed, he found means of returning again to England.
His next and last visit to Ireland was in the summer of sixteen hundred and fifty. He was then pretty high in command, and had hopes, as he sat down with Waller's army of investment before Limerick, in the July of that year, that should he be only able to effect an entrance into the town, his authority would be sufficient to protect whomsoever he pleased. But the year passed away, and still the city held out. And, had he but his wife and child without its walls, he would have counselled its burghers to hold out even still more manfully, for he well knew the iron heart and bloody hand of the execrable Hardress Waller.
The spring of the next year found him still before Limerick; and could he but communicate with any of its gallant defenders, his hatred of treachery would have urged him to expose to them the perfidy of one of their own whom they had raised to the rank of colonel. This wretch was named Fennell; and, for his treason in selling the passes of the Shannon at Killaloe, their commander-in-chief Cromwell had promised him and his descendants many a fair acre in Tipperary. By this pass Ireton and his myrmidons crossed the river into Clare; and with them passed Walter Herbert. Still his heart was full of hope of saving all he held dear in the leaguered city. Spring passed away, and summer again came; and still the assailing host made no progress toward the capture of the town which Ireton and his father-in-law regarded as the key of all the Munster territories. In the burning heat of July, while pestilence daily thinned the ranks of the besieged, an assault was ordered on the almost defenceless keep that guarded the northern extremity of the salmon weir, and Herbert was reluctantly obliged to form one of the storming party. His immediate senior in command was a person named Tuthill—one of those heartless hypocrites who could preach and pray while his brutal soldiery were massacring the wives and children of the brave men whom the chances of war made his victims. The fort was carried by overwhelming numbers; and Herbert was doomed to witness, with horror, the butchery of the surviving defenders, mercilessly [{243}] ordered by Tuthill—an order which he unhappily had no power of countermanding, but in the execution of which he took no part. Still the city held out, though the "leaguer sickness" was rapidly decimating its brave garrison. The north fortress of Thomond bridge was next carried by assault—but to no purpose. The townsmen succeeded in breaking down two of its arches, and thus cutting off all approach to the city in that quarter, and in resisting the sortie three hundred of their assailants perished. Winter was now fast approaching, and the plague extending from the city, in which fifty of its victims were now daily interred, commenced to thin the ranks of the besiegers themselves. Ireton had serious thoughts of raising the siege, and he would, beyond all question, have done so, were it not for treachery. Fennell, the traitor of Killaloe, was again at work—this time, unfortunately, within the very walls of the city itself.
A truce of some days was agreed on; and Herbert was one of those appointed to treat with the townsmen. The deputies met on neutral ground, midway between the city and camp, and within range of the rival batteries. His heart was now full of greater hopes than ever. Could he but meet with any member of Eily's family, he hoped that his love for her would induce them to listen to his counsels. But fate, it would seem, had leagued all chances against him. Had he met them, he meant to put them on their guard against Fennell's treachery, and, without absolutely breaking trust, give them such a key to Ireton's fears and readiness to make concessions as would, he hoped, lead to an honorable capitulation, and prevent the bloodshed which, from the shattered state of the town walls, and the additional element of treachery within those walls, he now judged to be inevitable, unless they came to terms with Ireton. But not one of them appeared; for the traitor had laid his plans deeply, and succeeded in diverting them and the clerical party, to which they faithfully adhered, from anything like a compromise. He wished that the sole merit and reward of surrendering the city should be his own. And he succeeded. The conference ended fruitlessly; and Herbert returned to the camp well-nigh broken-hearted.
The plague continued its ravages meanwhile; and, day after day, within the city, the dying were brought by their relatives to the tomb of Cornelius O'Dea, where many, it was believed, were restored to health through the intercession of that saintly prelate, who lay buried in the cathedral. Its effects were visibly traced in the ranks of the besieging Army. Still Ireton, relying on treason within, pressed on the siege. By a bridge of pontoons he succeeded in connecting the Thomond side of the river with the King's Island, where he now planted a formidable battery, to play on the eastern side of the city. Herbert had fortunately escaped witnessing the horrors of Drogheda and Wexford; but a sight almost as appalling now met his eyes. In the smoke of the cannonade crowds of plague-stricken victims—principally women and children—ventured outside the city walls to catch one pure breath of air from the Shannon, on "the Island" bank,—and there lie down and die. But when this was discovered, the heartless Waller forbade even this short respite from suffering. By his orders, those unhappy beings, who could have no share in protracting the siege, were mercilessly dogged back by the soldiery into the plague-reeking city— and such as refused to return were, by the same pitiless mandate, hanged [Footnote 38] within sight of their fellow-townsmen!
[Footnote 38: Historical]
The daily sight of this revolting butchery was sickening to the noble heart and refined feelings of Herbert. But suffering for him had not yet reached its climax. As he was seated in his tent, one evening toward the [{244}] close of October, fatigued after a long foraging excursion to the Meelick mountains, and musing sadly on the fate of her who was almost within sight of him, and yet whom, by what seemed to him an almost supernatural combination of adverse circumstances, he had not seen for years, his attention was arrested by the cries of a female who seemed struggling with her captors. His manhood was aroused by such an outrage—committed almost in his very presence—and he rose at once to rescue the victim from her assailants. But, horror of horrors! at the very door of his tent, and in the grasp of an armed ruffian, lay the fainting and all but inanimate form of his wife! To fell the wretch, and clasp the beloved object to his bosom, was but the work of a second. But, oh! how sorrow and sickness had changed that once beautiful face, and wasted that once symmetrical form. Death had already clutched her in his bony gripe, and selected her for his own. His kiss was upon her lips, for they were livid and plague-stained. And her beautiful blue eyes! how they now wandered with the wild look of a maniac. All that remained of the beautiful Eily he once knew were the long fair ringlets that now fell down in dishevelled masses on her heaving bosom. The sight almost drove him mad. In vain he clasped her to his heart, and called her by the dear fond name of wife. She knew him not, yet, when she spoke, her ravings were all about him; and he often wondered afterward how his brain stood the shock, when, without knowing him, she still called on him, "her own dear, dear Walter, to save her, to take her away from those terrible men—at least to come to her—for, to come to him, she had left her poor old father and little Gerald behind."
Wholly occupied with his wife, Herbert paid no attention to the sergeant's guard that stood at the tent door under arms. When at length he perceived them, he flew into a phrenzy of passion, asking them how they dared stand thus in his presence?—and ended by ordering "the catiffs who could thus treat a woman to get out of his sight presently."
But the orderly remained unmoved. Were his hands free at the moment, Herbert would have unquestionably run him through for presuming to disobey his orders, such was the irritated state of his feelings. But he could not leave the shrinking, still unconscious being that clung to him for support. Stamping his foot in a rage, he demanded what he wanted, or why he regained there?
"Pris'ner, sir," was the sergeant's laconic reply, as he mechanically touched his hat.
"What prisoner?"
"The woman, sir."
"Heavens and earth! do you mean to drive me mad, man?" and the soldier recoiled for an instant at the voice and look of his officer.
"Can't help it, sir—gen'ral's orders. Woman came to the camp three times, sir—supposed to be a spy, and ordered to be hanged."
"Hanged!" In a second his burthen was laid on the camp-bed, and the sergeant laid prostrate by a blow that would have almost felled an ox.
The guard now interposed; and from them he learned that the party in question had been several times seen to leave the city, in defiance of Sir Hardress Waller's orders. Twice already she had been flogged back, but she came out again, that day, at noon, and was by the general's orders sentenced to execution. The soldier added that an old rebel [Footnote 39] calling himself her father, when he heard of the sentence, offered himself in her stead; but Sir Hardress ordered him to be instantly flogged back. "She was to have been hanged," he continued, "at sunset, but she broke loose from them and ran toward his tent as he had seen."
[Footnote 39: A Fact. Vide "Ferrar's History of Limerick," page 64. ]
"Touch not a hair of her head, on your peril," exclaimed Herbert as the [{245}] corporal concluded, and kissing the pallid lips of his wife, he rushed out of the tent to seek the general, just as returning consciousness revealed to Eily the name of her deliverer.
"Walter, my own dear husband. Oh! come back, don't leave me," were the last words he heard as he flew toward the tent of the commander-in-chief, more like a maniac than anything else.
"By the bones of St. Pancras, he's either mad, or she is," said a tall weaver from Lambeth, who wore the badge of a lance-corporal.
"Ay is he, and sore wrathful to boot," replied his rear-rank man, with a grin—he was a butcher from Newgate. "But we are the sufferers, and shall, I fear, be late for supper. The gallows, however, is ready to hand, thank God, and we shall make short work of it when the captain returns."
The name of God on the lips of such a miscreant, and on such an occasion, makes us almost shudder. But, reader, these were Cromwellian times, and such were Cromwellian customs.
Herbert found Ireton and his second in command seated at the supper table—and hell could not have unchained two such incarnate demons on that same evening. The object of his visit was soon explained. But it seemed only to supply subject of mirth to his superior officers.
"Pooh, pooh! man," said the commander-in-chief, "you are, I fear, grown quite a papist, too soft-hearted entirely. I wonder how you would act had you been at the battue in Drogheda or Wexford?" and Ireton sipped his hock with a devilish leer.
"But, general, she is my wife," gasped Herbert.
"Folly, man!" rejoined Waller; "no faith to be kept with heretics, you know, and all these Irish are such. You will easily find another, I trow you, when we sack the city one of these fine days."
Herbert heeded not the coarse jest of the speaker, but, turning to the general, implored him to torn a serious ear to a matter on which the happiness of his life depended. But Ireton seemed inclined to laugh it off as an excellent joke.
Driven to desperation, the brave soldier, who never before feared or supplicated any man, sank on his knees, and with tears of agony besought him to cancel Waller's iniquitous sentence. He even asked him to do so in memory of the act by which, at the risk of his own life, he saved his at Naseby. And Ireton seemed almost inclined to relent, and hope began to brighten in the heart of the suppliant, when a whisper from Waller to the general blasted them for ever. He had himself in person given the order for execution, and his callous heart was too obdurate to feel compunction even for a bad act. Summoning an orderly, he gave him some instructions in an undertone; and Herbert was directed by his commander-in-chief to make his report of the progress of the trenches under his command in the King's Island. This was but a feint to turn his attention from the main object of his visit. His report was, however, quickly made, and as there was no other pretext for detaining him he arose to depart. There was something more then fiendish in the laugh of Hardress Waller as he wished him safe home, and a good night's rest.
That night, a heart-broken man knelt beneath the gibbet erected on the green sward in front of King John's castle. For him all earthly happiness was now over; and there, in the presence of the pale moon that looked silently on his sorrow, that cold October night, he vowed eternal fealty to his wife in heaven, eternal hatred to her murderers. There was a strange admixture of reverence and irreligion, of love and hatred, in his feelings and sentiments, no doubt; but the camp of Cromwell was but an indifferent school for the culture of Christian ethics. Beside, his brain was, for the time, astray from sorrow and outraged feeling; he followed but [{246}] the dictates of human passion unrestrained by either reason or religion. His heart and his hopes were already buried in the grade that was soon to close over the remains of his first and only love; and, from that night out, though his life was a long and a chequered one, he was never known to smile, till he became an inmate of the monastery where we found him at the commencement of our narrative.
The remainder of the siege was a blank chapter in his life. By nature a soldier, he got through his duties fearlessly but mechanically, without the slightest feeling of interest in any enterprise in which he had a share. To him defeat or victory was a matter of utter indifference; and it was in this mood he entered the fallen city, as the sun was sinking, on the 27th of October, 1651, and took up his quarters with Ireton, in the old Dutch-gabled house which is still standing, and adjoins the Tholsel in Mary street. It is more than probable that his reason would have altogether succumbed beneath the terrible shock it had sustained, were it not for some new incidents that now occurred to awaken it for a time to activity.
By sunrise on the 29th, the Cromwellian garrison beat to arms. It was the signal for the assemblage of the Irish troops in the old cathedral of St. Mary's, where, in accordance with the third article of capitulation, they were to lay down their arms. It was not Fennell's fault that they escaped the fate of the soldiers and women of Drogheda and Wexford. He had done his work of treachery well; and we cannot venture to say what his feelings were when he beheld his brave but ill-fated countrymen assembled round the altar to deposit at its rails the weapons they had so long and so gallantly wielded in the cause of one who was afterward to despoil their children of their lawful heritage, and sanction its appropriation by the murderers of his father. Ah! no Irishman can ever forget the ingratitude of the second Charles. But Walter Herbert thought little of the ceremony gone through that morning in the old church of the O'Briens till all was over. As the disarmed garrison marched down the long aisle of the cathedral many of them dropped dead—it might have been of the plague, or it might have been of a broken heart. Among the dead were two whose faces he had not looked on for years—Terence and Donat O'Brien, his wife's brothers. The sight awakened a new thought within him—that of his child whom he had not yet seen—and but few moments elapsed ere he was standing in front of the old corner house opposite the church of St. Nicholas. But its appearance was sadly changed since last he saw it. Gable and chimney bore evident marks of the enemy's cannon, while all around wore an air of desolation and sorrow. He looked up into one well-remembered window, but no fragrant geraniums were now there, as of old; no lark carolled the cheering song he so often listened to, with pleasure, some nine years before; balcony, and shutter, and curtain had disappeared. The whole house seemed in mourning. Even his knock rang through the house as through a sepulchre—so he thought. Twice he repeated it; and, at length, an aged head peered cautiously through a dormer window, and asked who was there. His answer quickly brought down the old domestic; but a flood of tears was her only welcome, as she opened the door and admitted him She had been the nurse of Eily and her brothers in childhood, and partly his own in sickness; and was now the survivor of all her old heart loved; of all, save one, a blue-eyed, curly-headed boy, who now hid behind her, evidently scared at the presence of a visitor in that desolate dwelling. A few words of greeting on the part of old Winny or Winifred assured him that he was known and welcome; and a few words of fondness addressed to the child soon restored his confidence. He was even, ere long, seated [{247}] contentedly on his father's knee, playing with sword-buckle—for that fair-headed, blue-eyed boy was the only child of Eily O'Brien and Walter Herbert. And as he gazed with pride on his beautiful boy, new hope and a new sense of duty sprang up within him. He felt that there was even yet something to live for. To protect that half-orphan child and his sorrowing grandsire would from that moment be the sole duty of his life, the sole solace of existence; and to this he pledged himself in Eily's little room, to which he ascended with his youthful companion, who, at his nurse's bidding, now called him father, and twined his little hands round his neck as he kissed him. The sudden roll of drums at length announced to him that it was time to depart, and fondly embracing his child once more, he hurried out of the house. He would never have left it did he then but know that in so doing he was bidding his boy farewell for ever.
The beating to arms announced the commencement of the mock trial of two dozen individuals, whom Ireton had already virtually sentenced to death, by excluding them from the protection guaranteed to the remaining citizens in the terms of capitulation. How readily would Herbert have saved every one of them, but his vote was only effective in one case, that of the gallant Hugh O'Neil, the city governor. The rest were condemned, by a majority, to die; and it was not without a tear he beheld that long file of brave and resolute men led forth to the scaffold. Priest and layman, soldier and citizen, were alike sacrificed, and for no crime save that of loving and defending their native land. And what Englishman, thought he, would not readily be guilty of the same offence? All passed silently from the death-chamber; all, save one, a venerable man, who, with Father Woulfe, was arrested in the lazar-house while administering the last sacraments of the Church to its plague-stricken inmates, soon to be deprived of all spiritual ministry. Herbert thought he recognized him, as he stood erect and fearless in the council-hall, and with hand pointed toward heaven, summoning Ireton to meet him, ere a month, at its judgment bar. He had certainly seen him before, but dressed in white serge, and not, as now, in purple. Nay, if he remembered rightly, he had been Eily's confessor, and, with the parish clergyman's permission, had married them privately in the church of St. Saviour, having first obtained a promise, freely granted by Herbert, that the children of that union, if such there were, should be brought up in the religion of the mother. What would he not have done to preserve the live [life?] of that venerable, heavenly-looking man! The last of Ireton's victims was one whose presence among the condemned he witnessed with astonishment. He had seen him closeted for hours with that same Ireton; and knew him to have been promised lands and money for certain services to be rendered to the general. But treachery was met with treachery; and Fennell, the traitor, ended his days on the same scaffold with Terence O'Brien, the bishop and martyr.
* * * * * *
The last guard was relieved on the day of execution—it was the eve of All-Hallows—and the clock of the town-hall was just chiming midnight as Herbert, who was the officer of the night, commenced his rounds. As he passed along, in silence and alone, by the Dean's Close, on his way to the castle barracks, he was suddenly stopped, at the head of an arched passage, over which an oil lamp feebly flickered, by an individual closely wrapped up in a large, dark frieze over-coat. To draw his sword was his first impulse; but a single glance at that wan face, whose gaze was sadly fixed upon him, changed his purpose in an instant. And, though armed to the teeth, he trembled in presence of that defenceless old man, and stood in silence before him.
"Don't you know me, Walter?" said the stranger.
"Alas! too well," was his reply. "But can I hope that you will ever forgive me?"
"My creed tells tells me to forgive even my—but I believe you never meant to be such"—and the old man extended his hand to Herbert.
They stood alone—with no eye upon them save that of the all-seeing One, and, in his presence, Walter fell on his knees, protesting his purity of intention, and asking the old man's blessing. And Conner O'Brien, for it was he, with head uncovered, blessed the stranger for the first time, and, raising him up, clasped him to his bosom as his son—the husband of his darling Eily, now sleeping with her mother in Killely.
Herbert was about to respond, with a fervent assurance of his undying love and devotion to her, when the old man stopped him short, and, drawing him into the recess of the bow way, asked him if he might now rely on his friendship and protection.
"Henceforth, as God is my witness," earnestly replied Herbert, "your interest and mine are but one."
"Good!" returned his companion. "Then, when occasion presents itself, you will procure a pass for myself and a friend in whose safety I feel the deepest interest. For my own life I care not, as I have no one save you and my grandson now remaining to care for." Then the old man, despite his resolution, sobbed aloud. "But my friend," he continued, after a few moments, "cannot yet be spared. We cannot afford to lose him, and it is solely on his account—though he knows nothing of my project—that I have waited here to meet you."
After some further brief conversation, they parted with a fond embrace —the old man to his friend, and Walter to the barracks. When his watch was ended, he lay down to enjoy, for the first time during many months, a peaceful slumber of several hours.
The 1st of November, 1651, dawned brightly on the old city of Luimneach, and its now shattered fortifications—brightly on the brown heath of the Meelick mountains—brightly on the waving woods of Cratloe—brightly on the rapids at the salmon weir, and on the snowy sails of the English transports at anchor in "the pool"—brightly on the gory head of Terence O'Brien, Bishop of Emly, impaled on the center tower of the city—brightly, too, on his murderer, Henry Ireton, as he reviewed the body of troops destined for the siege of Carrigaholt Castle; for God "maketh his sun to rise upon the good and bad." Ere the sun set the vanguard of that body had left the Cratloe hills far behind them, on their march westward; and Herbert was second in command of the first division. He was well mounted, and with him rode two peasants thoroughly acquainted with the country, and destined to serve him as guides. Of late his soldiers remarked that he had grown unusually silent and morose, and few of them cared to intrude on him uninvited. Thus it happened that, during the march, he rode considerably in advance, though always within sight of his detachment, with no other companions than the two guides.
With one of them he seemed well acquainted, and the soldiers remarked that he conversed freely with him on the road. The other seemed to speak but seldom, and then only to his brother guide. This, however, was no matter of surprise, as it was supposed he spoke in Irish, a language almost utterly unknown to the English commander. And such, in reality, was the fact. Whether he understood English or not, he spoke in his native tongue to O'Brien, who, as the reader may have guessed, was Herbert's other guide on the evening in question. As they approached Ennis the old man seemed much excited, alleging, as his reason, that he feared being recognized; but it was not difficult to perceive that his [{249}] anxiety was more for his companion than himself. They succeeded, however, in reaching their destination, and encamped near Kilfiehera to await the arrival of the main body from Kilrush. Under pretext of exploring the wild coast of Kilkee and Farahee, Herbert left the camp at sunrise, attended solely by the two individuals who had been his companions on the march from Limerick. He returned alone, however, in the evening, and rumor went abroad that he had been deserted by his guides amid the wild recesses of the coast. This new piece of treachery on the part of the Irishry, after being warmly denounced round the Cromwellian camp-fires that night, was forwarded next morning to Limerick, to be faithfully chronicled, with many other facts of like authenticity, in "Ludlow's Memoirs." Herbert was too much overjoyed at the escape of his father-in-law and the friend in whom he seemed so deeply interested, to give himself any concern about the camp-fire gossip, or Ludlow's version of the matter.
The next week found him again in Limerick. Sudden news of the alarming illness of the general had reached the camp, and the expedition to the west was, for the time, abandoned. Herbert found his new post a trying one—to keep watch and ward with Hardress Waller, one of his wife's murderers, beside the dying bed of another. Waller was Ireton's confidant, the ready instrument of all his infamy; and Herbert was selected by the general to attend him as the only surviving officer attached to his own regiment since it was first raised in Nottingham, the native county of both. To escape from his post was impossible. Nothing short of suicide could free him from it; and the thought of his little son, if no higher motive, prevented him from putting an end to his existence. Night after night was he doomed to sit by the bed-side of the dying man and listen to the wild ravings of remorse and blasphemy that, almost every moment escaped his plague-stained lips. He would start up betimes, and, with the frantic look of a maniac, call for his sword to ward off the fiends that seemed to mock his tortures; and then he would sink back exhausted, still wildly raving of Charles Stuart, and Terence O'Brien, the "Lord's anointed," as he now called them, whom he had murdered. Nay, he would clutch Herbert's hand, and, with tears, implore his forgiveness. But Hardress Waller stood there too, and a look from him would again rouse the murder-fiend within him. All feeling of compunction would then pass away; and grim despair again lay hold of him. Oh! it was a fearful sight—that death-bed of despairing remorse. It never left Herbert's memory, and was the commencement of that change that ultimately converted the Puritan soldier into a Christian monk.
Ireton died in his house in Mary street on the 26th of November, 1651, still "raging and raving," says the chronicler, [Footnote 40] of the unfortunate prelate, whose unjust condemnation he imagined hurried on his death. Herbert was of the party appointed to guard the remains to England, and, before setting out, hastened to his father-in-law's house to bring his child with him. But, alas! he found it empty, and not the slightest trace of Winny or the boy. Nor could any one tell him what had become of either. With a bursting heart, he set out with the funeral cortege to Cork, and thence to Bristol, resolved never more to draw sword in Cromwell's cause. Arrived in London, he delivered up his charge, and at once quitted the kingdom, without waiting for the lying in state at Somerset House, or final interment in Westminster Abbey, of Ireton's plague-stricken corpse. Though pledged never again to serve in the ranks of the monsters whose atrocities in Ireland made him so often blush for his native country, he could not yet entirely wean [{250}] himself away from his old profession. After a few months passed in idleness and ennui on the continent, during which he vainly tried to forget the loss of his wife and child, he entered the Earl of Bristol's regiment as a volunteer, and faithfully maintained the cause of King Charles till his restoration. It was when forming part of his body-guard at Lord Tara's residence in Bruges, where the exiled monarch occasionally resided, that he first met with the Capuchin fathers, and was by them received into the Catholic Church. With the king he returned to England, but only to have all his sad recollections awakened by meeting once more with his old enemies, Waller and Ireton.
[Footnote 40: Burke, "Hibernia Dominicana. ">[
Ireton! some astonished reader will exclaim. Why, surely, we buried him years ago, and are not expected, we presume, to believe in ghosts in this enlightened nineteenth century of ours.
And yet we must repeat what we have written. On his return to London, Walter Herbert again stood face to with Waller and Ireton—the former, with a smile of hypocritical adulation, welcoming the return of him whose father he had aided in murdering—the latter, a hideous spectacle, first dangling on a gallows at Tyburn, and then grimly staring at the by-passers—if those sightless sockets could be said to stare—from the highest spike on Westminster Hall. It was a shocking sight to Herbert—that ghastly skeleton and that ghastly head—and recalled to his memory, with sadness and horror, another but far different head which, ten years before, he saw set up, pallid and blood-stained, on the castled tower of Limerick. God is very just, thought he, as he passed on, with a shudder.
On his return to England Herbert found himself friendless. All his relatives had died, or perished on the battle-field, during the civil wars, and of his child there was still no trace. All he could learn was that he had been sent to his grandfather, then resident on the continent; but where the grandfather resided, there was no means of ascertaining. Tired of England, and the cruelties and perfidies he daily saw endorsed by the sign-manual of one who, he imagined, should have learned toleration and honor in the school of affliction—in hopes also of meeting with his child—he quitted his native land for ever, and joined the ranks of the Duke of Lorraine, the old ally and friend of his former commander, the Earl of Bristol. With him and Sir George Hamilton he fought the battles of Spain for nigh fifteen years; and his last achievement in her service was one of the brightest on record. With a few resolute companions he held his ground for two entire days in the shattered citadel of Cambrai, though the battery to which they returned shot for shot was under the personal inspection of Louis XIV. and the renowned hunchback Luxemburg. The bursting of a shell laid him senseless, and when, after a long and painful illness, he was again restored to health, he resolved, in thanksgiving, to devote the remainder of his days to the exclusive service of God, in the convent where he first learned to know him.
During the recital of the foregoing narrative, which, for brevity's sake, we have given consecutively, and in our own words, Brother Francis was frequently interrupted by his youthful auditor, as new light was thrown by him on events in his family history which, till then, he had never heard satisfactorily cleared up. He had already learned from his mother that his grandfather had been an English officer, supposed to have fallen in Cromwell's wars, though a vague report reached the family that he was seen in Spain after Cromwell's death. Of his grandmother, he only heard that she died young, and that her father resided for a considerable time in Brussels, with his grandson, whom, at his death, he confided to the care of none guardian of St. Antoine's at Louvain, who was his brother-in-law, and who had brought the boy, when a mere child, from Ireland. [{251}] He further learned that, after the completion of his studies, and contrary to the wish of his uncle, who intended him for the ecclesiastical state, his father embraced the profession of arms, and, shortly after his marriage, embarked with the French troops sent by King Louis to Ireland. He fell at the siege of Limerick, and his widow died of a broken heart soon after the intelligence of her husband's death reached her. He was himself then but a boy, and was placed by his mother's relatives at the Benedictine college of Douai, whence he passed, in due time, like his father, to the ranks, and was then serving, as we have already seen, in the Duke of Vendôme's anny.
"But you did not say who the other person was that accompanied you on the march from Limerick to Carrigaholt, or what became of him or his companion," resumed the young soldier, when he had concluded.
"That remains to this day a mystery to me," replied his grandfather, "for I never saw either after we parted that evening. I left them on a lofty isolated rock off the coast of Clare, to which they were conveyed, as the surest place of safety, by a few poor fishermen, then dwelling in a ruined keep on the verge of the cliff's, which, if I remember rightly, they called Dunlicky. Had I much curiosity I might have possibly learned the stranger's name, but I never inquired, and probably, as I did not, my father-in-law never told me. Certain it is that he must have been a person of high distinction, as all addressed him with marked respect, I might almost say reverence, and seemed most devoted to him, though, as far as I could see, he possessed no earthly means of remunerating them—nothing, in fact, save the half-military, half-rustic garments in which he was clad. And as they left him and his companion in one of the two small huts that served as a shelter in stormy weather for the few wild-looking sheep that browsed on the island, they promised soon to return with such necessaries as he might require during his stay among them. On returning to the canoe that brought us from the mainland, I remembered that I heard something fall from the stranger as he stepped ashore on a ledge of the island. In my hurry at the moment I paid no attention to the circumstance; and it was only on our arrival at the foot of the cliff on which the old castle stood, that I found the object which he had dropped lying in the bottom of the boat. Hoping soon to be able to restore it to its owner, I took it with me, and ever since it has remained in my possession; for I need scarcely say, after all you have heard, that an opportunity of restoring it never since presented itself. I still retain it, with the father guardian's permission, in hopes of one day discovering its lawful claimant."
Here Brother Francis drew from the folds of his garment a small ebony crucifix, inlaid with pearl, and richly set in gold, and, reverently kissing it, handed it to his companion. The latter, after carefully examining it, read the following inscription, beautifully engraved in text characters round the rim—
"J. B. RINUC. LEG. AP. R.R.D.D.
EDM DO. O'DWYER EP O.
LUIM I. M.DCXLVI."
Still the history and after fate of the owner of the crucifix remained a mystery to them. Perhaps some reader of the foregoing pages may be able to throw some light on the subject, if not for their benefit, at least for ours.
Little more remains to be told of Brother Francis. In his ninetieth year he died peacefully in the midst of the brotherhood with whom so many years of his life had been happily spent—and his eyes were closed in death by the hands of Eily O'Brien's grandchild, young Gerald Herbert, who had likewise joined the order, and given up the camp and its turmoil, and the world and its deceit, to don the cowl of St. Francis, and spend the rest of his days with the humble, hospitable Capuchins of Bruges.
From The Month.
THE DAUGHTERS OF THE DUC D'AYEN.
The stirring events, political and military, which followed on the outbreak of the great French revolution, giving a shock to every institution, secular and religious, and leaving their mark on the history of every civilized country, affected also, to an unexampled degree, the fortunes of families and individuals throughout Europe. The troubles that overwhelmed the thrones of kings, and seemed to threaten the Church herself with destruction, penetrated even to the very lowest classes of society. The great were ruined as well as their princes; the wealthy and noble were proscribed and exiled; new families arose as well as new dynasties; and if the cottage was spared persecution, it did not escape the conscription, while in many cases its inmates died on the guillotine by the side of the tenants of the neighboring palace. By this great and universal convulsion hearts and characters were tried to the utmost; and if many in every class sank under the ordeal which called for courage, patience, and prudence, and other virtues in the heroic degree, it is no less true that many others, who seemed to have been born for a life of quiet and ordinary duty, for unbroken and uneventful happiness, displayed unexpected strength of character, great qualities of heart and mind, and revealed graces of the highest order under the blows of affliction. We are in some respects fortunate in living just at the distance we do from a period like this; for it has not yet passed into the region of pure history, in which we can feel no practical concern; and yet time enough has elapsed since its close for us to reap a part at least of the rich inheritance that it has left behind it of memoirs and correspondence relating to those who played an actual part in its scenes. It was crowded with lives that deserve to be written, full of interest and instruction.
Let us confine ourselves to France alone. That country produced a number of most remarkable men, brought to the surface, as it were, by the breaking up of the great fountains of her national life, who, for bad or for good, played the chief part in the political changes which so powerfully affect Europe to the present day, or, as the soldiers of a new era of military glory, bore her flag in triumph into every capital on the continent. These men figured in events which write themselves sooner than any other on the pages of history; and every one, therefore, has heard of the names and exploits of the emperor and his marshal. More noble and heroic, more beneficial, and more truly glorious to their country, were the lives of hundreds—men and women— who took a part in the great outburst of fresh religious activity which followed upon the restoration of freedom to Catholicism, of whose piety, charity, and devotion the present Church of France is the fruit and the monument. A great deal remains to be done as to the biography and history of this great religious restoration, in many respects already equalling, in others even outshining, the earlier glories of the French Church, for a moment submerged by the revolution. Lastly, there is another department also in which literary labor will be well repaid—the history of the sufferers in the revolution, whether ecclesiastics or secular, whether they perished on the guillotine, were transported to Cayenne, or claimed as emigrants the hospitality of England and other European countries.
Many of these emigrants were persons who had never known what it was to have a whim ungratified; who had lived all their lives amidst the frivolous dissipation of the highest society in Paris, infected as it was with the withering influences of Voltairianism; and who had shared in the illusive enthusiasm with which the earlier steps of the revolution had been welcomed. Exile, poverty, forced inaction, obscurity, and the utter want of all that had before been the occupation of their lives, came upon them as a far more severe, because more wearing and protracted, trial than if they had had to bear the short agony of the massacres or the revolutionary tribunal. Yet, under an ordeal such as this, great and wonderful virtues often unfolded themselves, which bore witness to the sound religious training that so many of them had received, of which their patience and courage were the natural fruits. In this way their history furnishes us with many characters of wonderful interest; and the effect of it is not only to enlist our sympathies for individuals, but to give us also a higher idea of the upper classes in France than is generally derived from the annals of that dreadful period.
I have been led to these remarks by reading a little volume lately published in Paris, under the title "Anne Paule Dominique de Noailles, Marquise de Montagu," There may, perhaps, be many more such memoirs: this, at all events, though written without pretension or ambition, certainly gives the history of a very beautiful character, drawn out by continual misfortune, and it contains incident enough to furnish the plots of three or four romances. Although it deals chiefly with the history of Madame de Montagu, it gives us incidentally the outline both of the lives and characters of her sisters. There are also, of course, other subordinate figures in the picture; and the author has shown great skill in giving us a very graphic account of each in a few words or lines. I shall proceed, without further prologue or apology, to use the materials furnished by this volume for a short sketch of Madame de Montagu and her sisters.
These ladles were the daughters of the Duc and Duchesse d'Ayen. The duke was the eldest son of the last Maréchal de Noailles; his wife was the daughter of M. d'Aguesseau, son of the chancellor of that name. They had five daughters, called, as the custom was, Mdlle. de Noailles, Mdlle. d'Ayen, Mdlle. d'Epernon, Mdlle. de Maintenon, and Mdlle. de Monclar. The eldest married her cousin, the Viscount de Noailles; the second became Madame de la Fayette, wife of the celebrated marquis; Mdlle. d'Epernon was twice married, but died young, and we shall have no occasion to mention her name again; Mdlle. de Maintenon is the principal subject of the volume we have before us, having married the Marquis de Montagu; Mdlle. de Monclar became Madame de Grammont. The sisters probably owed more to their mother than to any one else in the world, and were formed by her; a short notice of her is, therefore, the natural introduction to their history.
Many who have been acquainted with the effects of the influence of the French emigrants who came to England at the time of the revolution have remarked that some of the most devout and religious among them must have had a certain tinge of strictness and rigor about them which betrayed the distant influence of Jansenism, even over those who were in no sort of way its disciples. This may be seen even in some of their ascetical works. The Duchesse d'Ayen seems either to have been brought up in this school, or to have taken up its teaching from something in her own character congenial to it. As was natural in a granddaughter of d'Aguesseau, she loved order and prudence with hereditary instinct, and was, moreover, acquainted with suffering; her piety was most genuine, and as wife and mother none could surpass her. The [{254}] due was a man of the world, a thorough gentleman, with all the dilettante learning that befitted his high station. He had passed through several brilliant campaigns, was a member of the Academy of Sciences, and shone even in Paris in the art of conversation. His time was mostly spent at court, or in gay circles away from home; but when he did return the most delicate attentions were lavished on his wife; and she, on her side, had taught their five children to greet his visits with love equal to their respect. And in truth, though their father's quick temper inspired the girls with some natural fear, his many amiable qualities could not fail to call forth their deepest affection.
Madame d'Ayen they dearly loved. The free unbroken intercourse which is natural to English homes was not in accordance with the rules of those stately Parisian families, but the first act of the day was to go and salute their mother; next, they were sure to meet her going to or returning from mass, when they were taking their morning walk; afterward, they all dined together at three, and then came the pleasant hours spent in her bedroom, while she instructed and amused them by turns in gentle maternal converse. They had other instructors I but she really formed their minds.
A bright worldly future opened before these young girls, with their good birth, high connections, and splendid fortune. Who would have dreamed of coming storms? But the pious mother did not wait for misfortune to teach them companionship with sorrow; they began when children to visit the suffering, and two poor people of the parish stood sponsors for Mdlle. de Maintenon at the baptismal font. She was born in 1766, and the parish church was St. Roch; opposite stood the family hotel, with its spacious gardens reaching up to the Tuileries.
After their marriages the sisters became brilliant stars in Parisian society, and the tenderest union ever reigned between them. The eldest, Madame de Noailles, was admired by every one for her sweetness and grace, being commonly called either "that angel," or the "heavenly viscountess." Even the family confessor, the saintly Abbé Edgworth, writing of her after her death to Madame de Montagu, says, "The fate of that angelic soul, which I knew so intimately on earth, can inspire no uneasiness. For my part, I acknowledge in all simplicity that she seems now to return me ten-fold all the good I formerly wished her. The mere remembrance of her strengthens me, and would keep me from loving earth, could it still offer any enjoyment."
The sisters vied with each other in love and veneration for their mother and Madame de Noailles especially had the happiness of being scarcely ever separated from her. The young wife, however, espoused with ardor her husband's political opinions; and he was much more liberal in his views than the Duchesse d'Ayen. Like many other nobles of the time, both about court and in the provinces, M. de Noailles hailed with enthusiasm the first dawn of the revolution, believing it would bring about a new era for France, a grand national reform. Madame d'Ayen, on the contrary, looked on events with some mistrust; her experience, her natural prudence and cautious character, made her more anxious, more inclined to circumspection.
Even after the Bastille had been taken, and when so many families began to emigrate, M. de Noailles, like his brother-in-law M. de la Fayette, continued to hope. The events of 1792, however, induced him to seek refuge in England. The Duc d'Ayen had taken refuge in Switzerland; but when he heard of the attack on the Tuileries in June, 1792, he flew to the aid of the king and the royal family, considering that though his post of captain of the royal guard had been abolished, the danger of Louis had created it anew. He was with that [{255}] small band of devoted adherents who would have defended the king on the fatal 10th of August—the last day of the real monarchy—when Louis' heart failed him, and he took refuge in the assembly. The Duc d'Ayen managed again to get away into Switzerland; the other members of his family, quitting their splendid hotel, hid themselves in a wretched dwelling of the nearest feubourg. Madame de Noailles was to have joined her husband in London, where they intended shortly to embark for America; but she lingered with her mother, first to assist her grandfather, the Marshal de Noailles, in his dying moments, and next to console his aged widow, now well-nigh reduced to second childhood. The result was captivity and death for all time. Madame de Noailles' virtue shone forth with lustre throughout these trying hours, and it is as a meek victim of the revolution that she especially deserves remembrance.
At first the three ladies were simply detained as "suspected" in their own hotel, during the winter of '93; but in April following they were transferred as prisoners to the Luxembourg. There they found in a room below them their relatives, the Maréchal de Mouchy and his wife, who had already suffered a detention of five months. Not far off was a cousin, the Duchesse d'Orléans, widow of Philippe Egalité, lately executed. These were sad recognitions, few or no prisoners being ever set at liberty, though many went through the mockery of a trial. Soon after Madame d'Ayen's arrival, M. and Madame de Mouchy were guillotined. From the first she and her daughter prepared for death. Both did all they could to alleviate the suffering around them. Madame d'Ayen gave up her bed to the Duchesse d'Orléans, who was very ill, and treated with even exceptional cruelty. Madame de Noailles shared her mother's attendance on this lady, and on several others. She made the beds for all their relatives, helped them to dress, and washed up the dishes; in short, waited upon the whole party as if she had been accustomed all her life to servile occupations. With true virtue, she even showed no repugnance at anything, but preserved throughout her usual sweet serenity of temper. Her consolation was to mount up twice a week to an upper story, under pretence of breathing the fresh air, but in reality to obtain a view from the window of her children in the garden beneath. She had contrived to keep up some correspondence outside, and they came at the stated hour, under the care of their tutor. Occasionally she managed to receive notes from him, or to send him one. An extract from the last she wrote, and when she felt an eternal separation impending, shows the strength of her piety:
"God sustains me, and will, I am convinced, to the end. Farewell! Be assured that my gratitude toward you will accompany me above. But for you, what would have been my children's fate? Farewell, Alexis, Alfred, Euphemia! Bear God in your hearts every day of your lives; attach yourselves steadfastly to him; pray for your father, and for his true happiness; remember your mother also, and that her sole desire has been for your eternal welfare. I hope to be re-united with you in the bosom of God, and in that hope give my last blessing to you all."
These words show a soul which could not be ill prepared for death. When hastily summoned one day to leave the Luxembourg for the Conciergerie, a certain road to execution, both Madame de Noailles and her mother were quite ready. Madame d'Ayen had the "Imitation" open at that beautiful chapter on the cross. Hastily writing on a scrap of paper—"Courage, my children, and pray"—she put it in as a mark, and begged the Duchesse d'Orléans, if her life were spared, to give it to them. This commission was faithfully executed, and the little book still exists, showing [{256}] traces of Madame d'Ayen's last tears as she named her daughters.
The poor old maréchale scarcely knew what was going on, but followed mechanically. The Conciergerie was crowded, and afforded small accommodation for new-comers. Madame de Noailles thought it useless to sleep that night. When her mother pressed her to lie down a little, she said, "Why seek repose on the brink of eternity?" Early next morning all three were astir, and persuaded each other to break their fast, for no dinner had been provided on the previous evening. Madame de Noailles insisted on dressing both her mother and grandmother, whispering, "Have good courage, mamma; there is only one hour more!"
But nearly the whole day passed in terrible expectation. Not till five in the afternoon came the open carts that were to carry forty condemned prisoners to the Barrière du Trône for execution. Long previous to detention, Madame de Noailles had secured, in case of danger, the services of a good priest—Père Carrichon, of the Oratory. News of their coming fate reached him, and, faithful to his promise, despite the personal risk, he arrived at the prison door in time. The first cart filled and passed out. It contained eight ladies, of whom the last was the old maréchale. In the second were Madame d'Ayen and her daughter; after whom six men took their places.
The account given by Père Carrichon of this closing scene is our last view of Madame de Noailles, and tallies with what has gone before. Serene and gentle, her thoughts appeared wrapt in God. Père Carrichon tried to make himself seen as the cart came out. Evidently Madame de Noailles was looking for some one; but her glance did not rest on him. Having made a great circuit, he posted himself in a conspicuous place at the opening of a bridge. Again Madame de Noailles anxiously scanned the crowd around, and again without discerning the face she sought. Père Carrichon was tempted to give up the effort in despair. Priestly charity prevailed, however, and he hastened forward to the Rue St. Antoine. A violent storm had come on; thunder and lightning raged, the wind blew furiously. The poor victims were drenched; the ladies' hair streamed about their faces, and their hands, closely tied behind each, could give no relief. What with the jolting and wind, they could hardly keep their seats on those narrow planks. The savage curiosity of the populace yielded to the violence of the storm; the crowd dispersed; windows and doors closed. Père Carrichon ventured nearer the cart, amid the very escort of soldiers intent on guarding themselves from the storm. Suddenly Madame de Noailles' countenance lighted up with her own sweet smile; her eyes were thankfully raised to heaven, and then she leaned forward, whispering to her mother. She had seen him, Père Carrichon felt sure of it. A grateful smile stole over the duchess's face also.
Père Carrichon continued walking beside the cart; his heart raised in prayer; the mute confession was made, the silent absolution given. Solemn, touching scene!—those two heads, one so fair, reverentially bent down with looks of mingled contrition and hope; the priest fulfilling his errand of mercy; and the storm raging on.
At length the carts stopped. The executioner and his assistants came forward, one carelessly twirling a rose between his lips. The guillotine fell on the maréchale; afterward on Madame d'Ayen; and Madame de Noailles suffered next. Up to the last moment both mother and daughter employed themselves in exhorting their companions to Christian repentance. The vicomtesse devoted herself especially to a young man whom she had overheard blaspheming. One foot was already on the bloody ladder, when, turning round a last time, she [{257}] murmured, with imploring accents, "I conjure you, say—Forgive me!" Their own sweet countenances spoke only of heaven. So beautiful were these deaths, that, despite the horrors of the scene, Père Carrichon could but raise his full heart in praise and thanksgiving to God. Thus lived and died the eldest of these five sisters.
The second, Madame de la Fayette, is a beautiful character; so enthusiastic in spirit, so warm and generous in heart. Endowed with good natural powers, her mind had been highly cultivated, she could reason well, and possessed a ripe judgment. Prompt and decided on great occasions, she was then energetic enough in carrying out her resolutions; but by a strange contradiction of nature, doubts often assailed her in little matters, and she would hang back, uncertain what course to pursue. Ardent in her piety, she was yet tormented with scruples; and unfortunately Madame d'Ayen had so far condescended to these as to allow her daughter not to make her first communion till after marriage. Naturally enough, at that late period the great act was accomplished with much mental suffering. Madame de Montagu said with truth that this beloved sister was not sufficiently interior, and thirsted too eagerly after the consolations of human affections; but for sincerity, faith, zeal, and submission to the divine will Madame de la Fayette was most admirable. Her greatest quality was self-sacrifice, unshrinking devotion to those she loved—the virtue of a wife and a mother. M. de la Fayette attests that he owed to her unalloyed happiness during a wedded union of thirty-four years. "Gentle, tender, virtuous, and high-souled, this incomparable woman has been the charm and pride of my existence."
She too was imprisoned, but was afterward released. Her first thought was to join her husband, a captive at Olmutz. Other duties detained her for a while; but the ultimate object was kept steadily, though silently, in view. Madame de la Fayette sent her young son out of France across the Atlantic, confiding him to Washington's protection; then she hastened to look after her daughters in Auvergne, and settle money accounts there. Happily, she was able to buy back Chavaniac, the property of an old aunt who had brought up her husband. Business concluded, she sought for Madame de Grammont; the two sisters had not met since the tragic death of their relatives. Madame de Noailles' orphan children were living with their aunt. Tearing herself from them, Madame de la Fayette—who could only obtain a passport for America—then went round by sea to Altona, in Denmark, where her other sister, Madame de Montagu, and many French exiles, had fixed their residence for a while. This also was a meeting in which bitter pain was mingled with joy. "Did you see them?" were the only words Madame de Montagu could sob forth, after a long, mute caress. "Alas! I had not that happiness," replied Madame de la Fayette, whose filial heart was choking with the same remembrances.
Proper measures having been taken for obtaining an audience of the emperor, Madame de la Fayette announced her intention of proceeding to Vienna forthwith, that she might solicit permission to share her husband's captivity. The simple words in which she mentioned her generous purpose thrilled through the little circle; vain attempts were made to dissuade her from it; she gently, but firmly, persisted. Her sister could best understand the feelings that guided her, and that she did so was expressed by silent repeated pressures of her hand.
Madame de la Fayette—accompanied by her two girls, aged thirteen and fifteen—reached Vienna under an assumed name. The emperor granted her request, and she hastened joyfully to Olmutz. Such was her enthusiasm at sight of the gloomy fortress in which her husband was confined, that she began repeating Tobias' beautiful canticle (c. xiii.), and entered with it on her lips.
It was the 15th of October, 1795. M. de la Fayette had already been a close prisoner for three years; during the last eighteen months especially he had received no tidings of what was going on in the world without. A vague rumor of excesses committed in France had indeed reached his unbroken solitude, but not the name of one victim; he knew nothing of the fate of his wife and children. Now, without one word of preparation, the door of his cell was unlocked; figures darkened the threshold. Could it be? His heroic wife and their two children! Yes; they had come to share the hardships of his prison life.
The emperor of Austria had spoken to Madame de la Fayette of her husband's place of confinement in a manner which showed her afterward that he was quite ignorant of the rigorous treatment to which the prisoner was subjected. Two little cells, with a wretched bed and a table and chair in each, formed the sole accommodation. As for eating, there was one pewter spoon, no such luxury as knife or fork being allowed. Pens, paper, and ink were only forthcoming on rare occasions, and then the open letter had to be written under the eye of an official. Madame de la Fayette endured all these annoyances for two years; and truly the abnegation of her young daughters during this long period is nearly as admirable as her own. The girls employed themselves very usefully in concocting new articles of clothing out of old materials. Madame de la Fayette, like her husband, soon began to suffer from such close confinement; but when, after eleven months' illness, she applied for leave to go and consult a physician at Vienna for a few days only, the answer was that, once outside the fortress, she would never be re-admitted. The prison doctor could only exchange conversation in Latin with her husband, and neither of them appear to have been adepts in that language; moreover, his hurried visit was obliged to take place in the presence of an officer.
Friends wearied both France and foreign powers with solicitations for the release of General de la Fayette. Fox painted the miseries endured at Olmutz in eloquent terms before a British House of Commons; but it was not until October, 1797, that the prison gates opened at length, through Bonaparte's intervention.
The name she bore often proved detrimental to her, but Madame de la Fayette gloried in it. With Robespierre's fall all prisoners in France were set at liberty. General de la Fayette, however, was accused of having betrayed the revolution because he had refused to become privy to its crimes, and his wife was therefore detained. Interrogated by Legendre, who told her how much he detested the very name of la Fayette, she boldly expressed her readiness to defend him and it against whatsoever accuser. Legendre remanded her to prison "for insolence."
This devoted love for husband and children did not suffice to fill her heart. It was burning also with other affections. To Madame de la Fayette we owe a touching life of the Duchesse d'Ayen, written while at Olmutz, on the margin of a stray volume of Buffon, with a broken toothpick for her pen and a piece of Chinese ink. When told of the tragic fate that had overtaken her relatives, she could not believe it at first; especially it seemed impossible that men could have been so barbarous to her "angelic sister." On recovering a little from this overwhelming sorrow, she wrote to her children:
"I thank God for having preserved to me life and reason, and do not regret your absence at such a moment. He kept me from revolt against him; but I could not long have borne the semblance of any human consolation. To follow in the track of such dear footsteps would have sweetened the last pangs for me."
In the prisons of the revolution her sole thought was how to relieve the wants and sufferings of those around. With her cousin, the Duchesse de Duras, at Plessis, she was constantly interceding for the sick and poor among their fellow captives, and this at a time when a chance word sufficed for death, as sixty victims chosen by caprice or at hazard were regularly dragged forth each day for execution. Her spirit never forsook her under trying circumstances, and she often showed wonderful presence of mind. Once she pleaded her own cause before the tribunal of Puy, and on several occasions harangued the people. Her language at these times was always nobly firm, and sometimes proud even to haughtiness. In a letter addressed to Brissot, after asking for liberty, or at least the favor of remaining a prisoner on parole, which the whole village of Chavaniac volunteered to guarantee, she concludes by saying, "I consent to owe you this service." Her letters to the two ministers, Roland and Servan, or to foreign princes on behalf of her husband, are no less elevated in tone. She never stoops to flatter. No wonder that she exercised a species of fascination over all those who approached her; with whatever feelings the acquaintance began, it was impossible to know and not to love her.
In all her sorrows, ardent faith sustained her. When danger again threatened at Paris, she writes to Madame de Montagu: "We mast abandon ourselves wholly to God in this critical hour. Let us live like Abraham, ready to start whenever God calls, and to go wheresoever he appoints." When she felt her end approaching, once more she repeated aloud that canticle of Tobias, singing which she had, years before, entered the fortress of Olmutz. True in death to her character through life, her heart was inflamed with celestial desires, and still overflowing with human affection. Drawing all her loved ones round her, she gave them a last blessing, and gently expired, holding her husband's hands within her own.
Of four daughters of the Duc d'Ayen, Madame de Grammont was the least attractive. Her person was small, her appearance stiff, her features marked; there was nothing soft about her look or manner. Her virtue was of a stern kind; she had schooled herself into a certain absence of feeling, neither right nor lovable; but fortunately her actions often contradicted her professions. Thus her kindness never failed, and her charity to the poor was boundless. There was a contradiction too between what she said and what she wrote—her speeches are always more or less stern, while her letters frequently betray deep affection; like a person who speaks from principle, but dares to let herself out on paper, sure of restraining emotion when necessary. Sacrifice was the prominent feature of her piety; duty dictated her every sentiment.
Eight out of her nine children she saw carried to their graves in youth, and each time she could say with composure, "The Lord hath given and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Writing to Madame de Montagu about a daughter whose end was approaching, she uses these words: "As life ebbs away, her peace and self-possession are perfect. . . . . . I do not despair of helping her passage into the bosom of God after having erst borne her in my own; and it is sweet to make her repeat, 'I was cast into thy arms, O Lord, from the beginning: thou art my God, even from my mother's womb.'" It was not in her character to disclose the struggle of natural feeling that was going on in her heart at the time that she was writing words like these.
Once Madame de Grammont writes to her sister: "The expectation, experience, and long continuance of misfortune have at length made me impassible. " "And I," adds Madame de Montagu, commenting on the word in [{260}] her journal, "am still a reed shaken by every breath." The two phrases aptly characterize each sister.
In 1848, Madame de Grammont, who had been an eye-witness of the two preceding revolutions, was quite surprised at the fears entertained by those around her. "But, grandmamma," said a member of her family, "if the guillotine were set up again as in the reign of terror, surely you would feel some uneasiness?" "Poor child!" replied the old lady, "that has nothing to do with the question. Must we not all die? The important thing is to be well prepared; the mode of death is a mere detail." And thus unmoved she lived on to the age of eighty-five—that is, till the year 1853—having survived all her sisters. Though her husband had been banished for some time, she never emigrated; and sixty-seven years of her life were passed in retirement at their château of Villersexel. There she was much beloved, being a true mother to all the poor.
Her sisters also were warmly attached to her. Madame de Montagu held her in such veneration, that though a little the older of the two, she always kept a journal for Madame de Grammont to read, that she might point out her faults and help her to amend. She called Madame de Grammont her second conscience and the province in which she resided the kingdom of Virtue, with Peace (Villersexel) for its capital.
Madame de Grammont felt their mother's loss, in her way, as deeply as the rest. Perhaps, too, this heavy trial laid the foundation of her remarkable firmness; for there are some strong natures that cannot bend through fear of breaking. When able afterward to communicate with Madame de Montagu, she writes:
"Since the immolation of those dear victims, the cross is my sole place of refuge. With you, and all those we love in this world and the other, I cast myself into Gods's arms. There let all disquietude cease; there let our minds and hearts rest for ever; thence let us derive strength to perform our allotted task here below."
Her father had entreated Madame de Grammont to consult her personal safety in those perilous times by joining himself and Madame de Montagu in Switzerland. She declined, because her husband was only just recovering from a dangerous illness, and also through fear of compromising his family. Indeed, so much was circumspection necessary, that her letters were written on cambric handkerchiefs, which Madame de Grammont took the further precaution of sewing inside her messenger's waistcoat lining.
Madame de Montagu affords a strong contrast to Madame de Grammont. She went through life thrilling at every step; full of tears that often gushed for joy, but oftenest welled up from deep fountains of sorrow; heroic in faith, like the others, but quivering and writhing beneath each new load of anguish. She never grew accustomed to suffering, and yet God tried her well; but he could not weary her love for himself. And thus, while human affections were ever causing sharp pain, divine love gave her strength to bear it without asking her to overcome them. Such was her character, which grace supported without changing.
Madame de Montagu was admired in the world, but never cared for triumphs of any kind. Her sole wish was to please God and her home circle, and do good to her fellow-creatures. We may believe that the pauper sponsors who held her at St. Roch watched over their charge through life. For well and zealously, though full of natural shrinkings, did Madame de Montagu perform her part on the busy stage. Her timidity was put to its first great trial when, at sixteen, she had to undergo her first introduction to her intended husband, on whom she dared not raise her eyes, to see whether her parents' choice suited her, in appearance at least, until he fortunately turned away to look at a picture. Next [{261}] came the further suffering of receiving congratulatory visits from all Paris, during which the poor bride elect was seated bolt upright, pale and trembling, beside her mother, and between two goodly rows of members of either family, ranged along both sides of the apartment. At church on the wedding-day she regained her composure, because all else was forgotten in the earnest prayer breathed that she might well perform her new duties.
Almost immediately the young wife had to sacrifice her greatest pleasure, that of seeing her mother and sisters frequently. M. de Montagu was obliged to join his regiment, and she was left under the tutelage of her father-in-law, a kind and clever man, but eccentric and full of vagaries. To please him she did everything not wrong, commencing that petty series of daily yieldings, insignificant to careless eyes, but so meritorious because so difficult. This is woman's battlefield, obscure but high; and in this path Madame de Montagu always walked, perfectly ignorant that her simplicity was in any way extraordinary. The good she did by example, and without any words, was immense; only near relatives and intimate friends could perceive it. One of these, M. de Mun, used to say that she was the only dévote he ever knew who made him wish to be saved. So far could she condescend even to the pleasures of others, that in exile, after all her sorrows, she danced at a rustic ball. And to a nature like hers, such griefs as she had known were undying even in their keenness. One of her characteristic traits was that she never forgot an anniversary: everything that had happened to herself and to those dear to her was treasured up, and recalled as the days came round. If it was an occasion of gladness, it was celebrated in public; but her life was more crowded with the memories of sorrow, and these she kept for the quiet of her own room.
We should occupy a larger space than that which is at our disposal were we to try to follow Madame de Montagu through the various stages of her exile from France. She first came to England, settling at Richmond; then she went with her husband to Aix-la-Chapelle, whence the success of the revolutionary armies drove them again to England. They stayed at Margate for a while; then the declaration of war between England and France brought out an order for the émigrés not to live on the coast, and Richmond received them once more. Economy, however, forced them to seek a cheaper abode at Brussels. Afterward this place of refuge became unsafe, and Madame de Montagu was forced to separate from her husband, and accept the hospitality of an aunt, Madame de Tessé—a philosophe old lady, who had been a friend of Voltaire's, but who, as one of her grandnieces said of her, "tout en se croyant incrédule, ne laissait pas de faire un grand signe de croix derrière ses rideaux chaque fois qu'elle prenait une médecine." Madame de Tessé lived at Lowemberg, in Switzerland; her character is charmingly hit off in the memoir before us; she would have delighted Mr. Thackeray. But the presence of Madame de Montagu brought persecution upon her kind relation, who took the characteristic resolution of selling her property and going elsewhere. She took her niece and family first to Erfurt, then to Altona, where many French émigrés were assembled. Her plan was to find a quiet spot beyond the Elbe, where she could live in peace and carry on her farming operations; for her great delight was to manage everything herself, and to supply all the needs of her household from her own resources. They were a long time in finding a place that would suit Madame de Tessé. At length an estate named Wittmold was found, on the banks of the lake of Ploen; and here the exiles found rest for some time. The best elements of Madame de Montagu's beautiful character were developed under the hardships and [{262}] sufferings of this life of poverty and continued apprehension. She had, of course, never known even the idea of want before she left France. When she left Paris, she so little expected to have to manage for herself, that it was only in consequence of Madame de Grammont's imperturbable prudence that she made any provision for the future. They had to part in secret, as it was dangerous to let the servants know of the intended flight of Monsieur and Madame de Montagu. In the suppressed agitation of the moment, Madame de Grammont was characteristically thoughtful. She asked her sister whether she was sure she had her jewels. "Why take them? we are not going to a fête." "Raison de plus; c'est parceque vous n'allez pas à une fête, qu'il faut les emporter. " The advice was afterward found to have been indeed important; but even the sale of her jewels only supported Madame de Montagu for a time. In the course of her long exile, she never made herself a very perfect manager.
She tried to study domestic economy; but she proved a greater proficient in not spending on herself than in learning how to manage household affairs on small means. Still her superintendence of the farm produced good results, from the zeal with which it inspired the workpeople. However low her funds, she always visited the sick and poor, managing to procure them some relief; she also worked unceasingly at objects for sale. Throughout life she never knew idleness, devoting fixed hours to prayer, reading, the instruction of her children, and works of charity. As years went on, she more and more begrudged the hours often forcibly given in social life to frivolous conversation. Her pleasure was to employ each moment usefully in some home duty; but this could not always be the case during exile, especially when residing with her kind but worldly aunt, Madame de Tessé.
At this period it was that she organized her oeuvre des émigrés; a stupendous work, if we consider that there were 40,000 persons to assist, and 16,000,000 francs the moderate sum estimated as requisite for carrying it out with success. Unfortunately the details in figures of this work have been lost; for Madame de Montagu carefully noted down every fraction received, from what quarter it came, and how expended. But we know that the correspondence alone cost annually about 500 francs during the four years it existed—that is, from 1796 to 1800. She collected money in Germany, Denmark, Switzerland, France, the Netherlands, and England; and beside distributing pecuniary assistance, solicited employment for persons of all ages and sexes. She had children to get into schools, young women to place as governesses, drawings and needlework to sell, etc. All this was done without quitting her quiet home on the borders of Lake Ploen, or giving up one domestic occupation. When pressed for time she sat up at night. Winter only increased her zeal. "The colder it is," said she, "the warmer my heart grows." Indeed, she ended by selling for this work the mourning worn for her mother and sister, which she had kept as a relic; at another time she also sold her prayer-book for the same object. But she never would take from this fund for members of her own family; she preferred working for them, not from pride, but through delicacy. For another charity she once cut off her beautiful hair and sold it, receiving eighty francs.
It is curious to remark that this gentle woman nevertheless had her own firm opinions, even on politics; and though never obtruding, still constantly held them. One is surprised to find also that these opinions were not often identical with the views held by those she most respected and loved. In 1790, M. de Beaune, her father-in-law, alarmed at the turn affairs were taking, wished to emigrate with all his family. His idea was to draw Frenchmen together on neutral [{263}] ground, to place their families in safety, and having gained the support of foreign powers, to return with a good army for the protection of the king and the party of order in the state. Madame de Montagu fully shared these views; but her husband at this time disapproved of emigration, considering it the greatest mistake that could be committed by the king's friends. He hoped to arrive at an understanding between the liberal party and the droite, so as to save both the monarchy and liberty. His two elder brothers-in-law, MM. de Noailles and la Fayette, went far beyond these views. Without wishing to overturn royalty, their dream was to see it based on republican principles.
So indignant did this render M. de Beaune, that he broke with them entirely, and wished Madame de Montagu to give up seeing her two sisters, who naturally embraced their husbands' opinions. She could by no means understand that persons were to be proscribed because of their political opinions; but, not to irritate M. de Beaune farther, she would not receive Madame de la Fayette, who offered to pay her a visit at Plauzat in Auvergne, and went instead to meet her privately at a neighbouring inn.
Meanwhile M. de Montagu had yielded to his father's wishes, and at the end of 1791 resolved to emigrate; his choice, however, fell on England rather than Coblentz, where M. de Beaune then was. Madame de Montagu was to accompany her husband. Ere leaving Plauzat she had the happiness of seeing her mother again, but could not summon up courage to tell her of her own approaching departure for England. Both mother and daughter looked on public matters exactly in the same way; there was great similarity between them as to judgment; but the duchesse was not impulsive, like Madame de Montagu. They parted most tenderly, with a presentiment of coming evil; but little did either dream that the guillotine was to separate them for ever.
Then commenced for Madame de Montagu the miseries and heart-burnings of exile. Twice she visited England, spending some time at Richmond and Margate. Griefs began to accumulate; she lost a child for the third time; Marat was lording it over Paris; M. de Montagu in disgust again quitted France, and went to serve under his father's orders on the banks of the Rhine; the massacres of September took place, followed by the fatal battle of Jemappes. The émigrés were henceforth banished. Then the king and queen fell victims to the revolution; Savenay destroyed the last hopes of the Vendeans. In addition to all these public sorrows, and to the pressure of poverty, Madame de Montagu lost another child, her fourth; it seemed as if all her children were born but to die.
All her life she suffered from great delicacy of constitution, and this natural tendency was further increased by her extreme sensibility. Just after losing a child for the first time, and while she was praying, bathed in tears, beside its dead body, a messenger came to tell her that Madame de Grammont had just given birth to her first infant. Madame de Montagu, drying up all traces of her own sorrow, immediately hastened off to congratulate the young mother; but she had scarcely left her sister's room when she fainted in the adjoining apartment. A severe illness followed, the precursor of many others; indeed, it may be said that her whole life was passed amid moral and physical suffering. Death was ever busy in her family.
She lost her only son Attale, a fine young man, just when he had attained his twenty-eighth year; and in this case sorrow was aggravated by the circumstance of his dying through accident—a gun went off in his hand. No fears, however, were entertained at first. Madame de Montagu herself was only recovering by slow degrees from [{264}] a dangerous malady; a sudden and fatal termination had occurred for her son, and she knew it not. They dared not tell her. But the next day, being Trinity Sunday, Madame de Grammont suggested that she should receive holy communion, though still in bed: the priest, in presenting the sacred host, invited her to meditate on the passion, and especially on the sentiments of the Blessed Virgin at the foot of the cross, where her son died.
Madame de Montagu immediately understood him. Her husband then brought to her bedside the young widow and three orphan girls. Attale's mother wept in silence, at length ejaculating: "Thy decree, O Lord, has thus ordained, and I submit. But strike no more, for I am ready to faint beneath the weight of my cross." But she reproached herself afterward for this.
Often before had she endured the mother's agony; but this was the hardest blow of all. And Madame de Montagu lived on to see many loved ones go before her; father, and husband, and several other relations preceded her to the tomb; for she lingered till 1839. Among them was M. de la Fayette, who died in 1834, having survived his wife twenty-seven years. Madame de Montagu and all the members of her family requested to be buried at Picpus.
This spot was hallowed to them by sacred memories, for there reposed above thirteen hundred victims of the revolution. Its continued existence as a cemetery was due to the pious labors of Madame d'Ayen's daughters. In the days of terror, a pit had been dug outside the Barrière du Trône, and all the persons immolated in that quarter of Paris were promiscuously thrown into it. The savage mode of proceeding has been related. As each head fell from the guillotine, it was cast, together with the body, still dressed, into a large barrel painted red. Each night after the executions were over, these barrels were taken to Picpus, and their contents indiscriminately emptied into the pit. The ground had formerly belonged to an Augustinian convent. There, it could not be doubted, lay the remains of Madame d'Ayen and her daughter. Madame de Montagu and Madame de la Fayette, on their return to France, ardently wished to raise a monument to their memory; but on discovering the immense number of victims interred together, it seemed more desirable that the undertaking should be of a less private nature. By their joint efforts, many families of other victims were attracted to the pious enterprise; souls devoted to prayer gathered round; the old convent and church of Picpus rose from their ruins. A cemetery was constructed round that gloomy pit, where not even a name had been scrawled to recall the memory of those who slept below. Madame d'Ayen's three daughters could at least enjoy the sad consolation of praying near their mother's tomb.
All the sisters had bitterly, keenly, felt the cruel stroke that deprived them of three such near relatives, and in such a painful manner; but none suffered more enduringly than Madame de Montagu. She was staying with Madame de Tessé, in Switzerland. News had reached her of the execution of her grand-aunt and uncle, M. and Madame de Monchy; but she was completely ignorant of what had become of her mother and sister. Fears, however, were rife. One day she set out to meet her father, whom she had not seen for some time; and he was so changed, that, perceiving him on the way, she only recognized him from his voice. Each alighted, and his first question was to ask whether she had heard the news; but, seeing her excessive emotion, he hastened to assure her of his own perfect ignorance. She felt a calamity impending, but dared not press for information in the presence of a third person. They drove to an inn; and when father and daughter were alone together, he, after some preparation, informed her that he had just lost his mother. [{265}] A deadly paleness overspread her countenance; confused and dizzy, she exclaimed with clasped hands, "And I—," "I am uneasy about your mother and sister," answered M. d'Ayen, cautiously. But she was not to be deceived. His looks belied his words. That was the hour of bitterest anguish in Madame de Montagu's life. Cries and tears gave no relief. Again and again she saw the scene re-enacted. Reason trembled, but still she strove to pray and be resigned. Remembering her mother's pious practice in times of sorrow, she also recited the magnificat; then, with beautiful feeling, in the midst of her own anguish, she knelt down and prayed, all shuddering, for those that made them suffer. But nature struggled still; and days passed ere she recovered sufficient composure to be left alone. When all the details reached her, strong religious feeling transformed the dungeon, the cart, the scaffold into so many steps by which the martyrs had ascended up to heaven. The love unceasingly manifested by the three sisters for their martyred relatives is very touching. They were first reunited at Vianen, near Utrecht, in 1799. The ostensible object was to settle the division of property rendered necessary by their mother's death; but in reality they were much more occupied in calling up sweet memories of her and of their beloved sister. Madame de la Fayette was then about forty years of age; Madame de Montagu had reached her thirty-second year; and Madame de Grammont was rather more than a twelvemonth younger. They remained a month together, their husbands and families being also on the spot. Not a little suffering was caused by cold and hunger, for their united purses could still only produce insufficient means; fuel was wanting, and they had scanty fare. The three, however, would sit up at night to enjoy each other's society, wrapping their mantles round them to keep out the cold, and sharing one wretched chaufferette. They spoke very low, so as not to disturbed husbands and children sleeping in the adjoining rooms. One great subject of conversation was to point out their mutual defects—a Christian habit acquired under Madame d'Ayen's training, and surprisingly brought into play again under such circumstances.
Madame de Grammont remarked that events were graven in letters of fire in Madame de Montagu's countenance, and characteristically advised her to become more calm. She also took the opportunity of teaching her how to meditate—a service which the elder sister gratefully acknowledges in her diary. Madame de Montagu observed with admiration Madame de Grammont's recollected demeanor at mass, which they attended almost daily, saying she looked like an angel, absolutely annihilated in the presence of God. "As for me, I feel overwhelmed at my poverty beside her." Indeed, the two sisters vied in humility with each other. Madame de Grammont having once said, "You excite me to virtue and attract me to prayer," Madame de Montagu quickly replied, "Then I am like the horses in this country; for one sees wretched-looking animals along the canals drawing large boats after them."
But the chief theme at night was ever their mother. Madame de Montagu was accustomed to unite herself with the dear victims in special prayer every day at the "sorrowful hour," and the other two now undertook the same practice. They also composed beautiful litanies in remembrance of them during their stay at Vianen. Madame de Grammont held the pen, writing sometimes her own inspiration, and sometimes what her sisters dictated. They called these prayers "Litany of our Mothers."
One of the most interesting episodes in the life of Madame de Montagu was her intimacy with the celebrated Count Stolberg, whose conversion to Catholicism seems to have been mainly attributable to the influence of her character. She came across him during her residence at Ploen and Wittmold. [{266}] He was at that time at the head of the government of the Duke of Oldenburg; and he assisted her with all his power in her charitable labors for the relief of the French emigrants. The acquaintance between them sprung up in 1796. Count Stolberg, with his wife and sister,—the only one of the three who did not afterward become Catholic,—had already begun to see something of the inconsistencies and deficiencies of Lutheranism. They were calm, thoughtful, upright souls; grave, severe, and simple, after the best type of the German character. They often conversed on and discussed religious matters among themselves; but they were very ignorant about the Catholic Church and its doctrines. Madame de Montagu taught them more about Catholicism, without speaking on the subject directly, than a whole library of controversial theology. Fragile in health, sensitive to excess, overflowing with sympathy and tenderness, tried by long and varied suffering, and strengthened, elevated, and spiritualized by the cross, without having been hardened or made impassible,—her whole character showed a force and power and greatness that was obviously not its own. Such persons have an irresistible attractiveness; and they speak with a strange silent eloquence to intelligent hearts in favor of the religion which can produce and sustain them. Madame de Montagu was not a person to introduce controversial topics; but she won upon her new friends gradually, and at last they could not help telling her so, after listening to the account they had begged her to give of her own and her sisters' sufferings. After a time their hearts strongly turned to Catholicism; but intellectual difficulties remained on the mind of Stolberg, which were not set at rest till 1800, after he had been engaged in a correspondence with M. de la Luzerne and M. Asseline, to whom Madame de Montagu and her sisters had introduced him. The French prelates did their part; but the illustrious convert must ever be considered as in truth the spiritual child of Madame de Montagu.
From All the Year Round
A FEW SATURNINE OBSERVATIONS.
Here is a gentleman at our doors, Mr. R. A. Proctor, who has written a book upon that planet Saturn, and he asks us to stroll out in his company, and have a look at the old gentleman. It is a long journey to Saturn, for his little place is nine and a half times further from the sun than ours, and his is not a little place in comparison with our own tenement, because Saturn House is seven hundred and thirty-five times bigger than Earth Lodge.
The people of Earth Lodge made Saturn's acquaintance very long ago; nobody remembers how long. Venus and Jupiter being brilliant in company, may have obtruded themselves first upon attention in the evening parties of the stars, and Mars, with his red face and his quick movement, couldn't remain long unobserved. Saturn, dull, slow, yellow-faced, might crawl over the floor of heaven like a gouty and bilious nabob, and be overlooked for a very little while, but somebody would soon ask, Who is that sad-faced fellow with the leaden complexion, who sometimes seems to be standing still or going backward?
He was the more noticeable, because [{267}] those evening parties in the sky differ from like parties on earth in one very remarkable respect as to the behavior of the company. We hear talk of dancing stars, and the music of the spheres, but, in fact, except a few, all keep their places, with groups as unchanging as those of the guests in the old fabled banquet, whom the sight of the head of Medusa turned to stone. Only they wink, as the stone guests probably could not. In and out among this company of fixtures move but a few privileged stars, as our sister the moon and our neighbors the planets. These alone thread the maze of the company of statues, dancing round their sun, who happens to be one of the fixed company, to the old tune of Sun in the middle and can't get out. Some of the planets run close, and some run in a wide round, some dance round briskly, and some slip slowly along. Once round is a year, and Saturn, dancing in a wide round outside ours, so that in each round he has about nine times as far to go, moves at a pace about three times slower than ours. His year, therefore, is some twenty-seven times longer; in fact, a year in the House of Saturn is as much as twenty-nine years five months and sixteen days in our part of the world. What, therefore, we should consider to be an old man of eighty-eight would pass with Saturn for a three-year-old.
A hundred and fifty years ago, Bishop Wilkins did not see why some of his posterity should not find out a conveyance to the moon, and, if there be inhabitants, have commerce with them. The first twenty miles, he said, is all the difficulty; and why, he asked, writing before balloons had been discovered, may we not get over that? No doubt there are difficulties. The journey, if made at the rate of a thousand miles a day, would take half a year; and there would be much trouble from the want of inns upon the road. Nevertheless, heaviness being a condition of closeness and gravitation to the earth, if one lose but the first twenty miles, that difficulty of our weight would soon begin to vanish, and a man—clear of the influence of gravitation—might presently stand as firmly in the open air as he now does upon the ground. If stand, why not go? With our weight gone from us, walking will be light exercise, cause little fatigue, and need little nourishment. As to nourishment, perhaps none may be needed, as none is needed by those creatures who, in a long sleep, withdraw themselves from the heavy wear and tear of life. "To this purpose," says Bishop Wilkins, "Mendoca reckons up divers strange relations. As that of Epimenides, who is storied to have slept seventy-five years. And another of a rustic in Germany, who, being accidentally covered with a hayrick, slept there for all autumn and the winter following, without any nourishment." Though, to be sure, the condition of a man free of all weight is imperfectly suggested by the man who had a hayrick laid atop of him. But what then? Why may not smells nourish us as we walk moonward upon space, after escape from all the friction and the sense of burden gravitation brings? Plutarch and Pliny, and divers other ancients, tell us of a nation in India that lived only upon pleasing odors; and Democritus was able for divers days together to feed himself with the mere smell of hot bread. Or, if our stomachs must be filled, may there not be truth in the old Platonic principle, that there is in some part of the world a place where men might be plentifully nourished by the air they breathe, which cannot be so likely to be true of any other place as of the ethereal air above this? We have heard of some creatures, and of the serpent, that they feed only upon one element, namely, earth. Albertus Magnus speaks of a man who lived seven weeks together upon the mere drinking of water. Rondoletius affirms that his wife did keep a fish in a glass of water without any food for three years, in which space it was constantly augmented, till at first it could [{268}] not come out of the place at which it was put in, and at length was too big for the glass itself, though that were of large capacity. So may it be with man in the ethereal air. Onions will shoot out and grow as they hang in common air. Birds of paradise, having no legs, live constantly in and upon air, laying their eggs on one another's backs, and sitting on each other while they hatch them. And, if none of these possibilities be admitted, why, we can take our provision with us. Once up the twenty miles, we could carry any quantity of it the rest of the way, for a ship-load would be lighter than a feather. Sleep, probably, with nothing to fatigue us, we should no longer require; but if we did, we cannot desire a softer bed than the air, where we may repose ourselves firmly and safely as in our chambers.
As for that difficulty of the first twenty miles, it is not impossible to make a flying chariot and give it motion through the air. If possible, it can be made large enough to carry men and stores, for size is nothing if the motive faculty be answerable thereto—the great ship swims as well as the small cork, and an eagle flies in the air as well as a little gnat. Indeed, we might have regular Great Eastern packets plying between London and No Gravitation Point, to which they might take up houses, cattle, and all stores found necessary to the gradual construction of a town upon the borders of the over-ether route to any of the planets. Stations could be established, if necessary, along the routes to the moon, Mars, Venus, Saturn, and the rest of the new places of resort; some London society could create and endow a new Bishop of Jupiter; and daring travellers would bring us home their journals of a Day in Saturn, or Ten Weeks in Mars, while sportsmen might make parties for the hippogriff shooting in Mercury, or bag chimeras on the mountains of the moon.
Well, in whatever way we may get there, we are off now for a stroll to Saturn, with Mr. R. A. Proctor for comrade and cicerone, but turning a deaf ear to him whenever, as often occurs, he is too learned for us, and asks us to "let N P' P" N' represent the northern half of Saturn's orbit (viewed in perspective), n E n' E' the earth's orbit, and N p p' p" N' the projection of Saturn's orbit on the plane of the earth's orbit. Let N S N' be the line of Saturn's nodes on this plane, and let S P' be at right angles to N S, N', so that when at P' Saturn is at his greatest distance from the ecliptic on the northern side." When of such things we are asked to let them be, we let them be, and are, in the denseness of our ignorance, only too glad to be allowed, not to say asked, to do so. We attend only, like most of our neighbors, to what is easy to us. Sun is gold, and moon is silver; Mars is iron. Mercury quicksilver, which we, in fact, rather like still to call Mercury, thinking nothing at all of the imprisoned god with the winged heels when we ask how is the mercury in the thermometer. Jove is tin; yes, by Jove, tin is the chief among the gods, says little Swizzles, who, by a miracle, remembers one thing that he learnt at school—Jove's chieftainship among the heathen deities. Venus is copper, for the Cyprian is Cuprian; and as for Saturn, he is lead. A miserable old fellow they made Saturn out in the days of the star-decipherers. Mine, Chaucer makes Saturn say, is the drowning in wan waters, the dark prison, the strangling and hanging, murmur of discontent, and the rebellion of churls. I am the poisoner and the house-breaker, I topple down the high halls, and make towers fall upon their builders, earth upon its miners. I sent the temple roof down upon Samson. I give you all your treasons, and your cold diseases, and your pestilences. This is the sort of estimation in which our forefathers held the respectable old gentleman we are now going out to see.
When Galileo's eyes went out toward Saturn through his largest telescope—which, great as were the discoveries it made, was clumsier and weaker than the sort of telescope now to be got for a few shillings at any optician's shop—he noticed a peculiarity in the appearance of Saturn which caused him to suppose that Saturn consisted of three stars in contact with one another. A year and a half later he looked again, and there was the planet round and single as the disc of Mars or Jupiter. He cleaned his glasses, looked to his telescope, and looked again to the perplexing planet. Triform it was not. "Is it possible," he asked, "that some mocking demon has deluded me?" Afterward the perplexity increased. The two lesser orbs reappeared, and grew and varied in form strangely: finally they lost their globular appearance altogether, and seemed each to have two mighty arms stretched toward and encompassing the planet. A drawing in one of his manuscripts would suggest that Galileo discovered the key to the mystery, for it shows Saturn as a globe resting upon a ring. But this drawing is thought to be a later addition to the manuscript. It was only after many perplexities of others, about half a century later, that Huygens, in the year sixteen fifty-nine, announced to his contemporaries that Saturn is girdled about by a thin, flat ring, inclined to the ecliptic, and not touching the body of the planet. He showed that all variations in the appearance of the ring are due to the varying inclinations of its plane toward us, and that, being very thin, it becomes invisible when its edge is turned to the spectator or the sun. He found the diameter of the ring to be as nine to four to the diameter of Saturn's body, and its breadth about equal to the breadth of vacant space between it and the surface of the planet.
The same observer, Huygens, four years earlier, discovered one of Saturn's satellites. Had he looked for more, he could have found them. But six was the number of known planets, five had been the number of known satellites, our moon and the four moons of Jupiter, which Galileo had discovered; one moon more made the number of the planets and of the satellites to be alike, six, and this arrangement was assumed to be exact and final. But in sixteen seventy-one another satellite of Saturn was discovered by Cassini, who observed that it disappears regularly during one-half of its seventy-nine days' journey round its principal. Whence it is inferred that this moon has one of its sides less capable than the other of reflecting light, and that it turns round on its own axis once during its seventy-nine days' journey; Saturn itself spinning once round on its axis in as short a time as ten hours and a half. Cassini afterward discovered three more satellites, and called his four the Sideria Lodoicea, Ludovickian Stars, in honor of his patron, Louis the Fourteenth. Huygens had discovered, also, belts on Saturn's disc. Various lesser observations on rings, belts, and moons of Saturn continued to be made until the time of the elder Herschel, who, at the close of the last century, discovered two more satellites, established the relation of the belts to the rotation of the planet, and developed, after ten years' careful watching, his faith in the double character of its ring. "There is not, perhaps," said this great and sound astronomer, "another object in the heavens that presents us with such a variety of extraordinary phenomena as the planet Saturn: a magnificent globe encompassed by a stupendous double ring; attended by seven satellites; ornamented with equatorial belts; compressed at the poles; turning on its axis; mutually eclipsing its rings and satellites, and eclipsed by them; the most distant of the rings also turning on its axis, and the same taking place with the furthest of the satellites; all the parts of the system of Saturn occasionally reflecting light to each other—the rings and moons [{270}] illuminating the nights of the Saturnian, the globe and moons enlightening the dark parts of the rings, and the planet and rings throwing back the sun's beams upon the moons when they are deprived of them at the time of their conjunctions." During the present century, other observers have detected more divisions of the ring, one separating the outer ring into two rings of equal breadth seems to be permanent. It is to be seen only by the best telescopes, under the most favorable conditions. Many other and lesser indications of division have also at different times been observed. Seventeen years ago an eighth satellite of Saturn was discovered by Mr. Bond in America, and by Mr. Lassell in England. Two years later, that is to say, in November, eighteen fifty, a third ring of singular appearance was discovered inside the two others by Mr. Bond, and, a few days later, but independently, by Mr. Dawes and by Mr. Lassell in England. It is not bright like the others, but dusky, almost purple, and it is transparent, not even distorting the outline of the body of the planet seen through it. This ring was very easily seen by good telescopes, and presently became visible through telescopes of only four-inch aperture. In Herschel's time it was so dim that it was figured as a belt upon the body of the planet. Now it is not only distinct, but it has been increasing in width since the time of its discovery.
These were not all the marvels. One of the chief of the wonders since discovered was a faint overlapping light, differing much in color from the ordinary light of the ring, which light, a year and a half ago, Mr. Wray saw distinctly stretched on either side from the dark shade on the ball overlapping the fine line of light by the edge of the ring to the extent of about one-third of its length, and so as to give the impression that it was the dusky ring, very much thicker than the bright rings, and, seen edgewise, projected on the sky. Well may we be told by our guide, Mr. Proctor, that no object in the heavens presents so beautiful an appearance as Saturn, viewed with an instrument of adequate power. The golden disc, faintly striped with silver-tinted belts; the circling rings, with their various shades of brilliancy and color; and the perfect symmetry of the system as it sweeps across the dark background of the field of view, combine to form a picture as charming as it is sublime and impressive.
But what does it all mean? What is the use of this strange furniture in the House of Saturn, which is like nothing else among the known things of the universe? Maupertuis thought that Saturn's ring was a comet's tail cut off by the attraction of the planet as it passed, and compelled to circle round it thenceforth and for ever. Buffon thought the ring was the equatorial region of the planet which had been thrown off and left revolving while the globe to which it had belonged contracted to its present size. Other theories also went upon the assumption that the rings are solid. But if they are solid, how is it that they exhibit traces of varying division and reunion, and what are we to think of certain mottled or dusky stripes concentric with the rings, which stripes, appearing, to indicate that the ring where they occur is semi-transparent, also are not permanent? Then, again, what are we to think of the growth within the last seventy years of the transparent dark ring which does not, as even air would, refract the image of that which is seen through it, and that is becoming more opaque every year? Then, again, how is it that the immense width of the rings has been steadily increasing by the approach of their inner edge to the body of the planet? The bright ring, once twenty-three thousand miles wide, was five thousand miles wider in Herschel's time, and has now a width of twenty-eight thousand three hundred on a surface of more than twelve thousand millions of [{271}] square miles, while the thickness is only a hundred miles or less. Eight years ago, Mr. J. Clerk Maxwell obtained the Adams prize of the University of Cambridge for an essay upon Saturn's rings, which showed that if they were solid there would be necessary to stability an appearance altogether different from that of the actual system. But if not solid, are they fluid, are they a great isolated ocean poised in the Saturnian mid air? If there were such an ocean, it is shown that it would be exposed to influences forming waves that would be broken up into fluid satellites.
But possibly the rings are formed of flights of disconnected satellites, so small and so closely packed that, at the immense distance to which Saturn is removed, they appear to form a continuous mass, while the dark inner mass may have been recently formed of satellites drawn by disturbing attractions or collisions out of the bright outer ring, and so thinly scattered that they give to us only a sense of darkness without obscuring, and of course without refracting, the surface before which they spin. This is, in our guide's opinion, the true solution of the problem, and to the bulging of Saturn's equator, which determines the line of superior attraction, he ascribes the thinness of the system of satellites, in which each is compelled to travel near the plane of the great planet's equator.
Whatever be the truth about these vast provisions for the wants of Saturn, surely there must be living inhabitants there to whose needs they are wisely adapted. Travel among the other planets would have its inconveniences to us of the earth. Light walking as it might be across the fields of ether, we should have half our weight given to us again in Mars or Mercury, while in Jupiter our weight would be doubled, and we should drag our limbs with pain. In Saturn, owing to the compression of the vast light globe and its rapid rotation, a man who weighs twelve stone at the equator weighs fourteen stone at the pole. Though vast in size, the density of the planet is small, for which reason we should not find ourselves very much heavier by change of ground from earth to Saturn. We should be cold, for Saturn gets only a ninetieth part of the earth's allowance of light and heat. But then there is no lack of blanket in the House of Saturn, for there is a thick atmosphere to keep the warmth in the old gentleman's body and to lengthen the Saturnian twilights. As for the abatement of light, we know how much light yet remains to us when less than a ninetieth part of the sun escapes eclipse. We see in its brightness, as a star, though a pale one, the reflection of the sunshine Saturn gets, which if but a ninetieth part of our share, yet leaves the sun of Saturn able to give five hundred and sixty times more light than our own brightest moonshine. And then what long summers! The day in Saturn is only ten and a half hours long, so that the nights are short, and there are twenty-four thousand six hundred and eighteen and a half of its own days to the Saturnian year. But the long winters! And the Saturnian winter has its gloom increased by eclipses of the sun's light by the rings. At Saturn's equator these eclipses occur near the equinoxes and last but a little while, but in the regions corresponding to our temperate zone they are of long duration. Apart from eclipse, the rings lighten for Saturn the short summer nights, and lie perhaps as a halo under the sun during the short winter days.
From Chamber's Journal.
SLIPS OF THE PEN.
When Mrs. Caxton innocently made her wiser-half the father of an anachronism, that worthy scholar was much troubled in consequence. His anachronism was a living one, or he might have comforted himself by reflecting that greater authors than he had stood in the same paternal predicament. Our old English dramatists took tremendous liberties this way, never allowing considerations of time and place to stand in the way of any allusion likely to tell with their audience. Shakespeare would have been slow to appreciate a modern manager's anxiety for archaeological fidelity. His Greeks and Romans talk about cannons and pistols, and his Italian clowns are thorough cockneys, familiar with every nook and corner of London. And so it is with other caterers for the stage. Nat Lee talks about cards in his tragedy of "Hannibal;" Otway makes Spartan notables carouse and drink deep; Mrs. Cowley's Lacedaemonian king speaks of the night's still Sabbath; D'Urfey's ancient Britons are familiar with Puritans and packet-boats; and Rymer (though he set himself up for a critic) supplies a stage direction for the representative of his Saxon heroine to pull off her patches, when her lover desires her to lay aside her ornaments.
When Colman read "Inkle and Yarico" to Dr. Moseley, the latter exclaimed: "It won't do. Stuff! Nonsense!"—"Why?" asked the alarmed dramatist.—"Why, you say in the finale:
'Come let us dance and sing.
While all Barbadoes' bells shall ring!'
It won't do; there is but one bell in the island!" This mistake was excusable enough; but when Milton described
"A green mantling vine,
That crawls along the side of yon small hill,"
he must certainly have forgotten he had laid the scene of "Comus" in North Wales. Ernest Jones, describing a battle in his poem, "The Lost Army," says:
"Delay and doubt did more that hour
Than bayonet-charge or carnage shower;"
and some lines further on pictures his hero
"All worn with wounds, when day was low.
With severed sword and shattered shield;"
thus making his battle rather a trial of the respective powers of ancient and modern weapons than a conflict between equally-armed foes. Mr. Thackeray perpetrates a nice little anachronism in "The Newcomes," when he makes Clive, in a letter dated 183-, quoting an Academy exhibition critique, ask: "Why have we no picture of the sovereign and her august consort from Smee's brush?"—the author, in his anxiety to compliment the artist, forgetting that there was no consort till 1840.
A bull in a china-shop is scarcely more out of place than a bull in a serious poem, but accidents will happen to the most regular of writers. Thus Milton's pen slipped when he wrote:
"The sea-girt isles
That like to rich and various gems inlay The unadorned bosom of the deep;"
a quotation reminding us that the favorite citation,
"Beauty when unadorned, adorned the most,"
is but a splendid bull, beautiful for its [{273}] boldness. Thomson was an adept at making pretty bulls; here is another:
"He saw her charming, but he saw not half
The charms her downcast modesty concealed;"
as if it were possible to see some of them, although they were concealed. Pope, correct Pope, actually tell us:
"Young Mars in his boundless mind.
A work t' outlast immortal Rome designed."
The author of "The Spanish Rogue" makes "a silent noise" invade the ear of his hero. General Taylor immortalized himself by perpetrating one of the grandest bulls on record, in which he attained what a certain literary professor calls "a perfection hardly to be surpassed." In his presidential address he announced to the American Congress that the United States were at peace with all the world, and continued to cherish relations of amity with the rest of mankind. Much simpler was the blunder of an English officer, during the Indian mutiny, who informed the public, through the Times, that, thanks to the prompt measures of Colonel Edwardes, the Sepoys at Fort Machison "were all unarmed and taken aback, and, being called upon, laid down their arms." There was nothing very astonishing in an Irish newspaper stating that Robespierre "left no children behind him, except a brother, who was killed at the same time;" but it was startling to have an English journal assure us that her majesty Queen Victoria was "the last person to wear another man's crown."
A single ill-chosen word often suffices, by the suggestion of incongruous ideas, to render what should be sublime utterly ridiculous. One can hardly believe that a poet like Dryden could write:
"My soul is packing up, and just on wing,"
Such a line would have come with better grace from the author of "The Courageous Turk," a play containing the following curious passage:
"How now, ye heavens! grow you
So proud, that you must needs put on curled locks,
And clothe yourself in perwigs of fire."
Nearly equalled in absurdity by this from Nat Lee's "OEdipus:"
"Each trembling ghost shall rise,
And leave their grisly king without a waiter."
When the news of Captain Cook's death at Owhyhee came to England, the poetasters, of course, hastened to improve the occasion, and one of the results of their enthusiasm was a monody commencing:
"Minerva in heaven disconsolate mourned
The loss of her Cook;"
an opening sufficient to upset the gravity of the great navigator's dearest friend.
Addison lays it down as a maxim, that when a nation abounds in physicians it grows thin of people. Fillibuster Henninpen seems to have agreed with the essayist, or he would hardly have informed General Walker, in one of his dispatches, that "Doctors Rice and Wolfe died of the cholera, and Dr. Lindley sickened, after which the health of the camp visibly improved." Intentionally or not, the stout-hearted soldier suggests that the best way of getting rid of the cholera is to make short work of the doctors. Among the obituary notices in a weekly paper, not many months ago, there appeared the name of a certain publican, with the following eulogium appended to it: "He was greatly esteemed for his strict probity and steady conduct through life, he having been a subscriber to the 'Sunday Times' from its first number." This is a worthy pendant to Miss Hawkins's story of the undertaker writing to the corporation of London, "I am desired to inform the Court of Aldermen, Mr. Alderman Gill died last night, by order of Mrs. Gill;" and not far short, in point of absurdity, is Madame Tussand's announcement of the exhibition of the effigy of the notorious Palmer, "who was executed at Stafford with two hundred other celebrities." [{274}] The modern fashion of naming florists' flowers must be held responsible for the very dubious paragraph we extract from a gardening paper: "Mrs. Legge will be looked after; she may not be so certain as some, but she was nevertheless very fine in the early part of the season. Lady Popham is useful, one of the old-fashioned build, not quite round in the outline, but makes up well."
Thackeray seems to have had an intense dislike to the trouble of revision, for his popular works, especially those published periodically, abound in trivial mistakes, arising from haste, forgetfulness, and want of care. The novelist mortally wounds an old lady with a candle instead of a candlestick, and afterwards attributes her death to a stone staircase. Newcome senior is colonel and major at one and the same time; Jack Belsize is Jack on one page and Charles on another; Mrs. Raymond Gray, introduced as Emily, is suddenly rechristencd Fanny; and Philip Fermor on one occasion becomes transformed into the author's old hero, Clive. With respect to the last-mentioned gentleman, author and artist seem to have differed, for while Mr. Thackeray jests about Clive's beautiful whiskers and handsome moustaches, Mr. Doyle persists to the end in denying young Newcome's possession of those tokens of manhood.
It is not often that an author is satirical upon his own productions; but Charles Dickens has contrived to be so. Describing the old inns of the Borough, in his "Pickwick Papers," he says they are queer places, with galleries, passages, and staircases wide enough and antiquated enough "to furnish materials for a hundred ghost-stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any. " How little could Boz have anticipated certain charming Christmas books witching the world a few years later! So, also, "American Notes," Mr. Jefferson Brick, and the transatlantic Eden lay unsuspected in the future, when he made Old Wellor suggest Mr. Pickwick's absconding to America till Dodson & Fogg were hung, and then returning to his native land and writing "a book about the 'Merrikens as 'ill pay all his expenses and more, if he blows 'em up enough!"
From The Month.
SAINTS OF THE DESERT.
BY THE REV. J. H. NEWMAN, D.D.
1. Abbot Antony said: The days are coming when men will go mad; and, when they meet a man who has kept his senses, they will rise up against him, saying, "You are mad, because you are not like us."
2. While Arsenius was still employed in the imperial court, he asked of God to lead him in the way by which he might be saved.
Then a voice came to him: "Arsenius, flee the company of men, and thou art in that saving way."
3. Abbot Agatho said: Unless a man begin with the observance of the Precepts, he will not make progress in any one virtue.
4. Abbot Ammonas said: Such be thy thought as that of malefactors in prison. For they are ever asking, "Where is the judge? and when is he coming?" and they bewail themselves at the prospect.
5. Holy Epiphanius said: To sinners who repent God remits even the principal; but from the just he exacts interest.
6. Abbot Sylvanus had an ecstacy: and, coming to himself, he wept bitterly. "What is it, my father?" said a novice to him.
He made answer: Because I was carried up to the judgment, O my son, and I saw many of our kind going off to punishment, and many a secular passing into the kingdom.
7. An old man said: If you see a youngster mounting up to heaven at his own will, catch him by the foot, and fling him to the earth; for such a flight doth not profit.
8. Abbot Antony fell on a time into weariness and gloom of spirit; and he cried out, "Lord, I wish to be saved; but my searchings of mind will not let me."
And, looking round, he saw some one like himself, sitting and working, then rising and praying, then sitting and rope-making again. And he heard the angel say: "Work and pray; pray and work; and thou shalt be saved."
9. Arsenius, when he was now in solitude, prayed as before: "Lord, lead me along, the way of salvation." And again he heard a voice, which said: "Flight, silence, quiet; these are the three sources of sinlessness."
10. "Which of all our duties," asked the brethren, "is the greatest labor?" Agatho answered: "Prayer; for as soon as we begin, the devils try to stop us, since it is their great enemy. Rest comes after every other toil, but prayer is a struggle up to the last breath."
11. Abbot Theodore said: "Other virtue there is none like this, to make naught of no one."
12. Abbot Sylvanus said: "Woe to the man whose reputation is greater than his work."
13. Holy Epiphanius said: "A great safeguard against sin is the reading of the Scriptures; and it is a precipice and deep gulf to be ignorant of the Scriptures."
14. Once a monk was told, "Thy father is dead." He answered: "Blaspheme not; my Father is immortal."
CONTINUED
MISCELLANY.
The Dead Sea. —The level of the Dead Sea is at last finally settled by the party of Royal Engineers, under Captain Wilson, who were sent by the Ordance Survey for the purpose of surveying Jerusalem and levelling the Dead Sea. The results of the survey are being prepared for publication. The levelling from the Mediterranean to the Dead Sea was performed with the greatest possible accuracy. The depression of the surface of the Dead Sea on the 12th of March, 1865, was found to be 1,292 feet, but from the line of drift-wood observed along the border of the Dead Sea it was found that the level of the water at some periods of the year stands two feet six inches higher, which would make the least depression 1,289.5 feet. Captain Wilson also learnt from inquiry among the Bedouins, and from European residents in Palestine, that during the early summer the level of the Dead Sea is lower by at least six feet; this would make the greatest depression to be as near as possible 1,298 feet. Most of the previous observations for determining the relative level of the two seas gave most discordant results. The Dead Sea was found by one to be 710 feet above the level of the Mediterranean, by another to be on the same level, by another to be 710 feet lower, and by another to be 1,446 feet lower; but the most recent before that now given, by the Duc de Luynes and Lieutenant Vignes of the French navy, agrees with the present result in a very remarkable manner.
Eozoon in Ireland,—The fossil Rhizopod is not confined to the Canadian rocks. Mr. W. A. Sanford has discovered Eozoon in the green marble rocks of Connemara in Ireland. His assertion that it is to be found in these deposits at first excited very grave doubts as to the accuracy of his observations. Since his first announcement of the discovery, his specimens have been examined by the distinguished co-editor of the "Geological Magazine" (Mr. H. Woodward), and this gentleman fully confirms Mr. Sanford's opinion. In the specimens prepared from Connemara marble, "the various-formed chambers—the shell of varying thickness—either very thin, and traversed by fine tubuli, the silicate filling which resembles white velvet-pile, or thick, and traversed by brush-like threads, are both present. Although the specimens were not so carefully prepared as those mounted for Dr. Carpenter, still the structure was so plainly perceptible as to render the diagnosis incontrovertible."
The Mont Cenis Tunnel. —The following particulars of the state of the works at Mont Cenis will be read with interest. We owe them to a recent report of M. Sommeiller, the engineer in charge. The length of the tunnel from Bardonnêche to Modena is 12,220 metres, and, at the end of 1804, 2,322 metres had been pierced on the Bardonnêche side, whilst the work had advanced 1,763 metres from the Modena end, making in all 4,085 metres—nearly a third of the whole distance. From the 1st of January to the 10th of June of the present year the progress of the work has been considerably augmented, upwards of 654 metres having been accomplished. The excavation is now, however, retarded by a mass of granite, which lessens the work of the machinery by one-third. The presence of this impediment was almost exactly predicted by MM. Elie de Beaumont and Sismonda, who stated, as a result of their survey, that granitic rocks would be met with at a distance of 1,500 or 2,000 metres from the mouth of the tunnel on the Italian side.
Lightning.—M. Boudin has recently laid before the Academy of Sciences a return of the deaths which have been caused by the action of lightning in France during the period 1835-63. During these thirty years 2,238 persons were struck dead. Among 880 victims during 1854-63, there were but 248 of the female sex; and in several instances the lightning, falling among groups of persons of both sexes, especially struck those of the male sex, and more or less spared the females. In a great number of cases flocks of more than 100 animals, [{277}] cattle, hogs, or sheep, have been killed, while the shepherds or herdsmen in their midst have remained uninjured. In 1853, of 34 persons killed in the fields, 15, or nearly half, were struck under trees; and of 107 killed between 1841-53, 21 had taken shelter under trees. Reckoning, then, at only 25 per cent, the proportion struck under trees, we find that of 6,714 struck in France nearly 1,700 might have escaped the accidents which occurred to them by avoiding trees during storms.
More about the Nile—Another source of the Nile has been discovered by the adventurous Mr. Baker, whose name has been frequently mentioned of late among geographers. But this so-called source is a lake only, the Luta Nzige, about two hundred and sixty miles long, and of proportionate breadth, which lies between the lake discovered by Captain Speke and the heretofore explored course of the Nile. The great river flows from one to the other, forming on the way the Karuma waterfall, one hundred and twenty feet in height, in which particular it represents the Niagara Fall between lakes Erie and Ontario. But it seems right to remark that the true source of the Nile has not yet been discovered, and that it must be looked for at the head of one of the streams which flow into the upper lake—the Victoria Nyanza of Speke. That the two lakes are reservoirs which keep the Nile always flowing, may be accepted as fact; but to describe them as sources is a misuse of terms. If Dr. Livingstone, in his new exploration, should get into the hill-country above the Victoria Nyanza, we might hope to hear that the real source, the fountain-head, of the Nile had been discovered. It is worthy of remark that these lakes of the Nile are laid down and described in old books on the geography of Africa. Ptolemy mentions them; and they are represented in some of the oldest Arabian and Portuguese maps. It is well known to scholars that the Emperor Nero sent two officers expressly to search for the head of the Nile. "I myself" writes Seneca, "have heard the two centurions narrate that after they had accomplished a long journey, being furnished with assistance by the king of Ethiopia, and being recommended by him to the neighboring kings, they penetrated into far distant regions, and came to immense lakes, the termination of which neither the inhabitants knew nor could any one hope to do so, because aquatic plants were so densely interwoven in the waters." This description holds good to the present day; and it is thought that certain rocks seen by the centurions mark the site of the Karuma Falls. Mr. Baker describes his voyage down the Luta Nzige as "extremely beautiful, the mountains frequently rising abruptly from the water, while numerous cataracts rush down their furrowed sides. . . . . . The water is deep, sweet, and transparent," and, except at the outlet of the river, the shores are free from reeds. "Mallegga, on the west coast of the lake, is a large and powerful country, governed by a king named Kajoro, who possesses boats sufficiently large to cross the lake." "About ten miles from the junction," he writes, "the channel contracted to about two hundred and fifty yards in width, with little perceptible stream, very deep, and banked as usual with high reeds, the country on either side undulating and wooded. At about twenty miles from Magungo, my voyage suddenly terminated; a stupendous waterfall, of about one hundred and twenty feet perpendicular height, stopped all further progress. Above the great fall, the river is suddenly confined between rocky hills, and it races through a gap, contracted from a grand stream of perhaps two hundred yards width to a channel not exceeding fifty yards. Through this gap it rushes with amazing rapidity, and plunges at one leap into a deep basin below."
The Burning Well at Broseley. —Mr. John Randall, F.G.S., writes to the "Geological Magazine" anent this extinct petroleum spring. The so-called burning well has ceased to exist for nearly a century. It was fed by a spring, and petroleum and naphtha also found their way from rents in the rock into the water of the well. Springs of petroleum on a much larger scale are met with in the neighborhood, and the yield of them was formerly much greater than at present. Many hogsheads from one of these were exported some years ago under the name of "Betton's British Oil," The rocks were tapped by driving a level through one of the sandstone rocks of the coal [{278}] measures; but these are now drained; and very little is found to flow from them.
The Origin of the Salt in the Dead Sea. —One of our most distinguished explorers of the Holy Land attributes the intensely saline character of the Dead Sea to the hill of Jebell Usdum. This is a huge ridge of salt, about a mile wide, and running N.E. and S.W. for a distance of three miles and a half, then due N. and S. for four miles further. It is situated near the southern extremity of the Dead Sea, and renders that portion of it much more salt than the northern portion. Further, Mr. Tristram thinks that it is the proximate cause of the saltness of the Dead Sea, the drainage to which has been dissolving away portions of salt, and carrying it to the Dead Sea, ever since the elevation of the ridge of Akabah separated the latter from the Red Sea, or since the desiccation of the ocean, which existed to the Eocene period, presuming (which seems most probable) that the fissures of the Ghor were of submarine origin, and that the valley itself was during the Tertiary period the northernmost of a series of African lakes, of which the Red Sea was the next.—Geological Magazine.
Iron Implements in Crannogues. —In a letter addressed to the London Reader, by Mr. George Henry Kinahan, some important points relative to the antiquity of iron, and the necessity for seeking for traces of this metal, have been dwelt upon. While investigating one of the largest crannogues or artificial islands in Loughrea, County Galway, Ireland, he found only stone implements, with the exception of a rude knife, which appeared to be of some sort of bronze. But he observed facts which would seem to indicate that iron implements had been in use among the inhabitants of the crannogues. These facts are as follows: 1st, All the stakes that were drawn had been pointed by a sharp cutting instrument, as were evidenced by the clean cuts. 2d, Pieces of deer's horn that were found had been divided by a very fine saw, as was proved by the absence of marks of graining on the surface of the sections. 3d, On some of the bones there were farrows, evidently made by sharpening fish-hooks or some pointed implement on them. 4th, In various places nests of peroxide of iron were observed, as if an iron instrument had once been there, but had been corroded away in course of time. Mr. Kinahan draws particular attention to the circumstances that "few metals corrode as fast as iron, and that, while stone and bronze would last for ages, iron would disappear, owing to corrosion, in a comparatively short space of time."
The Gibraltar Cave Fossils. —Mr. Busk in his paper on this subject says: The rock in which the caverns of Gibraltar were found is limestone, and extends for about three miles from north to south, at an elevation varying from 1,400 to 1,200 feet. It is geologically divided into three nearly equal portions by cleavages which separate the higher parts of the rock on the north and south from the central and lower part. At the southern face of the rock there is comparatively low ground, the Windmill Hill being about 400 feet above the level of the sea; but the strata there are inclined in an opposite direction to the great mass of what is termed the "Rock of Gibraltar." In the Windmill rock the caverns have been found, and in these latter a great quantity of bones was discovered. The bones, which were mingled with pottery, flint implements, and charcoal, appear to have been deposited at different periods, and were found at various depths, the lowest being fourteen feet below the floor of the cavern. Those in the lowest layer consisted of the bones of mammals, several of which were of extinct species. They were imbedded in ferruginous earth partially fossilized, and were covered with stalagmite—no human bones were with them. Above this layer were deposited the remains of about thirty human skeletons, with fragments of pottery, flint implements, particles of charcoal, and a bronze fishing-hook. Some of the pottery had been turned in a lathe, and bore evidence of classic art. In another cavern, discovered under the foundation of the military prison, the remains of two isolated skeletons were also found. Only one skull had been discovered there, and that had been sent to Mr. Busk, who remarked that the lower jaw transmitted with the cranium did not belong to it, showing that there must have been another skull [{279}] in the cavern, though no trace of it had been found. There was nothing in the form of the skull to distinguish it from the ordinary European type; but the bones of the leg were remarkably compressed; for which appearance it was difficult to account. Since Mr. Busk's attention had been drawn to this character, he had observed a similar compression in the leg-bones of other human skeletons which were known to be of great antiquity. Whether this conformation was to be regarded as a race-character, or was produced by special occupation or habit, Mr. Busk would not venture an opinion upon.—Social Science Review.
Sun's Photosphere. —From a strict examination of the sun-pictures obtained at Kew, near London, and from Mr. Carrington's maps, Mr. De la Rue and assistants hare arrived at the conclusion that the sun-spots are cavernous, and lie below the general level of the luminous surface, whilst, on the contrary, the faculae are elevated above the latter. The reason that the faculae appear brighter is, that on account of their height above the solar surface, they are less dimmed by passing through its atmosphere. They further conclude that the sun's luminous surface is of the nature of cloud, and that the spots are influenced by the planet Venus. They find that the faculae retain nearly the same appearance for days together, and consider them to be small particles of solid or liquid matter in suspension, and composed of the same cloudy matter as the luminous surface of the sun. They notice that in the majority of cases the faculae appear to the left of the spots, as if they had been abstracted from them, and, rising to a greater elevation where the velocity of rotation is greater, are consequently left behind. They remark that all the spots which are seen on the solar surface about the same time show a resemblance to each other; for instance, if one spot increases to the central line or past it, another will do the same; if one spot diminishes from its first appearance, another will do the same; if one spot breaks out on the right half; another will do the same. It appears from Mr. Carrington's and all the Kew pictures, that the influence of Venus is exerted in such a manner that as the spots approach the neighborhood of this planet by rotation they decrease; but as the solar surface passes away in the same manner, this influence causes it to break out into spots on the opposite side. The question is also proposed, whether the falling behind of the faculae may not be the physical reaction of the motion of the spots detected by Mr. Carrington, the current passing upward and carrying the luminous matter falling behind, whilst the current coming down from a colder region moves forward, carrying the spot with it, and accounting for its deficient luminosity.—Social Science Review.
The Arctic Expedition—The Open Polar Sea again—Last month we published an extract in which it was stated as the belief of the writer that there was an open Arctic sea. Here is another opinion which we find in the London Reader of a late date: "We have received from the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences a map of Spitzbergen, with explanatory remarks in illustration (by N. Duner and A. E. Nordenskiöld). This beautiful map is the result of the two last expeditions undertaken to explore that group of islands. It is based upon astronomical observations, made at about eighty different places on the shores of Spitzbergen, with prism-circles by Pistor and Martins, mercury horizons and good chronometers by Frodsham and Kessels. The observations were calculated by Professors D. G. Lindhagen and Duner. The latitude and longitude of seventy-nine different points are given—the longitude of Sabine's Observatory, determined as 11° 40' 80", being taken as the starting point of the longitudes. The value of such a map is at once apparent. All the highest mountains were ascended during the expedition, and the height of twenty-eight peaks is given; the highest being Lindström's Mount of 8,800 English feet. The permanent snow-line commences at about 1,500 feet. The whole interior country forms an even ice plateau, here and there interrupted by rocks. There are many good harbors, and on this map the places are marked where the explorers anchored. Fish, fowl, and reindeer are to be met with in great numbers. We quote from the memoir as bearing upon one of the most interesting questions of the day. 'During the last years the idea has been vindicated that the Polar [{280}] basin is composed of an open sea, only here and there covered with drift ice. The learned geographer, Dr. Petermann, has even asserted that it would be as easy to sail from Amsterdam Island (70° 47') to the Pole, as from Tromsö to Amsterdam Island. This view is in itself so contrary to all experience that it scarcely merits refutation, but as different prominent English Arctic navigators seem inclined to adopt the same view, in spite of the experience gained by their own numerous Arctic expeditions, we will here give some of the most important reasons against this supposition. All who for a long period have navigated the northern seas, whalers and Spitzbergen hunters, have come to the conclusion that the Polar basin is so completely filled with ice that one cannot advance with vessels, and all the attempts that have been made to proceed toward the north have been quite without success. Passing by older voyagers, Torell and Nordenskiöld ascended, during the expedition in 1861, on the 23d of July, a high top on Northeast Land, Snötoppen (80° 23' L.), without being able, from that height, to see trace of open water to the north of the Seven Islands. A few days later, when the ice between Northeast Land and the Seven Islands was separated a little, they could push forward as far as to Parry's Island, though they, even from the highest tops on these islands (1,900 feet, 80° 40' L.), could see nothing but ice northward. From the top of White mountain, at the bottom of Wijde Jans Water (3,000 feet), we could, on the 22d of August, 1864, not see anything but ice between Giles Land and Spitzbergen. Some vessels that had the same year attempted to sail round Northeast Land were shut up by ice, and had to be abandoned by their crews. Before leaving the ships, an attempt was made to sail north, in order to return this way to Amsterdam Island, but they were soon met by impenetrable fields of ice. Notwithstanding a high prize has been offered for the reaching of high degrees of latitude, none of the whalers, who else sail boldly wherever the hope of gain allures them, have considered it possible to win this prize. We have had opportunities of speaking to most of the masters of vessels sailing to Spitzbergen. All experience hitherto acquired seems thus to prove that the Polar basin, when not covered with compact, unbroken ice, is filled with closely-packed, unnavigable drift-ice, in which, during certain very favorable years, some larger apertures may be formed, which apertures, however, do not extend very far to the north. Older narratives, by Dutch whalers, who are said to have reached 86° or 87° nay, even 89-1/2° must therefore be received with the greatest diffidence, if not looked upon as pure fictions, and the prospect of being able to advance with vessels from Spitzbergen to the Pole is, no doubt, extremely slight. It would be particularly unwise to choose the spring for such an attempt, and the passage east of Spitzbergen. At that time and by that passage it would be difficult, if not impossible, to reach even 78° of latitude. Whereas, on the west side, one can every year depend on reaching the 80th degree of latitude, and in favorable years it might be possible, in September or October, to sail even a couple of degrees higher.'"