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diff --git a/old/50511-0.txt b/old/50511-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3f77264..0000000 --- a/old/50511-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14479 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Loitering in Pleasant Paths, by Marion Harland - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Loitering in Pleasant Paths - -Author: Marion Harland - -Release Date: November 20, 2015 [EBook #50511] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOITERING IN PLEASANT PATHS *** - - - - -Produced by Emmy, MWS and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - -[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic -text is surrounded by _underscores_. Superscripted text is preceded by -a caret ^.] - - - - -LOITERINGS IN PLEASANT PATHS - - BY - MARION HARLAND - _Author of “The Dinner Year-Book,” “Common Sense in the Household,” - Etc._ - - - NEW YORK - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS - 743 AND 745 BROADWAY - 1880 - - - - - COPYRIGHT BY - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS. - 1880. - - - TROW’S - PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, - 201-213 EAST 12TH STREET, - NEW YORK. - - - - -INTRODUCTION. - - -WHEN I began the MS. of this book, it was with the intention of -including it in the “Common Sense in the Household Series,” in which -event it was to be entitled, “FAMILIAR TALKS FROM AFAR.” - -For reasons that seemed good to my publishers and to me, this purpose -was not carried out, except as it has influenced the tone of the -composition; given to each chapter the character of experiences -remembered and recounted to a few friends by the fireside, rather -than that of a sustained and formal narrative, penned in dignified -seclusion, amid guide-books and written memoranda. - -This is the truthful history of the foreign life of an American family -whose main object in “going on a pilgrimage” was the restoration of -health to one of its members. In seeking and finding the lost treasure, -we found so much else which enriched us for all time, that, in the -telling of it, I have been embarrassed by a plethora of materials. -I have described some of the things we wanted to see—as we saw -them,—writing _con amore_, but with such manifold strayings from the -beaten track into by-paths and over moors, and in such homely, familiar -phrase, that I foresee criticism from the disciples of routine and -the sedate students of chronology, topography and general statistics. -I comfort myself, under the prospective infliction, with the belief -which has not played me false in days past,—to wit: that what I have -enjoyed writing some may like to read. I add to this the hope that the -fresh-hearted traveler who dares think and feel for, and of himself, in -visiting the Old World which is to him the New, may find in this record -of how we made it Home to us, practical and valuable hints for the -guidance of his wanderings. - - MARION HARLAND. - -SPRINGFIELD, MASS., April, 1880. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - CHAPTER I. - PAGE - The Average Briton, 1 - - CHAPTER II. - Olla Podrida, 14 - - CHAPTER III. - Spurgeon and Cummings, 29 - - CHAPTER IV. - The Two Elizabeths, 39 - - CHAPTER V. - Prince Guy, 52 - - CHAPTER VI. - Shakspeare and Irving, 67 - - CHAPTER VII. - Kenilworth, 84 - - CHAPTER VIII. - Oxford, 96 - - CHAPTER IX. - Sky-larks and Stoke-Pogis, 111 - - CHAPTER X. - Our English Cousins, 121 - - CHAPTER XI. - Over the Channel, 137 - - CHAPTER XII. - Versailles—Expiatory Chapel—Père Lachaise, 154 - - CHAPTER XIII. - Southward Bound, 170 - - CHAPTER XIV. - Pope, King, and Forum, 183 - - CHAPTER XV. - On Christmas-Day, 196 - - CHAPTER XVI. - L’Allegro and Il Penseroso, 216 - - CHAPTER XVII. - With the Skeletons, 230 - - CHAPTER XVIII. - “Paul—a Prisoner,” 243 - - CHAPTER XIX. - Tasso and Tusculum, 258 - - CHAPTER XX. - From Pompeii to Lake Avernus, 272 - - CHAPTER XXI. - “A Sorosis Lark,” 293 - - CHAPTER XXII. - In Florence and Pisa, 308 - - CHAPTER XXIII. - “Beautiful Venice,” 325 - - CHAPTER XXIV. - Bologna, 339 - - CHAPTER XXV. - “Non é Possibile!” 351 - - CHAPTER XXVI. - Lucerne and The Rigi, 366 - - CHAPTER XXVII. - Personal and Practical, 379 - - CHAPTER XXVIII. - Home-life in Geneva—Ferney, 392 - - CHAPTER XXIX. - Calvin—The Diodati House—Primroses, 408 - - CHAPTER XXX. - Corinne at Coppet, 419 - - CHAPTER XXXI. - Chillon, 428 - - - - -LOITERINGS IN PLEASANT PATHS. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -_The Average Briton._ - - -SUNDAY in London: For the first time since our arrival in the city we -saw it under what passes in that latitude and language for sunshine. -For ten days we had dwelt beneath a curtain of gray crape resting upon -the chimney-tops, leaving the pavements dry to dustiness. “Gray crape” -is poetical—rather—and sounds better than the truth, which is, that -the drapery, without fold or shading, over-canopying us, was precisely -in color like very dirty, unbleached muslin, a tint made fashionable -within a year or so, under the name of “Queen Isabella’s linen” (“_le -linge de la Reine Isabeau_”). The fixed cloud depressed and oppressed -us singularly. It was a black screen set above the eyes, which we were -all the while tempted to push up in order to see more clearly and -farther,—a heavy hand upon brain and chest. For the opaqueness, the -clinging rimes of the “London fog,” we were prepared. Of the mysterious -withholding for days and weeks of clouds threatening every minute to -fall, we had never heard. We had bought umbrellas at Sangster’s, as -does every sensible tourist immediately after securing rooms at a -hotel, and never stirred abroad without them; but the pristine plaits -had not been disturbed. Struggle as we might with the notion, we could -not rid ourselves of the odd impression that the whole nation had -gone into mourning. Pleasure-seeking, on the part of sojourners who -respected conventionalities, savored of indecorum. We were more at our -ease in the crypt of St. Paul’s, and among the dead of Westminster -Abbey, than anywhere else, and felt the conclave of murderers, the -blood-flecked faces of the severed heads, the genuine _lunette_ and -knife of Samson’s guillotine in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors, to -be “quite the thing in the circumstances.” - -The evil, nameless spell was broken by the clangor of the Sabbath -bells. “The _gray_ pavilion rose” and did not fall—for twenty-four -hours. Strolling through St. James’s Park in the hour preceding -sunsetting, we pointed out to one another the pale blue, dappled -with white, of the zenith, the reddening mists of the horizon. The -ground was strewed with autumnal leaves, russet and brown. The subdued -monotony of the two shades of decay did not move us to adverse -criticism. The crimsons, golds, and purples that were robing woods we -knew of over the water, would be incongruous in this sober-hued land. -In the matter of light and color, he who tarries in England in autumn, -winter, and early spring, soon learns to be thankful for small favors. -We were grateful and satisfied. We were in a mood to be in love with -England,—“our old home;” still walked her soil as in a blessed dream, -haunted only by sharp dreads of awakening to the knowledge that the -realization of the hopes, and longings, and imaginings of many years -was made of such stuff as had been our cloud-pictures. We were in -process of an experience we were ashamed to speak of until we learned -how common it was with other voyagers, whose planning and pining had -resembled ours in kind and degree. None of us was willing to say how -much time was given to a comical weighing of the identity question, -somewhat after the fashion of poor Nelly on the roadside in the -moonlight:—If this were England, who then were we? If these pilgrims -were ourselves—veritable and unaltered—could it be true that we were -_here_? If I do not express well what was as vague as tormenting, it is -not because the system of spiritual and mental acclimation was not a -reality. - -The Palace of St. James, a range of brick and dinginess, stretched -before us as we returned to the starting-point of the walk around -the park, taking in the Bird-cage Walk, where Charles II. built his -aviaries and lounged, Nelly Gwynne, or the Duchess of Portsmouth, at -his side, a basket of puppies hung over his lace collar and ruffled -cravat. It is not a palatial pile—even to eyes undried from the juice -of Puck’s “little western flower.” - -“It would still be a very decent abode for the horses of royalty—hardly -for their grooms,” said Caput, critically. “And it is worth looking at -when one remembers how long bloody Mary lay there, hideous, forsaken, -half dead, the cancerous memories of Calais and Philip’s desertion -consuming her vitals. There lived and died the gallant boy who was the -eldest son of James I. If he had succeeded to the throne his brother -Charles would have worn his head more comfortably and longer upon his -shoulders. That is, unless, as in the case of Henry VIII., the manhood -of the Prince of Wales had belied the promise of early youth.” - -“It was in St. James’s Palace that Charles spent his last night,” I -interrupted. It takes a long time for the novice to become accustomed -to the strange thrill that vibrates through soul and nerves when such -reminiscences overtake him, converting the place whereon he stands -into holy ground. I was a novice, and rushed on impetuously. “The -rooms in which he slept and made his toilet for the scaffold were in -the old Manor-house, a wing of the palace since torn down. Why can’t -they let things alone? But the park is here, and—” glancing dubiously -along the avenues—“it is just possible—altogether possible—that some -of these oldest trees may be the same that stood here then. On that -morning, when—you remember?—the ground being covered lightly with snow, -the king walked with a quick step across the park to Whitehall, calling -to the guard, ‘Step on apace, my good fellows!’” - -Measuring with careful eye an air line between the palace and a -building with a cupola, on the St. James Street side of the park, we -turned our steps along this. The dying leaves rustled under our feet, -settling sighingly into the path behind us. The “light snow” had -muffled the ring of the “quick step” more like the impatient tread of a -bridegroom than that of a doomed man shortening the already brief space -betwixt him and fate. Within the shadow of Whitehall, we paused. - -“The scaffold was built just without the window of the -banqueting-hall,” we reminded each other. “As late as the reign of -William and Mary, the king’s blood was visible upon the window-sill. -Jacobites made great capital of the insensibility of his granddaughter, -who held her drawing-rooms in that very apartment. The crowd must have -been densest about here, and spread far into the park. But how can we -know just where the scaffold stood? It was low, for the people leaped -upon it after the execution and dipped handkerchiefs in the blood, -to be laid away as precious relics. Those windows are rather high!” -glancing helplessly upward. “And which is the banqueting-hall?” - -“Baldeker’s London” was then in press for the rescue of the next -season’s traveller from like pits of perplexity. Not having it, and the -“hand-books” we had provided ourselves with proving dumb guides in the -emergency, the simplest and most natural road out of ignorance was to -ask a question or two of some intelligent native-born Londoner. - -In this wise, then, we first made the acquaintance of the Average -Briton,—a being who figured almost as often in our subsequent -wanderings as did the travelling American. I do not undertake to say -which was the more ridiculous or vexatious of the two, according as -our purpose at the time of meeting them chanced to be diversion or -information. - -The Average Briton of this Sabbath-day was smug and rotund; in -complexion, rubicund; complacent of visage, and a little rolling in -gait, being duck-legged. A child trotted by him upon a pair of limbs -cut dutifully after the paternal pattern, swinging upon the paternal -hand. Upon the other side of the central figure, arrayed in matronly -black silk and a velvet hat with a white plume, walked a lady of whom -Hawthorne has left us a portrait: - -“She has an awful ponderosity of frame, not pulpy, like the looser -development of our few fat women, but massive with solid beef and -streaky tallow; so that (though struggling manfully against the -idea) you inevitably think of her as made up of steaks and sirloins. -She imposes awe and respect by the muchness of her personality to -such a degree that you probably credit her with far greater moral -and intellectual force than she can fairly claim. Without anything -positively salient, or actually offensive, or, indeed, unjustly -formidable to her neighbors, she has the effect of a seventy-four gun -ship in time of peace.” I had ample time to remember and to verify each -line of the picture during the parley with her husband that succeeded -our encounter. A citizen of London-town was he. We were so far right -in our premises. One who had attended “divine service” in the morning; -partaken of roast mutton and a pint of half-and-half at an early -dinner; who would presently go home from this stretch of the legs, with -good appetite and conscience to a “mouthful of somethink ’ot with his -tea,” and come up to time with unflagging powers to bread, cheese, cold -meat, pickles, and ale, at a nine o’clock supper. Our old home teems -with such. Heaven send them length of days and more wit! - -Caput stepped into the path of the substantial pair; lifted his hat in -recognition of the lady’s presence and apology for the interruption. - -“Excuse me, sir—” - -I groaned inwardly. Had I not drilled him in the omission of the -luckless monosyllable ever since we saw the Highlands of Navesink melt -into the horizon? How many times had I iterated and reiterated the -adage?—“In England one says ‘sir’ to prince, master, or servant. It is -a confession of inferiority, or an insult.” Nature and (American) grace -were too strong for me. - -“Excuse me, sir! But can you tell me just where the scaffold was -erected on which Charles the First was executed?” - -The Average Briton stared bovinely. Be sure he did not touch his hat to -me, nor echo the “sir,” nor yet betray how flatteringly it fell upon -his unaccustomed ear. Being short of stature, he stared at an angle of -forty-five degrees to gain his interlocutor’s face, unlocked his shaven -jaws and uttered in a rumbling stomach-base the Shibboleth of his tribe -and nation: - -“I really carnt say!” - -Caput fell back in good order—_i. e._, raising his hat again to the -Complete British Matron, whose face had not changed by so much as -the twitch of an eyelid while the colloquy was in progress. She paid -no attention whatever to the homage offered to the sex through “the -muchness of her personality,” nor were the creases in her lord’s double -chin deepened by any inclination of his head. - -“The fellow is an underbred dolt!” said Caput, looking after them as -they sailed along the walk. - -“In that case it is a pity you called him ‘sir,’ and said ‘erected’ -and ‘executed,’” remarked I, with excruciating mildness. “Here comes -another! Ask him where King Charles was beheaded.” - -No. 2 was smugger and smoother than No. 1. He had silvery -hair and mutton-leg whiskers, and a cable watch-chain trained -over a satin waistcoat, adjuncts which imparted a look of yet -intenser respectability. There was a moral and social flavor of -bank-directorships and alder-manic expectations about him, almost -warranting the “sir” which slipped again from the incorrigible tongue. - -We had the same answer to a word and intonation. The formula must be -taught to them over their crib-rails as our babies are drilled to -lisp—“Now I lay me.” Grown reckless and slightly wicked, we accosted -ten others in quick succession in every variety of phraseology, of -which the subject was susceptible, but always to the same effect. Where -stood the scaffold of Charles the First, Charles Stuart, Charles the -Martyr, Charles, father of the Merry Monarch, the grandparent of Mary -of Orange and Good Queen Anne? Could any man of British mould designate -to us the terminus of that quick step over the snowy park on the -morning of the 30th of January, 1649, the next stage to that “which, -though turbulent and troublesome, would be a very short one, yet would -carry him a great way—even from earth to Heaven?” - -Eight intelligent Londoners said, “I really carnt say!” more or less -drawlingly. Two answered bluntly, “Dawnt know!” over their shoulders, -without staying or breaking their saunter. Finally, we espied a youth -sitting under a tree—one of those from which the melting snow might -have dropped upon the prisoner’s head—why not the thrifty oak he -had pointed out to Bishop Juxon in nearing Whitehall, as “the tree -planted by my brother Henry?” The youth was neatly dressed, comely of -countenance, and he held an open book, his eyes riveted upon the open -page. - -“That looks promising!” ejaculated Caput. There was genuine respect in -his address: - -“I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but can you inform me, etc., -etc.?” - -The student raised his head, and looked at us with lacklustre or -abstracted eyes. - -“Hey?” - -Caput repeated the query distinctly and with emphasis. - -“Chawles the First?” - -“Yes!” less patiently. “The king whose head was cut off by order of -Cromwell’s parliament, under the windows of Whitehall, in 1649?” - -“Never heard of him!” rejoined the countryman of Hume, Macaulay, and -Froude, resuming his studies. - -Caput recoiled as from an electric eel. “I wouldn’t have believed it, -had any one else heard and repeated it to me!” gasped he, when out of -ear-shot. “Do you suppose there is a hod-carrier in Boston who does not -know the history of Faneuil Hall?” - -“Hundreds! Hod-carriers are usually of foreign birth.” - -“Or a school-boy in America who never heard of Arnold’s treason and -André’s fate? Or, for that matter, who cannot, when twelve years old, -tell the whole story of King Charles’s death, even to the ‘Remember!’ -as he laid his head upon the block?” - -I had a new difficulty to present. - -“While you have been catechizing the enlightened British public, I have -been thinking—and I am afraid we are sentimentalizing in the wrong -place. I have harrowing doubts as to this being the real Whitehall. -The palace was burned in the time of William and Mary—or a portion of -it—and but partially rebuilt by Inigo Jones. There is altogether too -much of this to be the genuine article. And it is startlingly modern!” - -It was a spacious building, and did not look as if it had a story. The -exterior was stuccoed and smoke-blackened, but the London air would -have dyed it to such complexion in ten years. A belvidere or cupola -finished it above. Beneath this, on the ground-floor, separating the -wings, was an archway leading into St. James Street. The citizens whom -we had questioned had, with the exception of the student, emerged from -or disappeared in this passage from park to thoroughfare. We saw now a -sentinel, in red coat and helmet, turn in his beat up and down under -the arch. - -“Is this Old Whitehall?” we asked. - -He shook his head without halting. - -“Where is it?” - -He pointed to a building on the opposite side of the street. It was two -stories—lofty ones—high above the basement. Twenty-one windows shone in -the handsome front. We traversed the arched passage, planted ourselves -upon the sidewalk and gazed, bewildered, at the one-and-twenty windows. -Through which of them had passed the kingly form we seemed to have seen -for ourselves, so familiar were the oval face and pointed beard, the -great eyes darkened all his life long with prophecy of doom? Through -which had been borne the outraged corpse, the bloody drippings staining -the sill? Upon what spot of the pavement trodden by the throng of -Sabbath idlers had fallen the purple rain from a monarch’s heart? For -sweet pity’s sake, had none marked the place by so much as a cross -in the flagging? All else around us bore the stamp of a later age. -Were the apparently venerable walls pointed out by the sentinel the -banqueting-hall where the granddaughter held her court, or was this -Inigo Jones’s (the Inevitable) restoration? - -“One might imagine regicide so common a crime in England as not to be -considered worthy of special note!” we grumbled, a strong sense of -injury upon our foiled souls. - -Just then down the street strode a policeman, and, at sight of our -puzzled faces, hesitated with an inquiring look. I cheerfully offer my -testimony here to the civility, intelligence, and general benevolence -of the London police. We met them always when we needed their services, -and as invariably found them ready and able to do all we required of -them, sometimes insisting upon going a block out of their way to show -us our route. Perfunctory politeness? It may have been, but it was so -much better than none at all, or surly familiarity! The man to whom we -now addressed ourselves was tall and brawny, with features that lighted -pleasantly in the hearing of our tale of defeat. - -“My father used to tell me,” he said, respectful still, but dropping -into the easy conversational strain an exceptionally obliging New -York “Bobby” might use in like circumstances, “that the king was led -out through that window,” indicating, not one of the triple row in -the banqueting-room, but a smaller in a lower and older wing, “and -executed in front of the main hall. Some say the banqueting-chamber was -not burned with the rest of the palace. Others that it was. My father -was inclined to believe that this is the original building. I have -heard him tell the tale over and over until you might have thought -he had been there himself. The Park ran clear up to Old Whitehall -then, you see—where this street is now. The crowd covered all this -ground where we are standing, the soldiers being nearest the scaffold. -_That_ stood, as nearly as I can make out, about _there_!” tapping the -sidewalk with his stick. “A few feet to the right or the left don’t -make much difference, you know, sir. It does seem queer, and a little -sad, there’s not so much as a stone let into the wall, or a bit of an -inscription. But those were rough times, you know.” - -“We are very much obliged to you!” Caput said heartily, holding out his -hand, the palm significantly inverted. - -The man shook his head. “Not at all, sir! Against the rules of the -force! I have done nothing worth talking about. If my father were -living, now! But people nowadays care less and less for old stories.” - -He touched his cap in moving away. - -“The truest gentleman we have met this afternoon!” pronounced Caput. -“Now, we will go back into the park, out of this bustle, and think it -all over!” - -This had become already a pet phrase and a pet practice with us. The -amateur dramatization, sometimes partially spoken, for the most part -silent, was our way of appropriating and assimilating as our very -own what we saw and learned. It was a family trick, understood among -ourselves. Quiet, freedom from platitudinal queries and comment, -and comparative solitude, were the favorable conditions for fullest -enjoyment of it. - -The student was so absorbed in his book—I hope it was history!—as not -to see us when we passed. The sunlight fell aslant upon the dark-red -walls of the old palace, lying low, long, and gloomy, across the end of -the walk. A stiff, dismal place—yet Elizabeth, in all her glory, had -been moderately contented with it. Within a state bed-chamber, yet to -be seen, the equivocal circumstances—or the coincidences interpreted -as equivocal by the faction hostile to the crown,—attending the birth -of the son of James II. and Mary of Modena laid the first stone of the -mass of distrust that in the end crushed the hopes of “The Pretender.” -The “first gentleman of Europe” opened his baby eyes in this vulgar -world under the roof of the house his father had already begun to -consider unfit for a king’s dwelling, and to meditate taxation of -his American colonies for funds with which to build a greater. Queen -Victoria was married in the Chapel of St. James, adjoining the palace. -Upon the mantel of the venerable Presence-chamber are the initials of -Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn, intertwisted in a loving tangle. They -should have been fashioned in wax instead of the sterner substance that -had hardly left the carver’s hand for the place of honor in the royal -drawing-room before the vane of Henry’s affections veered from Anne to -Jane. It is said that he congratulated himself and the new queen upon -the involutions of the cipher that might be read almost as plainly “H. -J.” as “H. A.” So, there it stands—the sad satire upon wedded love that -mocked the eyes of discreet Jane, the one consort who died a natural -death while in possession of his very temporary devotion,—and the two -Katherines who succeeded her. - -By contrast with sombre St. James’s, Buckingham Palace is a -meretricious mushroom, scarcely deserving a passing glance. The air -was bland for early November, and we sat upon a bench under a tree -that let slow, faded leaves down upon our heads while we “thought it -all over,” until the gathering glooms in the deep archway, flanked by -sentry-boxes, shaped themselves into a procession of the “born and -died” in the low-browed chambers. To recite their names would be to -give an abstract of the history of the mightiest realm of the earth for -four centuries. - -And, set apart by supreme sorrow from his fellows, ever foremost in our -dream-pictures, walked he, who “made trim,” by his own command, “for -his second marriage-day,” hastened through the snowy avenues of the -park to find a pillow for the Lord’s anointed upon the headsman’s block -before the windows of the banqueting-room of Whitehall. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -_Olla Podrida._ - - -IN one week we had been twice to Westminster Abbey, once to the Tower; -had seen St. Paul’s, Hyde Park, Tussaud’s Wax Works, Mr. Spurgeon, -the New Houses of Parliament, Billingsgate, the Monument, Hyde Park, -the British Museum, and more palaces than I can or care to remember. -In all this time we had not a ray of sunshine, but neither had a drop -of rain fallen. We began to leave umbrellas at home, and to be less -susceptible in spirits to the glooming of the dusky canopy upborne by -the chimneys. That one clear—for London—Sunday had made the curtain so -nearly translucent as to assure us that behind the clouds the sun was -still shining, and we took heart of grace for sight-seeing. - -But in the course of seven smoky-days we became slightly surfeited -with “lions.” Weary, to employ a culinary figure, of heavy roast and -boiled, we longed for the variety of spicy _entrées_—savory “little -dishes” not to be found on the _carte_, and which were not served to -the conventional sight-seer. One morning, when the children had gone to -“the Zoo” with papa and The Invaluable, Prima—the sharer with me of the -aforesaid whim—and myself left the hotel at ten o’clock to carry into -effect a carefully-prepared programme. We had made a list of places -where “everybody” did not go; which “Golden Guides” and “Weeks in -London” omitted entirely, or slurred over with slighting mention; which -local ciceroni knew not of, and couriers disdained, but each of which -had for us peculiar association and attraction. - -Four-wheelers were respectable for unattended women, and cheaper than -hansoms. But there was a tincture of adventure in making our tour in -one of the latter, not taking into account the advantages of being -able to see all in front of us, and the less “stuffy” odor of the -interior. Sallying forth, with a pricking, yet delicious sense of -questionableness that recalled our school-day pranks, we sought the -nearest cab-stand and selected a clean-looking vehicle, drawn by a -strong horse with promise of speed in body and legs. The driver was an -elderly man in decent garb. The entire establishment seemed safe and -reputable so far as the nature of our enterprise could partake of these -characteristics. When seated, we gave an order with inward glee, but -perfect gravity of demeanor. - -“Newgate Prison!” - -We had judged shrewdly respecting the qualities of our horse. It was -exhilarating, even in the dull, dead atmosphere we could not breathe -freely while on foot, to be whirled through the unknown streets, past -delightless parks and dolefuller mansions in the West End, in and out -of disjointed lanes that ran madly up to one turn and down to another, -as if seeking a way out of the mesh of “squares” and “roads” and -“rows,”—perceiving satisfiedly, as we did all the time, that we were -leaving aristocratic and even respectable purlieus behind as speedily -as if our desires, and not the invisible “cabby,” shaped our flight. We -brought up with a jerk. Cabs—in the guidance of old or young men—have -one manner of stopping; as if the “concern,” driver, horse and hansom, -had meant to go on for ever, like Tennyson’s brook, and reversed the -design suddenly upon reaching the address given them, perhaps, an hour -ago. We jerked up now, in a narrow street shut in on both sides by -black walls. The trap above our heads opened. - -“Newgate on the right, mem! Old Bailey on the left!” - -The little door shut with a snap. We leaned forward for a sight of the -prison on the right. Contemptible in dimensions by comparison with -the spacious edifice of our imaginations, it was in darksomeness and -relentless expression, a stony melancholy that left hope out of the -question, just what it should—and must—have been. The pall enwrapping -the city was thickest just here, resting, like wide, evil wings upon -the clustered roofs we could see over the high wall. The air was -lifeless; the street strangely quiet. Besides ourselves we did not see -a human being within the abhorrent precincts. The prison-front, facing -the smaller “Old Bailey,” is three hundred feet long. In architecture -it is English,—bald and ugly as brick, mortar, and iron can make it. In -three minutes we loathed the place. - -“You can go on!” I called to the pilot, pushing up the flap in the -roof. “Drive to the church in which the condemned prisoners used to -hear their last sermon.” - -“Yes, mem!” Now we detected a rich, full-bodied Scotch brogue in his -speech. “Pairhaps ye wouldna’ moind knawing that by that gett—where -ye’ll see the bairs—the puir wretches went on the verra same mornin’. -Wha passed by that gett never cam’ back.” - -It was a dour-looking passage to a disgraceful death; a small door -crossed by iron bars, and fastened with a rusty chain. It made us sick -to think who had dragged their feet across the dirt-crusted threshold, -and when. - -The cab jerked up again in half a minute, although we had rushed off at -a smart trot that engaged to land us at least a mile off. - -“St. Sephulchre’s, mem!” - -I have alluded to the difficulty of determining the age of London -buildings from the outward appearance. A year in the sooty moisture -that bathes them for seven or eight months out of twelve, destroys all -fairness of coloring, leaving them without other beauty than such as -depends upon symmetrical proportions, graceful outlines and carving. -The humidity eats into the pores of the stone as cosmetics impair the -texture of a woman’s skin. But St. Sepulchre has a right to be _blasé_. -It antedated the Great Fire of 1666, the noble porch escaping ruin -from the flames as by a miracle. It is black, like everything else -in the neighborhood, and, to our apprehension, not comely beyond the -portico. The interior is as cheerless as the outside, cold and musty. -Throughout, the church has the air of a battered crone with the sins -of a fast youth upon her conscience. There are vaults beneath the -floor, lettered memorial-stones in the aisle, tarnished brasses on -the walls. Clammy sweats break out upon floor, walls, pews and altar -in damp weather, and this day of our visit had begun to be damp. It -was an unwholesome place even to be buried in. What we wanted to see -was a flat stone on the southern side of the choir, reached in bright -weather by such daring sunbeams as could make their way through a -window, the glass of which was both painted and dirty. A brownish-gray -stone, rough-grained, and so much defaced that imagination comes to the -help of the eyes that strive to read it: “_Captain John Smith—Sometime -Governour of Virginia and Admirall of New-England._” He died in 1631, -aged fifty-two. The Three Turks’ Heads are still discernible upon the -escutcheon above the inscription. The rhyming epitaph begins with— - - “Here lyes One conquer^{d} that Hath conquer^{d} Kings.” - -We knew that much and failed to decipher the rest. - -Family traditions, tenderly transmitted through eight generations, -touching the unwritten life of the famous soldier of fortune, of the -brother who was his heir-at-law, and bequeathed the coat-of-arms to -American descendants, were our nursery tales. For him whose love of -sea and wildwood was a passion captivity nor courts could tame, his -burial-place is a sorry one, although esteemed honorable. I think -he would have chosen rather an unknown grave upon the border of the -Chickahominy or James, the stars, that had guided him through swamp -and desert, for tapers, instead of organ-thrill and incense, the -song of mockingbirds and scent of pine woods. The more one knows and -thinks and sees of St. Sepulchre’s the less tolerant is he of it as a -spot of sepulture for this gallant and true knight. They interred him -there because it was his parish church. But they—the English—are not -backward in removing other people’s bones when it suits their pride -or convenience to do so. In the square tower, lately restored, hangs -the bell that has tolled for two hundred years when the condemned -passed out of the little iron gate we had just seen. They used to -hang them at Tyburn, afterward in the street before the prison. Now, -executions take place privately within the Newgate walls. In the brave -old times, when refinement of torture was appreciated more highly than -now as a means of grace and a Christian art, the criminal had the -privilege of hearing his own funeral sermon,—which was rarely, we may -infer, a panegyric,—seated upon his coffin in the broad aisle of St. -Sepulchre’s. There was a plat of flowers then in the tiny yard where -the grass cannot sprout now for the coal-dust, and as the poor creature -took his place—the service done—upon the coffin in the cart that was to -take him to the gallows, a child was put forward to present him with a -bouquet of blossoms grown under the droppings of the sanctuary. What -manner of herbs could they have been? Rue, rosemary, life-everlasting? -Yet they may have had their message to the dim eyes that looked down -upon them—for the quailing human heart—of the Father’s love for the -lowest and vilest of His created things. - -“Temple Bar!” was our next order. - -Before we reached it our driver checked his horse of his own accord, -got down from his perch at the back, and presented his weather-beaten -face at my side. - -“I’ve thocht”—respectfully, and with unction learned in the -“kirk”—“that it might eenterest the leddies to know that this is -the square where mony hundreds of men, wimmen, and, one may say, -_eenfants_, were burrned alive for the sake of the FAITH.” - -And in saying it, he lifted his hat quite from his head in reverence, -we were touched to note, was not meant for us, but as a tribute to -those of whom the world was not worthy. - -“Smithfield!” we cried in a breath. “Oh! let us get out!” - -It is a hollow square, a small, railed-in garden and fountain in the -middle; around these extends on three sides an immense market, the -pride of modern London, a structure of much pretension, with four -towers and a roof, like that of a conservatory, of glass and iron, -supported by iron pillars. A very Babel of buying and selling, of -hawkers’ and carters’ yells, at that early hour of the day. The stake -was near the fine old church of St. Bartholomew, which faces the open -space. Excepting the ancient temple, founded in 1102, there is no -vestige of the Smithfield (_Smooth_-field) where Wallace was hanged, -drawn and quartered in 1305; where the “Gentle Mortimer” of a royal -paramour was beheaded in 1330, and, in the reign of Mary I., the “Good -Catholic,” three hundred of her subjects, John Rogers and Bradford -among them, were burned with as little scruple as the white-aproned -butcher in the market-stall near by slices off a prime steak for a -customer. The church has been several times restored, but the Norman -tower bears the date 1628. It, too, felt the Great Fire, and the heat -and smoke of crueller flames, in the midst of which One like unto the -Son of Man walked with His children. Against the walls was built the -stage for the accommodation of the Lord Mayor of London, the Duke of -Norfolk and the Earl of Bedford, that they might, at their ease, behold -Anne Askew burn. They were in too prudent dread of the explosion of the -powder-bag tied about her waist to sit near enough to hear her say to -the sheriff’s offer of pardon if she would recant—“I came not hither to -deny my Lord!” - -St. Bartholomew the Great stands yet in Smithfield. Above it bow the -heavens that opened to receive the souls born into immortality through -the travail of that bloody reign. Forty years ago, they were digging -in the ground in front of the church to lay pavements, or gas-pipes, -or water-mains, or some other nineteenth-century device, and the picks -struck into a mass of charred human bones. - -“_Unknown!_” Stephen Gardiner and his helpers had a brisk run of -business between St. Andrew’s Day, 1554, and November 17, 1558. There -was no time to gather up the fragments. Ah, well! God and His angels -knew where was buried the precious seed of the Church. - -How the cockles of our canny Scot’s heart warmed toward us when he -perceived that he and we were of one mind anent Smithfield! that we -took in, without cavil, the breadth and depth of his words—“THE FAITH!” -During that busy four years tender women, girls and babes in age -proved, with strong men, what it meant to “earnestly contend for” it. - -In a gush of confidence induced by the kinship of sentiment upon this -point, we told our friend what we wanted to see in the city, that day, -and why, and found him wonderfully versed in other matters besides -martyrology. He named a dozen places of interest not upon our schedule, -and volunteered to call out the names of noted localities through the -loop-hole overhead, as we passed them. This arrangement insured the -success of our escapade, for his judicious selection of routes, so as -to waste no time in barren neighborhoods, was only surpassed by the -quality of the pellets of information dropped into our ears. - -St. John’s gate was, in aspect, the most venerable relic we saw in -London. They told us in the office at the gateway that it and the -Priory—now destroyed—were built in 1111; but recollecting that the -Pope’s confirmation of the first constitution of the Order of the -Knights of St. John of Jerusalem bore date of 1113, we nursed some -unspoken doubts. The prior who finished the building in 1504 modestly -left his family coat-of-arms upon the wall of the small entrance-room, -now used as an office. This black and bruised arch marks what was the -rallying-point of British chivalry and piety during three crusades. -Out of this gate the Hospitaliers drew forth in mingled martial and -ecclesiastical array—white gown with the red cross on shoulder, over -hauberk and greaves,—at each departure for the Holy Land. Godfrey de -Bouillon was an influential member and patron of the Order. Henry -VIII. scattered the brethren and pocketed their revenues. His daughter -Mary reinstated them in their home and privileges. Her sister Elizabeth -would none of them, and that was an end of the controversy, for she -lived long enough to enforce her decree. - -Cave’s “Gentleman’s Magazine” was published here when gentlemen ceased -to ride, booted, spurred, and illiterate, upon the crusades against -the Saracen. Johnson, a slovenly provincial usher, having failed as -translator and schoolmaster to make a living, applied for, and received -from this periodical literary employment—the first paying engagement -of his life. For more than a dozen years he was a contributor -to the Magazine, and the office above the gate was his favorite -lounging-place. As a proof of this they show a chair, ungainly and -unclean enough to have been used by him throughout the period of his -contributorship. - -East of St. John’s Gate we passed a disused intramural cemetery, -begloomed on all sides by rows of dingy houses. The rain of “blacks” -incessantly descending upon the metropolis collects here in unstirred, -sable sheets. Such a pall enfolds the graves of Isaac Watts and Daniel -Defoe, whose “Diary of the Great Plague” is a work of more dramatic -power than his Robinson Crusoe. A stone’s throw apart from hymnster -and romancist, lies a greater than either—the prince of dreamers, John -Bunyan. - -Temple Bar is—or was, for it has been pulled down since we were -there—an arch of Portland stone, and is attributed, I hope, -erroneously, to Christopher Wren. Without this information I should -have said that it was a wooden structure, badly hacked, gnawed, and -besmirched by time, with dirty plaster statues of the two Charleses -niched upon one side, and, upon the other, corresponding figures of -James I. and Elizabeth. It was much lower than we had supposed, and -than it is represented in pictures, and just wide enough to allow -two coaches to pass abreast without collision. The roaring tide -overflowing the Strand and Fleet Street appeared to squeeze through -with difficulty. Above the gate was a row of one-story offices—mere -boxes—such as are occupied in our country by newspaper-venders. Within -the memory of living men the top of the gate was a thick-set hedge of -spikes, reckoned, not very many years back, as one of the bulwarks -of English liberties. Up to the middle of the eighteenth century, -law-abiding cockneys, on their peregrinations to and from the city, -were strengthened in loyalty and veneration for established customs, -by the spectacle of rotting and desiccated heads of traitors exposed -here. They were tardy in the abolition of object-teaching in Christian -England. There were solid oaken gates with real hinges and bars at -Temple Gate. When the sovereign paid a visit to the city she was -reminded of some agreeable passages between one of her predecessors -and the London lords of trade, by finding these closed. Her pursuivant -blew a trumpet; there was an exchange of question and reply; the oaken -leaves swung back; the Lord Mayor presented his sword to our gracious -and sovereign lady, the queen, who returned it to him with an affable -smile, and the royal coach was suffered to pass under the Bar. More -object-teaching! - -From Temple Gate to Temple Gardens was a natural transition. These -famous grounds formerly sloped down to the Thames, and were an airy, -spacious promenade. Now, one smiles in reading that Suffolk found it a -“more convenient” place for private converse than the “Temple Hall.” -A talk between four gentlemen of the rank of Plantagenet, Suffolk, -Somerset and Warwick, in the pretty plat of grass and flowers, fenced -in by iron rails, would have eavesdroppers by the score, and the -incident of plucking the roses be overlooked by the gossips of fifty -tenement-houses. But the area, sadly circumscribed by the encroachments -of business, is a sightly bit of green, intersected by gravel walks, -and in the season enlivened by the flaming geraniums that not even -London “blacks” can put out of countenance. We really saw rose-trees -there in flower, the following August. - -In one particular, and one only, the knowledge and zeal of our -Scotchman were at fault in the course of our Bohemian expedition. I -have said that Baedeker’s excellent “Hand-book for London” was in the -printer’s hands just when we needed it most. Therefore we searched -vainly in St. Paul’s Churchyard for Dr. Johnson’s Coffee-house, where -Boswell hung upon his lumbering periods, as bees upon honeysuckle; -for the site of the Queen’s Arms Tavern, also a resort of the -literati in the time of the great Lexicographer. We were mortified -at our ill-success, chiefly because we ascribed it to the very lame -and imperfect descriptions of these places which were all we could -offer the Average Britons of whom we made inquiry. We were in no such -uncertainty as to the Chapter Coffee-house in Paternoster Row; Mrs. -Gaskell had been there before us and left so broad a “blaze” we could -hardly miss seeing it. - -“Half-way up (the Row), on the left hand side, is the Chapter -Coffee-house. It is two hundred years old, or so.... The ceilings of -the small rooms were low, and had heavy beams running across them; the -walls were wainscoted breast-high; the staircase was shallow, broad, -and dark, taking up much space in the centre of the house. This, -then, was the Chapter Coffee-house, which, a century ago, was the -resort of all the booksellers and publishers; and where the literary -hacks, the critics, and even the wits, used to go in search of ideas, -or employment. This was the place about which Chatterton wrote, in -those delusive letters he sent to his mother at Bristol, while he was -starving in London. ‘I am quite familiar at the Chapter Coffee-house, -and know all the geniuses there.’ Here he heard of chances of -employment; here his letters were to be left.” - -Here the Brontë sisters, visiting London upon business connected with -“Jane Eyre” and “Wuthering Heights,” stayed for two days, resisting the -invitation of their publisher to come to his house. - -Charlotte’s biographer had gone on to draw for us with graphic pen a -scene of later date: - -“The high, narrow windows looked into the gloomy Row. The sisters, -clinging together on the most remote window-seat, could see nothing -of motion or of change in the grim, dark houses opposite, so near and -close although the whole breadth of the Row was between. The mighty -roar of London was round them, like the sound of an unseen ocean, yet -every foot-fall on the pavement below might be heard distinctly in that -unfrequented street.” - -When we made known our purpose to the guide, who, by this time, had -taken upon him the character of protector, likewise, he was puzzled -but obedient. He got down at the mouth of the crooked Row and begged -permission to do our errand. - -“The horse is pairfectly quiet, and there’s quite a dreezle comin’ on.” - -This was true. The fog that had seemed dry so long, was falling. The -uneven, round stones were very wet. But why not drive down the street -until we found the house we were looking for? - -He rubbed his grizzled, sandy hair into a mop of perplexity. - -“The way is but strait at the best, as ye may pairceive, leddies, and -it wad be unco’ _nosty_ to meet a cab, or, mayhap, a four-wheeler in -some pairts.” - -We primed him with minute directions and let him depart upon the voyage -of discovery, while we leaned back under the projecting hood of the -carriage, sheltered by it and the queer, wooden folding-doors above -our knees, from the “dreezle,” and speculated why “Paternoster” Row -should be near to and in a line with “Amen” and “Ave Maria” corners. -What august processional had passed that way, and pausing at given -stations to say an “Ave,” a “Paternoster,” a united “Amen,” left behind -it names that would be repeated as long and ignorantly as the Cross -of “_Notre Chère Reine_” and “_La Route du Roi_” are murdered into -cockney English? That led to the telling of a dispute Caput had had -one day with a cabman, who, by the way, had jumped from his box on the -road to Hyde Park corner to say: “No, sir, we’re not at H’Apsley ’Ouse -yet, sir! But I fancied it might h’interest the lady to know that the -pavement we are a-drivin’ over at this h’identical minute, sir, h’is -composed h’entirely of wood!” - -“We have hundreds of miles of it in America, and wish you had it all!” -retorted Caput, amused, but impatient. “Go on!” - -Having seen Apsley and Stafford Houses, we bade the fellow take us to a -certain number on Oxford Street. He declared there was no such street -in the city, and jumped down from his seat to confirm his assertion out -of the mouths of three or four other “cabbies” at a hackstand. A brisk -altercation ensued, ended by Caput’s exhibition of an open guide-book -and pointing to the name. - -“Ho! hit’s _Hugsfoot_ Street you mean!” cried the disgusted cockney. - -As I finished the anecdote our Scot returned, crestfallen. He did -not say we had sent him on a fool’s errand, but we began to suspect -it ourselves when we undertook the quest in person. We were wrapped -in waterproofs and did not mind the fine, soaking mist, except as it -made the strip of flagging next the shops slippery, as with coal-oil. -Paternoster Row retains its bookish character. Every second shop was -a publisher’s, printer’s, or stationer’s. Everybody was civil. N. -B.—Civility is a part of a salesman’s trade in England. But everybody -stared blankly at our questions relative to the Chapter Coffee-house, -although the very name fixed it in this locality. One and all said, -first or last—“I really carn’t say!” and several observed politely -that “it was an uncommon nasty day.” One added, “But h’indeed, at this -season, we may look for nasty weather.” - -One word about this pet adjective of the noble Briton of both sexes. -It is quite another thing from the American word, spelled but not -pronounced in the same way, and which, with us, seldom passes the lips -of well-bred people. An English lady once told me that a hotel she -had patronized was “very clean—neat as wax, in fact, and handsomely -furnished, but a very-very _nasty_ house!” - -She meant, it presently transpired, that the fare was scant in -quantity, and the landlord surly. Whatever is disagreeable, mean, -unsatisfactory, from any cause whatsoever, is “nasty.” When they would -intensify the expression they say “beastly,” and fold over the leaf -upon the list of expletives. - -We did not find our coffee-house, nor anybody who looked or spoke -as if he ever heard of the burly Lichfield bear or his parasite, of -Chatterton or Horace Walpole, much less of the Rowley MSS. or the -sisters Brontë! Nor were we solaced for the disappointment by driving -three miles through the mist to see The Tyburn Tree, to behold an -upright slab, like a mile-stone, set upon the inner edge of the -sidewalk at the western verge of Hyde Park. A very disconsolate slab, -slinking against the fence as if ashamed of itself in so genteel a -neighborhood, and of the notorious name cut into its face. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -_Spurgeon and Cummings._ - - -MR. SPURGEON and his Tabernacle are “down” in guide-books among the -lions of the metropolis. But, in engaging a carriage to take us to the -Tabernacle on Sabbath morning, we had to clarify the perceptions of our -very decent coachman by informing him that it was hard by the “Elephant -and Castle.” Nothing stimulates the wit of the average Briton like the -mention of an inn or ale-house, unless it be the gleam of the shilling -he is to spend therein. - -In anticipation of a crowd, Caput had provided himself with tickets -for our party of three. These are given to any respectable traveller -who will apply to the agent of the “concern,” in Paternoster Row. To -avoid the press of entrance we allowed ourselves an hour for reaching -the church. The Corinthian portico was already packed with non-holders -of tickets, although it lacked half an hour of the time for service. -There were ushers at a gate at the left of the principal entrance, -who motioned us to pass. The way lay by a locked box fastened to -a post, labelled “FOR THE LAY COLLEGE,” or words to that effect. -In consideration of the gratuity of the tickets, and the manifest -convenience of the same, that stranger is indeed a churl, ungrateful, -or obtuse to the laws of _quid pro quo_, who does not drop a coin into -the slit, and feel, after the free-will offering, that he has a better -right to his seat. A second set of ushers received us in the side -vestibule and directed us to go upstairs. The gallery seats are the -choice places, and we obeyed with alacrity. A third detachment met us -at the top of the steps, looked at and retained our tickets, and stood -us in line with fifty other expectants against the inner wall, until -he could “h’arrange matters.” Our turn came in about five minutes, and -we were agreeably surprised at being installed in the front row, with -a clear view of stage and lower pews. In five minutes more an elderly -lady in a black silk dress trimmed profusely with guipure lace, a -purple velvet hat with a great deal of Chantilly about it, and a white -feather atop of all, touched my shoulder from behind, showing me a face -like a Magenta hollyhock, but sensible and kind. - -“_Might_ I inquire if you got your tickets from Mr. Merryweather?” - -I looked at Caput. - -“No, madam!” he replied promptly. “I procured them from ——,” giving the -Paternoster Row address. - -“Possible? But you are strangers?” - -He bowed assent. - -“_And_ Americans?” - -Another bow. - -“Then all I ’ave to say is, that it is extror’nary! most extror’nary! -I told Mr. Merryweather to give three tickets, with my compliments, to -an American party I heard of—one gentleman and a couple of ladies—and I -was in hopes they were providentially near my pew.” - -She leaned forward, after a minute, to subjoin—“Of course, you are -welcome, all the same!” - -“That is one comfort!” whispered Prima, as the pew-owner settled -back rustlingly into her corner. “In America we should consider her -‘very-very’ impertinent. _Do_ circumstances and people alter cases?” - -Ten minutes more and the galleries were packed by the skilled ushers, -and the body of the lower floor was three-quarters full of pew-holders. -We scanned them carefully and formed an opinion of the social and -intellectual status of the Tabernacle congregation we saw no reason to -reverse at our second and longer visit to London, two years afterward, -when our opportunities of making a correct estimate of pastor and -people were better than on this occasion. Caput summed it up. - -“I dare affirm that eight out of ten of them misplace their _h’s_——” - -“And say, ‘sir!’” interpolated Prima, gravely. - -Yet they looked comfortable in spirit, and, as to body, were decidedly -and tawdrily overdressed—the foible of those whose best clothes are -too good for every-day wear, and who frequent few places where they -can be so well displayed and seen as at church. Somebody assured me -once, that white feathers were worn in Great Britain out of compliment -to the Prince of Wales, whose three white plumes banded together are -conspicuous in all public decorations. If this be true, the prospective -monarch may felicitate himself upon the devotion of the Wives and -Daughters of England. I have never seen one-half so many sported -elsewhere, and they have all seasons for their own. - -The last remaining space in our slip was taken up by a pair who arrived -somewhat late. The wife was a pretty dumpling of a woman, resplendent -in a bronze-colored silk dress, _garnie_ with valenciennes, a seal-skin -jacket, and a white hat trebly complimentary to H. R. H. She and her -dapper husband squeezed past those already seated, obliging us to rise -to escape trampled toes, wedged themselves into the far end of the -pew, and a dialogue began in loud whispers. - -“I say it’s a shame!” - -“If you complain they may say we should a’ come h’earlier.” - -“I don’t care! I will ’ave my say! Mr. Smith!” This aloud, beckoning -an usher; “I say, Mr. Smith! You’ve put one too many h’in our pew. Its -h’abominably crowded!” - -The slip was very long. Besides the malcontents, there were five of us, -who looked at each other, then at the embarrassed usher. The gentleman -next the aisle arose. - -“If you can provide me with another seat I will give the lady more -room,” he said to the man of business. - -With a word of smiling apology to his companion—a sweet-faced woman -we supposed was his wife—he followed the guide, and, as the reward -of gallantry stood against the wall back of us until the sermon was -half done. We did not need to be told what was his nationality. The -victorious heroine of the skirmish did not say or look—“I am sorry!” or -“Thanks!” only, to her husband,—“_Now_ I can breathe!” - -She was civilly attentive to me, who chanced to sit nearest her, -handing me a hymn-book and offering her fan as the house grew warm. She -evidently had no thought that she had been rude or inhospitable to the -stranger within the gates of her Tabernacle. - -The great front doors were opened, and in less time than I can write of -it the immense audience-chamber, capable of containing 6,500 persons, -was filled to overflowing. The rush and buzz were a subdued tumult. -Nobody made more noise than was needful in the work of obtaining -seats in the most favorable positions left for the multitude who were -not regular worshippers there, nor ticket-holders. But I should have -considered one of Apollos’s sermons dearly-bought by such long waiting -and the race that ended it. The ground-swell of excitement had not -entirely subsided when the “ting! ting!” of a little bell was heard. A -door opened at the back of the deep platform already edged with rows of -privileged men and women, who had come in by this way, and Mr. Spurgeon -walked to the front, where were his chair and table. - -I have yet to see the person whose feeling at the first sight of the -great Baptist preacher was not one of overwhelming disappointment. -His legs are short and tremble under the heavy trunk. His forehead is -low, with a bush of black hair above it, the brows beetle over small, -twinkling eyes, the nose is thick, the mouth large, with a pendulous -lower jaw. “Here is an animal!” you say to yourself. “Of the earth, -earthy. Of the commonalty, common!” - -He moved slowly and painfully, and while preaching, praying and -reading, rested his gouty knee upon the seat of a chair and stood upon -one leg. His hand, stumpy and ill-formed, although small, grasped the -chair-back for further support. If I remember aright, there was no -invocation or other preliminary service before he gave out a hymn. His -voice is a clear monotone, marvellously sustained. The inflections are -slight and few, but exceedingly effective. The ease of elocution that -sent every syllable to the farthest corner of the vast building was -inimitable and cannot be described. - -“We will sing”—he began as naturally as in a prayer-meeting of twenty -persons—“We will _all_ sing, with the heart and with the voice, with -the spirit, and with understanding, the ——th hymn: - - “Let us all, with cheerful mood - Praise the Lord, for He is good!” - -The pronunciation of “mood” rhymed precisely with “good,” and he said -“Lard,” instead of “Lord.” But the words had in them the ring of a -silver trumpet. - -The precentor stood directly in front of the preacher, facing the -audience and just within the railing of the stage. The instant the -reading of the hymn was over, he raised the tune, the congregation -rising. The Niagara of song made me fairly dizzy for a minute. -Everybody sang. After a few lines, it was impossible to refrain from -singing. One was caught up and swept on by the cataract. He might not -know the air. He might have neither ear nor voice for music. He was -kept in time and tune by the strong current of sound. There was no -organ or other musical instrument, nor was the voice of the precentor -especially powerful. It was as if we were guided by one overmastering -mind and spirit constraining the least emotional to be “conjubilant in -song” with the thousands upon thousands of his fellows. Congregational -psalmody, such as this, without previous rehearsal or training, is -phenomenal. - -A prayer followed, as remarkable in its way as the singing. -Comprehensive, devout, simple, it was the pleading of man in the _felt_ -presence of his Maker;—the key-note—“Nevertheless, I will talk with -Thee!” Next to Mr. Spurgeon’s earnestness his best gift is his command -of good, nervous English,—fluency which is never verboseness. Knowing -exactly what he means to say, he says it—fully and roundly—and lets -it alone thereafter. He is neither scholarly, nor eloquent, in any -other sense than in these. He read a chapter, giving an exposition of -each verse in terse, familiar phrase. There was another hymn, and he -announced his text: - -“_Rather rejoice because your names are written in Heaven!_” - -I should hardly name humility as a characteristic of prayer or sermon; -yet, for one whose boldness of speech often approximates dogmatism, -he is singularly free from self-assertion. His sermon was more like a -lecture-room talk than a discourse prepared for, and delivered to a -mixed multitude. His quotations from Holy Writ were abundant and apt, -evincing a retentive memory and ready wit. One-third of the sermon -was in the very words of Scripture. His habitual employment of Bible -phrases has lent to his own composition a quaint savor. He makes lavish -use of “thee” and “thou,” jumbling these inelegantly with “you” in the -same sentence. - -For example:—He described a man who had been useful and approved as -a church-member: (always addressing his own people)—“The Master has -allowed you to work for many days in His vineyard, and paid thee good -wages, even given thee souls for thy hire.” - -In what shape reverses came to the prosperous laborer we were not told, -but that he did see others outstrip him in usefulness and honors: - -“You are bidden by the Master to take a lower—maybe the lowest seat. -Ah, then, my friend, _thou hast the dumps_!” - -I heard him say in another sermon: “If my Lord were to offer a prize -for a joyful Christian I am afraid there are not many of you who would -dare try for it. And if you did, I fear me much you would not draw even -a third prize.” - -Occasionally he is coarse in trope and expression. I hesitate to record -a sentence that shocked me to disgust as being not only in atrocious -taste and an unfortunate figure of speech, but, to my apprehension, -irreverent: - -“If we are not filled, it is because we do not hang upon and suck at -those blessed breasts of GOD’S promises as we might and should do.” - -His illustrations are like his diction—homely. There was not a new -grand thought, nor a beautiful passage, rhetorically considered, -in any discourse we ever heard from him; not a trace of such fervid -imagination as draws men, sometimes against their will, to hear Gospel -truth in Talmage’s Tabernacle, or of Beecher’s magnificent genius. -We have, in America, scores of men who are little known outside of -their own town, or State, who preach the Word as simply and devoutly; -who are, impartially considered, in speech more weighty, in learning -incomparably superior to the renowned London Nonconformist. Yet we -sat—between six and seven thousand of us—and listened to him for -nearly an hour, without restlessness or straying attention. Yes! and -went again and again, to discover, if possible, as the boys say of the -juggler—“how he did it.” - -In giving out the notices for the week, Mr. Spurgeon thanked the -regular attendants of the church for having complied with the request -he had made on the preceding Sabbath morning, and “stopped away at -night,” thus leaving more room for strangers. “I hope still more of -you will stop at home this evening,” he concluded in a tone of jolly -fellowship the people appeared to comprehend and like. He was clearly -thoroughly at one with his flock. - -At night we also “stopped away,” but not at home. After much -misdirection and searching, we found the alley—it was nothing -better—leading to Dr. Cummings’s church in Crown Court, Long Acre. It -was small, very small in our sight while the remembered roominess of -the Tabernacle lingered with us,—plain as a Primitive Methodist Chapel -in the country; badly lighted, and the high, straight pews were not -half filled. The author of “Voices of the Dead” and “Lectures upon -the Apocalypse” is a gray-haired man a little above medium height. -His shoulders were bowed slightly—the bend of the student, not of -infirmity; his features were clear-cut and spirituelle. He preached -that night in faith and hope that were pathetic to us who had read his -prophecies—or his interpretation of Divine prophecy—as long ago as -1850, and recalled the fact that the time set for the fulfilment of -some of these had passed. - -His text was Rev. i. 3: “_Blessed is he that readeth, and they that -hear the words of this prophecy and keep those things that are written -therein—for_ THE TIME IS AT HAND!” - -He believed it. One read it in every word and gesture; in the rapt look -of the eyes so long strained with watching for the nearer promise—the -dayspring—of His coming; in the calm assurance of mien and tone, the -dignity of a seer, whom Heaven was joined with earth to authenticate. -He spoke without visible notes; his only gesture a slight lifting of -both hands, with a fluttering, outward movement. We listened vainly -for some token in his spoken composition of the epigrammatic, often -antithetical style, that gives nerve and point to his published -writings. The interesting, albeit desultory talk was, he informed us, -the first of a series of sermons upon the Apocalypse he designed to -deliver in that place from Sabbath to Sabbath. He had been diligently -engaged of late in recasting the horoscope of the world. That was not -the way he put it. But he did say that he had reviewed the calculations -upon which his published “Lectures” were based, and would make known -the result of his labors in the projected series. - -He preferred, it was said, the obscure corner in which he preached -to any other location, and had refused the offer of a lady of rank -to build him a better church, in a better neighborhood. I suppose he -thought it would outlast him—and into the millennial age. - -I read, but yesterday, in an English paper, that he had retired from -pulpit duties, in confirmed ill-health, and that after his long life -of toil he is very poor. Some of his wealthy friends propose to pension -him. And we remember so well when his “Voices of the Night”—“The -Day”—“The Dead” were read by more thousands and tens of thousands than -now flock to hear Spurgeon; when the “Lectures upon the Apocalypse” -were a bugle-call, turning the eyes of the Christian world to the so -long rayless East. We recall, too, the title of another of his books, -with the vision of the bent figure and eyes grown dim with waiting for -the glory to be revealed,—and another text from his beloved Revelation: - -“_These are they that have come out of Great Tribulation, and have -washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb._” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -_The Two Elizabeths._ - - -IF the English autumn be sad, and the English spring be sour, the -smiling beauty of the English summer should expel the memory of gloom -and acerbity from the mind of the tourist who is not afflicted with -bronchitis. In England they make the _ch_ very hard, and pronounce the -_i_ in the second syllable as in _kite_. They ought to know all about -bronchitis, for it lurks in every whiff of east wind, and most of the -vanes have rusted upon their pivots in their steadfast pointing to that -quarter. - -The east wind is not necessarily raw. It was bracing, and the sky blue -as that of Italy, when we took a Fourth of July drive of nine hours -through the fairest portion of the Isle of Wight. The Tally-Ho was a -gorgeous pleasure-coach, all red and yellow. The coachman and guard -were in blue coats and brass buttons, red waistcoats, and snowy leather -breeches, fitting like the skin; high top-boots and cockaded hats. -We had four good horses, the best seats upon the top of the coach, -a hamper of luncheon, and as many rugs and shawls as we would have -taken on a winter voyage across the Atlantic. There were opaline belts -of light upon the sea, such as we had seen from Naples and Sorrento, -passing into pearl and faintest blue where the sky met and mingled -with the water. Hundreds of sails skimmed the waves like so many -white gulls. Here and there a steamer left a dusky trail upon the air. -Three were stationary about a dark object near the shore. It looked -like a projecting pile the rising tide might cover. The _Eurydice_, a -school-ship of the Royal Navy, had foundered there in a gale six weeks -and more agone, carrying upwards of three hundred souls down with her. -Day by day these government transports were toiling to raise her and -recover the bodies of the boys. A week after we left the island they -succeeded in dragging up the water-logged hulk. Only eighteen corpses -were found. The sea had washed off and hidden the rest. - -England is a garden in June, July, and August. The Isle of Wight -is a fairy parterre, set with such wealth of verdure and bloom as -never disappoints nor palls upon the sight. The roads are perfect -in stability and smoothness, and whether they lie along the edge of -the cliffs, or among fertile plains besprinkled with villages and -farm-buildings, with an occasional manor-house or venerable ruin, -are everywhere fringed by such hedges as flourish nowhere else so -bravely as in the British Isles. The hawthorn was out of flower, but -blackberries whose blossoms were pink instead of white, trailing -briony, sweet-brier, and, daintiest and most luxuriant of all, wild -convolvulus, hung with tiny cups of pale rose-color—healed our regrets -that we were too late to see and smell the “May” in its best-loved home. - -We lunched at Blackgang Chine, spreading our cloth upon the heather -a short distance from the brow of the cliff, the sea rolling so far -below us that the surf was a whisper and the strollers upon the beach -were pigmies. The breadth—the apparent boundlessness of the view were -enhanced by the crystalline purity of the atmosphere. In standing -upon the precipice, our backs to the shore, looking seaward beyond the -purple “Needles” marking the extremest point of the sunken reef, we had -an eerie sense of being suspended between sky and ocean;—a lightness of -body and freedom of spirit, a contempt for the laws of gravitation, and -for the Tally-Ho as a means of locomotion, that were, we decided after -comparing notes among ourselves, the next best thing to being sea-fowl. - -The principal objects of interest for the day were Carisbrooke Castle -and Arreton. Next to the Heidelberg Schloss, Carisbrooke takes rank, in -our recollection of ruins many and castles uncountable, for beauty of -situation and for careful preservation of original character without -injury to picturesqueness. The moat is cushioned with daisied turf, but -we crossed it by a stone bridge of a single span. Over the gateway is -carved the Woodville coat-of-arms, supported on each side by the “White -Rose” of York. The arch is recessed between two fine, round towers. The -massive doors, cross-barred with iron, still hang upon their hinges. -Passing these, we were in a grassy court-yard of considerable extent. -On our left was the shell of the suite of rooms occupied by Charles -I. during his imprisonment here, from November 13, 1647, until the -latter part of the next year. Ivy clings and creeps through the empty -window-frames, and tapestries walls denuded of the “thick hangings and -wainscoting” ordered for the royal captive. The floors of the upper -story have fallen and the lower is carpeted with grass. Tufts of a -pretty pink flower were springing in all the crevices. Ferns grew rank -and tall along the inside of the enclosed space. High up in the wall -is the outline of a small window, “blocked up in after alterations,” -according to the record. Through this the king endeavored to escape -on the night of March 20, 1648. Horses were ready in the neighborhood -of the Castle, and a vessel awaited the king upon the shore. A brave -royalist came close beneath the window and gave the signal. - -“Then”—in the words of this man, the only eye-witness of the scene—“His -Majesty put himself forward, but, too late, found himself mistaken.” - -Charles had declared, when the size of the aperture was under -discussion, “Where my head can pass, my body can follow.” - -“He, sticking fast between his breast and shoulders and not able to -get backward or forward. Whilst he stuck I heard him groan, but could -not come to help him, which, you may imagine, was no small affliction -to me. So soon as he was in again—to let me see (as I had to my grief -heard) the design was broken—he set a candle in the window. If this -unfortunate impediment had not happened, his Majesty had certainly then -made a good escape.” - -The Stuarts were a burden to the land, as a family; but we wished the -window had been a few inches broader, and exile, not the block, the -end of fight ’twixt king and parliament, as we walked up and down the -tilt-yard converted into a promenade and bowling-green for the prisoner -while Colonel Hammond was governor of the Castle. Here Charles paced -two hours each day, the wide sea and the free ships below him; in plain -sight the cove where the little shallop had lain, at anchor, the night -of the attempted rescue. - -“He was not at all dejected in his spirits,” we read; “but carried -himself with the same majesty he had used to do. His hair was all gray, -which, making all others very sad, made it thought that he had sorrow -in his countenance which appeared only by that shadow.” - -In further evidence of his unbroken spirit in this earliest -imprisonment, we have the motto “_Dum spiro, spero_,” written by -himself in a book he was fond of reading. Without divining it, he was -getting his breath between two tempests. That in these months all that -was truly kingly and good within him was nourished into healthy growth -we gather, furthermore, in reading that “The Sacred Scriptures he most -delighted in; read often in Sand’s Paraphrase of King David’s Psalms -and Herbert’s Divine Poems.” Also, that “Spenser’s Faerie Queen was the -alleviation of his spirits after serious studies.” - -The Bowling Green is little changed in grade and verdure since the -semi-daily promenade of the captive monarch streaked it with narrow -paths, and since his orphaned son and daughter played bowls together -upon the turf two summers afterward. The sward is velvet of thickest -pile. There is an English saying that “it takes a century to make a -lawn.” This has had more than two in which to grow and green. - -We were glad that another party who were with us in the grounds were -anxious to see an ancient donkey tread the wheel which draws up a -bucket from the well, “144 feet deep, with 37 feet of water” in a -building at the side of the Castle. While they tarried to applaud -“Jacob’s” feat, we had a quiet quarter of an hour in the upper chamber, -where, as a roughly-painted board tells us, “THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH -DIED.” - -Who (in America) has not read the narrative, penned by the -thirteen-year-old child, “_What the King said to me 29^{th} of January -last, being the last time I had the happiness to see him_”? The -heart breaks with the mere reading of the title and the fancy of the -trembling fingers that wrote it out. - -Her father had said to her, “But, sweetheart, thou wilt forget what -I tell thee!” “Then, shedding abundance of tears, I told him that I -would write down all he said to me.” - -We knew, almost to a word, the naïve recital which was the fulfilment -of the pledge. We could not have forgotten at Carisbrooke that her -father had given her a Bible, saying: “It had been his great comfort -and constant companion through all his sorrows, and he hoped it -would be hers.” She had been a prisoner in the Castle less than a -week when she was caught in a sudden shower while playing with her -little brother, the Duke of Gloucester, on the Bowling Green. The -wetting “caused her to take cold, and the next day she complained of -headache and feverish distemper.” It was a poor bed-chamber for a -king’s daughter (with one window, a mere slit in the wall, and one -door), in the which she lay for a fortnight, “her disease growing -upon her,” until “after many rare ejaculatory expressions, abundantly -demonstrating her unparalleled piety, to the eternal honor of her own -memory and the astonishment of those who waited upon her, she took -leave of the world on Sunday, the 8th of September, 1650.” - -That was the way the chaplain and the physician told the story—such a -sorrowful little tale when one strips away the sounding polysyllables -and cuts short the windings of the sentences! - -The warden’s wife was, we know, one of “those who waited upon her.” -Hireling hands ministered to her through her “distemper.” In the scanty -retinue that attended her to Carisbrooke was one “Judith Briott, her -gentlewoman.” We liked to think she must have loved her gentle little -mistress. It is possible her tending was as affectionate as the care -she might have had, had the mother, to whom the father had sent his -love by the daughter’s hand, been with her instead of in France, toying -(some say) with a new lover. Yet the child-heart must have yearned for -parents, brothers and sisters. On that Sunday morning, an attendant -entering with a bowl of bread-and-milk, discovered that the princess -had died alone, her cheek pillowed upon the Bible—her father’s legacy. - -That small chamber was a sacred spot where we could not but speak low -and step softly. It is utterly dismantled. When draped and furnished -it may not have been comfortless. It could never have been luxurious. -A branch of ivy had thrust itself in at the window through which her -dying eyes looked their last upon the sky. Caput reached up silently -and broke off a spray. As I write, it climbs up my window-frame, a -thrifty vine, that has taken kindly to voyaging and transplanting. To -me it is a more valuable memento than the beautiful photograph of the -monument erected to Princess Elizabeth’s memory in the Church of St. -Thomas, whither “her body was brought (in a borrowed coach) attended -with her few late servants.” - -Yet the monument is a noble tribute from royalty to the daughter of a -royal line. The young girl lies asleep, one hand fallen to her side, -the other laid lightly upon her breast, her check turned to rest -upon the open Bible. The face is sweet and womanly; the expression -peacefully happy. “_A token of respect for her virtues, and sympathy -for her misfortunes._ _By_ VICTORIA R., 1856.” So reads the inscription. - -Imagination leaped a wide chasm of time and station in passing from -the state prison-chamber of Carisbrooke to the thatched cottage of The -Dairyman’s Daughter; from the marble sculptured by a queen’s command, -to the head-stone reared by one charitable admirer of the humble piety -of Elizabeth Walbridge. To reach the grave we had to pass through -the parish church of Arreton. It is like a hundred other parish -churches scattered among the byways of England. The draught from the -interior met us when the door grated upon the hinges, cold, damp, and -ill-smelling, a smell that left an earthy taste in the mouth. Beneath -the stone flooring the noble dead are packed economically as to room. -The sexton, who may have been a trifle younger than the building, spoke -a dialect we could hardly translate. The church was his pride, and -he was sorely grieved when we would have pushed right onward to the -burying-ground. - -“Ye mun look at ’e brawsses!” he pleaded so tremulously that we halted -to note one, on which was the figure of a man in armor, his feet upon a -lion couchant. - - “Here is ye buried under this Grave - Harry Haweis. His soul GOD save. - Long tyme steward of the Yle of Wyght. - Have m’cy on hym, GOD ful of myght.” - -The date is 1430. - -Another “brass” upon a stone pillar bears six verses setting forth the -worthy deeds of one William Serle: - - “Thus did this man, a Batchelor, - Of years full fifty-nyne. - And doing good to many a one, - Soe did he spend his tyme.” - -“An’ ye woant see ’e rest?” quavered the old sexton at our next -movement. “’E be foine brawsses! Quawlity all of um—’e be!” - -Seeing our obduracy, he hobbled to the side-door and unlocked it, amid -many groans from himself and the rusty wards. The July light and air -were welcome after the damp twilight within. In death at least, it -would seem to be better with the poor than the “quality,” if sun and -breeze are boons. The churchyard is small and ridged closely with -graves. The old man led the way between and over these to the last home -of the Dairyman’s Daughter. We gathered about it, looked reverently -upon the low swell of turf. There is a metrical epitaph, sixteen lines -in length, presumably the composition of the lady at whose expense the -stone was raised. It begins: - - “Stranger! if e’er by chance or feeling led, - Upon this hallowed turf thy footsteps tread, - Turn from the contemplation of the sod, - And think on her whose spirit rests with GOD.” - -The rest is after the same order, a mechanical jingle in pious measure. -It offends one who has not been educated to appreciate the value of -post-mortem patronage bestowed by the lofty upon the lowly. It was -enough for us to know that the worn body of Legh Richmond’s “Elizabeth” -lay there peacefully sleeping away the ages. - -We had picked up in a Ventnor bookshop a shabby little copy of -Richmond’s “Annals of the Poor,” printed in 1828. It contained a sketch -of Mr. Richmond’s life by his son-in-law, The Dairyman’s Daughter, -The Negro Servant, and The Young Cottager, the scene of all these -narratives being in the Isle of Wight. We reread them with the pensive -pleasure one feels in unbinding a pacquet of letters, spotted and -yellowed by time, but which hands beloved once pressed, and yielding -still the faint fragrance of the rose-leaves we laid away with them -when the pages were white and fresh. We, who drew delight with -instruction from Sunday-School libraries more than thirty years back, -knew Elizabeth, the “Betsey” of father and mother, better than we did -our next-door neighbors. Prima and Secunda, allured by my enthusiasm -to read the book, declared that her letters to her spiritual adviser -“were prosy and priggish,” but that the hold of the story upon my heart -was not all the effect of early association was abundantly proved by -their respectful mention of her humble piety and triumphant death. - -By her side lies the sister at whose funeral Legh Richmond first met -his modest heroine. In the same family group sleep the Dairyman and his -wife. “The mother died not long after the daughter,” says Mr. Richmond, -“and I have good reason to believe that GOD was merciful to her and -took her to Himself. The good old Dairyman died in 1816, aged 84. His -end was eminently Christian.” - -Elizabeth died May 30, 1801, at the age of thirty-one. - -“Pardon!” said a foreign gentleman, one of the party, who, seeing Caput -uncover his head at the grave, had done the same. “But will you have -the goodness to tell me what it is we have come here to see?” - -“The grave of a very good woman,” was the reply. - -Legh Richmond tells us little more. Her love for her Saviour, like the -broken alabaster-box of ointment in the hand of another woman of far -different life, is the sweet savor that has floated down to us through -all these years. - -I stooped to picked some bearded grasses from the mound. The sexton -bent creakingly to aid me, chattering and grinning. He wore a blue -frock over his corduroy trousers: his hands and clothes were stained -with clay; his sunken cheeks looked like old parchment. - -“’A wisht ’a ’ad flowers to gi’ ’e, leddy!” he said. “’A dit troy for -one wheele to keep um ’ere. But ’a moight plant um ivery day, and ’ee -ud be all goane ’afore tummorrer. He! he! he! ’A—manny leddies cooms -’ere for summat fro’ e’ grave. ’A burried ’er brother over yander!” -chucking a pebble to show where—“’a dit! ’E larst of ’e fomily. ’Ees -all goane! And ’_a_’m still aloive and loike to burry a manny more! He! -he!” - -Our homeward route lay by the Dairyman’s cottage, a long mile from -the church. When the coffin of Elizabeth, borne by neighbors’ hands, -was followed by the mourners, also on foot, funeral hymns were sung, -“at occasional intervals of about five minutes.” As we bowled along -the smooth road, Prima, sitting behind me, read aloud from the shabby -little volume a description of the surrounding scene, that might, for -accuracy of detail, have been written that day: - -“A rich and fruitful valley lay immediately beneath. It was adorned -with corn-fields and pastures, through which a small river winded in -a variety of directions, and many herds grazed upon its banks. A fine -range of opposite hills, covered with grazing flocks, terminated with -a bold sweep into the ocean, whose blue waves appeared at a distance -beyond. Several villages, churches and hamlets were scattered in the -valley. The noble mansions of the rich and the lowly cottages of the -poor added their respective features to the landscape. The air was -mild, and the declining sun occasioned a beautiful interchange of light -and shade upon the sides of the hills.” - -The annalist adds,—“In the midst of this scene the chief sound that -arrested attention was the bell tolling for the funeral of the -‘Dairyman’s Daughter.’” - -“A picture by Claude!” commented Caput as the reader paused. - -“A draught of old wine that has made the voyage to India and back!” -said Dux, our blue-eyed college-boy. - -These were the hills that had echoed the funeral psalm; these the -cottages in whose doors stood those “whose countenances proclaimed -their regard for the departed young woman.” Red brick “cottages,” the -little gardens between them and the road crowded with larkspurs, -pinks, roses, lavender, and southernwood. They were generally built in -solid rows under one roof, the yards separated by palings. There were -no basements, the paved floors being laid directly upon the ground. -Two rooms upon this floor, and one above in a steep-roofed attic, was -the prevailing plan of the tenements. The doors were open, and we -could observe, at a passing glance, that some were clean and bright, -others squalid, within. All, mean and neat, had flowers in the windows. -The Dairyman’s cottage stands detached from other houses with what -the neighbors would term “a goodish bit of ground” about it. To the -original dwelling that Legh Richmond saw has been joined a two-story -wing, also of brick. Beside it the cottage with its thatched roof is -a very humble affair. The lane, “quite overshaded with trees and high -hedges,” and “the suitable gloom of such an approach to the house of -mourning,” are gone, with “the great elm-trees which stood near the -house.” The rustling of these,—as he rode by them to see Elizabeth -die,—the imagination of the unconscious poet and true child of Nature -“indulged itself in thinking were plaintive sighs of sorrow.” - -But we saw the upper room with its sloping ceiling, and the window-seat -in which “her sister-in-law sat weeping with a child in her lap,” while -Elizabeth lay dying upon the bed drawn into the middle of the floor to -give her air. - -The glory of the sunsetting was over sea and land, painting the sails -rose-pink; purpling the lofty downs and mellowing into delicious -vagueness the skyey distances—the pathways into the world beyond this -island-gem—when we drove into Ventnor. The grounds of the Royal Hotel -are high and spacious, with turfy banks rolling from the cliff-brow -down to the road, divided by walks laid in snowy shells gathered from -the shore. From a tall flag-staff set on the crown of the hill streamed -out, proud and straight in the strong sea-breeze—the STARS AND STRIPES! - -We did not cheer it, except in spirit, but the gentlemen waved their -hats and the ladies kissed their hands to the grand old standard, -and all responded “Amen!” to the deep voice that said, “GOD bless -it, forever!” And with the quick heart-bound that sent smiles to the -lips and moisture to the eyes, with longings for the Land always and -everywhere dearest to us, came kindlier thoughts than we were wont to -indulge of the “Old Home,” which, in the clearer light of a broadening -Christian civilization, can, with us, rejoice in the anniversary of a -Nation’s Birthday. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -_Prince Guy._ - - -LEAMINGTON is in, and of itself, the pleasantest and stupidest town in -England. It is a good place in which to sleep and eat and leave the -children when the older members of the party desire to make all-day -excursions. It is pretty, quiet, healthy, with clean, broad “parades” -and shaded parks wherein perambulators are safe from runaway horses and -reckless driving. There are countless shops for the sale of expensive -fancy articles, notably china and embroidery; more lodging-houses -than private dwellings and shops put together. There is a chabybeate -spring—fabled to have tasted properly, _i. e._, chemically, “nasty,” -once upon a time—enclosed in a pump-room. Hence “Leamington Spa,” one -of the names of the town. And through the Jephson Gardens (supposed -to be the Enchanted Ground whereupon Tennyson dreamed out his -“Lotos-eaters”) flows the “high-complectioned Leam,” the sleepiest -river that ever pretended to go through the motions of running at all. -Hawthorne defines the “complexion” to be a “greenish, goose-puddly -hue,” but, “disagreeable neither to taste nor smell.” We used to -saunter in the gardens after dinner on fine evenings, to promote quiet -digestion and drowsiness, and can recommend the prescription. There -are churches in Leamington, “high” and “low,” or, as the two factions -prefer to call themselves, “Anglican” and “Evangelical;” Nonconformist -meeting-houses—Congregational, Wesleyan and Baptist; there are two -good circulating libraries, and there is a tradition to the effect -that living in hotels and lodgings here was formerly cheap. One fares -tolerably there now—and pays for it. - -We made Leamington our headquarters for six weeks, Warwickshire being -a very mine of historic show-places, and the sleepy Spa easy of access -from London, Oxford, Birmingham, and dozens of other cities we must -see, while at varying distances of one, five, and ten miles lie Warwick -Castle, Kenilworth, Stratford-on-Avon, Charlecote, the home of Sir -Thomas Lucy (Justice Shallow), Stoneleigh Abbey—one of the finest -country-seats in Great Britain—and Coventry. - -The age of Warwick Castle is a mooted point. “Cæsar’s Tower,” ruder in -construction than the remainder of the stupendous pile, is said to be -eight hundred years old. It looks likely to last eight hundred more. -The outer gate is less imposing than the entrance to some barn-yards -I have seen, A double-leaved door, neither clean nor massive, was -unbolted at our ring by a young girl, who told us that the “H’Earl was -sick,” therefore, visitors were not admitted “h’arfter ’arf parst ten.” -Once in the grounds, “they might stay so long h’as they were dispoged.” - -It is impossible to caricature the dialect of the lower classes of -the Mother Country. Even substantial tradesmen, retired merchants and -their families who are living—and traveling—upon their money are, by -turns, prodigal and niggardly in the use of the unfortunate aspirate -that falls naturally into place with us; while servants who have lived -for years in the “best families” appear to pride themselves upon the -liberties they take with their _h’s_, mouthing the mutilated words -with pomp that is irresistibly comic. We delighted to lay traps for -our guides and coachmen, and the yeomen we encountered in walks and -drives, by asking information on the subject of Abbeys, Inns, Earls, -Horses, Halls, and Ages. In every instance they came gallantly up to -our expectations, often transcended our most daring hopes. But we -seldom met with a more satisfactory specimen in this line than the -antique servitor that kept the lodge of Warwick Castle. She wore a -black gown, short-waisted and short-skirted, a large cape of the same -stuff, and what Dickens had taught us to call a “mortified” black -bonnet of an exaggerated type. The cap-frill within flapped about a -face that reminded us of Miss Cushman’s Meg Merrilies. Entering the -lodge hastily, after the young woman who had admitted us had begun -cataloguing the curiosities collected there, she put her aside with -a sweep of her bony arm and an angry, guttural “Ach!” and began the -solemnly circumstantial relation she must have rehearsed thousands of -times. We beheld “H’earl Guy’s” breast-plate, his sword and battle-axe, -the “’orn” of a dun cow slain by him, and divers other bits of old -iron, scraps of pottery, etc. But the _chef d’œuvre_ of the custodian -was the oration above Sir Guy’s porridge-pot, a monstrous iron vessel -set in the centre of the square chamber. Standing over it, a long poker -poised in her hand, she enumerated with glowing gusto the ingredients -of the punch brewed in the big kettle “when the present H’earl came -h’of h’age,” glaring at us from the double pent-house of frill and -bonnet. I forget the exact proportions, but they were somewhat in this -order: - -“H’eighteen gallons o’ rum. Fifteen gallons o’ brandy”—tremendous -stress upon each liquor—“One ’undred pounds o’ loaf sugar. H’eleven -’undred lemmings, h’and fifty gallons h’of ’ot water! This h’identikle -pot was filled _h’and_ h’emptied, three times that day! H’I myself saw -h’it!” - -Her greedy gloating upon the minutest elements of the potent compound -was elfish and almost terrible. It was like— - - “Eye of newt and toe of frog, - Wool of bat and tongue of dog,”— - -the harsh gutturals and suspended iron bar heightening the haggish -resemblance. The pot, she proceeded to relate, was “six ’undred years -h’old,” and bringing down the poker upon and around the edge, evolving -slow gratings and rumblings that crucified our least sensitive nerves, -“h’is this h’our without ’ole h’or crack h’as H’I can h’answer for -h’and testify!” - -The entire exhibition was essentially dramatic and effectively -ridiculous. She accepted our gratuity with the same high tragedy air -and posed herself above the chaldron for an entering party of visitors. - -We sauntered up to the castle along a curving drive between a steep -bank overrun with lush ivy and a wall covered with creepers, and -overhung by fine old trees. Birds sang in the branches and hopped -across the road, the green shade bathed our eyes refreshingly after -the glare of the flint-strewn highway outside of the gates. It was a -forest dingle, rather than the short avenue to the grandest ancient -castle in Three Kingdoms. A broad expanse of turf stretching before the -front of the mansion is lost as far as the eye can reach in avenues -and plantations of trees. Among these are cedars of Lebanon, brought -by crusading Earls from the Holy Land, still vigorously supplying by -new growth the waste of centuries. Masses of brilliant flowers relieved -the verdure of the level sward, fountains leaped and tinkled in sunny -glades, and cut the shadow of leafy vistas with the flash of silver -blades. In the principal conservatory stands the celebrated Warwick -Vase, brought hither from Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli. Ladders were -reared against the barbican wall of great height and thickness, close -by Guy’s Tower (erected in 1394). Workmen mounted upon these were -scraping mosses and dirt from the interstices of the stones and filling -them with new cement. No pains nor expense is spared to preserve the -magnificent fortress from the ravages of time and climate. From the -foundation of the Castle until now, the family of Warwick, in some -of its ramifications—or usurpations—has been in occupation of the -demesne and is still represented in the direct line of succession by -the present owner. The noble race has battled more successfully with -revolution and decay in behalf of house and ancestral home than have -most members of the British Peerage whose lineage is of equal antiquity -and note. - -Opposite the door by which we entered the Great Hall, was a figure of a -man on horseback, rider and steed as large as life. The complete suit -of armor of the one and the caparisons of the other, were presented -by Queen Elizabeth to Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, her handsome -master-of-horse. From this moment until we quitted the house, we -were scarcely, for a moment, out of sight of relics of the _parvenu_ -favorite. - -It is difficult to appreciate that real people, made of flesh, blood, -and sensibilities akin to those of the mass of humankind, live out -their daily lives, act out their true characters, indulge in “tiffs” -and “makings up,” and have “a good time generally,” in these great -houses to which the public are so freely admitted. Neither lives nor -homes seem to be their individual and distinctive property. They must -be tempted, at times, to doubts of the proprietorship of their own -thoughts and enjoy the right of private opinion by stealth. - -One thing helped me to picture a social company of friends grouped -comfortably, even cozily, in this mighty chamber, the pointed rafters -of which met so far above us that the armorial bearings carved between -them upon the ceiling were indistinct to near-sighted eyes; where the -walls were covered with suits of armor, paintings by renowned masters, -and treasures of _virtu_ in furniture and ornament thronged even such -spaciousness as that in which the bewildered visitor feels for a moment -lost. A great fireplace, with carved oaken mantel, mellow-brown with -years, and genuine fire-dogs of corresponding size, yawned in the -wall near Leicester’s effigy. Beside this was a stout rack, almost as -large as a four-post bedstead, full of substantial logs, each at least -five feet long. There must have been a cord of seasoned wood heaped -irregularly within bars and cross-pieces. Some was laid ready for -lighting in the chimney, kindlings under it. A match was all that was -needed to furnish a roaring fire. _That_ would be a feature in the old -feudal hall. An antique settle, covered with crimson, stood invitingly -near the hearth. One sitting upon it had a view of the lawn sloping -down to the river, and the umbrageous depths of the woods beyond; -of the jutting end and one remaining pier of the old bridge on the -hither bank, the trailing ivy pendants drooping to touch the Avon that -mirrored castle-towers, trees, the broken masonry of one bridge and -the solid, gray length of the other. In fancying _who_ might have sat -here on cool autumn days, looking dreamily from the red recesses of the -fireplace to the tranquil picture framed by the window; who walked at -twilight upon the polished floor over the sheen of the leaping blaze -upon the dark wood; who talked, face to face, heart with heart, about -the hearth on stormy winter nights—I had let the others move onward in -the lead of the maid-servant who was appointed to show us around. One -gets so tired of the sing-song iteration of names and dates that she -is well-pleased to let acres of painted canvas, the dry inventory of -beds and stools, tables and candlesticks, the list of lords, artists -and grandees gabbled over in hashed English, seasoned with pert -affectations, slip unheeded by her ears. We accounted it great gain -when we were suffered to enjoy in our own way a single picture or a -relic that unlocked for us a treasure-closet of memory and fancy. - -Drifting dreamily then in the wake of the crowd, I halted between an -original portrait of Charles I. and one of his namesake and successor, -trying, for the twentieth time, to reconcile the fact of the strong -family likeness with the pensive beauty of the father and the coarse -ugliness of the son, when strident tones projected well through the -nose apprised me that the Traveling American had arrived and was on -duty. The maid had waited in the Great Hall to collect a party of ten -before beginning the tour. Workmen were hammering somewhere upon or -about the vaulted roof, and the woman’s explanations were sometimes -drowned by the reverberation. We were not chagrined by the loss. We -had guide-books and catalogues, and each had some specific object -of interest in view or quest. The Traveling American, benevolent to -a nuisance, tall, black-eyed and bearded, with an oily ripple of -syllables betraying the training of camp-meeting or political campaign, -took up the burden of the girl’s parrot-talk and rolled it over to -us, not omitting to inter-lard it with observations deprecatory, -appreciative, and critical. - -“Original portrait of Henry VIII., by a cotemporary artist—name not -known. Holbein—most likely! He was always painting the old tyrant. -Considered a very excellent likeness. Although nobody living is -authority upon that point. Over the door, two portraits. Small heads, -you see, hardly larger than cabinet pictures,—of Mary and Anne Boleyn. -Which is which—did you say, my dear? Oh! the one to the left is Anne, -Henry’s second wife. Supplanted poor old Kate of Arragon, you remember. -What a run of Kates the ugly Blue-beard had! Anne is a pretty, -modest-looking girl. The wonder is how she could have married that fat -beer-guzzler over yonder, king or no king. Let me see! Didn’t he want -to marry Mary, too? ‘Seems to me there is some such story. And she said -‘No, thank you!’ Hers is a nice face, but she isn’t such a beauty as -her sister.” - -_Ad infinitum_—and from the outset, _ad nauseam_, to all except the -four ladies of his party. They tittered and nudged one another at -each witticism, and looked at us for answering tokens of sympathy. -We pressed the maid onward since we were not allowed to precede her; -tarried in the rear of the procession as nearly out of ear-shot as -might be. But the armory is a succession of narrow rooms, and a pause -at the head of the train in the last of the series brought about a -“block” of the two parties. Upon a table was a lump of faded velvet and -tarnished gold lace, frayed and almost shapeless. - -_T. A. (beamingly)._ “The saddle upon which Queen Elizabeth rode, -on the occasion of her memorable visit to Kenilworth. She had just -given Kenilworth to Leicester, you remember, as a love-token. He was -a Warwick (!); so the saddle has naturally remained in the family. -An interesting and perfectly authenticated relic. Elizabeth invented -side-saddles, as you are all aware. This was manufactured to order. -It is something to see the saddle on which Queen Elizabeth rode. And -on such an occasion! It makes an individual, as it were—_thrill!_ -Clara! where are you, my dear.” A pretty little girl came forward, -blushingly. “Put your hand upon it, my child! Now—you can tell them all -at home you have had your hand upon the place where Queen Elizabeth sat -on!” - -“Is there no pound in Warwick for vagrant donkeys?” muttered Lex, a -youth in our section of the company. - -He had been abroad but three weeks, and the species, if not the -genus, was a novelty to him. Nor had we, when as strange to the -sight and habits of the creature as was he, any adequate prevision -of the annoyance he would become—what a spot, in his ubiquity and -irrepressibleness, upon our feasts of sight-seeing. Caput had, as -usual, a crumb of consolation for himself and for us when we had shaken -ourselves free from our country-people at the castle-door by taking a -different route from theirs through the grounds. - -“At any rate, he knew who Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn and Elizabeth -were, and was not altogether ignorant of Leicester and Kenilworth. We -need not be utterly ashamed of him. Only—we will wait until he has been -to look at the Warwick Vase before we go in. I can live without hearing -its history from his lips.” - -A notable race have been the Warwicks in English legends and history, -for scores of generations. Princely in magnificence; doughty in war; -in love, ardent; in ambition, measureless. Under Plantagenet, Tudor, -Stuart, and Guelph, they have never lacked a man to stand near the -throne and maintain worthily their dignity. But, in the long avenue -of stateliness there are heads loftier than their fellows. Once in an -age, one has stood grandly apart, absorbent of such active interest and -living sympathy as we cannot bestow upon family or clan. - -As at Carisbrooke, Charles Stuart and his hapless daughter are -continually present to our imagination; and the grandmother, whose -head, like his, rolled in the sawdust of an English scaffold, glides -a pale, lovely shade with us through the passages of Holyrood; as at -Kenilworth, we think of Elizabeth, the guest, more than of Leicester, -the host, and in Trinity Church at Coventry, pass carelessly by -painted windows exquisite in modern workmanship, to seek in an obscure -aisle the patched fragment of glass that commemorates the chaste -Godiva’s sacrifice for her people,—so there was for us one Lord of -Warwick Castle, one Hero of Warwickshire. I shall confess to so many -sentimental weaknesses, so many historical heresies in the course of -this volume, that I may as well divulge this pampered conceit frankly -and without apology. - -For us—foremost and pre-eminent among the mighty men of the house of -Warwick who have “found their hands” for battle and for statecraft -since the foundations of Cæsar’s Tower were laid, stands EARL GUY, -Goliath and Paladin of the line. Of his deeds of valor, authentic and -mythical, the witch at the Lodge has much to tell—the traditionary lore -of the district, more. - - “I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,” - -Shakspeare makes a man of the people say. Sir Guy overthrew and slew -the giant Colbrand in the year 926, according to Dugdale. Is not the -story of this and a hundred other feats of arms recorded in the “Booke -of the most victoryous Prince Guy of Warwick”? When he fell in love -with the Lady Lettice—(or Phillis—traditions disagree about the name), -the fairest maiden in the kingdom, she set him on to perform other -prodigies of valor in the hope of winning her hand. In joust and in -battle-field, at home and afar, he wore her colors in his helmet and -her image in his heart. - -“She appoynted unto Earl Guy many and grievous tasks, all of which he -did. And soe in tyme it came to pass that he married her.” - -They lived in Warwick Castle, a fortress then, in reality, and of -necessity, for a few peaceful years. How many we do not know, only -that children were born unto them, and that Lettice, laying aside -the naughtiness of early coquetry, grew gentler, more lovable and -more fond each day, while Earl Guy waxed silent and morose under the -pressure of a mysterious burden, never shared with the wife he adored -and had periled his soul to win. Suddenly and secretly he withdrew -to the cell of a holy hermit who lived but three miles away, and was -lost to the world he had filled with rumors of “derring-doing.” The -Countess Lettice, distracted by grief at the disappearance of her lord, -and the failure of her efforts to trace the direction of his flight, -without a misgiving that while her detectives—who must have been of the -dullest—scoured land and sea in search of the missing giant, he was -hidden within sight of the turret-windows of Guy’s Tower—withdrew into -the seclusion of her castle and gave herself up to works of piety and -benevolence. Guy’s children had her tenderest care; next to them her -poor tenantry. Upon stated days of the week a crowd of these pensioners -presented themselves at her gates and were fed by her servants. Among -them came for—some say, twenty, others, _forty years_, a beggar, bent -in figure, with muffled features, in rags, and unaccompanied by so much -as a dog, who silently received his dole of the Countess’s charity and -went his way challenged by none. We hope, in hearing it, that the Lady -Lettice, her fair face the lovelier for the chastening of her great -grief, sometimes showed herself to the waiting petitioners. If she did, -weeping had surely dulled her vision that she did not recognize Earl -Guy under his labored disguise, for he was a Saul even among brawny -Saxons and the semi-barbarous islanders. If the eremite had such -chance glimpses of his love, they were the only earthly consolation -vouchsafed him in the tedious life of mortification and prayer. While -Lettice, in her bower among her maidens, prayed for his return, -refusing all intercourse with the gay world, her husband divided his -time between the cave where he dwelt alone and the oratory of the -hermit-monk where he spent whole days in supplication, prone upon the -earth. - -Poor, tortured, ignorant soul! grand in remorse and in penance as in -war and in love! He confessed often to the monk, seldom speaking to him -at other times. The priest kept faithfully the dread secrets confided -to him. His absolution, if he granted it, did not ease the burdened -soul. The end came when the long exile had dried up life and spirit. -From his death-bed Earl Guy sent to his wife, by the hand of one of -her hinds, a ring she had given him in the days of their wedded joy, -“praying her, for Jesu’s sake to visit the wretch from whom it came.” -He died in her faithful arms. They were buried, side by side, near his -cave. - -This is still pointed out to visitors,—a darksome recess, partly -natural, enlarged by burrowing hands,—perhaps by those of the -“victoryous Prince Guy.” - -I drew from the Leamington Library, one Saturday afternoon, a queer -little book, prepared under the auspices of a local archæological -society, and treating at some length of recent discoveries in Guy’s -Cave by an eminent professor of the comparatively new science of -classic archæology. Far up in one corner he had uncovered rude cuttings -in the rock, and with infinite patience and ingenuity, obtained an -impression of them. The surface of the stone is friable; the letters -are such clumsy Runic characters as a warrior of the feudal age would -have made had he turned his thoughts to penmanship. The language is -a barbarous Anglo-Saxon. But they have made out Lettice’s name, twice -repeated, and in another place, Guy’s. This last is appended to a line -of prayer for “relief from this heavy”—or “grievous”—“load.” - -I read the treatise aloud that evening, excited and triumphant. - -“_Now_, who dare ridicule us for believing in Prince Guy?” - -“It all fits in too well,” said candid Prima, sorrowfully. - -But the local _savans_ do not discredit the discovery on that account. -We drove out to Guy’s Cliff the next afternoon to attend service in -the family chapel of the Percys, whose handsome mansion is built hard -by. The stables are hewn out of the same rocky ridge in which Guy dug -his cell. The chapel occupies the site of the old oratory. The bell -was tinkling for the hour of worship as we entered the porch. It is a -pretty little building, of gray stone, as are the surrounding offices, -and on this occasion was tolerably well filled with servants and -tenants of “the Family.” In a front slip sat the worshippers from the -Great House—an old lady in widow’s mourning, who was, we were told, -Lady Percy, and three portly British matrons, simple in attire and -devout in demeanor. A much more august personage, pursy and puffing -behind a vast red waistcoat, whom we supposed to be Chief Butler on -week days and verger on Sabbath, assigned to us a seat directly back of -the ladies, and, what was of more consequence in our eyes, in a line -with a niche in which stands a gigantic statue of Earl Guy. This was -set up on the site of the oratory, two hundred years after his death, -by the first of the Plantagenets, Henry II. - -“Our lord, the King, has each day a school for right well-lettered -men,” says a chronicler of his reign. “Hence, his conversation that he -hath with them is busy discussing of questions. None is more honest -than our king in speaking, ne in alms largess. Therefore, as Holy Writ -saith, we may say of him—‘His name is a precious ointment, and the alms -of him all the church shall take.’” - -Whether as an erudite antiquarian, or as a pious son of the church -he caused this statue to be placed here, History, nor its elder -sister, Tradition informs us. We may surmise shrewdly, and less -charitably, that repentant visitings of conscience touching his marital -infidelities, or the scandal of Fair Rosamond, or peradventure, the -desire to appease the manes of the murdered Becket had something -to do with the offering. The effigy was thrown down in the ruin of -the oratory in the Civil Wars, and for many years, lay forgotten in -the rubbish. The Percys have raised it with reverent hands, and set -it—sadly broken and defaced—in the place of honor in their chapel. - -There was charming incongruity in the aspect of the towering gray -figure, with one uplifted arm from which sword or battle-axe has -fallen, and the appointments and occupants of the temple. The head is -much disfigured, worn away, more than shattered. But there is majesty -in the outlines and attitude. Our eyes strayed to it oftener, dwelt -upon it longer, than on the fresh-colored face of the spruce Anglican -who intoned the service and read a neat little homily upon the 51st -Psalm, prefaced by a modest mention of David’s sin in the matter of -Uriah the Hittite. From what depth of blood-guiltiness had our noble -recluse entreated deliverance in a day when blood weighed lightly upon -the souls of brave men? - -The Sabbath light flowed through the stained windows of the chancel -and bathed in blessing, the feet of the graven figure; the lifted arm -menaced no more, but signified supplication as we prayed: - - “_Spare Thou those who confess their sins!_” - -—was tossed aloft in thanksgiving in the last hymn:— - - “O Paradise, O Paradise! - Who doth not crave for rest? - Who would not seek the happy land - Where they that love are blest? - Where loyal hearts and true - Stand ever in the light, - All rapture through and through, - In GOD’S most holy sight.” - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -_Shakspeare and Irving._ - - -WE had “Queen’s weather” for most of our excursions in England, and no -fairer day than that on which we went to Stratford-on-Avon. - -The denizens of the region give the first sound of _a_ to the name of -the quiet river—as in _fate_. I do not undertake to decide whether -they, or we are correct. Their derelictions upon the H question are -so flagrant as to breed distrust of all their inventions and practice -in pronunciation. (Although we did learn to say “Tems”—very short—for -“T’ames.”) - -I wish, for the benefit of future tourists who may read these pages, -that I had retained the address of the driver—and I believe the -owner—of the waggonette we secured for our drives in Warwickshire. -It held our party of six comfortably, leaving abundant space in the -bottom and under the seats for hamper and wraps, and was a stylish, -easy-running vehicle. The coachman was a fine young fellow of, -perhaps, six-and-twenty, civil, obliging, and, in our experience, an -exceptionally intelligent member of his class. In this conveyance, and -with such pilotage, we set out on July 27th, upon one of our red-letter -pilgrimages—fore-ordained within our, for once, prophetic souls ever -since, as ten-year old children, we used to read Shakspeare secretly in -the garret on rainy Saturdays. - -It was an old copy relegated to the lumber-chest as too shabby for -the family library. One side of the calf-skin cover was gone, and -luckily for the morals of the juvenile student, “Venus and Adonis” -and most of the sonnets had followed suite. But an engraved head of -William Shakspeare was protected by the remaining cover and had left -a shadow-picture, in white-and-yellow, upon the tissue-paper next -it. After the title-page followed a dozen or so of biography, which -we devoured as eagerly as we did “The Tempest,” “Julius Cæsar,” and -“Macbeth.” We had read Mrs. Whitney’s always-and-everywhere charming -“Sights and Insights,” before and since leaving America, and worn Emory -Ann’s “realizing our geography” to shreds by much quoting. To-day, we -were realizing our Shakspeare and “Merry” England. - -The drive was surpassingly lovely. The smoothness of the road was, -in itself, a luxury. It is as evenly-graded and free from stones and -ruts as a bowling-alley. One prolific topic of conversation is denied -the morning-callers and bashful swains of Warwickshire. They cannot -discuss the “state of the roads,” their uniform condition being above -criticism. The grass grew quite up to the edge of the highway, but -was shaven and weedless as a lawn. There were hedge-rows instead of -fences, and at intervals, we had enchanting glimpses up intersecting -ways of what we had heard and read of all our lives, yet in which we -scarcely believed until we saw, in their beauty and picturesqueness, -real _lanes_. The banks, sloping downward from the hedges into these, -were clothed with vines, ferns and field-flowers. One appreciates the -exquisite fidelity of such sketches from Nature as,— - - “I know a bank on which the wild thyme blows, - Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows - Quite over-canopied with lush woodbine - With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine—” - -after seeing the lanes between Leamington and Stratford-on-Avon. Double -rows of noble trees screened us from the sun for a mile at a time, and -the hedges, so skillfully clipped that the sides and rounded tops were -never marred by redundant growth, yet bearing no sign of the shears in -stubby or naked stems, were walls of richest verdure throughout the -route. The freshness and trimness of the English landscape is a joy -and wonder forever to those unused to the perfection of agriculture -which is the growth of centuries. There is the finish and luxuriance -of a pleasure-garden in every prospect in these midland counties, and, -forgetting that the soil has acknowledged a master in the husbandman -for more than a thousand years, and that, for more than half that -time, the highest civilization known to man has held reign in this -tiny island, we are tempted to think discontentedly of the contrast -offered by our own magnificent, and, by contrast, crude spaces. It was -not because of affectation or lack of patriotism that, upon our return -home, the straggling fences, clogged with alder and brambles, the -ragged pastures and gullied hillsides were a positive pain to sight and -heart. - -Any one who has seen a good photograph of Shakspeare’s house knows -exactly how it looks. The black timbers of the frame-work are visible -from the outside. The spaces between the beams are filled with cement -or plaster. There are three gables in front, the third, at the upper -corner, broader and higher than the others. The chimney is in the -end-gable, joining this last at right angles, and is covered with ivy. -A pent-house protects the main entrance. Wide latticed windows light -the ground-floor; a latticed oriel projects from the second story of -the taller division of the building. Smaller casements in line with -this are set in each of the principal upper rooms. The house is flush -with the street, and is probably smarter in its “restoration,” than -when Master John Shakspeare, wool-dealer, lived here. We entered, -without intervening vestibule or passage, a square room, the ceiling -of which was not eight feet high. A peasant’s kitchen, that was also -best-room, with a broken stone floor and plastered walls checquered by -hewn beams. - -Two sisters, who dressed, looked, moved and spoke absurdly alike, are -the custodians of the cottage. One met us with a professional droop of -a not-elastic figure, a mechanical smile and an immediate plunge into -business: - -“After the removal of the Shakspeare family from this humble tenement, -it was leased to a prosperous butcher, who occupied this room as a -shop. That was, indeed, a sad desecration, and one that accounts for -the dilapidation of the floor, it having been shattered by chopping -meat upon it.” - -No reasonable visitor could desire to linger in the apartment longer -than sufficed for the delivery of the comprehensive formula, and she -tiptoed into the adjoining room: - -“In this the family were accustomed to sit when they were not dressed -in their best clothes”—mincingly jocular. - -Caput and I, regardless of routine, strayed back into the outer kitchen -to get a more satisfactory look, and after our fashion, and that of -Mr. Swiveller’s Marchioness, “to make-believe very hard.” We wanted to -shut our eyes—and ears—and in a blessed interval of silence, to see -the honest dealer in wool—member of the corporation; for two years -chamberlain; high bailiff in 1569; and in 1571—his son William being -then seven years of age—chief alderman of Stratford, standing in the -street-door chatting with a respectful fellow-townsman; Mary his wife, -passing from dresser to hearth, and, upon a stool in the chimney -corner, the BOY, chin propped upon his hand, thinking—“idling,” his -industrious seniors would have said. - -We had hardly passed the door of communication when sister No. 1 having -transferred the rest of the visitors to No. 2, and sent them up-stairs, -reappeared. The same professional dip of the starched figure; the -manufactured smile, and, mistaking us for fresh arrivals, she began, -without variation of syllable or inflection: - -“After the removal of the Shakspeare family from this humble tenement, -it was leased to a prosperous butcher, who occupied this room as a -shop. That was, indeed, a sad desecration—” - -We fled to the upper story. The stairs give upon an ante-chamber -corresponding with the back-kitchen. Against the rear-wall, in a -gaudy frame, and, itself looking unpicturesquely new and distinct, is -the celebrated “Stratford Portrait”—another restoration. It is not -spurious, having been the property of a respectable county-family for -upwards of a century, and there is abundant documentary testimony -of its authenticity. It shows us a handsomer man than do the other -pictures of the Great Play-Wright. In fact, it is too good-looking. -One could believe it the representment of the jolly, prosperous -wool-factor, complacent under the shower of municipal honors. It is -difficult to reconcile the smooth, florid face, the scarlet lips, -dainty moustache and imperial, with thoughts of Lear, Hamlet, and -Coriolanus. - -“The room in which Shakspeare was born” was quite full of -pilgrims—quiet, well-bred and non-enthusiastic, exclaiming softly over -such signatures as Walter Scott’s upon the casement-panes, and Edmund -Kean’s upon the side of the chimney devoted to actors’ autographs. They -indulged in no conversational raptures—for which we were grateful. But -the hum of talk, the rustle and stir were a death-blow to fond and -poetic phantasies. We gazed coldly upon the scrawlings that disfigure -the walls and blur the windows; incredulously upon the deal table -and chairs; critically at the dirty bust which offered still another -and a different image of the man we refused to believe came by this -shabby portal into the world that was to worship him as the greatest of -created intellects. Such disillusions are more common with those who -visit old shrines in the _rôle_ of “passionate pilgrims” than they are -willing to admit. - -I wanted to think of Shakspeare’s cradle and the mother-face above it; -how he had been carried by her to the casement—thrown wide on soft -summer days like this—and clapped his hands at sight of birds and -trees, and boys and girls playing in the street, as my babies, and all -other babies, have done from the days of Cain. How he had rolled and -crept upon the floor, and caught many a tumble in his trial-steps, -and fallen asleep at twilight in the warm covert of mother-arms. I -had thought of it a thousand times before; I have been all over it -a thousand times since. While on the hallowed spot, I saw the low -room, common and homely, with bulging rafters and rough-cast sides, -the uneven boards of the floor, brown and blotched—the vulgarity of -everything, the consecration of nothing. - -The museum in an adjoining room caused a perceptible rise in the -spirits, dampened by our inability to “realize,” as conscience decreed, -in the birth-chamber. The desk used by Shakspeare at school looked -plausible. There were realistic touches in the lid bespattered with -ink and hacked by jack-knife. The hinges are of leather. We believed -that he kept gingerbread, sausage-roll, toffey, green apples, and -cock-chafers with strings tied to their hind legs, in it. We did not -quibble over Shakspeare’s signet-ring, engraved with “W. S.” and a -lover’s knot. He might have sat in the chair reputed to have been used -in the merry club-meetings at the Falcon Inn, the sign of which is to -be seen here. His coat-of-arms, a falcon and spear, was proof that his -father bore, by right, the grand old name of “gentleman.” One of the -very tame dragons in charge of the premises bore down upon us while we -were looking at this. - -“It is a singular coincidence, too remarkable to be _only_ a -coincidence”—her tones a ripple of treacle—“that the falcon should be -the bird that shakes its wings most constantly while in flight. Combine -this circumstance with the spear, and he is a very dull student of -heraldry who cannot trace the derivation of the name of the Immortal -Bard.” - -Caput set his jaw dumbly. It was Dux, younger and less discreet, who -said, “By Jove!” - -The crayon head exhibited here is a copy of the “Chandos Portrait,” -taken at the age of forty-three. It also is reputed to be an excellent -likeness, and resembles neither the bust in the church nor the famous -“Death Mask,” of which there is here preserved an admirable photograph. -After studying all other pictures extant of him, one reverts to the -last-mentioned as the truest embodiment of the ideal Shakspeare we -know by his works. The face, sunken and rigid in death, yet bears the -impress of a loftier intellectuality and more dignified manhood than do -any of the painted and sculptured presentments. The only letter written -to Shakspeare, known to be in existence, is preserved in this museum. -It is signed by one Richard Quyney, who would like to borrow thirty -pounds of the poet. One speculates, in deciphering the yellow-brown -leaf that would crumble at a touch, upon the probabilities of the -writer having had a favorable reply, and why this particular epistle -should have been kept so carefully. It was probably pure accident. -It could hardly have been a _unique_ in the owner’s collection -if the stories of his rapid prosperity and the character of the -boon-companions of his early days be true. - -As we paused in the lower front room to strengthen our recollection of -the _tout ensemble_, leaning upon the sill of the window by which the -child and boy must often have stood at evening, gazing into the quiet -street, or seen the moon rise hundreds of times over the dark line of -roofs, custodian No. 1 drooped us a professional adieu, and dividing -the wire-and-pulley smile impartially between us and a fresh bevy of -pilgrims upon the threshold, commenced with the automatic precision of -a cuckoo-clock: - -“After the removal of the Shakspeare family from this humble tenement -it was leased to a prosperous butcher, who occupied this room as a -shop. That was, indeed, a sad desecration—” - -“Eight day or daily?” queried Lex, as we walked down the street. - -We lingered for a moment at the building to which went Shakspeare as a - - “Whining school-boy, with his satchel - And shining morning face, creeping, like snail, - Unwillingly to school.” - -It is “the thing” to quote the line before the gray walls capped by -mossy slates, of the Grammar-School founded by Henry IV. The quadrangle -about which the lecture-rooms and offices are ranged is not large, -and is entered by a low gateway. Over the stones of this court-yard -Shakspeare’s feet, - - “Creeping in to school, - Went storming out to playing.” - -Boy-nature, in 1574, was the same, in these respects, as in 1874, -Shakspeare and Whittier being judges. - -Stratford-on-Avon is a clean, quiet country town, that would have -dwindled into a village long ago had not John Shakspeare’s son been -born in her High Street. Antique houses, with peaked gables and -obtrusive beams, deep-stained by years—(Time’s record is made with -inky dyes, and in broad English down-strokes, in this climate)—are to -be seen on every street. Every second shop along our route had in its -one window a show of what we would call “Shakspeare Notions;” stamped -handkerchiefs, mugs, platters, paper-cutters and paper-weights, and a -host of photographs, all commemorative of the town and the Man. - -“New Place” was purchased by Shakspeare in 1597, and enlarged and -adorned as befitted his amended fortunes. We like to hear that, while -he lived in London, not a year elapsed without his paying a visit to -Stratford, and that in 1613, upon his withdrawal from public life, he -made New Place his constant residence, spending his time “in ease, -retirement and the society of friends.” In the garden grew, and, long -after his death flourished, the mulberry-tree planted by his own hands. -In the museum we had seen a goblet carved out of the wood of this tree, -and, in a sealed bottle, the purple juice of its berries. New Place did -not pass from the poet’s family until the death of his granddaughter, -Lady Barnard. It is recorded that, in 1643, this lady and her husband -were the hosts of Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I. She was thankful -in the turmoil and distrust of civil war, to find an asylum for three -weeks under the roof that had covered a greater than the lordliest -Stuart who ever paltered with a nation’s trust. At Lady Barnard’s -decease, New Place was sold, first to one, then another proprietor, -until Sir Hugh Clopton remodelled and almost rebuilt the house. After -him came the REV. Francis Gastrell who, in a fit of passion at what he -conceived to be the exorbitant tax levied upon the mansion, pulled it -down to the foundation-stones. In the same Christian frame of mind, he -hewed down the mulberry-tree, then in a vigorous old age, a giant of -its tribe, “because so many people stopped in the street to stare at -it, thereby inconveniencing himself and family.” Peevish fatuousness -that has a parallel in the discontent of the present incumbent of -Haworth that, “because he chances to inhabit the parsonage in which -the Brontë sisters lived and died, he must be persecuted by throngs of -visitors to it and the church.” It is not his fault, he pathetically -reminds the public, that people of genius once dwelt there, and he -proposes to demonstrate the dissimilarity of those who now occupy it by -renovating Haworth Rectory and erecting a new church upon the site of -that in which the Brontës are buried. - -Of New Place nothing remains but the foundations, swathed in the kindly -coverlet of turf, that in England, so soon cloaks deformity with -graceful sweeps and swells of verdure. The grounds are tended with -pious care, and nobody carps that visitors always loiter here on their -way from Shakspeare’s birth-place to his tomb. - -We passed to the fane of Holy Trinity between two rows of limes in -fullest leaf. The avenue is broad, but the noon beams were severed -into finest particles in filtering through the thick green arch; the -door closing up the farther end was an arch of grayer glooms. The -church-yard is paved with blackened tombstones. The short, rich grass -over-spreads mounds and hollows, defines the outlines of the oblong, -flat slabs, sprouts in crack and cranny. The peace of the summer -heavens rested upon the dear old town—the river slipping silently -beneath the bridge in the background—the venerable church, in the -vestibule of which we stayed our steps to hearken to music from within. -The organist was practising a dreamy voluntary, rising, now, into -full chords that left echoes vibrating among the groined arches after -he resumed his pensive strain. Walking softly and slowly, lest our -tread upon the paved floor might awake dissonant echoes, we gained the -chancel. An iron rail hinders the nearer approach to the Grave. This -barrier is a recent erection and a work of supererogation, since that -sight-seer has not been found so rude as to trample over the sacred -dust. - -Upon the stone,—even with the rest of the flags—concealing the vault, -lay a strip of white cloth, stamped with a fac-simile of the epitaph -composed by Shakspeare for his tomb. Volumes have been written to -explain its meaning, and treatises to prove that there is nothing -recondite in its menace. Since the rail prevented us from getting to -that side of the slab next the inner wall of the chancel, we must have -read the inscription upside-down but for the convenient copy: - - “GOOD FREND FOR IESVS SAKE FORBEARE, - TO DIGG THE DUST ENCLOASED HEARE: - BLEST BE Y^{E} MAN Y^{T} SPARES THES STONES, - AND CVRST BE HE Y^{T} MOVES MY BONES.” - -Our eyes returned again and again to the weird lines and the plain -stone, as thoughts of what lay beneath it were chased away by the -wretched pomp of the monument raised by the nearest relatives of the -dead. It is set in the chancel wall about the height of a tall man’s -head above the floor and almost directly over the burial-vault. The -light from a gorgeous painted window streams upon it. Just beyond, -nearer the floor, the effigy of a knight in armor lies upon a recessed -sarcophagus. The half-length figure intended for Shakspeare is in an -arched niche, the family escutcheon above it. On each side is a naked -boy of forbidding countenance. One holds an inverted torch, the other -a skull and spade. A second and larger skull surmounts the monument. -The marble man—we could not call it Shakspeare—writes, without looking -at pen or paper, within an open book, laid upon a cushion. The whole -affair, niche, desk, cushion and attitude, reminds one ludicrously of -the old-time pulpits likened by Mr. Beecher to a “toddy tumbler with a -spoon in it.” The “spoon” in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford, wears the -dress of a gentleman of his day, a full, loose surcoat, with falling -collar and cuffs. The forehead is high and bald, the face smooth as -a pippin, the eyes have a bold, hard stare; upon the mouth, and, -indeed, upon all the visage, dwells a smirk, aggressive and ineffable. -It is the face of a conceited, pompous, heavy fool, which the fine -phrenological development of the cranium cannot redeem. We cannot make -it to be to us the man whom, according to the stilted lines below,— - - “Envious death has plast - Within this monument.” - -“Yet it must have been a likeness,” ventured Caput. “It was seen and -approved by his daughters.” - -We persisted in our infidelity, and refused to look again at the -smirking horror. When it was set up in the mortuary pillory overhead, -it was colored from nature. The hair, Vandyke beard, and moustache were -auburn, the tight, protuberant eyes hazel, the dress red and black. -Seventy years afterward, it was painted white and was probably a shade -less odious for the whitewashing. Lately the colors have been restored -to their pristine brightness and varnish. - -Another flat slab bears the inscription:— - - “HEERE LYETH INTERRED THE BODY OF ANNE, WIFE - OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE WHO DEP’TED THIS LIFE THE - 6^{TH} DAY OF AVGT · 1623 · BEING OF THE AGE OF · 67 · YEARES.” - -She was a woman of twenty-five, he a lad of eighteen when they were -married,—a circumstance that dampens the romantic imaginings we would -fain foster to their full growth, in visiting the vine-draped cottage -of Anne Hathaway. We put from us, while standing by the graves of -husband and wife, the truth that when he, a hale, handsome gentleman of -fifty-three, sat at eventide in the shadow of the mulberry-tree, or, -as tradition paints him, leaned upon the half-door of a mercer’s shop -and made impromptu epigrams upon passing neighbors,—Anne was a woman of -sixty, who had best abide in-doors after the dew began to fall. - -We went to the Red Horse Inn by merest accident. We must lunch -somewhere, having grown ravenously hungry even in Stratford-on-Avon, -and left the choice of a place to the driver of our waggonette. Five -minutes’ rattling drive over the primitive pavements between the rows -of quaint old houses, and we were in a covered passage laid with round -stones. A waiter had his hand upon the door by the time we stopped; -whisked us out before we knew where we were, and into a low-ceiled -parlor on the ground-floor, looking upon the street. A lumbering -mahogany table was in the middle of the floor. Clumsy chairs were -marshalled against the wainscot. Old prints hung around the walls. -The carpet was very substantial and very ugly. A subtle intuition, a -something in the air of the room—maybe, an unseen Presence, arrested -me just within the door. I had certainly never been here before, yet I -stood still, a bewilderment of reminiscence and association enveloping -my senses, like fragrant mist. - -“Can this be”—I said slowly, feeling for words—“Geoffrey Crayon’s -Parlor?” - -I tell the incident just as it occurred. Not one of us knew the name -of the inn. Our guide-books did not give it, nor had one of the party -bethought him or herself that Washington Irving had ever visited -Stratford or left a record of his visit. None of the many tourists who -had described the town to us had mentioned the antique hostelry. What -followed our entrance _came_ to me,—a “happening” I do not attempt to -explain. - -The waiter did not smile. English servants consider the play of facial -muscles impertinent when addressing superiors. But he answered briskly, -as he had opened the carriage-door. - -“Yes, mem! Washington Irving’s parlor! Yes, mem!” - -“And this is the Red Horse Inn?” - -“The Red Horse Inn! Yes, mem!” - -“Where, then, is Geoffrey Crayon’s Sceptre?” looking at the grate. - -He vanished, and was back in a moment, holding something wrapped in red -plush. A steel poker, clean, bright and slender, and, engraved upon one -flat side in neat characters,—“GEOFFREY CRAYON’S SCEPTRE.” - -I took it in speechless reverence. The others gathered about me and it. - -“_Now_”—said Caput, in excruciating and patient politeness, wheeling up -the biggest arm-chair,—“if you will have the goodness to sit down, and -tell us what it all means!” - -I had read the story thirty years before in a bound volume of the “New -York Mirror,” itself then, at least ten years old. But it came back to -me almost word for word, (what we read in those days, we digested!) as -I sat there, the sceptre upon my knee, and rehearsed the tale to the -circle of listeners. - -Since our return to America I have hunted up the old “Mirror,” and take -pleasure in transcribing a portion of Mr. Willis’ pleasant story of the -interview between himself and the landlady who remembered Mr. Irving’s -visit. - -“Mrs. Gardiner proceeded: ‘I was in and out of the coffee-room the -night he arrived, mem, and I sees directly, by his modest ways and his -timid look, that he was a gentleman, and not fit company for the other -travellers. They were all young men, sir, and business travellers, and -you know, mem, _ignorance takes the advantage of modest merit_, and -after their dinner they were very noisy and rude. So I says to Sarah, -the chambermaid, says I, ‘that nice gentleman can’t get near the fire, -and you go and light a fire in number three, and he shall sit alone, -and it shan’t cost him nothing, for I like the looks on him.’ Well, -mem, he seemed pleased to be alone, and after his tea he puts his -legs up over the grate, and there he sits with the poker in his hand -till ten o’clock. The other travellers went to bed, and at last the -house was as still as midnight, all but a poke in the grate, now and -then, in number three, and every time I heard it I jumped up and lit a -bed-candle, for I was getting very sleepy, and I hoped he was getting -up to ring for a light. Well, mem, I nodded and nodded, and still no -ring at the bell. At last I says to Sarah, says I, ‘Go into number -three and upset something, for I am sure that gentleman has fallen -asleep.’ ‘La, ma’am!’ says Sarah, ‘I don’t dare.’ ‘Well, then,’ says I, -‘I’ll go!’ So I opens the door and I says—‘If you please, sir, did you -ring?’ little thinking that question would ever be written down in such -a beautiful book, mem.” - -(She had already showed to her listeners “a much-worn copy of the -Sketch-Book,” in which Mr. Irving records his pilgrimage to Stratford.) - -“He sat with his feet on the fender, poking the fire, and a smile on -his face, as if some pleasant thought was in his mind. ‘No, ma’am,’ -says he, ‘I did not.’ I shuts the door and sits down again, for I -hadn’t the heart to tell him it was late, _for he was a gentleman not -to speak rudely to, mem_. Well, it was past twelve o’clock when the -bell _did_ ring. ‘There!’ says I to Sarah, ‘thank heaven he has done -thinking, and we can go to bed!’ So he walked up stairs with his light, -and the next morning he was up early and off to the Shakspeare house.... - -“There’s a Mr. Vincent that comes here sometimes, and he says to me one -day—‘So, Mrs. Gardiner, you’re finely immortalized! Read that!’ So the -minnit I read it I remembered who it was and all about it, and I runs -and gets the number three poker, and locks it up safe and sound, and -by and by I sends it to Brummagem and has his name engraved on it; and -here you see it, sir, and I wouldn’t take no money for it.” - -Mr. Willis was in Stratford-on-Avon in 1836. In 1877 the “sceptre” was -displayed to us, as I have narrated, as one of the valuable properties -of the Red Horse Inn, although good Mrs. Gardiner long ago laid down -her housekeeping keys forever. - -We sat late over the luncheon served in the parlor, which could not -have been refurnished since Irving “had his tea” there, too happy in -the chance that had brought us to the classic chamber to be otherwise -than merry over the stout bill, one-third of which should have been -set down to Geoffrey Crayon’s account. The Britons are thorough -utilitarians. Nowhere do you get “sentiment gratis.” - -We drove home in the summer twilight, that lasts in the British Isles -until dawn, and enables one to read with ease until ten o’clock P.M. -Our road skirted the confines of Charlecote, the country-seat of the -Lucys. The family was at home, and visitors were therefore excluded. -It is a fine old place, but the park, which is extensive, looked -like a neglected common after the perfectly appointed grounds of -Stoneleigh Abbey, through which we passed. The fence enclosing the -Charlecote domain was a sort of double hurdle, in miserable repair, and -intertwisted with wild vines and brambles. The deer were gathered in -groups and herds under oaks that may have sheltered their forefathers -in Shakspeare’s youth. Scared by our wheels, rabbits scampered from -hedge to coverts of bracken. If the fences were in no better state “in -those ruder ages, when”—to quote Shakspeare’s biographer—“the spirit of -Robin Hood was yet abroad, and deer and coney-stealing classed, with -robbing orchards, among the more adventurous, but ordinary levities of -youth,” the trespass for which the Stratford poacher was arraigned was -a natural surrender to irresistible temptation, and the deed easily -done. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -_Kenilworth._ - - -WE never decided whether it was to our advantage or disappointment that -we all re-read the novel of that name before visiting Kenilworth. It is -certain that we came away saying bitterly uncharitable things of Oliver -Cromwell, to whose command, and not to Time, is due the destruction of -one of the finest castles in the realm. Caput, who, after the habit -of amateur archæologists, never stirs without an imaginary surveyor’s -chain in hand, had studied up the road and ruins in former visits, and -acted now as guide and historian. We were loth to accept the country -road, narrower and more rutty than any other in the vicinity, as that -once filled by the stupendous pageant described by Scott and graver -chroniclers as unsurpassed in costliness and display by any in the -Elizabethan age. Our surveyor talked of each stage in the progress -with the calm confidence of one who had made a part of the procession. -We knew to a minute at what hour of the night the queen—having -been delayed by a hunt at Warwick Castle—with Leicester at her -bridle-rein, passed the brook at the bottom of Castle-hill. A stream -so insignificant, and crossed by such a common little bridge, we were -ashamed to speak of them in such a connection. The column of courtiers -and soldiers thronging the highway was ablaze with the torches carried -by Leicester’s men. The castle, illuminated to the topmost battlement, -made so brave a show the thrifty virgin needed to feast her eyes -often and much upon the splendid beauty of the man at her saddle-bow -to console herself for having presented him with Kenilworth and the -estates—twenty miles in circumference—pertaining thereunto. - -All this was fresh in our minds when we alighted where Leicester sprang -from his charger and knelt at the stirrup of his royal mistress in -welcome to his “poor abode.” The grand entrance is gone, and most of -the outer wall. There is no vestige of the drawbridge on which was -stationed the booby-giant with Flibbertigibbet under his cloak. By the -present gateway stands a stately lodge, the one habitable building on -the grounds. “R. D.” is carved upon the porch-front, and within it, -in divers places. Attached to this is a rear extension, so mean in -appearance we were savagely delighted to learn that it was put up in -Cromwell’s time. Passing these by the payment of a fee, and shaking -ourselves free from the briery hold of the women who assaulted us with -petitions to buy unripe fruit, photographs, and “Kenilworth Guides,” -we saw a long slope of turf rising to the level, whereon are Cæsar’s -and Leicester’s Towers, square masses of masonry, crumbling at top and -shrouded, for most of their height, in a peculiarly tough and “stocky” -species of ivy. The walls of Cæsar’s Tower—the only portion of the -original edifice (founded in the reign of Henry I.) now standing—vary -from ten to sixteen feet in thickness. Behind these, on still higher -ground, are the ruins of the Great Hall, built by John of Gaunt. In -length more than eighty feet, in width more than forty, it is, although -roofless, magnificent. The Gothic arches of the windows, lighting it -from both sides, are perfect and beautiful in outline. Ivy-clumps hang -heavy from oriel and buttress. To the left of this is Mervyn’s, or the -Strong Tower, a winding stair leading up to the summit. A broken wall -makes a feint of enclosing the castle-grounds, seven acres in area, -but it may be scaled or entered through gaps at many points. The moat -down which the “Lady of the Lake,” floating “on an illuminated movable -island,” seemed to walk on the water to offer Elizabeth “the lake, the -lodge, the lord,” is a dry ravine, choked with rubbish, overgrown with -grass and nettles. The decline of the hill up which we walked to the -principal ruins was the “base court.” A temporary bridge, seventy feet -long, was thrown over this from the drawbridge to Cæsar’s Tower, and -the queen, riding upon it, was greeted by mythological deities, who -offered her gifts from vineyard, garden, field, and fen, beginning the -ovation where the modern hags had pressed upon us poor pictures, acerb -pears and apples. - -This, then, was Kenilworth. We strolled into the Banqueting or Great -Hall—now floorless—where Elizabeth and Leicester led the minuet on the -night when the favorite’s star was highest and brightest; laughing -among ourselves, in recalling the Scottish _diplomat’s_ saying that -“his queen danced neither so high nor so disposedly” as did the -Maiden Monarch. We climbed Mervyn’s Tower in which Amy Robsart had -her lodging; looked down into “The Pleasaunce,” a turfy ruin, in its -contracted bounds a dismay to us until the surveyor’s chain measured, -for our comfort, what must have been the former limits. It is now an -irregular area, scarcely more than a strip of ground, and we sought -vainly for a nook sufficiently retired to have been the scene of the -grotto-meeting between Elizabeth and the deserted wife. - -“Of course you are aware that Amy Robsart was never at Kenilworth; that -she had been dead two years when Elizabeth visited Leicester here; -that he was secretly married again, this time to the beautiful widow -of Lord Sheffield, the daughter of Lord William Howard, uncle to the -queen?” said Caput, drily. - -Argument with an archæologist is as oxygen to fire. We turned upon him, -instead, in a crushing body of infidel denial. - -“We received, without cavil, your account—and Scott’s—of the -torch-light procession, including Elizabeth’s diamonds, after a day’s -hunting, and horsemanship; of Leicester’s glittering ‘like a golden -image with jewels and cloth of gold.’ We decline to discredit Scott -now!” - -He shrugged his shoulders; took a commanding position upon the ruined -wall; his eyes swept the landscape discontentedly. - -“We dwarf the history of Kenilworth to one little week,” he said. “I -am tempted to wish that Scott had never written that fiction, splendid -as it is. Do you know that Cæsar’s Tower—by the way, it will outlast -Leicester’s, whose building, like the founder, lacks integrity—do you -know that Cæsar’s Tower was begun early in the twelfth century? that -it was the stronghold of Simon de Montfort in his quarrel with Henry -III.? Edward Longshanks, then Prince Edward, attacked de Montfort in -Sussex, took from him banners and other spoils and drove him back into -Kenilworth, which the insurgents held for six months. His father, the -Earl of Leicester, met Edward’s army next day on the other side of -the Avon—over there!” pointing. “Gazing, as he marched, toward his -good castle of Kenilworth, he saw his own banners advancing, and soon -perceived that they were borne by the enemy. - -“It is over!” said the old warrior. “The Lord have mercy upon our -souls, for our bodies are Prince Edward’s!” - -“He was killed, fighting like a lion, in the battle that followed. -And, all the while, his son, chafing at his inability to help him, -lay,—the lion’s cub at bay,—within these walls. There were Leicesters -and Leicesters, although some are apt to ignore all except the basest -of the name—the Robert Dudley of whom it was said, ‘that he was the son -of a duke, the brother of a king, the grandson of an esquire, and the -great-grandson of a carpenter; that the carpenter was the only honest -man in the family, and the only one of Leicester’s near relatives -who died in his bed.’ Edward II.—poor, favorite-ridden wretch! was a -prisoner at Kenilworth after the execution of the Despensers, father -and son. He was forced to sign his own deposition in the Great Hall, -where you thought of nothing just now but Elizabeth’s dancing. The -breaking of the white wand,—a part of the ceremonial at a king’s -death—by Sir Thomas Blount, before the eyes of the trembling sovereign, -is one of the most dramatic events in English history. Another royal -imbecile, Henry VI., had an asylum here during Jack Cade’s Rebellion. -There was stringent need for such fortresses as Kenilworth and Warwick -in those times.” - -We heard it all,—and with interest, sitting upon the edge of the -ivied wall of Mervyn’s Tower, overlooking a land as fair as Beulah, -in alternations of hill and vale; of plains golden with grain, and -belts and groves of grand old trees; the many-gabled roofs and turrets -of great houses rising from the midst of these, straggling villages -of red-brick cottages on the skirts of manorial estates indicating -the semi-feudal system still prevailing in the land. The Avon gleamed -peacefully between the borders tilled by men who never talk, and most -of whom have never heard, of the brave Leicester who fought his last -battle where they swing their scythes. Yet he was known to the yeomen -of his day as “Sir Simon the Righteous.” - -“There were Leicesters and Leicesters,” Caput had truly said, and that -the proudest and most magnificent of them all was the most worthless. -But when we had picked our way down the broken stairs, and sat in the -shadow of Cæsar’s Tower, upon the warm sward, watching men drive the -stakes and stretch the cords of a marquee, for the use of a party who -were to pic-nic on the morrow among the ruins, we said:— - -“To-morrow, _we_ will see Leicester’s Hospital and Leicester’s tomb, at -Warwick.” - -The walk from Leamington to Warwick was one greatly affected by us as -a morning and afternoon “constitutional.” It was delightful in itself, -and we never wearied of rambling up one street and down another of -the town. We never saw Broek, in Holland, but it cannot be cleaner -than this Rip Van Winkle of a Warwickshire village, where the very -children are too staid and civil—or too devoid of enterprise—to stare -at strangers. A house under fifty years of age would be a disreputable -innovation. House-leek, and yellow stone-crop, and moss grow upon the -roofs; the windows have small panes, clear and bright, and, between -parted muslin curtains, each window-sill has its pots of geraniums and -gillyflowers. - -We bought some buns in a little shop, the mistress of which was a -pretty young woman, with the soft English voice one hears even among -the lowly, and the punctilious misapplication of _h_ we should, by this -time, have ceased to observe. - -“The H’earl h’of Leicester’s ’Ospital h’is a most h’interesting -h’object,” she assured us, upon our inquiring the shortest way thither. -“H’all strangers who h’admire ’istorical relicts make a point h’of -visiting the H’earl h’of Leicester’s ’Ospital.” - -The street has been regraded, probably laid out and built up since -the “’istorical relict” was founded, in 1571. We would call it a -“Refuge,” the object being to provide a home for the old age of a -“Master and twelve brethren,” the latter, invalided or superannuated -tenants or soldiers, who had spent their best days in the service of -the Leicesters. It was a politic stroke to offer the ease, beer, and -tobacco of the Refuge as a reward for hard work and hard fighting. We -may be sure Robert Dudley did not overlook this. We may hope—if we -can—that he had some charitable promptings to the one good deed of his -life. - -The Hospital is perched high, as if deposited there by the deluge, upon -an Ararat platform of its own. The plastered walls are criss-crossed by -chocolate-colored beams; the eaves protrude heavily; odd carvings, such -as a boy might make with a pocket-knife, divide the second and third -stories. It is a picturesque antique. People in America would speak -of it, were it set up in one of our suburban towns, as a “remarkable -specimen of the Queen Anne style.” One learns not to say such things -where Queen Anne is a creature of yesterday. A curious old structure -is the “relict,”—we liked and adopted the word,—and so incommodious -within we marveled that the brethren, now appointed from Gloucester and -Warwickshire, did not “commute,” as did “our twelve poor gentlemen” -in Dickens’ Haunted Man. But they still have their “pint”—I need not -say of what—a day, and their “pipe o’ baccy,” and keep their coal -in a vast, cobwebby hall, in which James I. once dined at a town -banquet. They cook their dinners over one big kitchen-fire, but eat -them in their own rooms; have daily prayer, each brother using his own -prayer-book, in the Gothic chapel over the doorway, the “H’earl of -Leicester” staring at them out of the middle of the painted window, and -wear blue cloth cloaks in cold weather, or in the street, adorned with -silver badges upon the sleeves. These bear the Leicester insignia, the -Bear and Ragged Staff, and are said to be the very ones presented by -him to the Hospital. Sir Walter Scott is—according to Caput—responsible -for the fact that, in the opinion of the ladies of our company, the -most valuable articles preserved in the institution are a bit of -discolored satin, embroidered by Amy Robsart (at Cumnor-Hall?) with the -arms of her faithless lord, and a sampler whereupon, by the aid of a -lively imagination, one can trace her initials. - -How much of heart-ache and heart-sinking, of hope deferred, and -baffled desire may have been stitched into these faded scraps of stuff -that have so long outlasted her and her generation! Needlework has -been the chosen confidante of women since Eve, with shaking fingers -and tear-blinded eyes, quilted together fig-leaves, in token of the -transgression that has kept her daughters incessantly busy upon -tablier, panier, and jupon. - -From the Hospital we went to St. Mary’s Church. There is a cellary -smell in all these old stone churches where slumber the mighty dead, -suggestive of must, mould, and cockroaches, and on the hottest day a -chill, like that of an ice-house. Our every step was upon a grave; -the walls were faced with mortuary brasses and tablets. The grating -of the ever-rusty lock and hinges awakened groans and whispers in -far recesses; our subdued tones were repeated in dreary sighs and -mutterings, as if the crowd below stairs were complaining that wealth -and fame could not purchase the repose they were denied in life. Our -cicerone in St. Mary’s was a pleasant-faced woman, in a bonnet—of -course. We never saw a pew-holder or church-guide of her sex, -bonnetless while exercising her profession. Usually, the bonnet was -black. It was invariably shabby. St. Paul’s interdict against women -uncovering the head in church may have set the fashion. Prudent dread -of neuralgias, catarrhs and toothaches would be likely to perpetuate -it. The guide here neither evaded nor superadded _hs_, and we made a -grateful note of the novelty. She conducted us first to what we knew in -our reading as the “Chapel of Richard Beauchamp.” - -“The Beechum Chapel? yes, sir!” said our conductress, leading the -way briskly along the aisle, through oratory and chantry up a very -worn flight of steps, under a graceful archway to a pavement of -black-and-white lozenge-shaped marbles. The Founder sleeps in state -second to no lord of high degree in the kingdom, if we except Henry -VII. whose chapel in Westminster Abbey is yet more elaborate in design -and decoration than that of the opulent “Beechums.” The Bear and -Ragged Staff hold their own among the stone sculptures of ceiling and -walls. The former is studded with shields embossed with the arms of -Warwick, and of Warwick and Beauchamp quartered. The stalls are of dark -brown oak, carved richly—blank shields, lions, griffins, muzzled and -chained bears being the most prominent devices. The “Great Earl,” in -full armor of brass, lies at length upon a gray marble sarcophagus. A -brazen hoop-work, in shape exactly resembling the frame of a Conestoga -wagon-top, is built above him. Statuettes of copper-gilt mourners, -representing their surviving kinsmen and kinswomen, occupy fourteen -niches in the upright sides of the tomb. Sword and dagger are at his -side; a swan watches at his uncovered head, a griffin and bear at his -feet; a casque pillows his head; his hands are raised in prayer. The -face is deeply lined and marked of feature, the brows seeming to gather -frowningly while we gaze. It is a marvelous effigy. The woman looked -amazed, Caput disgusted, when we walked around it once, gave a minute -and a half to respectful study of the Earl’s face and armor; smiled -involuntarily in the reading of how he had “decessed ful cristenly -the last day of April, the yeare of oure lord god AMCCCCXXXIX.”—then -inquired abruptly:—“Where is the tomb of Queen Elizabeth’s Leicester?” - -As a general, Leicester was a notorious failure; in statecraft, a -bungler; as a man, he was a transgressor of every law, human and -divine; as a conqueror of women’s hearts, he had no peer in his day, -and we cannot withhold from him this pitiful meed of honor—if honor it -be—when we read that “his most sorrowful wife Lætitia, through a sense -of conjugal love and fidelity, hath put up this monument to the best -and dearest of husbands.” - -“By Jove!” said Dux, again. - -“She ought to speak well of him!” retorted Caput. “He murdered her -first husband, and repudiated his second wife Douglas Howard (Lady -Sheffield) in order to espouse Lettice, not to mention the fact that -he had tried ineffectually about the time of the Kenilworth fête, to -rid himself of No. 2 by poison. He was a hero of determined measures. -Witness the trifling episode of Amy Robsart to which the Earl is -indebted for our visit to-day.” - -We stood our ground in calm disdain of the thrust; were not to be -diverted from our steadfast contemplation of the King of Hearts. That -his superb physique was not overpraised by contemporaries, the yellow -marble bears satisfactory evidence, yet the chief charm of his face -was said to be his eyes. The forehead is lofty; the head nobly-shaped; -the nose aquiline; the mouth, even under the heavy moustache, was, -we could see, feminine in mould and sweetness. His hands, joined in -death, as they seldom were in life, in mute prayer upon his breast, are -of patrician beauty. He is clad in full armor, and wears the orders -bestowed upon him by his royal and doating mistress. He was sadly -out of favor with her at the time of his death in 1588. She survived -him fifteen years. If she had turned aside in one of her famous -“progresses” to look upon this altar-tomb, would she have smiled, -sobbed or sworn upon reading that his third countess had written him -down a model Benedict? His sorrowful Lætitia dragged on the load of -life for forty-six years after her Leicester’s decease, and now lies -by his side also with uplifted praying hands. She is a prim matron, -richly bedight “with ruff and cuff and farthingales and things.” The -chaste contour and placidity of her features confuse us as to her -identity with the “light o’ love” who winked at the murder that made -her the wife of Lady Douglas Howard’s husband. The exemplary couple are -encompassed by a high and handsomely wrought iron fence; canopied by a -sort of temple-front supported by four Corinthian pillars. It is almost -unnecessary to remark that the ubiquitous Bear and Ragged Staff mounts -guard above this. A few yards away is the statue of a pretty little -boy, well-grown for his three years; his chubby cheeks encircled by a -lace-frilled cap; an embroidered vestment reaching to his feet. He lies -like father and mother, prone on his back, upon a flat tombstone. - -“The noble Impe Robert of Dudley,” reads the inscription, with a -list of other titles too numerous and ponderous to be jotted down or -recollected. The only legitimate son of Amy’s, Douglas’, Elizabeth’s, -Lettice’s—Every-woman’s Leicester, and because he stood in the way of -the succession of some forgotten uncle or cousin, poisoned to order, -by his nurse! “The pity of it!” says First thought at the sight of the -innocent baby-face. Second thought—“How well for himself and his kind -that his father’s and mother’s son did not mature into manhood!” - -Leicester left another boy, the son of Lady Douglas, whom he cast -off after she refused to die of the poison that “left her bald.” -Warwickshire traditions are rife with stories of her and her child who -also bore his father’s name. Miss Strickland adverts to one, still -repeated by the gossips of Old Warwick, in which the disowned wife, -with disheveled hair and streaming tears, rocks young Robert in her -arms, crooning the ballad we mothers have often sung without dreaming -of its plaintive origin:— - - “Balow my baby, lie still and sleep! - It grieves me sair to see thee weep.” - -To this Robert his father bequeathed Kenilworth and its estates in the -same will that denied his legitimacy. The heir assumed the title of -Earl of Warwick, but “the crown”—alias, Elizabeth—laid claim to and -repossessed herself of castle and lands. - -Thus, the Hospital is the sole remaining “relict” of the man who turned -Queen Bess’s wits out of doors, and while her madness lasted, procured -for himself the titles and honors set in array in the Latin epitaph -upon his monument. - -In another chapel—a much humbler one, octagonal in shape, is the tomb -of Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. He selected the chamber as the one in -which he desired to be buried, and wrote the epitaph: - - “FULKE GREVILLE, SERVANT TO QUEEN ELIZABETH, COUNSELLOR - TO KING JAMES, _and Friend to Sir Philip Sidney_.” - -Upon the sarcophagus were the rusty helmet, sword and other pieces of -armor he had worn without fear and without reproach;—a record in Old -English outweighing with righteous and thoughtful people, the fulsome -Latinity of Leicester’s Grecian altar and the labored magnificence of -the “Beechum Chapel.” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -_Oxford_. - - -IMPRIMIS! we put up at the Mitre Tavern in Oxford. - -Nota Bene: never to do it again. - -It is an interesting rookery to look at—and to leave. Stuffiness and -extortion were words that borrowed new and pregnant meaning from -our sojourn in what we were recommended to try, as “a chawming old -place. Best of service and cookery, you know, thoroughly respectable -and—ah—historic and arntique, and all that, you know!” - -Dux, who had noted down the recommendation, proposed at our departure, -to add: “Mem.: Never to stop again at a hotel where illuminated texts -are hung in _every_ bed-room.” - -Opposite the bed allotted to me, who am obliged continually to stay -my fearsome soul upon the wholesome promises of daily grace for daily -need, upon exhortations to be careful for nothing, and with the day’s -sufficiency of evil to cease anxious thought for morrows as rife with -trouble,—opposite my bed, where my waking eyes must meet it, was a red -blister-plaster: - -“_Boast not thyself of to-morrow, for thou knowest not what a day may -bring forth._” - -In the adjacent closet, allotted to Prima, the only ornamental object, -besides a wash-bowl so huge she had to call in her father to lift -and empty it into the tiniest slop-jar ever made, was the reminder in -brimstone-blues, “_The wages of sin is Death!_” One of our collegians -was admonished that the “wrath of God abideth upon him,” and the -other had a mutilated doctrinal text signifying quite another thing -when read in the proper connection. Caput, in his character as Mentor -and balance-wheel, checked the boys’ disposition to detect, in the -lavishment of Scriptural instruction, a disposition to establish an -honest equilibrium with the weighty bills. Extras in one direction, -they reasoned, should be met by extras in another. - -“All Scripture is profitable,” he reminded the jesters. “It is only -by misuse it can be made, for a moment, to appear common, much less, -absurd. _Therefore_,” emphatically, “I object to texts upon hotel -walls!” - -We were not tempted by in-door luxuries to waste in sleep or sloth -the daylight hours, but gave these to very industrious sight-seeing. -Yet we came away with appetites whetted, not satisfied by what we had -beheld. The very air of the place is redolent of learning and honorable -antiquity. Each of the twenty colleges composing the University had a -valid and distinctive claim upon our notice. To name the attractions of -one—say, Christ Church, or Balliol, would be to fill this chapter with -a catalogue of MSS. books, pictures, dates and titles. It is a queer, -fascinating, incomparable old city. Few of the streets are broad, none -straight. The shops are small, usually ill-lighted and devoted to the -needs and tastes of the students. The haberdashers are “gentlemen’s -furnishers,” the booksellers’ windows full of text-books in all known -tongues, interspersed by the far-famed Oxford Editions of Bibles and -Prayer-books. Pastry-cooks are prominent and many. The colleges are -imposing in dimensions, some magnificent in architecture. University, -the oldest, is said to have been founded by the Great Alfred. Restored -in 1229. All are so blackened and battered that the youngest looks -at least a century older than the Roman Pantheon. Ancient edifices -in the drier, hotter air of Southern Europe have been worn by the -friction of ages. The Oxford Colleges are gnawed as by iron teeth. -“Worm-eaten,” is the first epithet that comes to the tongue at sight -of them. From cornice, walls and sculptures, the stone has been picked -away, a grain at a time, until the surface is honeycombed, and to the -inexperienced eye, disintegration of the whole seems inevitable. The -lugubrious effect of age and seeming dilapidation is sensibly relieved -by the reaches of turf, often bordered by gay flowers, forming the -quadrangles, or court-yards, enclosed by the buildings. - -The quadrangle of Christ Church College was laid out by Cardinal -Wolsey, the founder and patron. It is almost square, measuring 264 feet -by 261. “Great Tom,” the biggest bell in England—the custodian says, -in the world,—hangs in the cupola over the gateway. It weighs 17,000 -pounds, and at ten minutes past nine P.M. strikes one hundred and ten -times, the number of students “on the foundation.” The pride of this -college is the immense refectory, or dining-hall. The ceiling, fifty -feet in height, is of solid oak elaborately carved, with graceful -pendants, also elegantly wrought. Among the decorations of this roof -are the armorial bearings and badges of Henry VIII. and Wolsey. Two -rows, a hundred feet in length, of portraits of renowned patrons, -graduates and professors of Oxford are set high upon the side-walls. At -the upper end of the hall hangs Holbein’s full-length portrait of Henry -VIII. The swinish eyes, pendulous cheeks, pursed-up mouth and double -chin would be easily caught by any caricaturist, and are as familiar to -us as the jaunty set of his flat cap upon the side of his head. - -Holbein was a courtier, likewise an artist, who never stooped to -caricature. This, the most celebrated likeness of his master, was said -to be true to life, yet so ingeniously flattered as to find favor -in the sight of the original. Holbein was a master of this species -of delicate homage where the rank of the subject made the exercise -of it politic. He practised the accomplishment once too often when -he painted the miniature of Anne of Cleves. Keeping these things -in mind, we saw a bulky trunk capped by the head I have described, -one short arm akimbo, the hand resting on his sword-belt, the feet -planted far apart to maintain the balance of the bloated column and -display the legs he never wearied of praising and stroking. He wears -a laced doublet and trunk-hose; a short cloak, lined with ermine, -falls back from his shoulders. The portrait-galleries of nations may -be safely challenged to furnish a parallel in bestiality and swagger -with this figure. Yet the widow of a good man, herself a refined and -pious gentlewoman, became without coercion, his sixth queen, and -colored with pleasure when, in the view of the court, he paid her the -distinguished compliment of laying his ulcerous leg across her lap! -Such reminiscences are not sovereign cures for Republicanism. - -On one side of Henry hangs the daughter who proved her inheritance -of his coarse nature and callous sensibilities, by vaunting her -relationship to him who had disgraced and murdered her mother, and -declared herself, by act of Parliament, illegitimate. Much is made -in Elizabeth’s portraits of her ruff and tower of red hair, of her -satin robe “set all over with aglets of two sorts,” of “pearl-work and -tassels of gold,” of “costly lace and knotted buttons,” and very little -of the pale, high-nosed face. Her eyes are small and black; her mouth -has the “purse” of her father’s, her features are expressionless. At -the other hand of King Henry is the butcher’s son, created by him -Lord Cardinal, cozened, in a playfully rapacious humor, out of Hampton -Palace, and cast off like a vile slug from the royal hand when he had -had his day and served his monarch’s ends. Wolsey’s portraits are -always taken in profile, to conceal the cast in the eye, which was his -thorn in the flesh. It is a triumvirate that may well chain feet, eyes, -and thought for a much longer time than we could spare for the whole -college. - -Across this end of the room runs a platform, raised a foot or two -from the hall floor. A table, surrounded by chairs, is upon it. Here -dine the titled students of Christ Church College (established by the -butcher’s boy!)—the _élite_ who sport the proverbial “tufts” upon -their Oxford caps. Privileged “dons” preside at their meals, and Bluff -King Hal swaggers in such divinity as doth hedge in a king—and his -nobles—over their heads. The gentlemen-commoners are so fortunate as to -sit nearest this hallowed dais, although upon the lower level of the -refectory. The common_est_ drink small-beer from pewter tankards in the -draughts and dimness (social) of the end nearest the door. - -Lex’s handsome face was a study when the fitness and beauty of class -distinctions in the halls of learning was made patent to him by -the civil guide. By the way, he wore a student’s gown, and was, we -surmised, a servitor of the college. - -“How much light these entertaining items cast upon quotations we have -heard, all our lives, without comprehending,” said the audacious -youth, eying the informant with ingenuous admiration. “‘High life -_and_ below stairs!’ ‘Briton’s sons shall ne’er be slaves!’ ‘Free-born -Englishmen’—and the rest of it! There’s nothing else like an old-world -education, after all, for adjusting society. Under professors like -the Tudors and Stuarts, of course! Why, do you know, we ignoramuses -over the water would set Bright and Gladstone at the same table with -the most empty-pated lord of the lot, and never suspect that we were -insulting one of them?” - -Caput pulled him away. - -“You rascal!” he said, as we followed the servitor to the kitchen. “How -dare you make fun of the man to his face?” - -“He never guessed it,” replied the other coolly. “It takes a drill and -a blast of powder to get a joke into an English skull.” - -The kitchen is a vast vault, planned also by Wolsey, whose antecedents -should have made him an authority in the culinary kingdom in an era -when loins were knighted and _entrées_ an unknown quantity in the -composition of good men’s feasts. The high priest of the savory -mysteries met us upon the threshold, the grandest specimen, physically, -of a man we saw abroad. Herculean in stature and girth, he had a noble -head and face, was straight as a Norway pine, and was robed in a -voluminous white bib-apron. His voice was singularly deep and musical, -his carriage majestic. I wish I could add that he was as conversant -with the natural history and rights of the letter H as with the details -of his profession and the story of his realm from 1520 downward. He -exhibited the Brobdingnagian gridiron used in the time of James I., on -which an hundred steaks could be broiled at one and the same time, and -enlarged upon the improvements that had superseded the rusty bars and -smoky jacks, kept now as curiosities. In one pantry was a vast vessel -of ripe apricots, ready-sugared for jam; a huge pasty, hot and fragrant -from the oven, stood upon a dresser, encircled by a cohort of tarts. - -“H’out h’of term-time we ’ave comparatively little to do,” said the -splendid giant. “Therefore I ’ave given most h’of my h’employees a -vacation. But there h’are a few h’undergraduates and a tutor h’or -two ’ere still, and”—apologetically for mortal frailty—“the h’inner -man, h’even h’of scholars must be h’entertained. ’Ence these”—waving a -mighty arm toward the pastry. - -He pleased us prodigiously, even to the sublime graciousness with -which he accepted a douceur at parting. We turned at the end of the -passage to look at him—a white-robed Colossus, in the dusky arch of the -kitchen doorway. The light from a window touched his hoary hair and the -jet-black brows that darkened the full, serious eyes. He was gazing -after us, too, and bowed gravely without changing his place. - -“Are there photographs of _him_ for sale?” asked we of our guide. -“Surely he is one of the college lions?” - -“I beg your pardon!” - -We directed his attention to the statuesque Anak. - -“Oh! _he_ is the cook!” with never a gleam of amusement or surprise. - -“Artistically considered,” pursued Prima, with another lingering look, -“he is magnificent.” - -This time the black-gown was slightly—never so slightly, bewildered. - -“He is the cook,” he said. - - “’Twas throwing words away, for still - The little man would have his will, - And answered—‘’Tis the cook!’” - -parodied Dux. “Wordsworth was an Englishman and ‘knew how it was -himself.’” - -We spent four hours in the Bodleian Library, Museum, and Picture -Gallery, leaving them then reluctantly. It was “realizing our history” -in earnest to see the portrait of William Prynne, carefully executed, -even to Archbishop Laud’s scarlet ear-mark. The clipped organ is turned -to the spectator ostentatiously, one fancies, until he bethinks -himself that the uncompromising Puritan received the loving admonition -of Church and State in both ears, and upon separate occasions. The -miniatures of James III. and his wife are here given an honorable -position. Some years since the words, “The Pretender,” were scratched -by an unknown Jacobite from the gilded frame of the uncrowned king’s -picture. The custodian pointed out the erasure with a smile indulgent -of the harmless, if petulant freak. It is odd who do such things, -and when, so vigilant is the watch kept over visitors. Three of the -delicate fingers are gone from the hands of Marie Stuart in Westminster -Abbey, and, if I remember aright, as many from the effigy of Elizabeth -in the same place. - -We paused long at one small faded portrait, far inferior in artistic -merit to those about it—the first picture we had seen of Lady Jane -Grey. She has a sickly, chalky complexion that might match an American -school-girl’s. This may have been caused by the severity of her home -discipline and Master Roger Ascham’s much Latin and more Greek. She -toiled for him cheerfully, she says, “since he was the first person who -ever spake kindly to her.” She was the mistress of five languages and -a frightful number of arts and sciences, and married a sour-tempered -man, chosen by her father and his, when she was seventeen years old. -The lineaments are unformed and redeemed from plainness by large -brown eyes. They have an appealing, hunted look that was not all in -our fancy. A “slip of a girl” compassionate mothers would name her; -frightened at life, or what it was made to be to her by her natural -guardians. - -Across the gallery are two portraits of Marie Stuart, one of which was -painted over the other upon the same canvas. This was discovered by an -artist, who then obtained permission from the owners to copy and erase -the upper painting. He succeeded in both tasks. The outermost portrait -wears a projecting headdress, all buckram, lace, and pearls, and a more -ornate robe than the other. A casual glance would incline one to the -belief that the faces are likewise dissimilar, but examination shows -that they are alike in line and color, the difference in expression -being the work of the tawdry coiffure. The lower likeness is so lovely -in its thoughtful sweetness as to kindle indignation with astonishment -that it should have been so foolishly disfigured. The story is a -strange one, but true. - -We recognized Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester’s picture, from its -resemblance to the effigy upon his tomb, and liked it less than that. -The opened eyes are fine in shape and color, but sleepy and sinister, -the complexion more sanguine than suits a carpet-knight. There is more -of the hunting-squire than the polished courtier in it. Close by is the -pleasing face of the royal coquette’s later favorite, Robert Devereux, -Earl of Essex. Another profile of Wolsey is not far off. A nobler trio -are Erasmus, Hugo Grotius and Thomas Cranmer pendent upon the same side -of the gallery. - -I once read in a provincial journal a burlesque list of the curiosities -in Barnum’s Museum. One item was, “a cup of cream from the milky -way—slightly curdled.” Another—“a block from the marble hall the -Bohemian girl dreamed she dwelt in.” The nonsense recurred to me when -we bent over a glass containing Guy Fawkes’ lantern, “slightly” rusted. -In fact, it is riddled by rust, and so far as apparent antiquity goes, -might have belonged to Diogenes. The various parts—candle-holder, -iron cylinder and cover, lie apart, and with them certificates to the -genuineness of the relic. There is the original letter of warning to -Lord Mounteagle not to go to the House at the opening of Parliament, -“since GOD and man have conspired to punish the wickedness of the -times.” “Parliament shall receive a terrible blow and yet shall not see -who hurt them,” is the sentence that led to the search in the cellar -and the capture of Fawkes. - -Queen Elizabeth’s fruit-plates are upon exhibition here. They are very -like the little wooden _plaques_ we now paint for card-receivers and -hang about our rooms. The edges are carved and painted, and in the -centre of each are four lines of rhyme, usually a caustic fling at -matrimony and married people. - -The wealth of the Bodleian Library consists in its collection of -valuable old books and MSS. In the number and rarity of the latter it -disputes the palm with the British Museum. I should not know where to -stop were I to begin the enumeration of treasures over which we hung -in breathless delight, each one brought forward seeming more wonderful -than the last. The illuminated volumes,—written and painted upon such -parchment as one must see to believe in, so fine is its texture and -so clear the page,—are enough to make a bibliomaniac of the soberest -book-lover. A thousand years have not sufficed to dim tints and -gilding. Queen Elizabeth, as Princess, “did” Solomon’s Proverbs upon -vellum in letters of various styles, all daintily neat. In looking at -her Latin exercises and counting up Lady Jane Grey’s acquirements, -we cease to boast of the superior educational advantages of the girl -of the period. It is experiences such as were ours that morning in -the Bodleian Library and during our three days in Oxford that are -pin-pricks to the balloon of national and intellectual conceit, not the -survey of foreign governments and the study of foreign laws and manner. -If the patient and candid sight-seer do not come home a humbler and a -wiser man, he had best never stir again beyond the corporate limits of -his own little Utica, and pursue contentedly the _rôle_ of the marble -in a peck-measure. - -Before seeing the “Martyrs’ Monument,” we went to St. Mary’s Church -in which Cranmer recanted his recantation. The places of pulpit and -reading-desk have been changed since the Archbishop was brought forth -from prison and bidden by Dr. Cole, an eminent Oxford divine, make -public confession of his faith before the waiting congregation. The -church was packed with soldiers, ecclesiastics and the populace. All -had heard that the deposed prelate had been persuaded by argument and -soothing wiles and the cruel bondage of the fear of death to return to -the bosom of Holy Mother Church. Cole had said mass and preached the -sermon. - -“Dr. Cranmer will now read his confession,” he said and sat down. - -“I _will_ make profession of my faith,” said Cranmer, “and with a good -will, too!” - -We saw the site of the old pulpit in which he arose in saying this; the -walls that had given back the tones of a voice that trembled no longer -as he proclaimed his late recantation null and void, “inasmuch as he -had been wrought upon by the fear of burning to sign them. He believed -in the Bible and all the doctrines taught therein which he had wickedly -renounced. As for the Pope, he did refuse him and denounce him as the -enemy of Heaven.” - -“Smite him upon the mouth; and take him away!” roared Cole. - -We would presently see where he was chained to the stake and helped -tear off his upper garments, as fearing he might again grow cowardly -before the burning began. From a different motive,—namely, the dread -that his bald head and silvery beard might move the people to rescue, -the Lord Overseer of the butchery ordered the firemen to make haste. -“The unworthy hand” was burned first. His heart was left whole in the -ashes. - -“That was the Oxford spirit, three hundred and twenty years ago!” -mused Caput, aloud. “Within fifty years, John Henry Newman,—now a -Cardinal—was incumbent of St Mary’s.” - -“Yes, sir,” responded the pew-opener (with a bonnet on,) who showed the -church. “He was one of the first Puseyites.” - -“I know!” turning again toward the site of the old pulpit. - -A small square of marble, no bigger than a tile, let into the chancel -floor, records that in a vault beneath lies “Amy Robsart, first wife of -Lord Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester.” Her remains were brought hither -from Cumnor Hall, which was but three miles from Oxford, and decently -interred in a brick grave under the church. Other monument than this -insignificant morsel of stone she has none. - -The Martyrs’ Memorial is a handsome Gothic structure of magnesian -limestone, hexagonal and three-storied, rising into a pinnacle -surmounted by a cross. It is in a conspicuous quarter of the city, in -the centre of an open square. In arched niches, facing different ways, -are Cranmer, in his prelatical robes, Ridley, and Latimer. - -“This place hath long groaned for me!” said Latimer, passing through -Smithfield, on his way to the tower after his arrest. - -But they brought him to Oxford to die. - -We checked the carriage and alighted opposite Balliol College. The -street is closely built up on both sides, and in the middle, upon one -of the paving-stones, is cut a deep cross. This is the true Martyrs’ -Memorial. There, Ridley and Latimer “lighted such a candle by the -grace of GOD as shall never be put out.” The much-abused phrase, -“baptism of fire,” grows sublime when we read that Latimer was “seen to -make motions with his hands as if washing them in the flames, and to -stroke his aged face with them.” - -Said an American clergyman—and inferentially, a defender of the -Faith—“I have no sympathy with those old martyrs. The most charitable -of us must confess that they were frightfully and disgustingly -_obstinate_!” - -We may forgive them for failing to win the approbation of latter-day -sentimentalists when we reflect that but for this, their unamiable -idiosyncrasy, neither Protestant England nor Protestant America -would to-day exist, even in name. Not very long since, excavations -under the sidewalk nearest to the cross-mark in this street revealed -the existence here—as a similar accident had in front of St. -Bartholomew-the-Great, in London—of a thick stratum of ashes. “Human -ashes mixed with wood,” says the report of the discovery printed by -an Antiquarian Society—“establishing beyond question that this was -where the public burnings were held.” The inhumanity of sweeping -such ashes into a heap by the wayside, as one might pile the refuse -of a smelting-furnace, is almost as revolting to most people as the -disgusting obstinacy of the consumed heretics. We saw another official -record, of an earlier date, relative to this locality,—the bills sent -by the Sheriff of Oxford to the Queen, after two “public burnings.” -One headed—“_To burn Latimer and Ridley_” has seven items, including -“wood-fagots, furze-fagots, chains, and staples,” accumulating into -a total of £1, 5s. 9d. “_To burn Cranmer_” was a cheaper operation. -“Furze and wood-fagots,” the carriage of these, and “2 laborers,” -cost but “12s. 8d.” Ridley and Latimer suffered for their obstinacy, -October 16, 1555; Cranmer in March of the next year. - -The walks and drives in and about Oxford are exceedingly beautiful. The -“Broad Walk,” in Christ Church Meadows, deserves the eulogiums lavished -upon it by tongue and pen. The interlacing tracery of the elms, arched -above the smooth, wide avenue; the glimpses to right and left of “sweet -fields in living green;” clumps of superb oaks and pretty “pleasances;” -the dark-gray towers, domes and spires of the city, and the ivied -walls of private and public gardens; the Isis winding beneath willows -and between meadows, and dotted, although it was the long vacation, -with gliding boats,—all this, viewed in the clear, tender light of the -“Queen’s weather” that still followed us on our journeyings, made up -a picture we shall carry with us while memory holds dear and pleasant -things. - -When we go abroad again—(how often and easily the words slip from our -lips!) we mean to give three weeks, instead of as many days, to Oxford. - -“Honor bright, now!” said Caput, settling into his place, with the rest -of us, in the railway carriage, after the last look from the windows -upon the receding scene;—“when you say ‘Oxford’ do you think first of -Alfred the Great; of Cœur de Lion, who was born there; of William the -Conqueror, who had a tough battle to win it; of Cardinal Wolsey—or of -Tom Brown?” - -“That reminds me!” said Prima, serenely ignoring the query her elders -laughingly declined to answer,—“we must get some sandwiches at Rugby. -Everybody does.” - -We did—all leaving the train to peep into the “Refreshment Room of -Mugby Junction,” and quoting, _sotto voce_, from the sketch which, -it is affirmed, has made this, in very truth, what Dickens wrote it -down ironically—“the Model Establishment” of the line. “The Boy” has -disappeared, or grown up. Mrs. Sniff,—“the one with the small waist -buckled in tight in front, and with the lace cuffs at her wrists, which -she puts on the edge of the counter and stands a-smoothing while the -Public foams,”—has been supplanted by a tidy dame, cherry-cheeked and -smiling. She filled our order with polite despatch, and, in her corps -of willing assistants one searches uselessly for the “disdaineous -females and ferocious old woman,” objurgated by the enraged foreigner; -as vainly in the array of tempting edibles upon the counter for -“stale pastry and sawdust sangwiches.” We had our railway carriage to -ourselves, and, carrying our parcels thither, prepared to make merry. - -“I need not explain to this assembly the ingredients and formation -of the British Refreshment Sangwich,” began Prima, who knows Dickens -better than she does the Catechism. - -The sandwich of Rugby,—as revised—is put up by the half-dozen in -neat white boxes, tied with ribbons, like choice confections. The -ingredients are sweet, white bread, and juicy tongue or ham. The pastry -is fresh and flaky, the cakes delicate and toothsome. We kept our -sandwich-boxes as souvenirs. - -We did not catch a sight of Banbury Cross, or of the young woman with -bells on her toes who cantered through our nursery rhyme to that -mythical goal. But we did supplement our Mugby Lunch by Banbury cakes, -an indigestible and palatable compound. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -_Sky-larks and Stoke-Pogis._ - - -THE only really hot weather we felt in the British Isles fell to -our lot at Brighton. The fashionable world was “up in London.” The -metropolis is always “up,” go where you will. “The season” takes in -July, then everybody stays in the country until after Christmas, -usually until April. Benighted Americans exclaim at the unreason of -this arrangement, and are told—“It is customary.” - -“But you lose the glory of Spring and Summer; and muddy (_Anglicé_, -‘dirty’) roads and wintry storms must be a serious drawback to country -pleasures. We think the American plan more sensible and comfortable.” - -“It is not customary with us.” - -With the Average Briton, and with multitudes who are above the average -in intelligence and breeding, “custom” is an end of all controversy. - -For one week of the two we spent in Brighton, it was unequivocally -_hot_. The sea was a burnished mirror between the early morning and -evening hours. The Parade and the Links were deserted; the donkey-boys -and peripatetic minstrels retired discouraged from the sultry streets. -We had a pleasant suite of rooms upon Regency Square and kept tolerably -comfortable by lowering the awning of the front balcony and opening -all the inner doors and windows to invite the breeze. Our landlord -had been a butler in Lord Somebody’s family for twenty-eight years; -had married the housekeeper, and with their joint savings and legacies -leased the “four-story brick,” No. 60 Regency Square, and kept a -first-class lodging-house. Every morning, at nine o’clock, he appeared -with slate and pencil for orders for the day. “Breakfast,” “Luncheon,” -“Dinner” were written above as many spaces, and beneath each I made out -a bill-of-fare. Meals were served to the minute in the back-parlor and -the folding-doors, opened by his august hand, revealed him in black -coat and white necktie, ready to wait at table. Cookery and service -were excellent; the rooms handsomely furnished, including napery, -china, silver, and gas. We paid as much as we would have done at a -hotel, but were infinitely more contented, having the privacy and many -of the comforts of a real home. - -Our worthy landlord remonstrated energetically at sight of the open -windows; protested against the draughts and our practice of drawing -reading-chairs and lounges into the cooling currents. - -“The wind is east, sir!” he said to Caput, almost with tears,—“and when -it sets in that quarter, draughts are deadly.” - -We laughed, thanked him and declared that we were used to east winds, -and continued to seek the breeziest places until every one of us was -seized with influenza viler than any that ever afflicted us in the -middle of a Northern winter. Upon Caput, the most robust of the party, -it settled most grievously. The dregs were an attack of bronchitis that -defied all remedies for a month, then sent him back to the Continent -for cure. I mention this instance of over-confidence in American -constitutions and ignorance of the English climate as a warning to -others as rash and unlearned. - -The wind stayed in the east all the time we were in Brighton and the -sun’s ardor did not abate. Our host had a good library,—a rarity in a -lodging-house, and we “lazed” away noon-tides, book or fancy-work in -hand. We had morning drives into the country and evening rambles in the -Pavilion Park, and out upon the splendid pier where the band played -until ten o’clock, always concluding, as do all British bands, the -world around, with “GOD save the Queen.” Boy, attended by the devoted -Invaluable, divided the day between donkey-rides, playing in the -sand,—getting wet through regularly twice _per diem_, by an in-rolling -wave,—and the Aquarium. The latter resort was much affected by us all. -It is of itself worth far more than the trouble and cost of a trip from -London to Brighton and back. - -The restfulness,—the indolence, if you will have it so—of that sojourn -in a place where there were few “sights,” and when it was too warm -to make a business of visiting such as there were, was a salutary -break,—barring the influenza—in our tour. Perhaps our mental digestions -are feebler or slower than those of the majority of traveling -Americans. But it was a positive necessity for us to be quiet, now -and then, for a week or a month, that the work of assimilation and -nourishment might progress safely and healthfully. After a score of -attempts to bolt an art-gallery, a museum, a cathedral, or a city at -one meal, and to follow this up by rapidly successive surfeits, we -learned wisdom from the dyspeptic horrors that ensued, and resigned -the experiment to others. Nor did we squander time and strength upon a -thing to which we were indifferent, merely because Murray or Baedeker -prescribed it, or through fear of that social nuisance, the Thorough -Traveler. We cultivated a fine obtuseness to the attacks of this -personage and never lost an hour’s sleep for his assurance that the -one thing worth seeing in Munich was the faïence in a tumbling-down -palace only known to virtuosos “who understood the ropes,” and which -we, being simple folk unversed in rope-pulling, had not beheld; or -that he who omitted to walk the entire length of the Liverpool Docks, -or to see the Giant’s Causeway by moonlight, or to go into the Blue -Grotto, might better have stayed at home and given his ticket and -letter-of-credit to a more appreciative voyager. - -Our fortnight at Brighton, then, was one of our resting-spells, and one -morning, after a night-shower had freshened the atmosphere, and the -wind blew steadily but not too strongly from the sea, we drove, _en -famille_, to the Downs and the Devil’s Dyke, a deep ravine cleaving the -Downs into two hills. The devil’s name is a pretty sure guarantee of -the picturesque or awful in scenery,—a sort of trade-mark. Our course -was through the open, breezy country; the road, fringed and frilled -with milk-white daisies and scarlet poppies, overlooking the ocean -on one side, bounded upon the other by corn-fields and verdant downs -stretching up and afar into the hilly horizon. The evenness of the -grass upon these rolling heights, and of the growth of wheat and oats -was remarkable, betokening uniformity of fertility and culture unknown -in our country. Wheat, oats, barley—all bearded cereals—are “corn” -abroad, maize being little known. - -Leaving the waggonette at the hotel on the top of the Downs, and -turning a deaf ear to the charming of the photographer, whose camera -and black cloth were already afield, early in the day as it was, we -walked on the ridge for an hour. We trod the springy turf as upon -a flowery carpet; the air was balm and cordial; from our height we -surveyed five of the richest counties of England, seeming to be spread -upon a plane surface, the distance leveling minor inequalities. -Sussex, Surrey, and Hampshire were a mottled map below our plateau, a -string of hamlets marking highways and knotting up, once in a while, -into a larger settlement wound about a church. Some of these were very -primitive sanctuaries, with thatched roofs and towers, and the straw -gables of the cottages were like so many embrowned hay-ricks. - -Then and there, our feet deep in wild thyme and a hundred unknown -blossoming grasses, the pastoral panorama unrolled for our vision, from -the deep blue sea-line to the faint boundary of the far-off hills, -the scented breezes filling lungs that panted to inhale yet larger -draughts of their cool spiciness—we first heard the larks sing! We -had been sceptical about the sky-lark. And since hearing the musical -“jug-jug” and broken _cadenzas_ of Italian nightingales, and deciding -that the mocking-bird would be a triumphantly-successful rival could -he be induced to give moonlight concerts, we had waxed yet more -contemptuous of the bird who builds upon the ground, yet is fabled to -sing at heaven’s gate. We had seen imported larks, brown, spiritless -things, pecking in a home-sickly way at a bit of turf in the corner -of their cage, and emitting an infrequent “tweet.” Our hedge-sparrow -is a comelier and more interesting bird, and, for all we could see, -might sing as well, if he would but apply his mind to the study of the -sustained warble. - -Our dear friend, Dr. V——, of Rome, once gave me a description of the -serenades of the nightingales about his summer home on the Albanian -Hills, so exquisite in wording, so pulsing with natural poetry as to -transcend the song of any Philomel we ever listened to. I wished for -him on the Downs that fervid July morning. I wish for his facile pen -the more now when I would tell, and cannot, how the sky-larks sang and -with what emotions we hearkened to them. They arose, not singly or in -pairs, but by the score, from the expanse of enameled turf, mounting -straight and slowly heavenward. Their notes blended in the upper air -into a vibrating ecstasy of music. Pure as the odor of the thyme, free -as the rush of the sea-air over the heights, warble and trill floated -down to us as they soared, always directly up, up, until literally -invisible to the naked eye. I brought the field-glass to bear upon two -I had thus lost, and saw them sporting in the ether like butterflies, -springing and sinking, tossing over and over upon the waves of their -own melody, and, all the while, the lower air in which we stood was -thrilling as clearly and deliciously with rapturous rivulets of sound -as when they were scarce twenty feet above the earth. - -Our last memory of Oxford is a landscape—in drawing, graphic and clear -as a Millais, rich and mellow as a Claude in coloring. We brought away -both picture and poem from Brighton Downs. - -It was still summer-time, but summer with a presage of autumn in -russet fields and shortening twilights, when we left the railway train -at Slough, a station near Windsor Castle, and took a carriage for -Stoke-Pogis. This, the “Country Church-yard” of Thomas Gray, is but two -and a half miles from the railway, and is gained by a good road winding -between hedge-rows and coppices, with frequent views of quiet country -homes. The flag flaunting from the highest tower of Windsor was seldom -out of sight on the route. - - “The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, - And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave.” - -It was impossible to abstain from repeating the couplet, inevitable -that it should recur to us, a majestic refrain, at each glimpse of the -royal standard. We stopped in the broad shadow of a clump of oaks at -the side of the road; passed through a turn-stile and followed a worn -foot-path across the fields. The glimmer of a pale, graceful spire -among the trees was our guide. About sixty yards beyond the stile -is an oblong monument of granite, surmounted by a sarcophagus with -steeply-slanting sides and a gabled cover. The paneled sides of the -base are covered with selections from Gray’s poems. The turf slopes -from this into a shallow moat, on the outer bank of which reclined two -boys. They were well-favored fellows, dressed in well-made jackets and -trousers, and had, altogether, the air of gentlemen’s sons. While one -copied into a blank book the inscription on the side nearest him, his -companion was at work upon a tolerable sketch of the monument. - - “Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade - Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, - Each in his narrow cell forever laid - The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,” - -read Caput from the monument. Then, glancing at the sarcophagus: -“Can Gray himself be buried here? I thought his grave was in the -church-yard?” - -The boys wrote and sketched on, deaf and dumb. Caput approached the -elder, who may have been fifteen years old. - -“I beg your pardon! but can you tell me if this is the burial-place of -the poet Gray?” - -The lads looked at each other. - -“Gray?” said one— - -“Poet?” the other. - -Then—this is solemn truth, dear Reader!—both uttered, with the unison -and monotony of a church-response—“I really carn’t say!” - -We pursued the little foot-path to the church. There would surely be -some record there to satisfy our query. Stones should have tongues -upon the soil that produces the Average Briton. “The summer’s late -repentant smile” cast a pensive beauty over the country-side, made of -the sequestered church-yard a home fair to see and to be desired when -the “inevitable hour” should come. The wall has a luxuriant coping of -ivy throughout its length. Prehensile streamers have anchored in the -turf below and bound the graves with green withes. The ivy-mantle of -the old square tower leaves not a stone visible except where it has -been cut away from the window of the belfry. A new steeple rises out -of the green mass. A modest and symmetrical pinnacle, but one that -displeases prejudice, if not just taste, and which is as yet shunned by -the ivy, that congener of honorable antiquity. It clings nowhere more -lovingly than to the double gable, under the oriel window of which is -the poet’s grave. This is a brick parallelogram covered by a marble -slab. Gray’s mother is buried with him. A tablet in the church-wall -tells us in which narrow cell he sleeps. - -Just across the central alley the sexton was opening an old grave, -probably that it might receive another tenant, possibly to remove the -remains to another cemetery. A gentleman in clerical dress stood near, -with two young girls. The grave-digger and his assistant completed the -group. Caput applied to the clergyman, rightly supposing him to be the -parish rector, for permission to gather some of the pink thyme and -grasses from the base of the brick tomb. During the minute occupied by -courteous question and reply, the contents of the grave were exposed to -view. - -“A ‘mouldering heap’ of dust!” said Caput, coming back to us, “Here and -there a crumbling bone. A mat of human hair. Not even the semblance of -human shape. That is what mortality means. Gray may have seen the like -in this very place.” - -We picked buttercups, clover, and thyme, some blades of grass and -sprigs of moss, that had their roots in the fissures of the bricks, and -as silently quitted the vicinage of the open pit. Every step furnished -proof of the fidelity to nature of the imperishable idyl. It was an -impossibility—or so we then believed—that it could have been written -elsewhere than in that “church-yard.” The moveless arabesques of the -rugged elm-boughs slept upon the ridged earth at our left; the yew-tree -blackened a corner at the right. The “upland lawn” was bathed in -sunshine; the - - “nodding beech - That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,” - -at whose foot the recluse stretched his listless length at noontide, -still leaned over the brook. We stayed our lingering steps to listen to -its babbling, and point out the wood and the “’customed hill.” - -We rode back to the station by way of the hamlet, into whose uncouth -name genius has breathed music, and saw Gray’s home. It is a plain, -substantial dwelling, little better than a farm-house. In the garden -is a summer-house, in which, it is said, he was fond of sitting -while he wrote and read. Constitutionally shy, and of exceeding -delicacy of nerve and taste, his thoughtfulness deepened by habitual -ill-health,—one comprehends, in seeing Stoke-Pogis, why he should have -preferred it to any other abode, yet how, in this seclusion, gravity -and dreaming should have become a gentle melancholy tingeing every line -we have from his pen. As, when apostrophizing Eton:— - - “Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shades! - Ah, fields, beloved in vain! - Where once my careless childhood strayed, - A _stranger yet to pain_.” - -This continual guest, Pain, engendered an indolent habit of body. His -ideal Heaven was “where one might lie on the sofa all day and read a -novel,” unstung by conscience or the contempt of his kind. - -“William Penn was born at Stoke-Pogis!” I remembered, aloud and -abruptly. - -Caput’s eyes were upon the fast-vanishing spire: - -“The Elegy—in which I defy any master of English to find a misapplied -word—was written twenty times before it was printed,” he observed -sententiously. - -“_Papa!_” from the young lady on the back seat of the carriage—“Now, I -thought it was an impromptu——” - -“Dashed off upon the backs of a pocketful of letters, between daylight -and dark, a flat grave-stone for a desk,—and published in the next -morning’s issue of the ‘Stoke-Pogis Banner of Light!’” finished the -senior, banteringly. - -But there is a lesson, with a moral, in the brief dialogue. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -_Our English Cousins._ - - -WE had seen the _Carnevale_ at Rome, and the wild confusion of the -_moccoletti_, which is its finale; _festas_, in Venice, Milan, and -almost every other Italian town where we had stayed overnight. There -are more festas than working-days in that laughter-loving land. In -Paris we had witnessed illuminations, and a royal funeral, or of such -shreds of royalty as appertained unto the dead King of Hanover,—the -Prince of Wales, very red of face in the broiling sun, officiating as -chief mourner in his mother’s absence. In Geneva we had made merry over -the extravaganzas of New Year’s Day, and the comicalities of patriotism -that rioted in the _Escalade_. We were _au fait_ to the beery and -musical glories of the German _fest_. We would see and be in the thick -of a British holiday. What better opportunity could we have than was -offered by the placards scattered broadcast in the streets, and pasted -upon the “hoardings” of Brighton, announcing a mammoth concert in the -Crystal Palace at Sydenham; a general muster of Temperance Societies; -an awarding of prizes to competitive brass bands, and a prospective -convocation of 100,000 souls from every town and shire within a radius -of fifty miles? Such facilities for beholding that overgrown monster, -the British Public, in his Sunday clothes and best humor—might not -occur again—for us—in a half-century. - -True, the weather was warm, but the Palace and grounds were spacious. -The musical entertainment was not likely to be of the classic order, -but it would be something worth the hearing and the telling,—the -promised chorus of 5,000 voices, led by the immense organ, in “GOD SAVE -THE QUEEN!” Thus we reasoned away Caput’s predictions that we would -be heartily sick of the experiment before the day was half-gone, and -thankful to escape, as for our lives, from the hustling auditors of the -grand chorus. We yielded one point. Instead of going up to Sydenham in -an excursion-train, the better to note the appearance and manners of -the Public, we waited for a quieter and later, at regular prices, and -so reached the Crystal Palace Station about eleven o’clock. - -The punishment of our contumacy began immediately. Wedged in a dark -passage with a thousand other steaming bodies, with barely room enough -for breathing—not for moving hand or foot—retreat cut off and advance -impracticable, we waited until the pen was filled to overflowing by the -arrival of the next train before the two-leaved doors at the Palaceward -end split suddenly and emptied us into the open air. We made a feint -of going through the main building with those of our party who had -not already seen it, but every staircase was blocked by ascending -and descending droves, and nobody gave an inch to anybody else. The -Mothers of England were all there, each with a babe in arms and another -tugging at her skirts. Men swore—good-humoredly,—women scolded as -naturally as in their own kitchens and butteries, and babies cried -without fear or favor. The police kept a wise eye upon the valuables of -the Palace, and let the people alone. Repelled in every advance upon -art-chamber and conservatory, we collected our flurried forces and -withdrew to the grounds. When sore-footed with walking from fountain -to flower-bed, the gentlemen watched for and obtained seats for the -ladies upon a bench near the stand, where the competitive brass bands -were performing, heard, perhaps by themselves and their rivals, but few -besides. - -The avenues were choked in every direction with swarms of the -commonest-looking people our eyes had ever rested upon. Rags and -squalor were seldom seen, and the yeomanry and their families were -fresh-colored and plump. The representatives from London and other -large cities were easily distinguishable by a sharper, sometimes a -pinched look, leaden complexions and smarter clothes. There is a -Continental saying that in England, blacksmiths make the women’s -dresses and men’s hats. If the ladies of rank, beginning with the -queen, are notably ill-dressed, what shall we say of the apparel of -mechanics’, small tradesmen’s and farmers’ wives and daughters, such -as we beheld at Sydenham? Linsey skirts, quite clearing slippered feet -and ankles clothed in home-knit hose, were converted into gala-suits by -polonaises of low-priced grenadine, or worked muslin of a style twenty -years old, and bonnets out-flaunting the geranium-beds. The English -gardeners may have borrowed the device of massing lawn-flowers from -their countrywomen’s hats. White was in high favor with the young, -generally opaque stuffs such as _piqué_ and thick cambric, but we did -not see one that was really clean and smooth. Most had evidently done -holiday-duty for several seasons and were still considered “fresh -enough.” Elderly matrons and spinsters panted in rusty black silk -and shiny alpacas, set off by broad cotton lace collars, astounding -exhibitions of French lace, cheap flowers and often white feathers, -upon hats that had not seen a milliner’s block in a dozen seasons. Old -and young were prone to ribbon-sashes with flying or drooping ends, -and cotton gloves. Some wore fur tippets over their summer-robes. These -we remarked the less for having seen ladies, traveling first-class, -with footmen and maids in attendance, wear in August, grenadine and -muslin dresses and sealskin jackets. - -The women were more easy in their finery than were the men in -broadcloth, shirt-fronts and blackened boots. These huddled in awkward -groups, talked loudly and laughed blusteringly, while their feminine -companions strolled about, exchanging greetings and gossip. The little -girls kept close to their mothers in conformity with British traditions -on the government of girls of all ages; the small boys munched apples -and gingerbread-nuts, and stared stolidly around; those of the bigger -lads who could afford the few pence paid for the privilege, rode -bicycles up and down the avenues until the blood threatened to start -from the pores of their purple faces, and their eyes from the sockets. -From that date to this, the picture of a half-grown Briton,—done up -to the extreme of uncomfortableness in best jacket and breeches that -would “just meet,”—careering violently over the gravel under the fierce -July sun, directing two-thirds of his energies to the maintenance -of his centre of gravity upon the ticklish seat, the rest to the -perpetual motion of arms and legs,—stands with me as the type of the -pitiable-ludicrous. Of men, women and children, at least one-half wore -ribbon badges, variously lettered and illuminated. Standards were -borne in oblique, undress fashion, upon shoulders, and leaned against -trees, advertising the presence of “Bands of Hope,” “Rain Drops,” -“Rechabites,” “Summer Clouds,” “Snow-Flakes” and “Cooling Springs.” -Many men, and of women not a few, had velvet trappings, in shape and -size resembling Flemish horse-collars, about their necks, labeled in -gold with cabalistic characters, denoting the title borne by the -wearer in some one of the Temperance Societies represented. - -Caput was right. The element of the picturesque was utterly wanting -from the holiday crowd. The naïve jollity that almost compensates -for this deficiency in the _fests_ of Deutschland was likewise -absent. The brass bands pealed on perseveringly, the crowd shifted -lumberingly to and fro, and we grew hungry as well as tired. The Palace -Restaurant would be crowded, we knew, but we worked our way thither -by a circuitous course, avoiding the densest “jams” in corridors and -stairways, and were agreeably surprised at finding less than twenty -persons at lunch, and in the long, lofty dining-room, the coolest, -quietest retreat we had had that day. The dinner was excellent, the -waiters prompt and attentive, and with the feeling that the doors -(bolted by the restaurant-prices), were an effectual bulwark against -the roaring rabble, we dallied over our dessert as we might in the back -drawing-room in Brighton with good Mr. Chipp behind Caput’s chair. - -We would fain have lingered in the concert-hall to hear the chorus of -five thousand voices upborne by the full swell of the mighty organ. -There were the tiers of singers, mostly school-girls in white frocks, -piled up to the ceiling, waiting for the signal to rise. Somebody -said the organ was preluding, but of this we were not sure, such was -the reigning hubbub. The important moment came. The thousands of -the choir were upon their feet; opened their mouths as moved by one -unseen spring. The conductor swung his bâton with musical emphasis -and discretion. The mouths expanded and contracted in good time. We -heard not one note of it all. Men shouted to one another and laughed -uproariously; women scolded and cackled; babies screamed,—as if music, -“heavenly maid,” had never been born, and it was no concern of theirs -whether the Queen might, could, would, or should be saved. - -Caput put his mouth to my ear. - -“This will kill you!” he said, and by dint of strong elbows and broad -shoulders, fought a way for us out of the press. - -“From all such—and the rest of it!” gasped Prima, when we were seeking -lost breath, and smoothing rumpled plumage in the outer air. - -That blessed man was magnanimous! He never so much as _looked_—“You -would come!” - -He only said solicitously to me—“I am afraid your head aches! Would you -like to sit quietly in the shade for awhile before we go home?” - -Fallacious dream! The British Public had lunched out-of-doors while -we sat at ease within. The park, containing more than two hundred -acres, was littered with whitey-brown papers that had enwrapped the -“British Sangwich;” empty beer-bottles were piled under the trees, and -the late consumers of the regulation-refreshments lounged upon the -grass in every shady corner, smoking, talking and snoring. Abandoning -the project of rest within the grounds, we walked toward the gate of -egress. Everywhere was the same waste of greasy papers, cheese-parings, -bacon-rinds and recumbent figures, and, at as many points of our -progress we saw three drunken women—too drunk to walk or rise. One lay -in the blazing sunshine, untouched by Good Samaritan or paid police, -a baby not over two years old sitting by her, crying bitterly. Caput -directed a policeman to the shocking spectacle. He shook his head. - -“She’s werry drunk!” he admitted. “But she h’aint noisy. We must give -the h’attention of the Force to them w’ot _h’is_!” - -It was but two o’clock when we entered the waiting-room of the station. -Out-going trains were infrequent at that time of the day, and we must -wait an hour. I found a comfortable sofa in the ladies’ parlor and laid -down my throbbing head upon a pillow of the spare shawls without which -we never stirred abroad. A kindly-faced woman suspended her knitting -and asked what she could do for me. - -“Maybe the lady would like a cup of tea with a teaspoonful of brandy in -it? Or a glass of h’ale?” - -I thanked her, but said I only wanted rest and quiet. - -“Which I mean to say, mem, it’s ’ard to get to-day. I’ve been ’ere five -year, keeper of this ’ere waiting-room, and never ’ave I seen such -crowds. The trains h’are a-comin’ h’in constant still, and will, till -h’evening. And h’every train, h’it do bring a thousand. A Temperance -pic-nic, you see, mem, _do_ allers draw h’uncommon!” - -We saw, not of choice, one more fête-day in England—the Bank -holiday lately granted to all classes of working-people. It fell -on Monday, August 5th, and caught us in London with a day full -of not-to-be-deferred engagements, the departure of some of our -family-party being near at hand. The Banks, all public offices and -shops were closed. The British Museum, Zoölogical Gardens, The Tower -and parks would be crowded, we agreed, in modifying our plans. St. -Paul’s and Westminster Abbey seemed safe. We were right with respect -to the Cathedral. An unusually large number of people strayed in and -sauntered about, looking at monuments and tablets in church and crypt, -but we were free to move and examine. It was a “free day” at the Abbey. -The chapels locked at other seasons, and only to be seen in the conduct -of a verger, were now open to everybody, and everybody was there. -We threaded the passage-ways in the wake of a fleet of cockneys, -great and small, to whom the tomb that holds the remains of the Tudor -sisters, and on which their greatest queen lies in marble state, -signified no more than a revolving doll in a hair-dresser’s window; who -slouched aimlessly from Ben Jonson’s bust to Chaucer’s monument, and -trod with equal apathy the white slab covering “Old Parr,” and the gray -flagging lettered, “CHARLES DICKENS.” - -That this judgment of the rank and file is not uncharitable we had -proof in the demeanor and talk of the visitors. - -“James!” cried a wife to her heedless husband, when abreast of the tomb -of Henry III. “You don’t look at nothink you parss. Don’t you see this -is the tomb of ’Enry Thirteenth?” - -“’Enry or ’Arry!” growled her lord without taking his hands from his -pocket—“Wot do I care for _he_?” - -None of the comments, we overheard, upon the treasures of this grandest -of burial-places amused us more than the talk of a respectable-looking -man with his bright-eyed ten-year old son over the memorial to Sir John -Franklin. Beneath a fine bust of the hero-explorer is a bas-relief of -the Erebus and Terror locked in the ice. - -“See the vessels in the rocks, Pa!” cried the boy. “Or—is it ice?” - -“I don’t rightly know, Charley. Don’t touch!” - -“I wont, Pa! I just want to read what this is on the ship. E, R, E, B, -U, S!—_E. R. Bruce!_ Is he buried here, do you ’spose?” - -“In course he is, me lard! They wouldn’t never put h’another man’s name -h’upon ’is tombstone—would they?” - -It is obviously unfair, say some of those for whom I am writing, to -gauge the intelligence and breeding of a great nation by the manners of -the lower classes. Should I retort that upon such data, as collected -by British tourists in a flying trip through our country, is founded -the popular English belief that we are vulgar in manner and speech, -superficial in education and crude in thought, I should be told that -these are the impressions and opinions of a bygone period,—belong to -a generation that read Mrs. Trollope’s and Marryatt’s “Travels,” and -Boz’s “American Notes;” that the Briton of to-day harbors neither -prejudice nor contempt for us; appreciates all that is praiseworthy in -us as individuals and a people; is charitable to our faults. There are -Americans resident abroad who will assert this. Some, because having -made friends of enlightened English men and women, true and noble, -they see the masses through the veil of affectionate regard they have -for the few. Others, flattered in every fibre of their petty natures -by the notice of those who arrogate superiority of race and training, -affect to despise their own land and kind; would rather be Anglicized -curs beneath the tables of the nobility than independent citizens of a -free and growing country. We know both classes. We met them every day -and everywhere for two years. America can justify herself against such -children as those I have last described. - -But I have somewhat to say about the popular estimate in England of -America and Americans, and I foresee that I shall write of other -matters with more comfort when I have eased my spirit by a little plain -speech upon this subject: - -“You agree with me, I am sure, in saying, ‘My country, right or -wrong!’” said a dear old English lady, turning to me during a -discussion upon the policy of Great Britain with regard to the -Russian-Turkish war. - -“We say—‘My country, always right!’” replied I, smiling. “We are, -as you often tell us, ‘very young’—too young to have committed many -national sins. Perhaps when we are a thousand or fifteen hundred -years nearer the age of European governments, we, too, may have made -dangerous blunders.” - -An English gentleman, hearing a portion of this badinage, came up to me. - -“You were not in earnest in what you said just now?” he began, -interrogatively. “I honor America. I have studied her history, -and I hail every step of her march to the place I believe GOD has -assigned her—the leadership of the Christian world. She is fresh and -enthusiastic. She is _sound_ to the core. But she does make mistakes. -Let us reason together for a little while. There is the Silver Bill, -for example.” - -“I was talking nonsense,” I said, impulsively. “Mere braggadocio, and -in questionable taste. But it _irks_ me that the best and kindest of -you patronize my country, and excuse me! that so many who do it know -next to nothing about us. Mrs. B—— asked me, just now, if it were -‘quite safe to promenade Broadway unarmed—on account of the savages, -you know.’ And when I answered—‘the nearest savages to us are in your -Canadian provinces,’ she said, without a tinge of embarrassment—‘Ah! -I am very, very excessively ignorant about America. In point of fact, -it is a country in which I have no personal interest whatever. I have -a son in India, and one in Australia, but no friends on your side of -the world.’ Yet she is a _lady_, well educated and well-born. She has -traveled much; speaks several languages, and converses intelligently -upon most topics. She is, moreover, too kind to have told me that -my country is uninteresting had she dreamed that I could be hurt or -offended by the remark. Another lady, a disciple of Dr. Cummings, and -his personal friend, asked my countrywoman, Mrs. T——, ‘if she came -from America by steamer or by the overland route?’ and a member of -Parliament told Mr. J——, the other day, that the ‘North should have -let the South go when she tried to separate herself from the Union. The -geographical position of the two countries showed they should never -have been one nation.’ ‘The hand of the Creator,’ he went on to say, -‘had placed a rocky rampart between them.’ ‘A rocky rampart!’ repeated -Mr. J——, his mind running upon Mason’s and Dixon’s line. ‘Yes! The -_Isthmus of Darien_!’ - -“Americans are accused of over-sensitiveness and boastfulness. Is it -natural that we should submit tamely to patronage and criticism from -those who calmly avow their ‘excessive ignorance’ of all that pertains -to our land and institutions? Can we respect those who assume to -teach when they know less upon many subjects than we do? A celebrated -English divine once persisted in declaring to my husband that Georgia -is a city, not a State. Another informed us that Pennsylvania is the -capital of New England. Even my dear Miss W—— cannot be convinced that -boys of nine years old are considered minors with us. She says she has -been told by those who ought to know that, at that age, they discard -parental authority; while her sister questioned me seriously as to -the truth of the story that the feet of all American babies—boys and -girls—are bandaged in infancy to make them small. Don’t laugh! This is -all true, and I have not told you the tenth. The Silver Bill! I have -never met another Englishman who knew anything about it!” - -My friend laughed, in spite of my injunction. - -“It is not ‘natural’ for Americans to ‘submit tamely’ to any kind of -injustice, I fancy. But be merciful! Have you read in the ‘Nineteenth -Century’ Dr. Dale’s ‘Impressions of America?’” - -“I have. They are like himself, honest, sincere, thorough! But I have -also read Trollope’s ‘American Senator,’ a product of the nineteenth -century that will be read and credited by many who cannot appreciate -Dr. Dale’s scholarship and logic. May I tell you an anecdote—true -in every particular—to offset the Senator’s behavior in the Earl’s -drawing-room? An English novelist, than whom none is better known on -both sides of the water, dined, by invitation, at the house of a _bona -fide_ Senator in Washington. After dinner he approached the hostess in -the drawing-room to take leave. - -“‘It is very early yet, Mr.——,’ she said politely. - -“‘I know it. But the fact is I _must write ten pounds’ worth_ before I -go to bed!’ - -“Yet this man is especially happy in clever flings at American society. -We _have_ faults—many and grievous! But we might drop them the sooner -if our monitors were better qualified to instruct us, and would -admonish in kindness, not disdain.” - -Because he was an Englishman, and I liked him, I withheld from my -excited harangue many and yet more atrocious absurdities uttered in -my hearing by his compatriots. At this distance and time, and under -the shelter of a _nom de plume_, I may relate an incident I forebore -religiously from giving to my transatlantic acquaintances, albeit -sorely tempted, occasionally, by their unconscious condescension and -simplicity of arrogance—too amusing to be always offensive. - -We were taking a cup of “_arf_ternoon tea” with some agreeable English -people, who had invited their rector and his wife to meet us. My seat -was next the wife, a pretty, refined little woman, who graciously -turned the talk into a channel where she fancied I would be at ease. -She began to question me about America. Perceiving her motive, and -being by this time somewhat weary of cruising in one strait, I, as -civilly, fought shy of my native shores, and plied her with queries in -my turn. I asked information, among other things, concerning Yorkshire -and Haworth, stating our intention of visiting the home and church -of the Brontës. The rectoress knew nothing about the topography of -Yorkshire, but had heard of the Brontë novels. - -“Wasn’t ‘Jane Eyre’ just a little—_naughty_? I fancy I have heard -something of the kind.” - -Our English cousins “farncy” quite as often as we “guess,” or “reckon,” -or “presume,” and sometimes as incorrectly. - -I waived the subject of Jane Eyre’s morals by a brief tribute to the -author’s genius, and passed to Mrs. Gaskell’s description of the West -Riding town, Haworth. Our hostess caught the word “Keighley.” - -“I was in Keighley last year, at a wedding,” she interpolated. “It is -near Haworth—did you say? And you have friends in Haworth?” - -I explained. - -“Ah!” politely. “I did not know Charlotte Brontë ever lived there. Her -‘Jane Eyre’ was a good deal talked about when I was a girl. She was -English—did you say?” - -Dropping the topic for that of certain local antiquities, I discussed -these with my gentle neighbor until I happened to mention the name of -an early Saxon king. - -“The familiarity, of Americans with early English history quite -astonishes me,” she remarked. “I cannot understand why they should be -conversant with what concerns them so remotely.” - -I suggested that their history was also ours until within a hundred -years. That their great men in letters, statesmanship and war belonged -to us up to that time as much as to the dwellers upon English soil, the -two countries being under one and the same government. - -The blue eyes were slightly hazy with bewilderment. - -“A hundred years! I beg your pardon—but I fancied—I was surely under -the impression that America was discovered more than a hundred years -ago?” - -“It was!” I hastened to say. “Every American child is taught to say— - - ‘In fourteen hundred, ninety-two, - Columbus crossed the ocean blue.’ - -But”—feeling that I touched upon delicate ground,—“we were provinces -until 1776, when we became a separate government.” - -I just avoided adding—“and independent.” - -The little lady’s eyes cleared before a gleam that was more than the -joy of discovery. It was, in a mild and decorous way, the rapture of -creation. Her speech grew animated. - -“1776! And last year was 1876! Pardon me! but perhaps you never -thought—I would say—has it ever occurred to you that possibly that may -have been the reason why your National Exposition was called ‘_The -Centennial_’?” - -Magnanimity and politeness are a powerful combination. By their aid, I -said—“Very probably!” and sipped my tea as demurely as an Englishwoman -could have done in the circumstances. - -It is both diverting and exasperating to hear Englishmen sneer openly -and coarsely at the attentions bestowed by American gentlemen upon -the ladies under their care. Their dogged assumption—and disdainful -as dogged—that this is an empty show exacted by us cannot be shaken -by the fact of which _they_ certainly are not ignorant,—to wit, that -our countrymen are cowards in naught else. I will cite but one of the -many illustrations that fell under my eye of their different policy -toward the weaker sex. I had climbed the Ventnor Downs one afternoon -by the help of my escort, and stood upon the brow of the highest hill, -when we espied three English people, known to us by sight, approaching. -The short grass was slippery, the direct ascent so steep that the last -of the party, a handsome woman of fifty or thereabouts, was obliged, -several times, to fall upon her hands and knees to keep from slipping -backward. Her son, a robust Oxonian, led the way, cane in hand. Her -hale, bluff husband came next, also grasping a stout staff. At the top -they stopped to remark upon the beauty of the view and evening, thus -giving time to the wife and mother to join them. She was very pale; -the sweat streamed down her face; she caught her breath in convulsive -gasps. Her attendants smiled good-humoredly. - -“Pretty well blown—eh?” said her lord. - -Her affectionate son—“Quite knocked-up, in fact!” - -Yet these were _gentlemen_ in blood and reputation. - -I do not defend the ways and means by which the Travelling American -makes his name, and, too often, that of his country a by-word and -a hissing in the course of the European tour, which is, in his -parlance, “just about the thing” for the opulent butcher, baker, and -candlestick-maker, now-a-days. I do affirm that, judging him by the -representative of the class corresponding to his in the Mother Country, -he is no more blatant and objectionable to people of education and -refinement than the Briton who is his fellow-traveller. In aptness -and general intelligence he will assuredly bear off the palm. If the -American of a higher grade be slow to abandon his provincial accent, -and his wife her shrill, “clipping” speech; if what Bayard Taylor -termed “the national catarrh” be obstinate in both,—the Englishman -has his “aws” and “you knows,” and lumbering articulation; calls the -_garçon_ who cannot comprehend his order at the _table d’hôte_ “a -stupid ass,” in the hearing of all, declares the weather to be “nosty,” -the wine “beastly,” and the soup “filthy,” while I have seen his wife -bring her black-nosed pug to dinner with her, and feed him and herself -with blanc mange from the same spoon. - -We received much courtesy and many kindnesses from English people in -their own country and upon the continent; formed friendships with some -the memory of which must warm our hearts until they cease to beat. -Their statesmen, their scholars, and their philanthropists have, as -such, no equals in any clime or age. If we wince under censures we feel -are unjust, and under sarcasms that cut the more keenly because edged -with truth:—if, when they tell us we are “young,” we are disposed to -retort that they are old enough to know and to do better, let us, in -solemn remembrance of our kinship in blood and in faith, borrow, in -thought, my friend’s advice, and “be merciful.” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -_Over the Channel._ - - -I LAUGHED once on the route from Dover to Calais. The fact deserves to -be jotted down as an “Incident of Travel.” For the boat was crowded, -the wind brisk, and we had a “chopping sea” in the Channel. Words of -woe upon which we need not expatiate to those who have lost sight of -Shakspeare’s Cliff in like circumstances. The voyage was filled with -disgust as Longfellow’s Night with music, and with untold misery to all -of our party excepting Caput, to whom smooth and turbulent seas are as -one. If he has a preference, it is for the latter. He led off in the -laugh that extended even to the wretched creature I had known in calmer -hours, as Myself. - -An elderly lord was on board. A very loud lord as to voice. A mighty -lord in rank and honors, if one might judge from the attentions of -deck-stewards and some of the initiated passengers. A very big lord as -to size. A very rich lord, if the evidence of furred mantles, and a -staff of obsequious servants be admitted. A very pompous lord, whose -stiffened cravat, beef-steak complexion and goggle-eyes reminded us of -“Joey Bagstock, Tough Jo, J. B., sir!” - -If, having sunk to the depths of suffering and degradation, we could -have slid into a lower deep, it would have been by reason of that man’s -struttings and vaporings and bullyings in our sight. He tramped the -deck over and upon the feet of those who were too sick, or too much -crowded to get out of his path,—courier and valet at his heels, one -bearing a furled umbrella and a mackintosh in case it should rain, the -other a second furred surtout should “my lord” grow chilly. - -“Ill, sir! what do you mean, sir! I am never ill at sea!” he -vociferated to the captain, who ventured a query and the offer of his -own cabin should his lordship require the refuge. - -“Pinafore” had not then been written, and the assertion went -unchallenged. - -“I have travelled thousands of miles by water, sir, and never known so -much as a qualm of sea-sickness—not a qualm, sir! Do you take me for a -woman, sir, or a fool?” - -In his choler he was more like Bagstock than ever, as he continued his -promenade, gurgling and puffing, goggling and wagging his head like an -apoplectic china mandarin. - -We were in mid-channel where there was a rush of master, servants, -and officious deck-hands to the guards, that made the saddest -sufferers raise their eyes. In a few minutes, the parting of the -group of attendants showed the elderly lord, upon his feet, indeed, -but staggering so wildly that the courier and a footman held him up -between them while the valet settled his wig and replaced his hat. His -complexion was ashes-of-violets, if there be such a tint,—his eyes were -as devoid of speculation as those of a boiled fish. The steward picked -up his gold-headed cane, but the flabby hands could not grasp it. The -captain hastened forward. - -“Very sorry, me lud, I’m sure, for the little accident. But it’s a -nosty sea, this trip, me lud, as your ludship sees. An uncommon beastly -sea! I hope your ludship is not suffering much?” - -The British lion awoke in the great man’s bosom. The crimson of rage -burned away the ashes. The eyes glared at the luckless official. - -“Suffering, sir! Do you suppose I care for suffering? It is the _dommed -mortification_ of the thing!” - -Then, as I have said, Caput laughed, and the sickest objects on board -joined in feeble chorus. - -Prima lifted her head from her father’s shoulder. “I am glad I came!” -she said, faintly. - -So was I—almost—for the scene lacked no element of grotesqueness nor of -poetical retribution. - -The long room in the Paris station (_gare_), where newly-arrived -travellers await the examination of their luggage, is comfortless, -winter and summer. It was never drearier than on one March morning, -when, after a night-journey of fifteen hours, we stood, for the want -of seats, upon the stone floor, swept by drifts of mist from the -open doors, until our chattering teeth made very broken French of -our petition to the officers to clear our trunks at their earliest -convenience, and let us go somewhere to fire and breakfast. The -inspection was the merest form, as we found it everywhere. Perhaps -we looked honest (or poor), or our cheerful alacrity in surrendering -our keys and entreating prompt attendance, may have had some share in -purchasing immunity from the annoyances of search and confiscation -complained of by many. One trunk was unlocked; the tray lifted and put -back, without the disturbance of a single article; all the luggage -received the mystic chalking that pronounced it innocuous to the -French Republic; we entered a carriage and gave the order: “61 Avenue -Friedland!” - -Caput, to whom every quarter of the city and every incident of the -Commune Reign of Terror were familiar, pointed out streets and squares, -as we rode along, that gained a terrible notoriety through the -events of that bloody and fiery era. I recollect leaning forward to -look at one street—not a wide one—in which ten thousand dead had lain -at one time behind the barricades. For the rest, I was ungratefully -inattentive. Paris, in the gray of early morning, looked sleepy, -respectable, and dismal. The mist soaked us to the bone; the drive was -long; we had void stomachs and aching heads. Some day we might listen -to and believe in the tale of her revolutions, her horrors and her -glories. Now this was a physical, and therefore, a mental impossibility. - -“At last!” - -Almost in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, looming gigantic through -the fog, the carriage stopped at a handsome house. A porter came out -for our luggage, the concierge gave us into the care of a waiter. - -“But yes, monsieur, the rooms were ready. Perfectly. And the fires. -Perfectly—perfectly! Monsieur would find all as had been ordered.” - -Up we went, two flights of polished stairs,—where never an atom of -dust was allowed to settle—along one hall, across an ante-chamber, and -the waiter threw back a door. A large chamber stood revealed, made -lightsome by two windows; heartsome by a glowing fire of sea-coal. And -set in front of the grate was a round table draped whitely, and bearing -that ever-blessed sight to a fagged-out woman—a tea equipage. By the -time I, as the family invalid, was divested of bonnet and mufflers, and -laid in state upon the sofa at one side of the hearth, a tap at the -door heralded the entrance of a smiling English housekeeper in a black -dress and muslin cap with flowing lappets. She carried a tray; upon it -were hissing tea-urn, bread and butter, and light biscuits. - -“Miss Campbell hopes the ladies are not very much fatigued after their -long journey, and that they will find themselves quite comfortable -here.” - -How comfortable we were then, and during all the weeks of our stay in -Hôtel Campbell; how we learned to know and esteem, as she deserved, -the true gentlewoman who presides with gracious dignity at her table, -and makes of her house a genuine home for guests from foreign lands, -I can only state here in brief. Neither heart nor conscience will let -me pass over in silence the debt of gratitude and personal regard we -owe her. I shall be only too happy should these lines be the means of -directing other travelers to a house that combines, in a remarkable -degree, elegance and comfort in a city whose hotels, boarding-houses, -and “appartements” seldom possess both. - -The March weather of Paris is execrable. Some portion of our -disappointment at this may have been due to popular fictions respecting -sunny France, and a city so fair that the nations come bending with awe -and delight before her magnificence; where good Americans—of the upper -tendom—wish to go when they die; the home of summer, butterflies, and -WORTH! To one who has heard, and, in a measure, credited all this, the -fog that hides from him the grand houses across the particular Rue or -Avenue in which he lodges, are more penetrating, the winds more bitter, -the flint-dust they hurl into his eyes is sharper, the rain, sleet, and -snow-flurries that pelt him to shelter more disagreeable—than London -fog or Berlin gloom and dampness. There were whole days during which -I sat, perforce, by my fire, or, if I ventured to the window to enjoy -the prospect of sheets of rain, dropping a wavering curtain between -me and the Rothschild mansion opposite, I must wrap my shawl about my -shoulders, so “nipping and eager” was the air forcing its way between -the joints of the casements. - -But there were other days in which out-door existence was tolerable -in a _fiacre_, jealously closed against the whirling dust. Where it -all came from we could not tell. The streets of Paris are a miracle of -cleanliness. Twice a day they are swept and washed, and the gutters run -continually with clear, living water. - -The wind was keen, the dust pervasive, the sky a bright, hard blue when -we went, for the first time, to the tomb of Napoleon in the Hôtel des -Invalides. The blasts held revel in the courtyard we traversed in order -to gain the entrance. The sentinels at the gate halted in the lee of -the lodges before turning in their rounds to face the dust-laden gusts. -Once within the church a great peace fell upon us—sunshine and silence. -It was high noon, and the light flowed through the cupola crowning the -dome directly into the great circular crypt in the centre of the floor, -filling—overflowing it with glory. We leaned upon the railing and -looked down. Twenty feet below was the sarcophagus. It is a monolith -of porphyry, twelve feet in length, six in breadth, with a projecting -base of green granite. Around it, wrought into the tesselated marble -pavement, is a mosaic wreath of laurel—glossy green. Between this and -the sarcophagus one reads—“_Austerlitz_, _Marengo_, _Jena_, _Rivoli_,” -and a long list of other battle-fields, also in brilliant mosaic. -Without this circle, upon the balustrade fencing in the tomb, are -twelve statues, representatives of as many victories. A cluster of -fresh flowers lay upon the sarcophagus. And upon all, the sunshine, -that seemed to strike into the polished red marble and bring out the -reflection of hidden flame. It was a strange optical illusion, so -powerful one had to struggle to banish the idea that the porphyry was -translucent and the glow reddening the sides of the crypt such gleams -as one sees in the heart of an opal—“the pearl with a soul in it.” It -was easier to give the rein to fancy and think of a Rosicrucian lamp -burning above the stilled heart of the entombed Emperor. The quiet of -the magnificent burial-place is benignant, not oppressive. In noting -the absence of the sentimental fripperies with which the French delight -to adorn the tombs of the loved and illustrious dead we could not but -hope that the grandeur of the subject wrought within the architect this -pure and sublime conception of more than imperial state. - -We followed the winding staircase from the right of the high -altar,—above which flashes a wonderful golden crucifix—to the door -of the crypt. Bertrand on one side, Duroc on the other, guard their -sleeping master. “The bivouac of the dead!” The trite words are -pregnant with dignity and with power when quoted upon that threshold. -Over the doorway is a sentence in French, from Napoleon’s will: - -“I desire that my ashes may repose on the banks of the Seine, in the -midst of the French people, whom I have so much loved.”[A] - -The Communists tore down the bronze column in the Place Vendôme. The -bas-reliefs, winding from bottom to top, were cast from cannon captured -by Napoleon, and his statue surmounted the shaft. They battered the -Tuileries, where he had lived, to a yawning ruin, and outraged the -artistic sensibilities of the world by setting fire to the Louvre. But, -neither paving-stone, nor bomb, nor torch, was flung into the awful -circle where rests the hero, with his faithful generals at his feet. - -Jerome Bonaparte, his brother’s inferior and puppet, is buried in a -chapel at the left of the entrance of the Dôme. A bronze statue of him -rests upon his sarcophagus. His eldest son—by his second marriage—is -near him. A smaller tomb holds the heart of Jerome’s Queen. Joseph -Bonaparte is interred in a chapel opposite, the great door being -between the brothers. - -We took the Place de la Concorde in our ride uptown. We did this -whenever we could without making too long a _détour_. The Luxor -obelisk, three thousand years old, is in the middle of the Square. A -beautiful fountain plays upon each side of this, and the winds, having -free course in the unsheltered Place, flung the waters madly about. -Twelve hundred people were trampled to death here once. A discharge -of fireworks in celebration of the marriage of Louis XVI. and Marie -Antoinette caused a panic and a stampede among the horses attached to -the vehicles blocking up the great square. They dashed into the dense -mass of the populace, and in half-an-hour the disaster was complete. -Sixteen years later there was another panic,—another rush of maddened -brutes, that lasted eighteen months. Twenty-eight hundred souls were -driven to bliss or woe in the hurly-burly—the devil’s dance of the -eighteenth century. The bride and groom, whose nuptial festivities -had caused the minor catastrophe, duly answered to their names at the -calling of the death-roll. The most precious blood of the kingdom was -flung to right and left as ruthlessly as the March winds now tore the -spray of the fountains. - -Nobody knows, they say, exactly where the guillotine stood;—only that -it was near the obelisk and the bronze basins, where Tritons and -nymphs bathe all day long. We were in the Place one evening when an -angry sunset tinged the waters to a fearful red. Passers-by stopped to -look at the phenomenon, until quite a crowd collected. A very quiet -crowd for Parisians, but eyes sought other eyes meaningly, some in -superstitious dread. While we reviewed, mentally, the list of the -condemned brought hither in those two years, it would not have seemed -strange had the dolphins vomited human blood into the vast pools. - -“Monsieur will see the Colonne de Juillet?” said our coachman, who, as -we gazed at the fountains on this day, had exchanged some words with -a compatriot. “There has been an accident to” (or _at_) “the Colonne. -Monsieur and mesdames will find it interesting, without doubt.” The -wind was too sharp for bandying words. We jumped at the conclusion that -the colossal Statue of Liberty, poised gingerly upon the gilt globe on -the summit of the monument, had been blown down; bade him drive to the -spot, and closed the window. - -The Colonne de Juillet stands in the Place de la Bastille. No need -to tell the story of the prison-fastness. The useless key hangs in -the peaceful halls of Mount Vernon. The leveled stones are built into -the Bridge de la Concorde. These “French” titles of squares, bridges, -and streets, are sometimes apt, oftener fantastic, not infrequently -horribly incongruous. The good Archbishop of Paris was shot upon the -site of the old Bastille, in the revolution of 1848, pleading with both -parties for the cessation of the fratricidal strife, and dying, like -his Lord, with a prayer for his murderers upon his lips. Under the -Column of July lie buried the victims of still another revolution—that -of 1830,—with some who fell at the neighboring barricade, in 1848. One -must carry a pocket record of wars and tumults, if he would keep the -run of Parisian _émeutes_. - -Our _cocher’s_ information was correct. A throng gathered about the -railed-in base of the column. But Liberty still tip-toed upon the -gilded world, and the bronze shaft was intact. - -“If Monsieur would like to get out”—said the driver at the door—“he -can learn all about the accident. _Le pauvre diable_ leaped—it is now -less than an hour since.” - -“Leaped!” Then the interesting accident was described. A man had jumped -down from the top of the monument. They often did it. - -We ought to have been shocked. But the absurdity of the -misunderstanding, the man’s dramatic enjoyment of the situation, and -his manner of communicating the news, rather tempted us to amusement. - -“Was he killed?” - -“Ah! without doubt, Madame! The colonne has one hundred and fifty-two -feet of height. Perfectly killed, Monsieur!” - -Impelled by a wicked spirit of perversity, or a more complex caprice, I -offered another query: - -“What do you suppose he thought of while falling?” - -The fellow scanned my impassive face. - -“Ah, Madame! of nothing! One never thinks at such a moment. _Ma foi!_ -why should he? He will be out of being—_rien_—in ten seconds. He has no -more use for thought. Why think?” - -We declined to inspect the stone on which the suicide’s head had -struck. Indeed, assented our _cocher_, where was the use? The body -had been removed immediately, and the pavement washed. The police -would look to that. Monsieur would see only a wet spot. The wind would -soon dry it. Ah! they were skilful (_habile_) in such accident at the -monument. If a man were weary of life, there was no better place for -him—and no noise made about it afterward. - -“Somehow,” said Prima, presently, “I cannot feel that a Frenchman’s -soul is as valuable as ours. They make so light of life and death, and -as for Eternity, they resolve it into, as that man said—‘nothing.’” - -“‘He giveth to all life and breath and all things, and hath made of one -blood all nations of men,’” I quoted, gravely. - -I would not admit, unless to myself, that the coachman’s talk of -the wet spot upon the pavement and the significant gesture of -blowing away a gas, or scent, that had accompanied his “Nothing,” -brought to my imagination the figure of a broken phial of spirits of -hartshorn—pungent, volatile—_rien_! - -On another windy morning we made one of our favorite “Variety -Excursions.” We had spent the previous day at the Louvre, and eyes and -minds needed rest. I have seen people who could visit this mine of -richest art for seven and eight consecutive days, without suffering -from exhaustion or plethora. Three hours at a time insured for me a -sleepless night, or dreams thronged with travesties of the beauty in -which I had reveled in my waking hours. Instead then, of entering the -Louvre on the second day, we checked the carriage on the opposite side -of the street before the church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois. - -Dionysius the Areopagite, converted by Paul’s sermon on Mars’ Hill, -went on a mission to Paris, suffered death for his faith upon -Montmartre—probably a corruption of _Mons Martyrum_,—and was interred -upon the site of St. Germain l’Auxerrois. His tomb and chapel are -there, in support of the legend. Another chapel is dedicated to “Notre -Dame de la Compassion.” The name reads like a sorrowful satire. For -we had not come thither out of respect for St Dionysius—alias St. -Denis—nor to gaze upon frescoes and paintings—all fine of their -kind,—nor to talk of the battle between Bourbons and populace in 1831, -when upon the eleventh anniversary of the Duc de Berry’s assassination, -as a memorial mass was in progress, the church was stormed by a -mob—that _canaille_-deep that was ever boiling like a pot—the priests -violently ejected, the friends of the deceased Duc forced to fly for -their lives, and the old church itself closed against priests and -worshippers for seven years. It was the royal parish church, for a -long time. Catherine de Medicis must have attended it, being a good -daughter of the Church. Hence there was especial propriety in her order -that from the belfry of this sanctuary should be given the signal for -the massacre of her dear son’s heretic subjects on St. Bartholomew’s -Night, 1572. From a window in his palace of the Louvre, Charles fired -as fast as his guards could load carbines, upon the flying crowds in -the streets. In obedience to tradition, a certain window was, up to the -beginning of this century, designated as that in which he was stationed -on that occasion, and an inscription to this effect was engraved -beneath it: - -“_C’est de cette fenêtre que l’infâme Charles 9 d’exécrable mémoire a -tiré sur le peuple avec une carabine._” - -“Upon the people!” It was not safe even in 1796 to write that the -murdered were Huguenots and that they perished for that cause and none -other. The cautious inscription was removed upon the belated discovery -that the part of the palace containing this window was not built -until the execrable Charles was in his grave. The balcony from which -he “drew” upon all who did not wear the white badge of Romanism, was -in the front of the palace where the deep boom of the bell must have -jarred him to his feet, pealing from midnight to dawn. The government -suffered no other knell to sound for the untimely taking-off of nearly -one hundred thousand of the best citizens of France. - -A modern steeple lifts a stately spire between the church-porch and -the adjoining Mayor’s Court. The little old belfry is thrown into -background and shadow, as if it sought to slink out of sight and -history. We paused beneath it, within the church upon the very spot -pressed by the ringer’s feet that awful night. The sacristan stared -when we asked what had become of the bell, and why it had not been -preserved as a historical relic. - -“There is a _carillon_ (chime) in the new steeple. Fine bells, large -and musical. Unfortunately, they do not at present play.” - -The ceiling of the church is disproportionately low; the windows, -splendid with painted glass, light the interior inadequately, even in -fine weather. As we paced the aisles the settling of the clouds without -was marked by denser shades in the chapels and chancel, blotting out -figures and colors in frescoes and paintings, and making ghostly the -trio of sculptured angels about the cross rising above the holy-water -basin—or _bénitier_. Fountains of holy-water at each corner of the -Place would not be amiss. - -The Parisian Panthéon has had a hard struggle for a name. First, it -was the Church of Ste. Géneviève, the patron saint of Paris, erected -soon after her martyrdom, A.D. 500. The present building, finished in -1790, bore the same title until in 1791, the Convention, in abolishing -Religion at large, called it “the Panthéon” and dedicated it to “the -great men of a grateful country.” This dedication, erased thirty years -afterward, was in 1830, again set upon the façade, and remains there, -_malgré_ the decree of Church and State, giving back to it the original -name. - -Under the impression that Ste. Géneviève was buried in the chapel named -for her and the church decorated with scenes from her life, I accosted -a gentlemanly priest and asked permission on behalf of a namesake of -the girl-saint to lay a rosary entrusted to me, upon her tomb. He -heard me kindly, took the chaplet and proceeded to inform me that Ste. -Géneviève was burned (_brûlée_), but that “we have here in her shrine, -her hand, miraculously preserved, and her ashes.” - -“That must do, I suppose,” said I, as deputy for American Géneviève. -The chaplet was laid within the shrine, blessed, crossed and returned -to me. I had no misgivings until our third visit to Paris, when, going -into St. Étienne du Mont, situated also in the Place du Panthéon, I -discovered that Ste. Géneviève had not been burned; had been buried, -primarily, in the Panthéon, then removed to St. Étienne du Mont, and -had now rested for a thousand years or so, in a tomb grated over to -preserve it from being destroyed by the kisses and touches of the -faithful. I bought another rosary; the priest undid a little door -on the top of the grating, passed the beads through and rubbed them -upon the sacred sarcophagus. Novices are liable to such errors and -consequent discomfiture. - -The Panthéon, imposing in architecture and gorgeous in adornment, -assumed to us, through a series of disappointments, the character of -a vast receiving-vault. The crypt is massive and spacious, supported -by enormous pillars of masonry, and remarkable for a tremendous echo, -whereby the clapping of the guide’s hands is magnified and multiplied -into a prolonged and deafening cannonade, rolling and bursting through -the dark vaults, as if all the sons of thunder once interred (but not -staying) here were comparing experiences above their vacated tombs, and -suiting actions to words in fighting their battles over again. - -Mirabeau’s remains were taken from this crypt for re-interment in Père -Lachaise. Marat—the Abimelech of the Jacobin fraternity—was torn from -his tomb, tied up in a sack like offal, and thrown into a sewer. There -is here a _wooden_ sarcophagus, cheap and pretentious, inscribed with -the name of Rousseau and the epitaph—“Here rests the man of Nature and -of Truth.” The door is ajar—a hand and wrist thrust forth, upbear a -flaming torch—an audacious conception, that startled us when we came -unexpectedly upon it. - -“A sputtering flambeau in this day and generation,” said Caput. - -The guide, not understanding one English word, hastened to inform us -that the tomb was empty. - -“Where, then, is the body?” - -A shrug. “Ah! monsieur, who knows?” - -Another wooden structure, with a statue on top, is dedicated, “_Aux -manes de Voltaire_.” - -“Poet, historian, philosopher, he exalted the man of intellect and -taught him that he should be free. He defended Calas, Sirven, De la -Barre, and Montbailly; combated atheists and fanatics; he inspired -toleration; he reclaimed the rights of man from servitude and -feudalism.” Thus runs the epitaph. - -“Empty, also!” said the guide, tapping the sarcophagus. “The body was -removed by stealth and buried—who can say where?” - -“Was _anybody_ left here?” - -“But yes, certainly, monsieur!” and we were showed the tombs—as yet -unrifled—of Marshal Lannes, Lagrange, the mathematician, and Soufflot, -the architect of the Panthéon; likewise, the vaults in which the -Communists stored gunpowder for the purpose of blowing up the edifice. -It was a military stronghold in 1848, and again in 1871, and but for -the opportune dislodgment of the insurgents at the latter date the -splendid pile would have followed the example of the noted dead who -slumbered, for a time, beneath her dome—then departed—“who can tell -where?” - -The Hôtel and Museum de Cluny engaged our time for the rest of the -forenoon. A visit to it is a “Variety Excursion” in itself. The -hall, fifty feet high, and more than sixty in length, and paved -with stone—headless trunks, unlidded sarcophagi, like dry and mouldy -bath-tubs; broken marbles carved with pagan devices, and heaps of -nameless _débris_ lying about in what is, to the unlearned, meaningless -disorder—was the _frigidarium_, or cold-water baths, belonging to the -palace of the Roman Emperor Constantius Chlorus, built between A.D. 290 -and 306. It was bleak with the piercing chilliness the rambler in Roman -ruins and churches never forgets—which has its acme in the more than -deathly cold of that ancient and stupendous refrigerator, St. John of -Lateran, and never departs in the hottest noon-tide of burning summer -from the frigidaria of Diocletian and Caracalla. But we lingered, -shivering, to hear that the Apostate Julian was here proclaimed Emperor -by his soldiers in 360, and to see his statue, gray and grim, near an -altar of Jupiter, found under the church of Nôtre Dame. Wherever Rome -set her foot in her day of power, she stamped hard. Centuries, nor -French revolutions can sweep away the traces. - -In less than three minutes the guide was pointing out part of Molière’s -jaw-bone affixed to a corridor-wall in the Musée. This, directly -adjoining the Roman palace, was a “branch establishment” of the -celebrated Abbey of Cluny, in Burgundy; next, a royal palace, first -occupied by the English widow of Louis XII., sister of Bluff King -Hal. “_La chambre de la Reine Blanche_,” so called because the queens -of France wore white for mourning—is now the receptacle of a great -collection of musical instruments, numbered and dated. James V. of -Scotland married Madeleine, daughter of Francis I., in this place. -After the first Revolution, when kings’ houses were as if they had not -been, Cluny became state property, and was bought by an archæologist, -who converted it into a museum. There are now upward of nine thousand -articles on the catalogue. The reader will thankfully excuse me -from attempting a summary, but heed the remark that the collection -is valuable and varied, and better worth visit and study than any -other assortment of relics and ancient works of art we saw in France. -The fascination it exerted upon us and others is doubtless, in part, -referable to the character of the building in which the collection -is stored. Palissy faïence, ivory carvings, rich with the slow, -mellow dyes of centuries; enamels in copper, executed for Francis I.; -Venetian glasses; old weapons; quaint and ornate tilings; tapestries, -more costly than if woof and broidery were pure gold—are tenfold -more ravishing when seen in the light from mullioned windows of the -fifteenth century, and set in recesses whose carvings vie in beauty and -antiquity with the objects enclosed by their walls. Gardens, deep with -shade, mossy statues and broken fountains dimly visible in the alleys, -great trees tangled and woven into a thick roof over walks and green -sward—all curiously quiet in the heart of the restless city, seclude -Thermæ and Hôtel in hushed and dusky grandeur. - -The Rue St. Jacques, skirting the garden-wall on one side, was an old -Roman road. By it we were transported, without too violent transition -from the Past, into the Paris of To-Day. - -FOOTNOTE: - -[A] “_Je désire que mes cendres reposent sur les bords de la Seine, au -milieu de ce peuple François que j’ai tant aimé._” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -_Versailles—Expiatory Chapel—Père Lachaise._ - - -THE guide-books say that the visitor to the palace of Versailles is -admitted, should he desire it, to five different court-yards. We cared -for but one—the _cour d’honneur_ whose gates are crowned with groups -emblematical of the victories of _le grand Monarque_. - -It is an immense quadrangle, paved with rough stones, and flanked -on three sides by the palace and wings. The central château, facing -the entrance, was built by Louis XIII., the wings by Louis XIV. The -prevailing color is a dull brick-red; the roofs are of different -heights and styles; the effect of the whole far less grand, or even -dignified, than we had anticipated. The pavilions to the right and -left are lettered, “_À toutes les gloires de la France_.” Gigantic -statues, beginning, on the right hand, with Bayard, “_sans peur et sans -reproche_,” guard both sides of the court. In the centre is a colossal -equestrian statue in bronze of Louis XIV., the be-wigged, be-curled, -and be-laced darling of himself and a succession of venal courtezans. -At the base of this statue we held converse, long and low, of certain -things this quadrangle had witnessed when, through it, lay the way -to the most luxurious and profligate court that has cursed earth and -insulted Heaven since similar follies and crimes wrought the downfall -of the Roman Empire. Of the throngs of base parasites that flocked -thither in the days when Pompadour and Du Barry held insolent misrule -over a weaker, yet more vicious sovereign than Louis XIV. Of the -payment exacted for generations of such amazing excesses, when Parisian -garrets and slums sent howling creditors by the thousand to settle -accounts with Louis XVI. Vast as is the space shut in by palace-walls -and folding gates, they filled it with ragged, bare-legged, red-capped -demons. Upon the balcony up there, the king, also wearing the red cap, -appeared at his good children’s call. Anything for peace and life! Upon -the same balcony stood, the same day, his braver wife, between her -babes, true royalty sustaining her to endure, without quailing, the -volleys of contumely hurled at “the Austrian woman.” Having secured -king, queen, and children as hostages for the payment of the national -debt of vengeance, the complainants sacked the palace, made an end -of its glory as a kingly residence, until Louis Philippe repaired -ravages to the extent of his ability, and converted such of the state -apartments as he adjudged unnecessary for court uses into an historical -picture-gallery. - -The history of the French nation—of its monarchs, generals, marshals, -victories, coronations, and hundreds of lesser events—is there written -upon canvas. Eyes and feet give out and the brain wearies before it -is half read. The polished floors, inlaid with different-colored -woods, smooth as glass, are torture to the burning soles; the aching -in the back of the neck becomes agony. Yet one cannot leave the work -unfinished, where every step is a surprise and each glance discovers -fresh objects of interest. - -“If only we had the moral courage not to look at the painted ceilings!” -said Dux, meditatively; “or if it were _en règle_ for a fellow to lie -upon his back in order to inspect them!” - -We were in the Gallery of Mirrors, two hundred and forty feet long; -seventeen windows looking down upon gardens and park, upon fountains, -groves, and lakelets; seventeen mirrors opposite these repeating the -scenes framed by the casements. - -“The ceiling by Lebrun represents scenes in the life of the Grand -Monarch,” uttered the guide. - -Hence the plaint, echoed groaningly by us all. - -The chamber in which Louis XIV. died is furnished very much as it was -when he lay breathing more and more faintly, hour after hour, within -the big bed lifted by the dais from the floor, that, sleeping or dying, -he might lie above the common walks of men. Communicating with the -king’s bed-room is the celebrated Salle de l’œil de Bœuf, the ox-eyed -window at one side giving the name. The courtiers awaited there each -day the announcement that the king was awake and visible, beguiling -the tedium of their long attendance by sharp trades in love, court, -and state honors. It is a shabby-genteel little room, the hardness, -glass and glare that distinguish palatial parlors from those in which -sensible, comfort-loving people live, rubbed and tarnished by time -and disuse. Filled with a moving throng in gala-apparel, this and -the expanse of the royal bed-chamber may have been goodly to behold; -untenanted, they are stiff and desolate. - -The central balcony, opening from the great chamber—the balcony -on which, forty-four years later, Marie Antoinette stood with her -children—was, upon the death-night of the king, occupied by impatient -officials—impatient, but no longer anxious, for the decease of their -lord was certain and not far off. The hangings of the bed, cumbrous -with gold embroidery, had been twisted back to give air to the expiring -man. As the last sigh fluttered from his lips, the high chamberlain -upon the balcony broke his white wand of office, shouting to the crowds -in the court-yard, “_Le roi est mort!_” and, without taking breath, -“_Vive le roi!_” - -No incident in French history is more widely known. In talking of it -in the bed-chamber and balcony, it was as if we heard it for the first -time. - -The “little apartments of the queen” were refreshment to our jaded -senses and nerves. They are a succession of cozy nooks in a retired -wing. Boudoirs, where were the soft lounges and low chairs, excluded -by etiquette from the courtly _salons_; closets, fitted up with -writing-desk, chair, and footstool; others, lined on all sides with -books; still others, where the queen, whether it were Maria Lesczinski -or Marie Antoinette, might sit, with a favorite maid of honor or two, -at her embroidery. Through these apartments, all the “home” she had had -in the palace, a terrified woman fled to gain a secret door of escape, -while the marauders, the delegation from Paris, were yelling and raging -for her blood in the corridors and state apartments. - -If this row of snug resting and working rooms were the “Innermost” -of her domestic life, the Petit Trianon was her play-ground. It is -a pretty villa, not more than half as large as the Grand Trianon -built for Madame de Maintenon by Louis XIV. Napoleon I. had a suite -of small apartments in the Petit Trianon—study, salon, bath and -dressing-rooms, and bed-chamber. They are furnished as he left them, -even to the hard bed and round, uncompromising pillows. All are hung -and upholstered with yellow satin brocade; the floors are polished -and waxed, uncarpeted, save for a rug laid here and there. A door -in the arras communicates with the Empress’ apartments. The villa -was built by Louis XV. for the Du Barry, but interests us chiefly -because of Marie Antoinette’s love for it. Her spinnet is in the -salon where she received only personal and intimate friends. It is a -common-looking affair, the case of inlaid woods ornamented with brass -handles and corners. The keys are discolored—some of them silent; the -others yielded discordant tinklings as we touched them with reverent -fingers. Her work-table is in another room. Her bed is spread with an -embroidered satin coverlet, once white. Her monogram and a crown were -worked near the bottom. The stitches were cut out by revolutionary -scissors, but their imprint remains, enabling one to trace clearly -the design. In this room hang her portrait and that of her son, the -lost Dauphin, a lovely little fellow, with large, dark-blue eyes like -his mother’s, and chestnut hair, falling upon a wide lace collar. His -coat is blue; a strap of livelier blue crosses his chest to meet a -sword-belt; a star shines upon his left breast, and he carries a rapier -jauntily under his arm. His countenance is sweet and ingenuous, but -there is a shading of pensiveness or thought in the expression which -is unchildlike. It was easy and pleasant to picture him running up and -down the marble stairs, and filling the now uninhabited rooms with -boyish talk and mirth. It was yet easier to reproduce in imagination -the figures of mother and children in the avenues leading to the Swiss -village, her favorite and latest toy. - -This is quite out of sight of palace and villas. The intervening -park was verdant and bright as with June suns, although the season -was November, and the sere leaves were falling about us. A miniature -lake and the islet in the middle, a circular marble temple upon the -island, giving cover to a nude nymph or goddess, were there, when -the light steps of royal mother and children skimmed along the path, -she, in her shepherdess hat, laughing and jesting with attendants in -sylvan dress. The day was very still with the placid melancholy that -consists in our country with Indian summer. The smell of withering -leaves hung in the air, spiciest in the sunny reaches of the winding -road, almost too powerful in shaded glens, heaped with yellow and -brown masses. We met but two people in our walk—an old peasant bent -low under a bundle of faggots, and an older woman in a red cloak, who -may have been a gypsy. The woods are well kept, the brushwood cut -out, and the trees, the finest in the vicinity of Paris, carefully -pruned of decaying boughs. We saw the village between their boles long -before reaching the outermost building—a mill, with peakéd gables and -antique chimneys, the hoary stones overgrown with ivy. We mounted the -flight of steps leading, on the outside, to the second story; shook -the door, in the hope that it might, through inadvertence, have been -left unlocked. Hollow echoes from empty rooms answered. Bending over -the balustrade, we looked down at the little water-wheel, warped by -dryness; at the channel that once led supplies to it from the lake hard -by. A close body of woods formed the background of the deserted house. -In the water of the lake were reflected the gray and moss-green stones; -barred windows; the clinging cloak of ivy; our own forms—the only -moving objects in the picture. Louis XVI., amateur locksmith for his -own pleasure, played miller here to gratify his wife’s whim, grinding -tiny sacks of real corn, and taking pains to become more floury in an -hour than a genuine miller would have made himself in six weeks, in -order to give vraisemblance to the play enacted by the queen and her -coterie. Around the bend of the pond lay the larger cottages which -served as kitchen, dining, and ball-rooms. All are built of stone, with -benches at the doors where peasants might rest at noon or evening; all -are clothed with ivy; all closed and locked. We skirted the lake to -get to the _laiterie_, or dairy. It is a one-storied cottage, with -windows in the tiled roof. Long French casements and glazed doors -allowed us to get a tolerable view of the interior. The floor, and the -ledges running around the room, are marble or smooth stone. Within this -building court-gallants churned the milk of the Swiss cows that grazed -in the lakeside glades; maids of honor made curds and whey for the -noonday dinner, and the leader of the frolic moulded rolls of butter -with her beautiful hands, attired like a dairy-maid, and training her -facile tongue to speak peasant patois. The industrious ivy climbs to -the low-hanging eaves, and, drooping in long sprays that did not sway -in the sleeping air, touched the busts of king and queen set upon tall -pedestals, the one between the two windows in the side of the house, -the other between the glass doors of the front gable. An observatory -tower, with railed galleries encircling the first and third stories, is -close to the _laiterie_. - -Many sovereigns in France and elsewhere have had expensive playthings. -Few have cost the possessors more dearly than did this Swiss hamlet. - -Innocent as the pastimes of miller and dairymaid appear to us, the -serious student of those times sees plainly that the comedy of happy -lowly life was a burning, cankering insult to the apprehension of the -starving people to whom the reality of peace and plenty in humble -homes, was a tradition antedating the reign of the Great Louis. While -their children died of famine, and men prayed vainly for work, the -profligate court, to maintain whose pomp the poor man’s earnings were -taxed, demeaned their queen and themselves in such senseless mummeries -as beguiled Time of weight in the pleasure-grounds of the Petit Trianon. - -The Place de la Concorde, from which Marie Antoinette waved farewell -to the Tuileries—dearer to her in death than it had been in life—is -the connecting link between the toy-village in the Versailles Park -and the Expiatory Chapel, in what was formerly the Cemetery of the -Madeleine in Paris. Leaving the bustling street, one enters through a -lodge, a garden, cheerful in November, with roses and pansies. A broad -walk connects the lodge and the tomb-like façade of the chapel. On -the right and left of paved way and turf-borders are buried the Swiss -Guard, over whose dead bodies the insurgents rushed to seize the queen -in the Tuileries, when compromise and the mockery of royalty were at -an end. The chapel is small, but handsome. On the right, half-way up -its length, is a marble group, life-size, of the kneeling king, looking -heavenward from the scaffold, in obedience to the gesture of an angel -who addresses him in the last words of his confessor—“Son of St. Louis, -ascend to Heaven!” - -Opposite is an exquisite portrait-statue of the queen, her sinking -figure supported by Religion. Anguish and resignation are blended in -the beautiful face. Her regards, like those of the king, are directed -upward. The features of Religion are Madame Elizabeth’s, the faithful -sister of Louis, who perished by the guillotine May 12, 1794. Both -groups are admirably wrought, and seen in the dim light of the stained -windows, impressively life-like. - -In the sub-chapel, gained by a winding stair, is an altar of black -marble in a recess, marking the spot where the unfortunate pair were -interred after their execution. The Madeleine was then unfinished, -and in the orchard back of it the dishonored corpse of Louis, and, -later, of his widow, were thrust into the ground with no show of -respect or decency. The coffins were of plain boards; the severed -heads were placed between the feet; quicklime was thrown in to hasten -decomposition; the grave or pit was ten feet deep, and the soil -carefully leveled. No pains were spared to efface from the face of -the earth all traces of the victims of popular fury. But loving eyes -noted the sacred place; kept watch above the mouldering remains until -the nation turned to mourn over the slaughter wrought by their rage. -Husband and wife were removed to the vaults of the Kings of France, -at St. Denis, in 1817, by Louis Philippe. The consciences of himself -and people fermented actively about that time, touching the erection -of a _monument expiatoire_. The Place de la Concorde was re-christened -“Place de Louis XVI.,” with the ulterior design of raising upon the -site of his scaffold, obelisk or church, which should bear his name -and be a token of his subjects’ contrition. To the like end, the king -of the French proposed to change the Temple de la Gloire of Napoleon -I.—otherwise the Madeleine—into an expiatory church, dedicated to -the _manes_ of Louis XVI., Louis XVII. (the little Dauphin), Marie -Antoinette, and Madame Elizabeth, a hapless quartette whose memory -needed rehabilitation at the hands of the reigning monarch and his -loving subjects, if ever human remorse could atone for human suffering. - -The Chapelle Expiatoire is the precipitate and settlement into -crystallization of this mental and moral inquietude. - -“No, madame!” said the custodian, in a burst of confidence. “We have -_not_ here the corpses of Louis XVI. and his queen. Their skeletons -repose at St. Denis. But only their bones! For there are here”—touching -the black marble altar—“the earth, the lime, the clothing that enclosed -their bodies. And upon this spot was their deep, deep grave. People of -true sensibility prefer to weep here rather than in the crypt of St. -Denis!” - -On the same day we saw St. Roch. Bonaparte planted his cannon upon the -broad steps, October 3, 1795, and fired into the solid ranks of the -advancing Royalists—insurgents now in their turn. The front of the -church is scarred by the balls that returned the salute. The chief -ornament of the interior is the three celebrated groups of statuary in -the Chapelle du Calvaire. These—the Crucifixion, Christ on the Cross, -and the Entombment—are marvelous in inception and execution. The small -chapel enshrining them becomes holy ground even to the Protestant -gazer. They moved us as statuary had never done before. Returning to -them, once and again, from other parts of the church, to look silently -upon the three stages in the Story that is above all others, we left -them finally with lagging tread and many backward glances. At the same -end of the church is the altar at which Marie Antoinette received her -last communion, on the day of her death. - -“Were _they_ here, then?” we asked of the sacristan, pointing to the -figures in the Chapelle du Calvaire. - -“But certainly, Madame! They are the work, the most famous, of Michel -Anguier, who died in 1686. The queen saw them, without doubt.” - -While the bland weather lasted, we drove out to Père Lachaise, passing -_en route_, the Prison de la Roquette, in which condemned prisoners are -held until executed. The public place of execution is at its gates. -This was a slaughter-pen during the Commune. The murdered citizens,—the -Archbishop of Paris, and the curé of the Madeleine among them,—were -thrown into the _fosses communes_ of Père Lachaise. These common -ditches, each capable of containing fifty coffins, are the last homes -donated by the city of Paris to the poor who cannot buy graves for -themselves. One is thankful to learn that the venerable Archbishop and -his companions were soon granted worthier burial. Our _cocher_ told us -what may, or may not be true, that the last victim of the guillotine -suffered here; likewise that one of the fatal machines is still kept -within the walls ready for use. - -For a mile—perhaps more—before reaching Père Lachaise, the streets are -lined with shops for the exhibition and sale of flowers,—a few natural, -many artificial,—wreaths of immortelles, yellow, white and black, and -an incredible quantity of bugle and bead garlands, crosses, anchors, -stars and other emblematic devices. Windows, open doors, shelves and -pavement are piled with them. Plaster lambs and doves and cherubs, -porcelain ditto; small glazed pictures of deceased saints, angels and -other creatures; sorrowing women weeping over husbands’ death-beds, -empty cradles and little graves,—all framed in gilt or black wood,—are -among the merchandise offered to the grief-stricken. A few of the -mottoes wrought into the immortelle and bead decorations will give a -faint idea of the “Frenchiness” of the display. - -“_Hélas!_” “_À ma chère femme_,” “_Chère petite_,” “_Ah! mon amie_,” -“_Bien-aimée_,” “_Chérie_,” and every given Christian name known in the -Gallic tongue. - -The famous Cemetery, which contains nearly 20,000 monuments, great and -small, is a curious spectacle to those who have hitherto seen only -American and English burial-grounds. Père Lachaise is a city of the -dead; not “GOD’S Acre,” or the garden in which precious seed have been -committed to the dark, warm, sweet earth in hope of Spring-time and -deathless bloom. The streets are badly paved and were so muddy when -we were there, that we had to pick our steps warily in climbing the -steep avenue beginning at the gates. Odd little constructions, like -stone sentry-boxes, rise on both sides of the way. Most of these -are surrounded by railings. All have grated doors, through which -one can survey the closets within. Flagging floors, plain stone, or -plastered walls and ceilings; low shelves or seats at the back, where -the meditative mourner may sit to weep her loss, or kneel to pray for -the belovéd soul,—these are the same in each. The monotony of the row -is broken occasionally by a chapel, an enlarged and ornate edition of -the sentry-box, or a monument resembling in form those we were used -to see in other cemeteries. The avenues are rather shady in summer. -At our November visit, the boughs were nearly bare, and rotting -leaves, trampled in the mud of the thoroughfares, made the place more -lugubrious. Really cheerful or beautiful it can never be. The flowers -set in the narrow beds between tombs and curbings, scarcely alleviate -the severely business-like aspect. Still less is this softened by -the multitudinous bugled and beaded ornaments depending from the -spikes of iron railings, cast upon sarcophagi, and the marble ledges -within the gates. All Soul’s Day was not long past and we supposed -this accounted for the superabundance of these offerings. We were -informed subsequently that there are seldom fewer than we saw at this -date. About and within one burial-closet—a family-tomb—we counted -_fifty-seven_ bugle wreaths of divers patterns, in all the hues of -the rainbow, besides the conventional black-and-white. The parade of -mortuary millinery, for a while absurd, became presently sickening, -horribly tawdry and glistening. It was a relief to laugh heartily and -naturally when we saw a child pick up a garland of shiny purple beads, -and set it rakishly upon the bust of Joseph Fourier, the inclination of -the decoration over the left eyebrow making him seem to wink waggishly -at us, in thorough enjoyment of the situation. - -We wanted to be thoughtful and respectful in presence of the dead, but -the achievement required an effort which was but lamely successful. -Dispirited we did become, by and by, and fatigued with trampling up -steep lanes and cross-alleys. Carriages cannot enter the grounds, and -even a partial exploration of them is a weariness. We drooped like the -weeping-willow set beside Alfred de Musset’s tomb, before we reached -it. An attenuated and obstinately disconsolate weeper is the tree -planted in obedience to his request:— - - “Mes chers amis, quand je mourrai, - Plantez un saule au cimetière; - J’aime son feuillage éploré, - La pâleur m’en est douce et chère; - Et son ombre sera légère, - À la terre où je dormirai.” - -The conditions of the sylvan sentinel whose sprays caressed his bust, -were, when we beheld it, comically “according to order.” There were -not more than six branches upon the tree, a few sickly leaves hanging -to each. At its best the foliage must have been “pale” and the shade -exceedingly “light.” - -The Gothic chapel roofing in the sarcophagus of Abelard and Heloïse, -was built of stones from the convent of Paraclet, of which Heloïse -was, for nearly half a century, Lady Superior. From this retreat she -addressed to her monkish lover letters that might have drawn tears -of blood from the heart of a flint; which impelled Abelard to the -composition of quires of homilies upon the proper management of the -nuns in her charge, including by-laws for conventual housewifery. -Under the pointed arches the mediæval lovers rest, side by side, -although they were divided in death by the lapse of twenty-two years. -Sarcophagus and effigies are very old, having been long kept among the -choice antiquities of a Parisian museum and placed in Père Lachaise by -the order of Louis Philippe. The monument was originally set up in the -Abbey of Heloïse near the provincial town of Nogent-sur-Seine, where -the rifled vault is still shown. Prior and abbess slumbered there for -almost seven centuries. Their statues are of an old man and old woman, -vestiges of former beauty in the chiseled features; more strongly drawn -lines of thought and character in brow, lip, and chin. They wear their -conventual robes. - -Peripatetic skeletons and ashes are _à la mode_ in this polite country. -The “manes,” poets and epitaphs are so fond of apostrophizing, should -have lively wits and faithful memories if they would keep the run of -their mortal parts. - -Marshal Ney has neither sentry-box, nor chapel, nor memorial-tablet. -His grave is within a square plat, railed in by an iron fence. The -turf is fresh above him, and late autumn roses, lush and sweet, were -blooming around. The ivy, which grows as freely in France as brambles -and bind-weed with us, made a close, green wall of the railing. We -plucked a leaf, as a souvenir. It is twice as large as our ivy-leaves, -shaded richly with bronze and purple, and whitely veined, and there -were hundreds as fine upon the vine. - -One path is known as that of the “artistes,” and is much frequented. -Upon Talma’s head-stone is carved a tragic mask. Music weeps over -the bust of Bellini and beside Chopin’s grave, and, in bas-relief, -crowns the sculptured head of Cherubini. Bernardin de St. Pierre lies -near Boïeldieu, the operatic composer. Denon, Napoleon’s companion -in Egypt, and general director of museums under the Empire, sits in -bronze, dark and calm as a dead Pharaoh, in the neighborhood of Madame -Blanchard, the aëronaut, who perished in her last ascent. There was -a picture of the disaster in Parley’s Magazine, forty years ago. I -remembered it—line for line, the bursting flame and smoke, the falling -figure—at sight of the inscription setting forth her title to artistic -distinction. Upon another avenue lie La Fontaine, Molière,—(another -itinerant, re-interred here in 1817,) Laplace, the astronomer, and -Manuel Garcia, the gifted father of a more gifted daughter,—Malibran. -“Around the corner,” we stumbled, as it were, upon the tomb of Madame -de Genlis. - -Rachel sleeps apart from Gentile dust in the Jewish quarter of Père -Lachaise. Beside the bare stone closet above her vault is a bush of -laurestinus, with glossy green leaves. The floor inside was literally -heaped with visiting-cards, usually folded down at one corner to -signify that he or she, paying the compliment of a post-mortem -morning-call, deposited the bit of pasteboard in person. There was -at least a half bushel of these touching tributes to dead-and-gone -genius. No flowers, natural or false, no immortelles—_no bugle -wreaths_! Only visiting-cards, many engraved with coronets and other -heraldic signs, tremendously imposing to simple Republicans. We -examined fifty or sixty, returning them to the closet, with scrupulous -care, after inspection. Some admirers had added to name and address, -a complimentary or regretful phrase that would have titillated the -insatiate vanity of the deceased, could she have read it,—wounded to -her death as she had been by the success of her rival Ristori. Her -votaries may have had this reminiscence of her last days in mind, and -a shadowy idea that her “manes,” in hovering about her grave, would be -cognizant of their compassionate courtesies. - -Most of the offerings were from what we never got out of the habit -of styling “foreigners.” There were a few snobbish-looking English -cards,—one with a sentence, considerately scribbled in French—“_Mille -et mille compliments_.” So far as our inspection went, there was not -one that bore an American address. Nor did we leave ours as exceptions -to this deficiency in National appreciation of genius and artistic -power—or National paucity of sentimentality. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -_Southward-Bound._ - - -“DO NOT go to Rome!” friends at home had implored by letter and word of -mouth, prior to our sailing from the other side. English acquaintances -and friends caught up the cry. In Paris, it swelled into impassioned -adjuration, reiterated in so many forms, and at times so numerous and -unseasonable that we nervously avoided the remotest allusion to the -Eternal City in word. But sleeping and waking thoughts were tormented -by mental repetitions that might, or might not be the whispers of -guardian angels. - -“Do not go to Rome! Do not thou or you go to Rome! Do not ye or you go -to Rome!” - -Thus ran the changes in the burden of admonition and thought. -Especially, “Do not ye or you go to Rome!” - -“Go, if you are bent upon it, me dear!” said a kind English lady. “Your -husband is robust, and it may be as you and he believe, that your -health requires a mild and sedative climate. But do not take your dear -daughters. The air of Rome is deadly to young English and American -girls. Quite a blight, I assure you!” - -Said one of our Paris bankers to Caput:—“I can have no conceivable -interest in trying to turn you aside from your projected route, but it -is my duty in the cause of common humanity to warn you that you are -running into the jaws of danger in taking your family to Rome. We have -advices to-day that the corpses of thirteen Americans, most of them -women and children,—all dead within the week—are now lying at Maquay -and Hooker’s in Rome awaiting transportation to America.” - -This was appalling. But matters waxed serious in Paris, too. Indian -Summer over, it began to rain. In Scriptural phrase,—“Neither sun nor -stars in many days appeared, and no small tempest”—of mist, sleet and -showers—“lay upon us.” Deprived of what was my very life—(what little -of it remained,) daily exercise in the open air, the cough, insomnia -and other terrors that had driven us into exile, increased upon me -rapidly and alarmingly. Weakening day by day, it was each morning -more difficult to rise and look despairingly from my windows upon the -watery heavens and flooded streets. Sunshine and soft airs were abroad -somewhere upon the earth. Find them we must before it should be useless -to seek them. The leader of the household brigade ordered a movement -along the whole line. Like a brood of swallows, we fled southward. -“Certainly to Florence. Probably to Rome. Should the skies there prove -as ungenial as those of France,—as a last and forlorn hope—to Algiers.” -Such were the terms of command. - -We arrived in Florence, the Beautiful, at ten o’clock of a December -night. The _facchini_ and _cocchieri_ at the station stared wildly -when we addressed them in French, became frantic under the volley of -Latin Caput hurled upon them, in the mistaken idea that they would -understand their ancestral tongue. Italian was, as yet, an unknown -realm to us, and our ignominious refuge was in the universal language -of signs. Porters and coachmen were quick in interpretation, much of -their intercourse with their fellow-countrymen being carried on in like -manner. The luggage was identified, piece by piece, and fastened upon -the carriages. The human freight was bestowed within, and as Prima -dropped upon the seat beside me, she lifted her hand in a vow: - -“I begin the study of Italian to-morrow!” - -It was raining steadily, the streets were ill-lighted, the pavements -wretched; and when a slow drive through tortuous ways brought us to our -desired haven, the house was so full that comfortable accommodations -for so large a party could not be procured. The proprietor kindly -and courteously directed us to a neighboring hotel, which he could -conscientiously recommend, and sent an English-speaking waiter—a -handsome, quick-witted fellow—to escort us thither and “see that we -were not cheated.” - -“Babes in the woods—nothing more!” grumbled the high-spirited young -woman at my elbow. - -She was the mistress of a dozen telling Italian words before she -slept. Our bed-rooms and adjoining _salon_ were spacious, gloomy, and -cheerless to a degree unknown out of Italy. The hotel had been a palace -in the olden times, after the manner of three-fourths of the Italian -houses of entertainment. Walls and floor were of stone, the chill of -the latter striking through the carpets into our feet My chamber, the -largest in the suite, contained two bier-like beds set against the far -wall, bureau, dressing-table, wash-stand, six heavy chairs, and a sofa, -and, between these, a desolate moor of bare carpeting before one could -gain the hearth. This was a full brick in width, bounded in front by a -strip of rug hardly wider—at the back by a triangular hole in the wall, -in which a chambermaid proceeded, upon our entrance, to build a wood -fire. First, a ball of resined shavings was laid upon the bricks; then, -a handful of dried twigs; then, small round sticks; then, diminutive -logs, split and seasoned, and we had a crackling, fizzing, conceited -blaze that swept all the heat with it up the chimney. The Invaluable’s -spirit-lamp upon the side-table had more cheer in it. If set down upon -the pyramid of Cheops, and told we were to camp there overnight, this -feminine Mark Tapley would, in half-an-hour, have made herself and the -rest of us at home; got up “a nice tea;” put Boy to bed and sat down -beside him, knitting in hand, as composedly as in our nursery over the -sea. - -Her “comfortable cup of tea” was ready by the time our supper was -brought up—a good supper, hot, and served with praiseworthy alacrity. -We ate it, and drank our tea, and looked at the fire, conscious that we -ought also to feel it, it was such a brisk, fussy little conflagration. -Landlord and servants were solicitous and attentive; hot-water bottles -were tucked in at the foot of each frozen bed, and we sought our -pillows in tolerable spirits. - -Mine were at ebb-tide again next morning, as, lying upon the sofa, -mummied in shawls, a _duvet_, covered with satinet and filled with -down, on the top of the heap, yet cold under them all, my eyes wandered -from the impertinent little fire that did not thaw the air twelve -inches beyond the hearth, to the windows so clouded with rain I could -hardly see the grim palace opposite, and I wondered why I was there. -Was the game worth the expensive candle? Why had I not stayed at home -and died like a Christian woman upon a spring-mattress, swathed in -thick blankets, environed by friends and all the appliances conducive -to euthanasia? I had begged the others to go out on a tour of business -and sight-seeing. I should be quite comfortable with my books, and the -thought of loneliness was preposterous. Was I not in Florence? Knowing -this, it would be a delight to lie still and dream. In truth, I was -thoroughly miserable, yet would have died sooner than confess it. I did -not touch one of the books laid upon the table beside me, because, I -said to my moody self, it was too cold and I too languid to put my hand -out from the load of wraps. - -There was a tap at the door. It unclosed and shut again softly. An -angel glided over the Siberian desert of carpet—before I could exclaim, -bent down and kissed me. - -“Oh!” I sighed, in hysterical rapture. “I did not know you were in -Italy!” - -She was staying in the hotel at which we had applied for rooms the -night before, and the handsome interpreter, Carlo, had reported our -arrival to the Americans in the house. - -Shall I be more glad to meet her in heaven than I was on that day to -look upon the sweet, womanly face, and hear the cooing voice, whose -American intonations touched my heart to melting? She sat with me all -the forenoon, the room growing warmer each hour. Her party—also a -family one—had now been abroad more than a year. The invalid brother, -her especial charge, was wonderfully better for the travel and change -of climate. He was far more ill than I when they left home. Of course -I would get well! Why not, with such tender nurses and the dear Lord’s -blessing? No! it did not “rain always in Florence;” but the rainy -season had now set in, and “Frederic and I are going to Rome next -week.” I question if she ever named herself, even in thought or prayer, -without the prefix of “Frederic.” - -“To Rome!” cried I, eagerly. “_Dare_ you!” - -My story of longing, discouragement, dreads—that had darkened into -superstitious presentiments—followed. The day went smoothly enough -after the confession, and the reassurances that it elicited. We secured -smaller and brighter bed-rooms, and almost warmed them by ruinously -dear fires, devouring as they did basketful after basketful of the -Lilliputian logs. It was the business of one _facchino_ to feed the -holes in the walls of the three rooms we inhabited in the day-time. -Other friends called—cordial and lavish of kind offices and offers as -are compatriots when met upon foreign soil. One family—old, old friends -of Caput—had, although now resident in Florence, lived for a year in -Rome, and laughed to scorn our fears of the climate. They rendered us -yet more essential service in suggestions as to clothing, apartments, -and general habits of life in Central Italy. To the adoption of these -we were, I believe, greatly indebted for the unbroken health which was -our portion as a household during our winter in the dear old city. - -We were in Florence ten days. Nine were repetitions, “to be continued,” -of such weather as we had left in Paris. One was so deliciously -lovely that, had not the next proved stormy, we should have postponed -our departure. We made the most of the sunshine, taking a carriage, -morning and afternoon, for drives in the outskirts of the town and in -the suburbs, which must have given her the name of _bella_. The city -proper is undeniably and irremediably ugly. The streets are crooked -lanes, in which the meeting of two carriages drives foot-passengers -literally to the wall. There are no sidewalks other than the few rows -of cobble-stones slanting down from the houses to the gutter separating -them from the middle of the thoroughfare. The far-famed palaces are -usually built around courtyards, and present to the street walls -sternly blank, or frowning with grated windows. If, at long intervals, -one has snatches through a gateway of fountains and conservatories, -they make the more tedious block after block of lofty edifices that -shut out light from the thread-like street—shed chill with darkness -into these dismal wells. This is the old city in its winter aspect. -Wider and handsome streets border the Arno—a sluggish, turbid creek—and -the modern quarters are laid out generously in boulevards and squares. -We modified our opinions materially the following year, when weather -and physical state were more propitious to favorable judgment. Now, -we were impatient to be gone, intolerant of the praises chanted and -written of _Firenze_ in so many ages and tongues. The happiest moment -of our stay within her gates was when we shook off so much of her mud -as the action could dislodge from our feet and seated ourselves in a -railway carriage for Rome. - -It was a long day’s travel, but the most entrancing we had as yet -known. Vallambrosa, Arezzo (the ancient _Arretium_), Cortona; -_Lake Thrasymene!_ The names leaped up at us from the pages of our -guide-books. The places for which they stood lay to the right and left -of the prosaic railway, like scenes in a phantasmagoria. We had, as -was our custom when it could be compassed by fee or argument, secured -a compartment to ourselves. There were no critics to sneer, or marvel -at our raptures and quotations. Boy, ætat four, whose preparation -for the foreign tour had been readings, recitations, and songs from -“Lays of Ancient Rome,” in lieu of Mother Goose and Baby’s Opera, and -whose personal hand-luggage consisted of a very dog-eared copy of the -work, illustrated by stiff engravings from bas-reliefs upon coins and -stones—bore a distinguished part in our talk. He would see “purple -Apennine,” and was disgusted at the commonplace roofs of Cortona that -no longer - - “Lifts to heaven - Her diadem of towers.” - -At mention of the famous lake, he scrambled down from his seat; made a -rush for the window. - -“Papa! is _that_ ‘reedy Thrasymene?’ Where is ‘dark Verbenna?’” - -As a reward for remembering his lesson so well, he was lifted to the -paternal knee, and while the train slowly wound along the upper end of -the lake, heard the story of the battle between Hannibal and Flaminius, -upon the weedy banks, B. C. 217; saw the defile in which the brave -consul was entrapped; where, for hours, the slaughter of the snared and -helpless troops went on, until the little river we presently crossed -was foul with running blood. It is Sanguinetto to this day. - -The vapors of morning were lazily curling up from the lake; dark -woods crowd down to the edge on one side; hills dressed in gray olive -orchards border another; a bold promontory on the west is capped by an -ancient tower. A monastery occupies one of the three islands that dot -the surface. A light film, like the breath upon a mirror, veiled the -intense blue of the sky—darkened the waters into slaty purple. - -A dense fog filled the basin between the hills on the May-day when -Rome’s best consul and general marched into it and to his death. - -On we swept, past Perugia, capital of old Umbria, one of the twelve -chiefest Etruscan cities; overcome and subjugated by the Roman power -B. C. 310. It was a battle-field while Antony and Octavius contended -for the mastership of Rome; was devastated by Goth, Ghibelline and -Guelph; captured successively by Savoyard, Austrian, and Piedmontese. -It is better known to this age than by all these events as the home of -Perugino, the master of Raphael, and father of the new departure from -the ancient school of painting. The view became, each moment, more -novel because more Italian. The roads were scantily shaded by pollarded -trees—mostly mulberry—from whose branches depended long festoons of -vines, linking them together, without a break, for miles. Farms were -separated by the same graceful lines of demarcation. Other fences were -rare. We did not see “a piece of bad road,” or a mud-hole, in Italy. -The road and bridge-builders of the world bequeathed to their posterity -one legacy that has never worn out, which bids fair to last while the -globe swings through space. As far as the eye could reach along the -many country highways we crossed that day, the broad, smooth sweep -commanded our wondering admiration. The grade from crown to sides is so -nicely calculated that rain-water neither gathers in pools in the road, -nor gullies the bed in running off. Vehicles are not compelled, by -barbarous “turnpiking,” to keep the middle of the track, thus cutting -deep ruts other wheels must follow. It is unusual, in driving, to -strike a pebble as large as an egg. - -The travellers upon these millennial thoroughfares were not numerous. -Peasants on foot drove herds of queer black swine, small and gaunt, -in comparison with our obese porkers—vicious-looking creatures, with -pointed snouts and long legs. Women, returning from or going to market, -had baskets of green stuff strapped upon their backs, and often -children in their arms; bare-legged men in conical hats and sheepskin -coats, trudged through clouds of white dust, raised by clumsy carts, -to which were attached the cream-colored oxen of the Campagna. Great, -patient beasts they are, the handsomest of their race, with incredibly -long horns symmetrically fashioned and curved. These horns are sold -everywhere in Italy as a charm against “the evil eye”—the dread of all -classes. - -About the middle of the afternoon we descended into the valley of the -Tiber—the cleft peak of Soracte (Horace’s Soracte!) visible from afar -like a rent cloud. We crossed a bridge built by Augustus; halted for -a minute at the Sabine town that gave Numa Pompilius to Rome; watched, -with increasing delight, the Sabine and Alban Mountains grow into -shape and distinctness; gazed oftenest and longest—as who does not?—at -the Dome, faint, for a while, as a bubble blown into the haze of the -horizon—more strongly and nobly defined as we neared our goal; crossed -the Anio, upon which Romulus and Remus had been set adrift; made a wide -_détour_ that, apparently, took us away from, not toward the city, and -showed us the long reaches of the aqueducts, black and high, “striding -across the Campagna,” in the settling mists of evening. Then ensued an -odd jumble of ruins and modern, unfinished buildings, an alternation, -as incongruous, of strait and spacious streets, and we steamed slowly -into the station. It is near the Baths of Diocletian, and looks like a -very audacious interloper by daylight. - -It was dusk when our effects were collected, and they and ourselves -jolting over miserable pavements toward our hotel in the guardianship -of a friend who had kindly met us at the station. By the time we had -reached the quarters he had engaged for us; had waited some minutes -in a reception-room in the _rez-de-chaussée_ that felt and smelt like -a newly-dug grave; had ascended two flights of obdurate stone stairs, -cruelly mortifying to feet cramped and tender with long sitting and -the hot-water footstools of the railway carriage; had sat for half -an hour, shawled and hatted, in chambers more raw and earthy of odor -than had been the waiting-room, watching the contest betwixt flame -and smoke in the disused chimneys, we discovered and admitted that -we were tired to death. Furthermore, that the sensation of wishing -oneself really and comfortably deceased, upon attaining this degree of -physical depression, is the same in a city almost thirty centuries -old, and in a hunter’s camp in the Adirondacks. Even Caput looked -vexed, and wondered audibly and repeatedly why fires were not ready in -rooms that were positively engaged and ordered to be made comfortable -twenty-four hours ago; and the Invaluable, depositing Boy, swathed in -railway rugs, upon one of the high, single beds, lest his feet should -freeze upon “the murdersome cold floors,” “guessed these Eyetalians -aren’t much, if any of fire-makers.” Thereupon, she went down upon her -knees to coax into being the smothering blaze, dying upon a cold hearth -under unskilfully-laid fuel. The carpet in the _salon_ we had likewise -bespoken was not put down until the afternoon of the following day. The -fires in all the bed-rooms smoked. By eight o’clock we extinguished -the last spark and went to bed. In time, we took these dampers and -reactions as a part of a hard day’s work; gained faith in our ability -to live until next morning. Being unseasoned at this period, the first -night in Rome was torture while we endured it, humiliating in the -retrospect. - -It rained from dawn to sundown of the next day. Not with melancholy -persistency, as in Florence, as if the weather were put out by contract -and time no object, but in passionate, fitful showers, making rivers of -the streets, separated by intervals of sobbing and moaning winds and -angry spits of rain-drops. We stayed in-doors, and, under compulsion, -rested. The fires burned better as the chimneys warmed to their work; -we unpacked a trunk or two; wrote letters and watched, amused and -curious, the proceedings of two men and two women who took eight hours -to stretch and tack down the carpet in our _salon_. Each time one of us -peeped, or sauntered in to note and report progress, all four of the -work-people intermitted their ceaseless jargon to nod and smile, and -say “_Domane!_” Young travelled in Italy before he wrote “To-morrow, -and to-morrow, and to-morrow!” - -Our morrow was brilliantly clear, and freshness like the dewy breath -of early Spring was in the air. Our first visit was, of course, to -our bankers, and while Caput went in to inquire for letters (and to -learn, I may add, that the story of the thirteen American corpses was -unsupported by the presence, then or during the entire season, of a -single one), we lay back among the carriage-cushions, feeling that we -drank in the sunshine at every pore—enjoying as children or Italians -might the various and delightful features of the scene. - -The sunlight—clarified of all vaporous grossness by the departed -tempest—in color, the purest amber; in touch and play beneficent as -fairy balm, was everywhere. Upon the worn stones paving the Piazza di -Spagna, and upon the Bernini fountain (one of them), the Barcaccia, -at the foot of the Spanish Steps,—a boat, commemorating the mimic -naval battles held here by Domitian, when the Piazza was a theatre -enclosing an artificial lake. Upon beggars lolling along the tawny-gray -Steps, and contadini—boys, women, and girls—in fantastic costume, -attitudinizing to catch the eye of a chance artist. Upon the column, -with the Virgin’s statue on top, Moses, Isaiah, Ezekiel, and David -at the base, rusty tears, from unsuspected iron veins, oozing out -of the sides,—decreed by Pius IX. in honor of his pet dogma of the -Immaculate Conception. Upon the big, dingy College of the Propaganda, -founded in 1622, Barberini bees in bas-relief conspicuous among the -architectural ornaments. More of Bernini’s work. Urban VIII., his -patron, being a Barberini. Upon the Trinita di Monti at the top of the -Spanish Staircase, where the nuns sing like imprisoned canaries—as -sweetly and as monotonously—on Sabbath afternoons, and all the world -goes to hear them. Upon the glittering windows of shops and hotels -fronting the Piazza—the centre of English and American colonies in -Rome. Upon the white teeth and brown faces of boys—some beautiful as -cherubs—who held up great trays of violets for us to buy, and wedded -forever our memories of the Piazza and this morning with violet scent. -Upon the wrinkles and rags of old women—some hideous as hags—who piped -entreaties that we would “_per l’amore di Dio_” make a selection from -their stock of Venetian beads, Naples lava trinkets, and Sorrento -wood-work. Upon the portly figure and bland countenance of Mr. Hooker, -coming out to welcome us to the city which has given him a home for -thirty years, and which he has made home-like to so many of his -country-people. Lastly, and to our fancy most brightly, upon the faces -of my Florence angel of mercy and her family party, alighting from -their carriage at the door of the bank, and hurrying up to exchange -greetings with us. - -This was our real coming to Rome! Not the damp and despondency of the -thirty-six hours lying just behind us; dreariness and doubts never -renewed in the five fleet-footed months during which we lingered and -_lived_ within her storied gates. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -_Pope, King, and Forum._ - - -I WAS sorry to leave the hotel, the name of which I withhold for -reasons that will be obvious presently. Not that it was in itself a -pleasant caravansary, although eminently respectable, and much affected -by Americans and English. Not that the rooms were ever warm, although -we wasted our substance in fire-building; or that the one dish of -meat at luncheon, or the principal dessert at dinner, always “went -around.” We had hired a commodious and sunny “_appartamento_” of seven -well-furnished rooms in Via San Sebastiano—a section of the Piazza di -Spagna—and were anxious to begin housekeeping. - -I _did_ regret to leave, with the probability of never seeing her -again—a choice specimen of the _Viatrix Americana_, a veritable unique, -whose seat was next mine at luncheon and dinner. Our friendship began -through my declaration, at her earnest adjuration, of my belief that -the “kick-shaws,” as she called them, offered for our consumption -were harmless and passably digestible by the Yankee stomach. She was -half-starved, poor thing! and after this I cheerfully fulfilled the -office of taster, drawing my salary twice _per diem_ in the liberal -entertainment of her converse with me. She had been three-quarters of -the way around the world, with her husband as banker and escort; was -great upon Egyptian donkeys and the domestic entomology of Syria, and -could not lisp one word of any dialect excepting that of her native -“Vairmount” and of her adopted State, which we will name—Iowa. - -“You sight-see so slow!” was her unintentional alliteration, on the -fifth day of our acquaintanceship. “Aint bin to see a church yet, hev -you?” - -I answered, timidly, that I was waiting to grow stronger. “The churches -are so cold in Winter that I shall probably put off that part of my -sight-seeing until Spring.” - -“Good gracious! Be you goin’ to spend the winter here?” - -“That is our hope, at present.” - -“You’ll be bored to death! You wont see _You_-rope in ten year, if you -take it so easy. We calkerlate to do up Rome under a fort_night_. We’ve -jest finished up the churches. On an averidge of thirty-five a day! But -we hed to work lively. Now we’re at the villers. One on ’em you must -see—sick or well. ’Taint so very much of it upstairs. The beautifullest -furnitur’ I ever see. Gildin’ and tay-pis_try_, and velvet and picters -and freskies, common as dirt, as you may say. The gardings a sight -to behold. You _make_ your husband take you! Set your foot down, for -oncet!” - -“What villa—did you say?” - -“The Land! I don’t bother with the outlandish names. But you’ll find -it easy. Napoleon Boneypart did somethin’ or ’nother ther oncet. Or, -his son, or nephey, or some of the family. Any way, I do know I never -see sech winder-curtains anywhere. Thick as a board! Solid satin. No -linin’s, for I fingered ’em and took a peek at the wrong side to be -positive. We wound up the churches by goin’ to see the tomb the Pope’s -been a buildin’ of for himself. A kind o’ square pit, or cellar right -in the middle of the church of What’s-his-name?” - -“Santa Maria Maggiore?” - -“That’s the feller! You go down by two flights of stun steps. One -onto each side of the cellar. Its all open on top, you understand, on -a level with the church-floor, and jest veneered with marble. Every -color you can think of. Floor jest the same. Old Pope Griggory, he -aint buried yet. Lies ’bove-ground, in a red marble box. He can’t be -buried for good ’tell Pious, he dies. And _he_ must hev the same spell -o’ waitin’ for the next one. Ther’ must be two popes on the top of the -yearth at the same time. One live and one dead. Thinks-I, when I looked -inter the cryp’—as they call it—jest a-blazin’ and a-dazzlin’ with red, -blue, green and yellow, and polished like a new table-knife blade.—If -_this_ aint vanity and vexation! I’d ruther hev our fam’ly lot in the -buryin’ groun’ to Meekinses Four Corners—(a real nice lot it is! With -only one stun’ as yet. ‘To my daughter Almiry Jane, Ag_éd_ six months -and six days,’) where I could be tucked up, like a lady, safe and snug. -Oncet for all and no bones about it!” - -On the tenth and last day of our sojourn at the hotel, she went to see -the Pope. - -“May I come inter your sittin’-room?” was her petition at evening. “I -am fairly bustin’ to tell you all about it. And if we go inter the -public parler, them Englishers will be makin’ fun behind my back. For, -you see, ther’s considerable actin’ to be done to tell it jest right.” - -I took her into our _salon_, established her in an arm-chair, and was -attentive. I had seen her in her best black silk with the regulation -black lace shawl, which generally does duty as a veil, pinned to -her scanty hair. Ladies attending the Pope’s levees must dress in -black, without bonnets, the head being covered by a black veil. -When thus attired, my acquaintance had wound and hung at least half -a peck of rosaries upon her arms, “to have ’em handy for the old -cretur’s blessin’.” I was now to hear how her husband had hired at the -costumer’s the dress-coat prescribed for gentlemen. - -“Come down to his heels, if you’ll believe me! He bein’ a spare man, -and by no manner of means tall. Sleeves a mile too long. Collar over -his ears. A slice of his bald head showed atop of it like a new moon!” - -She stopped to laugh, we all joining in heartily. - -“Mr. Smith from St. _Lewis_,—he was along and his coat was as much too -small for him as my husband’s was too big for _him_. Mr. Smith daresn’t -breathe for fear of splittin’ it down the back.” - -I recollected the story of Cyrus and the two coats, and restrained the -suggestion that they might have exchanged garments. - -“Eight francs an hour, they paid—one dollar ’n’ sixty cents good money, -for the use of each of the bothering machines. Well! when we was all -got up to kill as it were—(’twas some like it!) we druv’ off, two -carriage-fulls, to the Pope’s Palace—the _Vacuum_. Up the marble steps -we tugged, through five or six monstrous rooms, all precious marbled -and gilded and tapes_tried_, into a long hall, more like a town-meeting -house than a parler. Stuffed benches along the side, where we all sat -down to wait for the old man. Three mortal hours, he kept us coolin’ of -our heels after the time advertised for the levy. I _hev_ washed an’ -ironed and churned and done my own housework in my day. I ain’t ashamed -to say I’d ruther do a good day’s heft at ’em all, than to pass another -sech tiresome mornin’. I don’t call it mannerly to tell people when to -come, and then not be ready. Mr. Smith, he nearly died in his tight -coat with the circulation stopped into both arms. At last, the door at -the bottom of the hall was flung open by a fellow in striped breeches, -and in _he_ come. A man in a black gownd to each side on him. He is -powerful feeble-lookin’, but I will say, aint quite so _an_cient as I’d -expected to see. He leaned upon the arm of one man. Another went ’round -the room with ’em, collectin’ of our names to give ’em to him. I forgot -to tell you that everybody dropped on their knees, the minute the -door opened and we saw who ’twas. That is, except Mr. Smith. He stood -straight up, like a brass post. He says, ‘because American citizens -hadn’t oughter bend the knee to no human man.’ _I_ say he was afraid on -account of the coat. I didn’t jest like kneelin’ myself. So, I saved my -conscience by kinder _squattin’_! So-fashion!” - -I was glad “the Englishers” were not by as she “made a cheese” of her -skirts by the side of her chair, and was up again in the next breath. - -“_He_ wore a white skull-cap and a long white gownd belted at the -waist. Real broadcloth ’twas. I thought, at first, ’twas opery flannel -or merino, but when he was a-talkin’ to them next me, I managed to -pinch a fold of it. ’Twas cloth—high-priced it must ’a been—soft and -solid. But after all that’s said and done, he looks like an ole woman -and a fat one. Kind face, he hez, and a sort of sweet, greasy smile -onto it the whole time. He blessed us all ’round, and said to the -Americans how fond he was of their country, and how he hoped we and -our children would come back to the True Fold. It didn’t hurt us none -to hev him say it, you know, and we hed a fair look at him while one -of the black-gowners was a-translatin’ of it. Ther’ was two sisters -of charity or abbesses or nuns, or somethin’ of that sort there, -who dropped flat onto their faces on the bare floor when he got to -them,—and kissed his slipper. White they was—the slippers, I mean—with -a gold cross worked onto them. He gave us all his hand to kiss, with -the seal-ring held up. I aint much in the habit of that sort o’ thing, -and it did go agin my stomach a _leetle_. So, I tuk his hand, this -way”—seizing mine—“and smacked my lips over it without them a-touchin’ -on it.” - -Again illustrating the narrative by “acting.” - -“I tuk notice ’twas yellow, like old ivory, but flabby, as ’twas to -be counted upon at his time o’ life. Well, ’twas a sight to see them -charitable sisters mumblin’ and smouchin’ over the Holy Father’s hand, -and sayin’ prayers like a house a-fire, after they’d done with his -slipper and got up onto their knees; and him a-smiling like a pot of -hair-oil, and a-blessin’ on his dear daughters! One of ’em had brought -along a new white cap for him, embroidered elegant with crosses and -crowns and other rigmarees, by her own hands, most likely. When she giv -it to him, still on her knees and a-lookin’ up, worshippin’-like, he -very politely tuk off his old one and put on the new. You’d a thought -the poor thing would ’a died on that floor of delight when he nodded -at her, a smilin’ sweeter than ever, to show how well it fitted. -She’ll talk about it to her dyin’ day as the biggest thing that ever -happened to her, and never think, I presume, that he must have about -a hundred caps, given to him by other abbesses, kickin’ ’round in the -Vacuum closets. After he’d done up the row of visitors—a hundred and -odd—and blessed all the crosses, and bunches of beads, and flowers, and -artificial wreaths, and other gimcracks, and all we had on to boot, he -stopped in the middle of the room and made us a little French sermon. -Sounded neat—but, of course, I didn’t get a word of it. Then he raised -his hand and pronounced the benediction, and toddled out. He rocks -considerable in his walk, poor old man! He ain’t long for this world; -and, indeed, he hez lived as long as his best friends care to hev him.” - -I have had many other descriptions of the Pope’s receptions, which -were semi-weekly in this the last year of his life. In the main, these -accounts tallied so well with the charcoal sketch furnished by my -Yankee-Western dame, that I have given it as nearly as possible as I -received it from her lips. - -Victor Emmanuel had reigned in Rome six years when we were there. The -streets were clean; the police vigilant and obliging; every museum -and monastery and library was unbarred by the Deliverer of Italy. -Protestant churches were going up within the walls of the city; -Protestant service was held wherever and whenever the worshippers -willed, without the visible protection of English or American flag. -One scarcely recognized in the renovated capital the Rome of which the -travelers of ’69 had written, so full and free had been the sweep of -the tidal wave of liberty and decency. The Pope, than whom never man -had a more favorable opportunity to do all the King had accomplished, -and more, was a voluntary prisoner in his palace of a thousand rooms, -with a beggarly retinue of five hundred servants, and stables full of -useless state-coaches and horses. Whoever would see him shorn of the -beams of temporal sovereignty must bend the knee to him as spiritual -lord. Without attempting to regulate the consciences or actions of -others, we declined to make this show of allegiance. Since attendance -in the temple of Rimmon was a matter of individual option, we stayed -without—_Anglicé_—we “stopped away.” - -Victor Emmanuel we saw frequently in his rides and drives about Rome, -and at various popular gatherings, such as reviews and state gala-days. -He was the homeliest and best belovèd man in his dominions. Somewhat -above medium height and thick-set, his military bearing, especially -upon horseback, barely redeemed his figure from clumsiness. The -bull-neck, indicative of the baser qualities, the story of which is -a blot upon his early life, upbore a massive head, carried in manly, -kingly fashion. His complexion was purple-red; the skin, rough in -grain, streaked with darker lines, as if blood-vessels had broken under -the surface. The firm mouth was almost buried by the moustache, heavy -and black, curling upward until the tips threatened the eyes. The nose -thick and _retroussé_, with wide nostrils, corroborated the testimony -of the neck. But, beneath the full forehead, the eyes of the master of -men and of himself shone out so expressively that to meet them was to -forget blemishes of feature and form, and to do justice to the hero of -his age—the Father of United Italy. - -Prince Umberto was often his father’s companion in the carriage and on -horseback—a much handsomer man, whom all regarded with interest as the -king of the future, with no premonition that the eventful race of the -stalwart parent was so nearly run, or that the aged Pope, whose serious -illnesses were reported from week to week, would survive to send a -message of amity to the monarch’s death-bed. - -The prettiest sight in Rome was one yet more familiar than that of King -and heir-apparent driving in a low carriage on the crowded Pincio, -unattended by so much as a single equerry. The Princess Margherita, -the people’s idol, took her daily airing as any lady of rank might -do, her little son at her side, accompanied by one or two ladies of -her modest court, and returning affably the salutations of those who -met or passed her. The frank confidence of the royal family in the -love of the people was with her a happy unconsciousness of possible -danger that stirred the most callous to enthusiasm of loyalty. A murmur -of blessing followed her appearance among the populace. They never -named her without endearing epithets. During the Carnival, she drove, -attended as I have described, down the middle of the Corso, wedged in -by a slow-moving line of vehicles, the people packing side-walks and -gutters up to the wheels, a storm of cheering and waving caps breaking -out along the close files as they recognized her. We were abreast of -her several times; saw her bow to this side and that, swaying with -laughter while she put up both hands to ward off the rain of bouquets -poured upon her from balcony and pavement and carriage, until her coach -was full above her lap. The small Prince of Naples, on his part, stood -up and flung flowers vigorously to left and right, shouting his delight -in the fun. - -We were strolling in the grounds of the Villa Borghese, one afternoon, -when we espied the scarlet liveries of the Princess approaching along -the road. That Boy, who was _au fait_ to many tales of her sweetness -and charitable deeds, might have a better look at one who ranked, in -his imagination, with the royal heroines of fairy-tales, his father -lifted him to a seat upon the rail dividing the foot-path from the -drive. As the Princess came up, our group was the only one in the -retired spot, and Boy, staring solemnly with his great, gray eyes, at -the beautiful lady, of his own accord pulled off his Scotch cap and -made a profound obeisance from his perch upon the rail. The Princess -smiled brightly and merrily, and, after acknowledging Caput’s lifted -hat by a gracious bend of the head, leaned forward to throw a kiss at -Boy, as his especial token of favor, while her boy took off and waved -his cap with a nod of good-fellowship. - -One can believe that with this trivial incident in our minds it _hurt_ -us to read, eighteen months later, of the little fellow’s terror at -sight of the blood streaming from his father’s arm upon his mother’s -dress, and at the clash over his innocent head of loyal sword and -assassin’s dagger. - -The change in the government of Rome is not more apparent in the -improved condition of her streets and in the enforcement of sanitary -laws unknown or uncared-for under the _ancien régime_, than in -the aspect of the ruins—her principal attraction for thousands of -tourists. The Forum Romanum described by Hawthorne and Howells as a -cow-pasture, broken by the protruding tops of buried columns, has -been carefully excavated, and the rubbish cleared away down to the -original floor of the Basilica Julia, commenced by Julius Cæsar and -completed by Augustus. The boundaries of this, which was both Law -Court and Exchange, are minutely defined in the will of Augustus, and -the measurements have been verified by classic archæologists. The -Forum, as now laid bare, is a sunken plain with steep sides, divided -into two unequal parts by a modern street crossing it. Under this -elevated causeway, one passes through an arch of substantial masonry -from the larger division—containing the Comitium, Basilica Julia, -Temple of Castor and Pollux, site of Temple of Vesta and the column of -Phocas—Byron’s “nameless column with the buried base,” now exposed down -to the lettered pedestal—into the smaller enclosure, flanked by the -Tabularium on which is built the modern Capitol. On a level with the -Etruscan foundation-stones of this are the sites of the Tribune and the -Rostrum—fragments of colored marble pavement on which Cicero stood when -declaiming against Catiline, eight majestic pillars, the remains of the -Temple of Saturn, three that were a part of the Temple of Vespasian, -and the arch of Septimius Severus. Upon the front of the latter is -still seen the significant erasure made by Caracalla, of his brother -Geta’s name, after the latter had fallen by his—Caracalla’s—hand. Near -the mighty arch is a conical heap of earth and masonry, which was the -Golden Milestone, the centre of Rome and of the world. - -There were not many days in the course of that idyllic winter that -did not see some of us in the Forum. We haunted it early and late; -alighting for a few minutes, _en route_ for other places, to run down -the slight wooden stair leading from the street-level, to verify to our -complete satisfaction some locality about which we had read or heard, -or studied since yesterday’s visit. Or coming, with books and children, -when the Tramontana was blowing up and down every street in the city, -and we could find no other nook so sheltered and warm as the lee of -the wall where once ran the row of butchers’ stalls, from one of which -Virginius snatched the knife to slay his daughter. My favorite seat was -upon the site of the diminutive Temple of Julius Cæsar (_Divus Julius_) -the first reared in Rome in honor of a mortal. The remnants of the -green-and-white pavement show where lay the body of great Cæsar when -Mark Antony delivered his funeral oration, and where Tiberius performed -the like pious office over the bier of Augustus. - -The Via Sacra turns at this point, losing itself in one direction in -the bank, which is the limit of the excavation, winding in the other -through the centre of the exposed Forum, up to the Capitol foundations. -Horace was here persecuted by the bore whose portrait is as true to -life now as it was then. Dux read the complaint aloud to us once, with -telling effect, substituting “Broadway” for the ancient name. Cicero -sauntered along this fashionable promenade as a young man waiting -for clients; trod these very stones with the assured step of the -successful advocate and famous orator, and upon them dripped the blood -from his severed hand and head, and the tongue pierced by Fulvia’s -bodkin. Beyond the transversing modern street is a mound, once a -judgment-seat. There Brutus sat, his face an iron mask, while his sons -were scourged and beheaded before his eyes. In the Comitium was the -renowned statue of the she-wolf, now in the Capitoline Museum, which -was struck by lightning at the moment of Cæsar’s murder in Pompey’s -Theatre. Cæsar passed by this way on the Ides of March from his house -over there—the Regia—where were enacted the mysteries of the Bona -Dea when Pompeia, Calphurnia’s predecessor, admitted Clodius to the -forbidden rites. The soothsayer who cried out to him may have loitered -in waiting by the hillock, which is all that is left of Vesta’s Fane, -where were kept the sacred geese. - -Boy knew each site and meant no disrespect to the “potent, grave, -and reverend” heroes who used to pace the ancient street, while -entertaining himself by skipping back and forth its entire length so -far as it is uncovered, “telling himself a story.” He was always happy -when thus allowed to run and murmur, a trick begun by the time he could -walk. Content in this knowledge, the Invaluable sat upon the steps of -the Basilica Julia, knitting in hand, guarding a square aperture near -the Temple of Castor and Pollux, the one danger (to Boy) in the Forum. -For, looking into it, one saw the rush of foul waters below hurrying -to discharge themselves through the Cloaca Maxima—built by Numa -Pompilius—into the Tiber. Here, it is said, yawned the gulf into which -Curtius leaped, armed and mounted. - -“A quagmire, drained and filled up by an enterprising street contractor -of that name,” says Caput, to whom this and a score of other treasured -tales of those nebulously olden times are myths with a meaning. - -While I rested apart in my sunny corner, and watched the august wraiths -trooping past, or pretended to read with eyes that did not see the -book on my knees, Boy’s “story-telling” drifted over to me in rhymical -ripples: - - “On rode they to the Forum, - While laurel-wreaths and flowers - From house-tops and from windows - Fell on their crests in showers. - When they drew nigh to Vesta, - They vaulted down amain, - And washed their horses in the well - That springs by Vesta’s fane.”... - -Or— - - “And they made a molten image, - And set it up on high, - And there it stands unto this day - To witness if I lie. - It stands in the Comitium, - Plain for all folk to see— - Horatius in his harness - Halting upon one knee.” - -“Where is it now, Mamma? And Horatius? and the Great Twin Brethren—and -the rest of them?” - -“Are gone, my darling!” - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -_On Christmas-Day._ - - -ON Christmas-Day, we went, _via_ the Coliseum, for a long drive in the -Campagna. The black cross, at the foot of which many prayers have been -said for many ages, has disappeared from the centre of the arena. It -was necessary to take it down in the course of the excavations that -have revealed the subterranean cells whose existence was unsuspected -until lately. These are mere pits unroofed by the removal of the floor -of the amphitheatre, and in winter are half-full of water left by the -overflow of the Tiber and the autumnal rains. The abundant and varied -Flora of the Coliseum, including more than three hundred different wild -flowers and such affluence of foliage as might almost be catalogued in -the terms used to describe the botanical lore of the philosopher-king -of Israel: “Trees from the cedar that is in Lebanon, even unto the -hyssop that springeth out of the wall,”—all these have been swept away -by the unsparing hand of Signore Rosa, the superintendent to whom the -care of the ruins of the old city has been committed. To the artistic -eye, the Coliseum and other structures have suffered irretrievable -damage through the measures which, he asserts, are indispensable to -their preservation. We who never saw the rich fringe of ilex and ivy -that made “the outside wall with its top of gigantic stones, seem like -a mountain-barrier of bare rock, enclosing a green and varied valley,” -forget to regret our loss in congratulating ourselves that filth has -been cleared away with the evergreen draperies. Despite the pools of -stagnant water now occupying half of the vast circle enclosed by the -scraped and mended walls, the Coliseum is not one-tenth as dangerous to -the health of him who whiles away a noontide hour there, or threads the -corridors by moonlight as when it was far more picturesque. - -The sunlight of this Christmas-Day lay peacefully upon and within the -walls, as we walked around the circular arcades, and paused in the -centre of the floor, looking up to the seats of honor—(the podium) -reserved, on the day of dedication, for Titus, his family, the Senate, -and the Vestal Virgins. When, according to Merrivale, “the capacity of -the vast edifice was tested by the slaughter of five thousand animals -in its circuit.” - -The site was a drained lake in the gardens of Nero. His colossal statue -used to stand upon the little pile of earth on the other side of the -street. Twelve thousand captive Jews were overworked to their death -in building the mighty monument to the destroyer of Jerusalem. After -describing the dedicatory pageant and its items of battles between -cranes and pigmies, and of gladiators with women, and a sea-fight for -which the arena was converted into a mimic lake, the historian adds: -“When all was over, Titus himself was seen to weep, perhaps from -fatigue, possibly from vexation and disgust.” - -If the last-named emotions had any share in the reactionary hysteria -characterized as “effeminate” by his best friends, his successors did -not profit by the lesson. Hadrian slaughtered, on a birth-day frolic in -the Coliseum, one thousand wild beasts, not to mention less valuable -human beings. The prudent Augustus forbade the entrance of the noble -classes into the arena as combatants, and to avoid a hustle of death, -decreed that not more than sixty pairs of gladiators should be engaged -at one time in the fashionable butchery. Commodus had no such scruples -on the subject of caste or humanity. His imperial form bound about with -a lion’s skin, his locks bedusted with gold, he fought repeatedly upon -the bloody sands, killing his man—he being both emperor and beast—in -every encounter. Ignatius—reputed to have been one of the children -blessed by Our Lord—uttered here his last confession of faith: - -“I am as the grain of the field, and must be ground by the teeth of the -lions, that I may become bread fit for HIS table.” - -The Christians sought the deserted Coliseum by stealth, that night, to -gather the few bones the lions had left. Some of these, his friends, -may have been among the one hundred and fifteen “obstinates” drawn -up upon the earth scarcely dried from the blood of Ignatius, a line -of steady targets for the arrows of skilled bowmen—a kind of archery -practice in high favor with Roman clubs just then. - -The life-blood that followed the arrow-thrust was a safe and rapid -stream to float the soul into harbor. One hour of heaven were worth -all the smiting, and thrusting, and tearing, and _theirs_ have been -centuries of bliss. But our hearts ached with pain and sympathy -inexpressible in the Coliseum, on that Christmas-Day. There is poetic -beauty and profound spiritual significance in the churchly fable that -Gregory the Great pressed fresh blood from a handful of earth taken -from the floor of the amphitheatre. - - “While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; - When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall— - And when Rome falls—the world!” - -Thus runs the ancient prophecy. - -Plundering cardinals and thrifty popes had never heard the saying, or -were strangely indifferent to the fate of their empire and globe for -four hundred years of spoliation and desecration. Cardinal Farnese -built his palace out of the marble casings. It is amazing even to -those who have inspected the massive walls cemented by mortar as hard -as the stones it binds together, that the four thousand men appointed -to tear down and bear off in twelve hours the materials needed for -the Farnese palace, did not demolish or impair the solidity of the -whole structure. After abortive attempts on the part of sundry popes -to utilize the building by turning the corridors into bazaars and -establishing manufactories of woolen goods and saltpetre in the central -space, the place was left to quiet decay and religious rites. Clement -XI. consecrated it to the memory of the faithful disciples who perished -there “for Christ’s sake.” Stations were appointed in the arcades, the -black cross was set up and indulgences granted to all believers who -would say a prayer at its foot for the rest of the martyrs’ souls. -Masses were said every Friday afternoon, each station visited in -turn with chant and prayer, and then a sermon preached by a Capuchin -friar. Vines thickened and trees shot upward from tier and battlement, -night-birds hooted in the upper shades, thieves and lazzaroni prowled -below. Dirt and miasma marked the sacred precincts for their own. We -can but be grateful that the march of improvement, begun when the -Italian troops entered Rome in 1870 through the breach near the Porta -Pia, has reached the Coliseum, cleansing and strengthening, although -not beautifying it. - -About midway between the Forum and Coliseum we had passed—as no Jew -ever does—under the Arch of Titus. It spans the Via Sacra, leading -right on from the southern gate of the city through the Forum to the -Capitol. The pavement of huge square blocks of lava is the same on -which rolled, joltingly in their springless chariots, the conquerors -returning in triumph with such griefful captives in their train as -are sculptured upon the inside of this arch. The Goths, the Middle -Ages, and the Popes (or their nephews), dealt terrible blows at the -procession of Jewish prisoners, bearing the seven-branched candlestick, -the table of shew-bread, and the golden trumpets of the priests. Arms -and legs are missing, and features sadly marred. But drooping heads and -lax figures, and the less mutilated faces express the utter dejection, -the proud but hopeless humiliation of the band who left their happier -countrymen dead by famine, crucifixion, the sword and fire, in the -ashes of their city. - -A rod or two further, and we were in the Via Appia. - -“In that vineyard,” said I, pointing to a rickety gate on our left, -“are the remains of the Porta Capena, where the surviving Horatius met -and killed his sister as she bewailed the death of her lover, the last -of the Curatii. Her brother presented himself to her wearing the cloak -she had embroidered for and given to her betrothed.” - -“The whole story is a highly figurative history of a war between -the Romans and Albans,” began Caput, mildly corrective. “The best -authorities are agreed that Horatii and Curatii are alike mythical.” - -I should have been vexed upon any other day. Had I not seen, beyond the -fifth milestone on this very road, the tombs of the six combatants? Had -not my girlish heart stood still with awe when Rachel, as Camille, fell -dead upon the stage beneath the steel of her irate brother? - -I did say—I _hope_, temperately—“Cicero was welcomed at the Porta -Capena, by the Senate and people, on his return from banishment, B. C. -57. That is, if there was ever such a man as Cicero!” - -The Baths of Caracalla; the tombs of the Scipios; the Columbaria of -the Freedmen of Augustus; the Catacombs of St. Sebastian and of St. -Calixtus—are situate upon the Appian Way. Each should have its visit in -turn. Any one of them was, in speculators’ slang, “too big a thing” for -one Christmas forenoon. We were on pure pleasure bent—not in bondage -to Baedeker. A quarter of a mile from the road, still to our left, the -ground falls away into a cup-like basin, holding the Fountain of Egeria -enshrined in a grove of dark ilex-trees. A couple of miles further, and -we passed through the Gate of San Sebastian, supported by two towers -in fair preservation. We were still within the corporate limits of -Old Rome. At this gate welcoming processions from the city met those -who returned to her in triumphal pomp, or guests, to whom the Senate -decreed extraordinary honors. A little brook runs across the road at -the bottom of the next hill, and, just beyond it, is the ruined tomb of -the murdered Geta. At a fork in the highway near this is a dirty little -church, set down so close to the road that the mud from passing wheels -has spattered the front. Here, according to the legend, Peter, fleeing -from Nero’s persecution, met his Lord with His face toward the city. - -“Lord! whither goest Thou?” exclaimed the astonished apostle. - -“I go to Rome to be again crucified!” answered the Master. - -Peter, taking the vision as a token that he should not shrink from -martyrdom, returned to Rome. - -The chapel—it is nothing more—of “Domine quo vadis” commemorates the -interview. We stepped from the carriage upon the broken threshold, and -tried the locked door. A priest as slovenly as the building unclosed -it. Directly opposite the entrance is a plaster cast of Michael -Angelo’s statue of Our Saviour in the act of addressing Peter. The -foot extended in the forward step has been almost kissed away by -pilgrims. On the right wall is a fresh and flashy, yet graphic fresco -of the Lord, walking swiftly toward Rome; upon the left kneels the -conscience-smitten Peter. Between them, upon the floor, secured by -a grating from the abrading homage of the vulgar, is a copy of the -footprints left upon the rock at the spot where the meeting took place. -The original is in the church of San Sebastiano. The marble is stained -with yellowish blotches. The impression is coarsely cut; the conception -is yet coarser. Two brawny, naked feet, enormous in size, plebeian -in shape, are set squarely and straight, side by side, as no living -man would stand of his own accord. The impudence of these priestly -relics would be contemptible only, were the subjects less sacred. -We turned away from the “fac-simile” in sad disgust. The legend had -been a favorite with us both. We were sorry we had entered the mouldy -little barn. The offer of the sacristan to sell us beads, medals, and -photographs was in keeping with the rest of the show. We gave him a -franc; plucked from the cracked door-stone a bit of pellitory—_herba -parietina_, the sobriquet given to Trajan in derision of his habit of -writing his name upon much which he had not built—and returned to our -carriage. - -The way is bordered, until one reaches the tomb of Cæcilia Metella by -vineyard and meadow walls. Most of the stones used in building these -were collected from the ancient pavement, or the _débris_ of fortresses -and tombs that encumbered this. Imbedded in the mortar, and often -defaced by clots and daubs of it, put in beside common rubble-stones -and sherds of tufa, are many sculptured fragments. Here, the corner of -a richly-carved capital projects from the surface; there, a cluster of -flowers, with a serpent stealing out of sight among the leaves. Now, a -baby’s head laughs between lumps of travertine or granite; next comes a -part of a gladiator’s arm, or the curve of a woman’s neck. The ivy is -luxuriantly aggressive and of a species we had never seen elsewhere, -gemmed with glossy, saffron-colored berries. “Wee, crimson-tippéd” -daisies mingled with grass that is never sere. In March we found -anemones of every hue; pink and white cyclamen; wild violets, at once -diffusive and retentive of odor, embalming gloves, handkerchiefs, and -the much-thumbed leaves of our guide-books; reddish-brown wall-flowers, -and hosts of other “wild” blossoms on this road. The dwelling-houses we -passed were rude, slight huts, hovels of reeds and straw, often reared -upon the foundation of a tomb. - -For this Way of Triumph was also the Street of Tombs. Sepulchres, or -their ruins, are scattered on every side. We looked past them, where -there occurred a break in the road-wall over the billowing Campagna, -the arches of ancient and modern aqueducts dwindling into cobweb-lines -in the hazy distance; above them at the Sabine and Alban hills, newly -capped with snow, while Spring smiled warmly upon the plains at their -base. We alighted at the best-known of these homes of the dead, not -many of which hold the ashes that gave them names. - -Hawthorne describes it in touches few and masterly. “It is built of -great blocks of hewn stone on a vast square foundation of rough, -agglomerated material, such as composes the mass of all the other -ruinous tombs. But, whatever might be the cause, it is in a far -better state of preservation than they. On its broad summit rise the -battlements of a mediæval fortress, out of the midst of which grow -trees, bushes, and thick festoons of ivy. This tomb of a woman has -become the dungeon-keep of a castle, and all the care that Cæcilia -Metella’s husband could bestow to secure endless peace for her belovèd -relics only sufficed to make that handful of precious ashes the nucleus -of battles long ages after her death.” - -The powerful family of the Gaetani added the battlements that tooth -the top of the enormous tower, when they made it their château and -fortress in the thirteenth century. The ruins of their church are close -to the walls. We paid a trifling fee for the privilege of entering the -court-yard of the Tomb where there was nothing to see, and for peeping -into the ruinous cellar, once the “cave” where “treasure lay, so -locked, so hid”—the sarcophagus about which all these stone swathings -were wound as layers of silk and wool about a costly jewel. The empty -marble coffin is in a Roman museum. A public-spirited pope ripped off -the sculptured casing of the exterior that he might build the Fountain -of Trevi. It would be as futile to seek for this woman’s ashes as for -those of Wickliffe after the Avon had carried them out to sea. - -The dreary road-walls terminate here, but the survey of the tombs -diverts the attention from the views of Campagna and mountains. They -must have formed an almost continuous block of buildings for miles. -The foundations may be traced still, and about these are remnants of -the statues and symbolic ornaments that gave them individuality and -beauty. The figure which occurred most frequently was that of a man in -the dress of a Roman citizen, the arm laid over the breast to hold the -toga in place and fold. Most of the heads were missing, and usually -the legs, but the torso had always character, sometimes beauty, in it. -There were hundreds of them here once, probably mounted sentinel-wise -at the doors of the tombs, changeless effigies of men who had been, who -were now a pinch of dust, preserved in a sealed urn for fear the wind -might take them away. - -There is a so-called “restored” tomb near the “fourth mile-stone.” A -bas-relief, representing a murder, is let into a brick façade. - -“The tomb of Seneca!” said our _cocchière_, confidently. - -“Dubious!” commented the genius of wary common sense upon the front -seat. “If he _was_ put to death by Nero’s officers near the fourth -mile-stone, is it probable that he was interred on the spot?” - -The driver held to his assertion, and I got out to pick daisies and -violets growing in the shelter of the ugly red-brick front—there was -no back,—souvenirs that lie to-day, faded but fragrant, between the -leaves of my Baedeker. Nearly opposite to the round heaps of turf-grown -rubbish with solid basement walls, “supposed to be the tombs of the -Horatii and Curatii,” across the road and a field, are the ruins of -the Villa of Commodus. He wrested this pleasant country-seat from two -brothers, who were the Naboths of the coveted possession. Conduits have -been dug out from the ruins, stamped with their names, and convicting -him mutely but surely of the theft charged upon him by contemporaries. -He and his favorite Marcia were sojourning here when the house was -“mobbed” by a deputation, several thousand in number, sent from Rome -to call him to account for his misdeeds. He pacified them measurably -by throwing from an upper window the head of Cleander, his obnoxious -premier, and beating out the brains of that official’s child. The -Emperor’s Coliseum practice made such an evening’s work a mere -bagatelle. - -Six miles from Rome is the Rotondo, believed to have been the family -mausoleum of a poet-friend of Horace, Massala Corvinus. It is -larger than the tomb of the “wealthiest Roman’s wife,” but not so -well-preserved. A miserable wine-shop was in the court-yard, and we -paid the mistress half-a-franc for permission to mount a flight of -easy steps to the summit. Upon the flat roof, formed by the flooring -of the upper story, the walls of which are half gone, olive-trees have -taken root and overhang the sides. The eye swept the Campagna for -miles, followed the Via Appia, stretched like a white ribbon between -grassy slopes and sepulchre-ruins, back into Rome and onward to Albano. -A faintly-tinged haze brought the mountains nearer, instead of hiding -them—purpled the thymy dells between the swells of the far-reaching -prairies. Flocks of sheep browsed upon these, attended by shepherds and -dogs. A party of English riders cantered by from Rome, the blue habit -and scarlet plume of the only lady equestrian made conspicuous by the -white road and green banks. Near and far, the course of the ancient -highway was defined by masses of masonry in ruins, some overgrown -by herbs, vines, and even trees, but most of them naked to the sun -and wind. These have not been the destroyers of the tombs. On the -contrary, the uncovered foundations are hardened by the action of the -elements, until bricks are as unyielding as solid marble and cement is -like flint. Nature and neglect are co-workers, whose operations upon -buildings raised by man, are far less to be feared in this than in -Northern climates. The North, that let loose her brutish hordes upon a -land so much fairer than their own that their dull eyes could not be -tempted by her beauty except to wanton devastation. They were grown-up -children who battered the choicest and most delicate objects for the -pleasure of seeing and hearing the crash. - -“Some day,” said Caput, wistful lights in the eyes that looked far away -to where the road lost itself in the blue hills—“Some day, I mean to -drive all the way to the Appii Forum, and follow St. Paul’s track back -to the city.” - -He brought out his pocket Testament, and, amid the broken walls, the -shadows of the olive-boughs flickering upon the page, we read how -the Great Apostle longed to “see Rome,” yet knowing that bonds and -imprisonment awaited him wherever he went—the Rome he was never to quit -as a free man, and where he was to leave a multitude of witnesses to -his fidelity and the living power of the Gospel, of which he was an -ambassador in bonds. Thence we passed to the few words describing his -journey and reception: - -“We came the next day unto Puteoli, where we found brethren, and were -desired to tarry with them seven days. And so we went toward Rome. And -from thence, when the brethren heard of us, they came to meet us as far -as Appii Forum and the Three Taverns. Whom, when Paul saw, he thanked -GOD and took courage.” - -For some miles the Way has been cleared down to the ancient pavement. -It was something to see the stones over which St. Paul had walked. - -We took St. Peter’s in our drive home. When one is used to the -immensity of its spaces, has accommodated his imagination comfortably -to the aisle-vistas and the height of the ceilings, St. Peter’s is the -most restful temple in Rome. The equable temperature—never cold in -winter, never hot in summer; the solemn quiet of a vastness in which -the footfalls upon the floor die away with out echo, and the sound of -organ and chant from one of the many chapels only stirs a musical throb -which never swells into reverberation; the subdued light—all contribute -to the sense of grateful tranquillity that allures one to frequent -visits and slow, musing promenades within the magnificent Basilica. -Madame de Staël says in one line what others have failed to express in -pages of labored rhetoric: - -“_L’Architecture de St. Pierre est une musique fixée._” - -Listening with all our souls, we strolled up one side of the church -past the bronze Image, in appearance more Fetish than saint. A statue -of Jupiter was melted down to make it. The frown of the Thunderer still -contracts the brows that seem to find the round of glory, spoked like -a wheel, too heavy. The projecting toe, often renewed, bright as a new -brass kettle from the attrition of kisses, rests upon a pedestal five -feet, at least, from the floor. Men can conveniently touch it with -their lips. Short women stand on tiptoe, and children are lifted to it. -Each wipes it carefully before kissing, a ceremony made necessary by a -popular trick of the Roman _gamins_. They watch their chance to anoint -the holy toe with damp red pepper, then hide behind a column to note -the effect of the next osculation. At the Jubilee of Pius IX., June 16, -1871, they dressed the hideous black effigy in pontifical vestments, -laced and embroidered to the last degree of gorgeousness, and fastened -the cope of cloth-of-gold with a diamond brooch! - -The _baldacchino_, or canopy, built above the high altar and -overshadowing the tomb of St. Peter, is of gilded bronze that once -covered the roof of the Pantheon,—another example of popely thrift. -Beneath, yawns an open crypt, lined with precious marbles and gained by -marble stairs. Upon the encompassing balustrade above is a circle of -ever-burning golden lamps, eighty-six in number. Pius VI. (in marble by -Canova) kneels forever, as he requested in his will, before the closed -door of St. Peter’s tomb, below. - -“I wish I could believe that Peter’s bones are there!” Caput broke a -long thought-laden pause, given to silent gazing upon the kneeling -form. “Roman Catholic historians say that an oratory was erected here -above his remains, A.D. 90. The circus of Nero was hereabouts. The -chapel was in honor of the thousands who died a martyr’s death in his -reign, as well as to mark the spot of Peter’s burial. In the days of -Constantine, a Basilica superseded the humble chapel, at which date St. -Peter’s bones were encased in a bronze sarcophagus. Five hundred years -afterward, the Saracens plundered the Basilica. Did they take Peter—if -he were ever here—or in Rome at all? Or, did they spare his bones -when they carried off the gilt-bronze coffin and inner casket of pure -silver?” - -Another silence. - -“The Basilica and tomb were here when English Ethelwolf brought his boy -Alfred to Rome,” I said aloud. - -“But the Popes did their will upon it afterward. Pulled down and built -up at the bidding of caprice and architects until not one of the -original stones was left upon another. After two centuries of this sort -of work—or play—the present church was planned and was one hundred and -seventy-odd years in building. I hope Peter’s bones were cared for in -the squabble. I should like to believe it!” - -We looked for a long minute more at the praying pope. _He_ believed it -so much as to desire to kneel there, with clasped hands and bowed head, -awaiting through the coming cycles the opening of the sealèd door. - -Wanderings in and out of stately chapels ensued, until we had enough of -dead popes, marble and bronze. - -The surname of Pope Pignatella, signifying “little cream-jug,” -suggested to the sculptor the neat conceit of mingling sundry -cream-pots with other ornaments of his tomb. - -Gregory XIII., he of the Gregorian calendar, is an aged man, invoking -the benediction of Heaven upon whomsoever it may concern, while Wisdom, -as Minerva, and Faith hold a tablet inscribed—“_Novi opera hujus et -fidem_.” - -Urban VIII., the patron of Bernini, is almost forgiven by those who -have sickened over the countless and cruel devices of his _protégé_ -when one beholds his master-piece of absurdity in his sovereign’s tomb. -The pontiff, in the popular attitude of benediction, towers above the -black marble coffin, in charge of Prudence and Justice,—the drapery of -the latter evidently a decorous afterthought,—while a very airy gilded -skeleton is writing, with a _dégagé_ air, the names and titles of Urban -upon an obituary list. The Barberini bees crawl over the monument, as -busily officious and in as bad taste as was Bernini himself. - -Pius VII., the prisoner-Pope of Napoleon I., is there—a mild old man, -looking as if he had suffered and forgiven much—sitting dreamily, or -drowsily, in a chair, and kept in countenance by Courage and Faith. - -Innocent VIII. sleeps, like a tired man, upon his sarcophagus, while -his animated Double is enthroned above it, one hand, of course, -extended in blessing, the other holding a copy of the sacred lance that -pierced the Saviour’s side, presented to him by Bajazet, and by the -pope to St. Peter’s. - -More interesting to us than these and the tiresome array of the many -other pontifical and prelatical personages, was the arch near the -front door of the Basilica, which covers the remains of the last of -the Stuarts. Canova carved the memorial-stone of James III. (the -Pretender), his sons, Charles Edward (the Young Pretender), and -Henry, who,—with desperate fidelity worthy of a better cause, wearied -out by the successive failures and misfortunes of his race,—gave -himself wholly to the Church, devotion to which had cost his father -independence, happiness, and England. Henry Stuart died, as we read -here, Cardinal York. Marie Clementine Sobieski, wife of James III., -named upon the tablet, “Queen of Great Britain, France and Ireland,” -who never set foot within the British Empire,—completes the family -group. It is said the expenses of these testimonials were defrayed by -the then reigning House of Hanover. It could well afford to do it. - -In a chapel at the left of the entrance is a mammoth font of dark-red -porphyry which has a remarkable—I can hardly say, in view of cognate -facts—a singular history. It is the inverted cover of Hadrian’s -sarcophagus. Having rested within its depths longer than his life had -entitled him to do, this Emperor was ejected and Otho III. took his -place. In due season, a pope of a pious and practical turn of mind -ousted Otho, and transferred the lid of the coffin to its present -place. The bronze fir-cone from the top of the mausoleum of Hadrian, -now the Castle of San Angelo, is a prominent ornament in the gardens of -the Vatican. Near it are two bronze peacocks, the birds of Juno, from -the porch of the same edifice. - -“Entirely and throughout consistent,” said Caput, caustically. - -“I beg your pardon! Did you address me, sir?” asked a startled voice. - -The Traveling American was upon us. Pater Familias, moreover, to the -sanguine young people who had attacked systematically, Baedeker, Murray -and Forbes in hand—the opposite chapel, the gem of which is Michael -Angelo’s _Pietà_—the Dead Christ upon his mother’s knees. We recognized -our interlocutor. A very worthy gentleman, an enterprising and opulent -citizen of the New World, whom we had met, last week, in the _salon_ -of a friend. He was making, he had informed a listening circle, -“the grand Eu_ro_pean tour for the third time, now, for educational -purposes, having brought his boys and girls along. A thing few of our -country-people have money and brains to undertake!” - -“I was saying”—explained Caput, “that the Popes have done more toward -the destruction of the monuments of pagan Rome than barbarians and -centuries combined. I lose patience and temper when I see what they -have ‘consecrated’ to the use of their Church. Vandalism is an insipid -word to employ in this connection.” - -Pater Familias put out one foot; lifted a hortatory hand. - -“I have learned to cast such considerations behind me, sir! -Anachronisms do not trouble me. Nor solecisms, except in artistic -execution. I travel with a purpose—that of self-improvement and the -foundation, in the bosoms of my family, of true principles of art, -the cultivation of the instinct of the beautiful in their souls and -in mine. Despising the statistical, and, to a certain degree, the -historical, as things of slight moment, I rise into the region of -the purely æsthetic. For example:” The hortatory hand pointed to the -opposite arch, within which is a gorgeous modern copy, in mosaic, of -Raphael’s “Transfiguration.” “For example, pointing to that inimitable -masterpiece, I say to my children—‘Do not examine into the ingredients -of the pigments staining the canvas, nor criticise, anatomically, the -structure of the figures. But catch, if you can, the spirit and tone of -the whole composition. Behold, recognize, and make your own the very -soul and mood, the inspiration of _Michael Angelo_!’” - -Caput drew out his watch. - -“Do you know, my dear,” he said, plaintively, “that it is an hour past -our luncheon-time?” - -At the bottom of the gentle incline leading from the church-door into -the wide Piazza di San Piétro, we stopped for breath and composure. - -Caput grew serious in turning to survey the façade of the Basilica, -with the guard of saints and their Master upon the balustrade; the -Dome, light in semblance as the clouds swimming in summer languor -above it, strong as Soracte; the sweep of the colonnades to the right -and left, “with the holy ones walking upon their roofs;” the Obelisk of -Heliopolis in the centre of the Court and its flashing fountains—the -heaven of rich, tender blue— - -“That man has crossed the ocean three times to behold all this!” he -said. “He can bring his rabble of children to see it with him. While -men who could enter the arcana of whose mysteries he prattles; to whom -the life he is leading would be like a walk through Paradise—are tied -down to desk and drugs and country parishes! That these things exist is -a tough problem!” - -We told the story, leaving the pathetic enigma out of sight, over our -Christmas-dinner, that evening. My Florentine angel of mercy, her -brothers and sister, were our guests. Mince and pumpkin pies were -not to be thought of, much less obtained here. But our Italian cook -had under my eye, stuffed and roasted a turkey, the best we could -buy in the poultry-shop just around the corner from the Pantheon. I -did not spoil my friends’ appetites by describing the manner of its -“taking-off” which may, however, interest poultry-fanciers. I wanted -a larger bird than any displayed by the turkey-vender, and he bade me -return in fifteen minutes, when he would have just what I desired. - -We gave half an hour to a ramble around the square surrounding the -Pantheon, the most nearly perfect pagan building in Rome. Urban VIII. -abstracted nearly five hundred thousand pounds of gilt bronze from -portico and dome, to be wrought into the twisted columns of St. Peter’s -baldacchino, and into cannon for the defence of that refuge for scared -and hunted popes—the Castle of San Angelo. In recompense for the -liberty he had taken with the Temple of all the Gods, he added, by -the hand of his obsequious architect, the comical little towers like -mustard-pots, known to the people as the “asses’ ears of Bernini.” -Another pope, one of the Benedicts, offered no apology in word or deed, -for pulling off the rare old marbles facing the inner side of the dome, -and using them for the adornment of churches and palaces. - -But to our turkey! The merchant had him well in hand when we got back. -He had tied a stout twine tightly around the creature’s neck, and while -it died by slow strangulation, held it fast between his knees and -stripped off the feathers from the palpitating body. All our fowls came -to us with this twine necklace knotted about the gullet, and all had a -trick of shrinking unaccountably in cooking. - -“He is a-swellin’ wisibly before my eyes!” quoted Caput from the elder -Weller, as we gazed, horror-stricken, upon the operation. - -The merchant laughed—the sweet, childish laugh of the Italian of -whatever rank, that showed his snowy teeth and brought sparkle to his -black eyes. - -“Altro?” he said. “_Buono? Bon?_ Signora like ’im mooch?” - -I tried not to remember how little I _had_ liked it when my guests -praised the brown, fat bird. - -Canned cranberries and tomatoes we had purchased from Brown, the polite -English grocer in Via della Croce, who makes a specialty of “American -goods.” Nazzari, the Incomparable (in Rome), furnished the dessert. -Soup, fish, and some of the vegetables were essentially Italian, and -none the worse on that account. - -There was a strange commingling and struggle of pain and pleasure in -that “make-believe” Christmas-at-home in a foreign land. It was a -new and fantastically-wrought link in a golden chain that ran back -until lost in the misty brightness of infancy. We gathered about -our parlor-fire, for which we had, with some difficulty, procured -a Yule-log of respectable dimensions; talked of loved and distant -ones and other days; said, with heart and tongue, “Heaven bless the -country we love the best, and the friends who, to-night, remember us -as we think of them!” We told funny stories, all we could remember, in -which the Average Briton and Traveling American figured conspicuously. -We laughed amiably at each other’s jokes. We planned days and weeks -of sight-seeing and excursions, waxed enthusiastic over the wealth -of Roman ruins, and declared ourselves more than satisfied with the -experiment of trans-ocean travel. - -We were, or should be, on the morrow. - -Now, between the eyes of our spirit and the storied riches of this -sunbright elysium, the Italia of kings, consuls, emperors, and -popes, glided visions of ice-bound rivers and snow-clad hills—of -red firesides and jocund frolic, and clan-gatherings, from near and -from far—of Christmas stockings, and Christmas trees, and Christmas -greetings—of ringing skates, making resonant moonlit nights, and the -tintinnabulations of sleigh-bells—of silent grave-yards, where the snow -was lying spotless and smooth. - -Beneath laugh and jest, and graver talk of visions fulfilled, and -projects for future enjoyment—underlying all these was a slow-heaving -main, hardly repressed—an indefinable, yet exquisite, heart-ache very -far down. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -_L’Allegro and Il Penseroso._ - - -THERE is music by the best bands in Rome upon the Pincian Hill on -Sabbath afternoons. Sitting at the window of our tiny library, -affecting to read or write, my eyes wandered continually to the lively -scene beyond. My fingers were beating time to the waltzes, overtures, -and marches that floated over the wall and down the terraces—over the -orange and camellia-trees, the pansy and violet-beds, and lilac-bushes -in the court-yard, the pride of our handsome _portiere’s_ heart—up to -my Calvinistic ears. Drive and promenade were in full and near view, -and up both streamed, for two hours, a tossing tide of carriages and -pedestrians. It would flow down in variegated billows when the sun -should paint the sky behind St. Peter’s golden-red. Resigning even the -pretence of occupation by-and-by, I used to lie back in my easy-chair, -my feet upon the fender, hemming in the wood-fire we never suffered to -go out, and, watching the pleasure-making on the hill, dream until I -forgot myself and the age in which I lived. - -At the foot of the Pincio, which now overtops the other hills of Rome, -beside the Porta del Popolo, or People’s Gate, are the convent and -church of S. Augustine. In the former, Luther dwelt during his stay in -the city of his love and longing. At this gate he prostrated himself -and kissed the earth in a passion of delight and thankfulness. In -the church he celebrated his first mass in Rome, and just before his -departure, soon after the change of feeling and purpose which befell -him upon the Sacred Staircase, he performed here his last service as a -priest of the Romish Church. - -S. Augustine’s was raised upon the site of the tomb of Nero—a spot -infested, according to tradition, for hundreds of years, by flocks of -crows, who built, roosted, and cawed in the neighboring trees, becoming -in time such a nuisance as to set one of the popes to dreaming upon -the subject. In a vision, it was revealed to him that these noisy -rooks were demons contending for or exulting in the possession of -the soul of the wicked tyrant—a point on which there could have been -little uncertainty, even in the mind of a middle-ages pope. The trees -were leveled, and the birds, or devils, scared away by the hammers of -workmen employed upon a church paid for by penny collections among the -people. The Gate of the People owes its name to this circumstance. -Within the antique gateway, Christina of Sweden was welcomed to Rome -after her apostasy from Protestantism, cardinals and bishops and a long -line of sub-officials meeting her here in stately procession. It is -also known as the Flaminian Gate, opening as it does upon the famous -Flaminian Way. A side-road, branching off from this a few rods beyond -the walls, leads into and through the beautiful grounds of the Villa -Borghese. - -Turning to the left, after entering the Porta del Popolo, one ascends -by a sinuous road the Pincio, or Hill of Gardens. Below lies the Piazza -del Popolo, the twin churches opposite the city-gate marking the -burial-place of Sylla. The red sandstone obelisk in the middle of the -square is from Heliopolis, and the oldest monument in Rome. The most -heedless traveler pauses upon the Pincian terraces to look down upon -“the flame-shaped column,” which, Merivale tells us, “was a symbol of -the sun, and originally bore a blazing orb upon its summit.” Hawthorne -reminds us yet more thrillingly that “this monument supplied one of -the recollections which Moses and the Israelites bore from Egypt into -the desert.” And so strong is the chain with which, in his “Marble -Faun,” this subtle and delicate genius has united the historical and -the imaginative, one recollects, in the same instant, that the parapet -by which he is standing is the one over which Kenyon and Hilda watched -the enigmatical pantomime of Miriam and the Model beside the “four-fold -fountain” at the base of the obelisk. Nowhere else in Rome is the -thoughtful traveler more tempted to borrow from this marvelous romance -words descriptive of scene and emotion than when he reaches the “broad -and stately walk that skirts the brow” of the Pincio. We read and -repeated the paragraph that, to this hour, brings the view to us with -the clearness and minuteness of a sun-picture, until it arose of itself -to our lips whenever we halted upon the outer edge of the semicircular -sweep of wall. - -“Beneath them, from the base of the abrupt descent, the city spread -wide away in a close contiguity of red-earthen roofs, above which -rose eminent the domes of a hundred churches, besides here and there -a tower, and the upper windows of some taller, or higher situated -palace, looking down on a multitude of palatial abodes. At a distance, -ascending out of the central mass of edifices, they could see the -top of the Antonine column, and, near it, the circular roof of the -Pantheon, looking heavenward with its ever-open eye.” - -“The very dust of Rome,” he writes again, “is historic, and inevitably -settles on our page and mingles with our ink.” - -Thus, the Pincio—the gayest place in Rome on “music-afternoon,” and -one of the loveliest at all seasons and every day;—a modern garden, -with parterres of ever-green and ever-blooming roses; with modern -fountains and plantations, rustic summer-houses and play-grounds, all -erected and laid out—if Hare is to be credited—within twenty years, in -the “deserted waste where the ghost of Nero was believed to wander” -in the dark ages, had its story and its tragedy antedating the bloody -death and post-mortem peregrinations of him over whose grave the crows -quarrelled at the bottom of the hill. Other gardens smiled here when -Lucullus supped in the Hall of Apollo in his Pincian Villa with Cicero -and Pompey, and was served with more than imperial luxury. Here, -Asiaticus, condemned to die through the machinations of the wickedest -woman in Rome, who coveted ground and house, bled himself to death -after “he had inspected the pyre prepared for him in his own gardens, -and ordered it to be removed to another spot that an umbrageous -plantation which overhung it might not be injured by the flames.” - -Here grew the tree up which climbed Messalina’s creature on the night -of her last and wildest orgy with her lover, and flung down the -warning—“I see an awful storm coming from Ostia!” The approaching -tempest was the injured husband, Claudius, the Emperor, whose swift -advance drove Messalina, half-drunken and half-clad, to a hiding-place -“in the shade of her gardens on the Pincio, the price of the blood of -the murdered Asiaticus.” There she died. “The hot blood of the wanton -smoked on the pavement of his garden, and stained, with a deeper hue, -the variegated marbles of Lucullus.”[B] - -At the intersection of the two fashionable drives which constitute -“the round,”—a circuit that can be accomplished with ease in five -minutes—is an obelisk, also Egyptian, erected, primarily, upon the -Nile, by Hadrian and his Empress, in memory of the drowned Antinöus. - -Urban VIII. left his mark and a memento of the inevitable Bernini on -the Pincio, in the Moses Fountain. It commands, through an artful -opening in the overhanging trees, an exquisitely lovely view of -St. Peter’s, framed in an arch of green. The fountain consists of -a circular basin, and, in the middle of this, Jochebed, the mother -of Moses, upon an island. She looks heavenward while she stoops to -extricate a hydrocephalus babe from a basket much too small for his -trunk and limbs, not to say the big head. - -Caput’s criticism was professionally indignant. - -“It is simply preposterous to fancy that a child with such an abnormal -cerebral development could ever have become a leader of armies or a -law-giver. The wretched woman naturally avoids the contemplation of the -monstrosity she has brought into the world.” - -From that section of the Pincian Gardens overlooking the Borghese Villa -and grounds projects a portion of the ancient wall of Rome, that was -pronounced unsafe and ready to fall in the time of Belisarius. Being -miraculously held in place by St. Peter, there is now no real danger, -unsteady as it looks, that this end of the Pincio will give way under -the weight of the superincumbent wall, and plunge down the precipice -among the ilex-trees and stone-pines beneath. In the shadow of this -wall, tradition holds that blind Belisarius begged from the passers-by. - -With the deepening glow of the sunset— - - “Flushing tall cypress-bough, - Temple and tower”— - -the Roman promenaders and riders flock homeward from Borghese and -Pincio. Foreigners, less familiar with the character of the unwholesome -airs and noxious dews of twilight, linger later until they learn -better. Mingling with the flood of black coats that poured down the -shorter ascent in sight of my windows were rills of scarlet and purple -that puzzled me for awhile. At length I made it my business to examine -them more closely from the parlor balcony in their passage through the -street at the front of the house. - -“There go the _ganders_!” shouted Boy, who accompanied me to the -look-out. - -“I should call them flamingoes?” laughed I. - -The students in the Propaganda wear long gowns, black, red, or purple, -and broad-brimmed hats, each nationality having its uniform. The -members of each division take their “constitutional” at morning and -evening in a body, striding along with energy that sends their skirts -flapping behind them in a gale of their own making. They seldom missed -a band-afternoon upon the Pincio, and were a picturesque element in the -lively display. Boy’s name for them was an honest mispronunciation of a -polysyllable too big for him to handle. But I never saw them stalking -in a slender row across the Piazza di Spagna and up the hill without a -smile at the random shot. The name had a sort of aptness when fitted -to the sober youngsters whose deportment was solemn to grotesqueness -by contrast with the volatile crowd they threaded in their progress to -the pools of refreshment prescribed as a daily recreation—the fleeting -glimpses of the world outside of their pasture. - -The gates of the avenues by which access is had to the gardens are -closed soon after sundown. No one is allowed to walk there after dark, -or remain there overnight. But theatres and other places of amusement -are open in the evening, the best operatic and dramatic entertainments -being reserved for Sunday night. We wearied soon of the bustle and -gayety of such Sabbath afternoons. We could not shut out from our -apartment the strains that seduced thought away from the books we -would fain study. The tramp and hum of the street were well-nigh as -bewildering. In the beginning, to avoid this—afterward, from love of -the place and the beauty and quiet that reign there, like the visible -benediction of the All-Father—we fell into the practice of driving out -every week to the Protestant Cemetery. - -Boy was always one of the carriage-party. The streets were a continual -carnival to him on this, the Christian’s Lord’s Day, being alive with -mountebanks and strolling musicians. Behind the block in which were -our apartments was an open square, where a miniature circus was held -at least one Sabbath per month, it was said, for the diversion of the -boy-prince who is now the heir-apparent. In view of the fact that -_our_ heir-apparent was to be educated for Protestant citizenship in -America, we preferred for him, as for ourselves, Sabbath meditations -among the tombs to the divers temptations of the town—temptations not -to be shunned except by locking him up in a windowless closet and -stuffing his ears with cotton. The route usually selected, because it -was quietest on the holiday that drew the populace elsewhere, granted -us peeps at many interesting objects and localities. - -In the vestibule of the church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin is the -once-noted Bocca della Verità, or Mouth of Truth—a round, flat wheel, -like an overgrown grindstone set on edge, a gaping mouth in the centre. -The first time we visited it (it was _not_ on the Sabbath) the Average -Briton was before us, and affably volunteered an explanation of the -rude mask. - -“You see, when a fellah was suspected of perjury—false swearing, -you know—he was brought heah and made to put his harnd in -those—ah!—confoundedly beastly jaws; when, if he had lied -or—ah!—prevaricated, you know, the mouth would shut upon his harnd, -and, in short, bit it off! The truth was, I farncy, that there was a -fellah behind there with a sword or cleaver, or something of that kind, -you know.” - -Across the church square, which is adorned by a graceful fountain, -often copied in our country, is a small, circular Temple of Vesta, -dating back to the reign of Vespasian, if not to Pompey’s time. It is a -tiny gem of a ruin, if ruin it can be called. The interior is a chapel, -lighted by slits high in the wall. A row of Corinthian columns, but -one of them broken, surrounds it; a conical tiled roof covers it. This -heathen fane is a favorite subject with painters and photographers. -Near it is a much older building—the Temple of Fortune—erected by -Servius Tullius, remodeled during the Republic. Other houses have been -built into one side, and the spaces between the Ionic columns of the -other three been filled in with solid walls to make a larger chamber. -It is a church now, dedicated to St. Mary of Egypt. - -An alley separates this from the House of Rienzi, the Last of the -Tribunes. The marble or stucco coating has peeled away from the -walls, but, near the eaves are fragments of rich sculpture. The Latin -inscription over the doorway has reference to the honors and might of -the ancient owners. Beyond these there is not a symptom of beauty or -grandeur about the ugly, rectangular homestead. The Tiber rolls near, -and its inundations have had much to do with the defacement of the -lower part of the house. The suspension-bridge which crosses the slow -yellow waters at this point, rests at one end upon piers built by -Scipio Africanus. From this bridge—the Ponte Rotto—the pampered body of -Heliogabalus was thrown into the river. Further down the stream are the -foundations of other piles, which have withstood current and freshet -for two thousand years. We always paused when opposite these. Boy knew -the point, and never wearied of hearing and telling— - - “How well Horatius kept the bridge - In the brave days of old.” - -Upon the thither bank were mustered the hosts who made Lars Porsenna “a -proud man” “upon the trysting-day.” - - “There lacked not men of prowess, - Nor men of lordly race; - For all Etruria’s noblest - Were ’round the fatal place.” - -From the same shore captive Clelia plunged into the river on horseback, -and swam over to the city. A short distance above our halting-place the -Cloaca Maxima, a huge, arched opening upon the brink, debouches into -the river, still doing service as the chief sewer of Rome. - -Macaulay does well to tell us that the current of Father Tiber was -“swollen high by mouths of rain” when recounting the exploit of -Horatius Coccles. The ramparts from which the Romans frowned upon their -foes exist no longer, but the low-lying river gives no exalted estimate -of their altitude when - - “To the highest turret-tops - Was splashed the yellow foam.” - -“In point of fact,” as the Average Briton would say, the Tiber is -a lazy, muddy water-course, not half as wide, I should say, as the -Thames, and less lordly in every way. At its best, _i. e._, its -fullest, it is never grand or dignified; a sulky, unclean parent Rome -should be ashamed to claim. - -“How dirty Horatius’ clothes must have been when he got out!” said -Boy, seriously, eying with strong disfavor the “tawny mane,” sleek to -oiliness in the calm afternoon light. - -Dredging-boats moor fast to the massive piers of the Pons Sublicius, -better known to us as the Horatian Bridge. They were always at work -upon the oozy bed of the river, to what end, we could never discover. - -The Monte Testaccio, a hill less than two hundred feet high, starts -abruptly out of the rough plain in front of the English Cemetery. It -is composed entirely of pot-sherds, broken crockery of all kinds, -covered with a slow accretion of earth thick enough to sustain scanty -vegetation. Why, when, and how, the extraordinary pile of refuse grew -into its present proportions, is a mystery. It is older than the -Aurelian wall in whose shelter nestles the Protestant burying-ground. - -The custodian, always civil and obliging, learned to know and welcome -us by and by, and after answering our ring at the gate would say, -smilingly:—“You know the way!” and leave us to our wanderings. Boy had -permission to fill his cap with scarlet and white camellias which had -fallen from the trees growing in the ground and open air at mid-winter. -I might pick freely the violets and great, velvet-petaled pansies -covering graves and borders. When the guardian of the grounds bade -us “Good-day” at our egress, he would add to gentle chidings for the -smallness of my bouquet, a bunch of roses, a handful of double purple -violets or a spray of camellias. We were at home within the enclosure, -to us a little sanctuary where we could be thoughtful, peaceful—hardly -sad. - -“It is enough to make one in love with death to think of sleeping in so -sweet a spot,” wrote Shelley. - -“Strangers always ask first for Shelley’s tomb,” said the custodian. - -It lies at the top of a steep path, directly against the hoary wall -where the ivy clings and flaunts, and the green lizards play in the -sunshine, so tame they scarcely stir or hide in the crevices as the -visitor’s shadow touches them. - - “PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, - COR CORDIUM. - NATUS IV. AUG. MDCCXCII. - OBIT VIII. JULY MDCCCXXI. - Nothing of him that doth fade - But doth suffer a sea-change - Into something rich and strange.” - -Leigh Hunt and Trelawney have made familiar the strange sequel of -a wild, strange life. Overtaken upon the Mediterranean by a sudden -squall, Shelley had hardly time to start from his lounging-place on -deck, and thrust into his jacket-pocket the copy of Keats’ Lamia he was -reading, when the yacht capsized. His body, with that of Williams, his -friend and fellow-voyager, was cast on shore by the waves several days -afterward, and burned in the presence of Byron, Trelawney, Hunt, and -others. - -“Shelley, with his Greek enthusiasm, would not have been sorry to -foresee this part of his fate,” writes Hunt. Frankincense, wine and -spices, together with Keats’ volume found in his pocket, open at the -page he had been reading, were added to the flames. - -“The yellow sand and blue sky were intensely contrasted with one -another,” continues the biographer. “Marble mountains touched the -air with coolness, and the flame of the fire bore away toward heaven -in vigorous amplitude, waving and quivering with a brightness of -inconceivable beauty. It seemed as though it contained the glassy -essence of vitality.” - -Trelawney’s account of the ceremony is realistic and revolting. The -heart remained perfect amid the glowing embers, and Trelawney accredits -himself with the pious act of snatching it from the fire. It and the -ashes were sent to Rome for interment “in the place which he had so -touchingly described in recording its reception of Keats.” - -On week-days, the little cemetery which we had to ourselves on Sabbath, -is a popular resort for travelers. Instead of the holy calm that to -us, had become one with the caressing sunlight and violet-breath, -the old wall gives back the chatter of shrill tongues and gruff -responses, as American women and English men trip and tramp along -the paths in haste to “do” this one of the Roman sights. We were by -Shelley’s tomb, one day, when a British matron approached, accompanied -by two pretty daughters or nieces. Murray was open in her hand at -“Burial-ground—English.” - -“Ah, Shelley!” she cooed in the deep chest-voice affected by her class, -screwing her eye-glass well in place before bringing it to bear upon -the horizontal slab. “The poet and infidel, Shelley, me dears! A man -of some note in his day. I went to school with his sister, I remember. -Quite a nice girl, too, I assure you. Poor Shelley! it was a pity he -imbibed such very-very sad notions upon certain subjects, for he really -was not without ability!” - -The fancy of how the wayward genius would have listened to these -comments above a poet’s grave would have provoked a smile from -melancholy itself. - -In another quarter of the cemetery rests the mortal part of one whom we -knew for ourselves, to have been a good man and a useful. Rev. N. C. -Burt, formerly a Baltimore pastor, died in Rome, whither he had come -for health, and sleeps under heartsease and violets that are never -blighted by winter. - -“In so sweet a spot!” We said it aloud, in gathering for his wife a -cluster of white violets growing above his heart. - -Death and the grave cannot be made less fearful than in this garden of -the blest:— - - “Where, like an infant’s smile, over the dead, - A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread.” - -Keats is buried in the old cemetery, of which the new is an adjunct. -It is bounded at the back by the Aurelian wall; on two sides, by a -dry moat, and the fourth by the pyramid of Cestius. An arched bridge -crosses the narrow moat, and the gate is kept locked. On the side of -the arch next his grave is a profile head of Keats in basso-relievo; -beneath it, this acrostic— - - “Keats! if thy cherished name be ‘writ in water,’ - Each drop has fallen from some mourner’s cheek,— - A sacred tribute, such as heroes seek, - ‘Though oft in vain—for dazzling deeds of slaughter. - Sleep on! Not honored less for epitaph so meek!” - -The tomb is an upright head-stone, simple but massive, with the -well-known inscription:— - - “This Grave - Contains all that was Mortal - of a - Young English Poet - Who - on his Death Bed - in the Bitterness of his Heart - at the Malicious Power of his Enemies - Desired - these Words to be engraven on his Tomb Stone: - “Here lies One - Whose Name was writ in Water.” - Feb. 24^{th} 1821” - -A marble bar runs around the sides and foot, and the space enclosed -is literally covered with violets. An English lady pays the expense -of their renewal as fast as they die, or are plucked. They must bloom -forever upon the grave of Keats. So runs her order. - -The custodian added to those he gave us, a rose and a sprig of a -fragrant shrub that grew by the head-stone, and wondered politely when -I knelt to pick the daisies smiling in the grass. - -“I gather and I shall preserve them,” I explained, “because when Keats -was dying, he said—‘I feel the daisies growing over me!’” - -Daisies thronged the place all winter, and blossomed as abundantly in -the sward on the other side of the moat. The most distinct mind-picture -I have of those Sabbath afternoon walks and talks among and beside the -dead shows me the broken battlements of the wall, the ivy streaming -through the useless loop-holes; the flowery slope of the graves down -to the moat, on the other side of which lies Keats under his fragrant -coverlet; the solemn old pyramid casting a shadow upon turf and tomb, -and in the foreground Boy skipping over the grass, “telling himself a -story,” very softly because the silent sleepers are so near, or busily -picking daisies to add to the basket of flowers that are to fill our -_salle_ with perfume until we come again. - -“So sweet a spot!” - -FOOTNOTE: - -[B] Merivale, vol. vi., p. 176. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -_With the Skeletons._ - - -In the Piazza Barberini is the Fountain of the Triton by Bernini, -one of the least objectionable of his minor works. A chubby, sonsie -fellow is the young Triton, embrowned by wind, water and sun, seated -in a shell, supported by four dolphins and blowing into a conch with -a single eye to business that should, but does not act as a salutary -example to the tribe of beggars, models and gossips who congregate -around him. - -From the right of the spacious square leads the street on which stands -the Palace of the Barberini,—I had nearly written the Bee-hive, so -intimate grows the association between the powerful family and these -busy stingers to one who has studied the Barberini monuments, erected -by them while living, and to them when defunct. I have consistently -and resolutely refrained, thus far, from plying my readers with -art-criticisms—fore-ordained to be skipped—of pictures and statues -which do not interest those who have never seen them, and fail to -satisfy those who have. I mention the picture of Beatrice Cenci by -Guido Reni because it is the most wonderful portrait extant. Before -seeing it, I fairly detested the baby-face, with a towel wound about -the head, that looked slyly backward at me from the window of every -print-shop. Of the principal feature so raved about by Byronic youths -and bilious school-girls, it might be said,— - - “Thou hast no speculation in the eyes - That thou dost glare with.” - -The other lineaments would have been passable in a Paris doll. -Believing these caricatures—or some of them—to be tolerable copies of -the original, we lived in Rome four months; made ourselves pretty well -acquainted with the half-dozen good pictures among the host of poor -ones in the Palazzo Doria, and the choice gems in the small Academia di -San Luca; we had seen the Aurora of the Rospiglioso, the Antinöus upon -the mantel in Villa Albani; Venus Victrix and Daphne in the Borghese, -and the unrivaled frescoes upon the walls and ceilings of the Palazzo -Farnese, besides going, on an average, once a week to the Capitoline -and Vatican museums;—yet never been persuaded by friends wiser or less -prejudiced than we, to enter the meagrely supplied art-gallery of the -Barberini Palace. When we did go it was with a languor of curiosity -clogging our steps and dulling our perceptions, which found no stimulus -in the two outer apartments of the suite. There were the usual -proportion of Holy Families, Magdalenes, and Portraits, to an unusual -number of which conscientious Baedeker had affixed interrogation-points -casting worse than doubt upon their origin;—Christ among the -Doctors—which it is difficult to imagine was painted by Dürer, but easy -to believe was “done” in five days; Raphael’s Fornarina, a shade more -brazen and a thought less handsome than the bar-maid of the same title, -in the Uffizzi at Florence, and so plainly what she was, one is sorry -to trace Raphael’s name upon her bracelet. Then the guide suddenly -turned toward the light a small, shabby frame hung upon a hinge—and a -soul looked at us! - -“The very saddest picture ever painted or conceived. It involved an -unfathomable depth of sorrow, the sense of which came to the observer -by a sort of intuition.... It is infinitely heart-breaking to meet her -glance and to feel that nothing can be done to help or comfort her; -neither does she ask help or comfort, knowing the hopelessness of the -case better than we do.” - -Hawthorne comprehended and expressed the spirit of the composition (if -it be a fancy sketch, as latter-day iconoclasts insinuate), and the -language of the doomed girl’s eyes. Even he has told but a part of the -story; given but a hint of the nature of the charm that holds cool -critic and careless stroller spell-bound before this little square of -canvas. There is sorcery in it pen nor tongue can define. It haunted -and tormented us until the possession was provoking. After coming -many times to experience the same thrill—intense to suffering if we -gazed long;—after dreaming of her by day and by night, and shunning, -more disgustfully than ever, the burlesques in the shops—“the poor -girl with the blubbered eyes,”—we tried to forget her. It was weak -to be thus swayed by a twenty-inch painting; unworthy of people who -fearlessly pronounced Perugino stiff, and had not been overwhelmed -to rapturous incoherence by the sprawling anatomical specimens left -by Michael Angelo to the guild of art-lovers under the name of the -“Last Judgment.” Saying and feeling thus,—we took every opportunity -of slipping without premeditation, or subsequent confession into the -Barberini Palace;—finally leaving the picture and Rome, no better able -to account for our fascination than after our first grudging visit. - -Returning to the square of the Triton after one of these bootless -excursions, we ascended a short avenue to the plain old church of the -Capuchins. A Barberini founded this also, and the convent next door,—a -cardinal, and brother to Urban VIII. He made less use of the bees and -Bernini in his edifices than did his kinsman. That he had a juster -appreciation of true genius, was evinced by his hospitable attentions -to Milton when he was in Rome. Church annals record, moreover, the -circumstance that Cardinal Barberini availed himself no further of the -family wealth and aggrandizement than to give liberally to the poor and -endow this church and monastery. He is buried beneath the high altar, -and a modest stone bears the oft-borrowed epitaph—“_Hic jacet pulvis, -cinis, et nihil!_” - -There are famous paintings in this church,—the chapel nearest the -entrance containing Guido Reni’s “St. Michael,” while upon the walls -of the next but one is a fine fresco of the “Death of St. Francis,” by -Domenichino. The crypts are, however, the popular attraction of the -place. - -The burial-vaults of the Capuchin brotherhood are not vaults at all -in the sense of subterranean chambers. They are four in number, of -fair size, open on one side to the corridor which is lighted by grated -windows. The inner walls are banks and rows of dried skeletons, whole -and dismembered. - -“Does it take long to upholster an apartment in this style?” asked Mark -Twain, contemplating the decorations of the crypt. - -The wicked witticism sounded in our ears in his exquisite drawl, as, -amazed to discover how slightly shocked we were, we raised curious eyes -to the geometrical figures traced in raised lines upon the ceiling. -These are composed of the small bones of the human form, skillfully -assorted and matched. Pillars and niches are built of thigh, leg and -arm bones. Each niche has its skeleton, stayed in an upright posture -by a cord knotted about his waist, securing him to a hook behind. All -wear the costume of the order;—a butternut-colored gown, the cowl -framing the skull. Some tiny skeletons lie upon compact beds of bones -close to the ceiling. - -“Children!” we said, in French, to the guide. “How is that?” - -“Children of the Barberini,” was the answer. “Therefore, entitled to a -place here. Our founder was a Barberini.” - -“And were _they_ buried for a while, and then disturbed—dug up?” - -“Why not?” - -He was a stalwart fellow, with bare, horny feet; a rusty beard falling -below his breast; and a surly face, that did not relax at these -questions, nor at our comments, in our own tongue, upon what we saw. - -The floor of the chambers is light, mellow soil, like that of lately -weeded and raked flower-beds. To carry out the conceit, rows of sticks, -labeled, were stuck along one side, that might mark seed-rows. So much -of the original soil as remains there was brought from Jerusalem. In -each grave a deceased monk slumbers twenty-five years, then makes room -for the next comer, and is, himself, promoted, intact or piece-meal, as -architectural needs demand— - -“To a place in the dress, or the family circle,” supplied Prima, with -praiseworthy gravity. - -Caput, usually an exemplar in the matter of decorum, was now tempted to -a quotation as irreverent as the saucy girl’s comment. - -“‘Each of the good friars in his turn, enjoys the luxury of a -consecrated bed, attended with the slight drawback of being forced to -get up long before day-break, as it were, and make room for another -lodger.’” - -“Miriam’s model, known to the friars as Brother Antonio, was buried in -the farthest recess,” said I, leading the way to it. “Do you remember -that he lay in state before the altar up-stairs when she and Donatello -visited the church? And how the guide explained that a brother, buried -thirty years before, had risen to give him place? _That_ is probably -the ejected member.” - -The worthy designated wore an air of grim jollity, of funereal -festivity, indescribable and irresistible. Dangling by the middle from -his hempen girdle, his head on one shoulder, his cowl awry, he squinted -at us out of its shadow with a leer that would have convicted of -drunkenness anybody less holy than a barefoot friar, and less staid of -habit than a skeleton of fifty years’ standing. Struggling to maintain -composure, I accosted the sacristan. He was standing with his back to -us, looking out of the window, and had certainly not seen our smiles. - -“Which of these was disinterred last?” - -He pointed to one whose robe was less mouldy than the rest, and upon -whose chin yet bristled the remnant of a sandy beard. - -“Which was his grave?” - -Another silent gesture. - -“What is the date of the latest interment?” - -“1869,” incisively. - -“Have there been no deaths in the convent since then?” - -“Yes!” The disdainful growl was in good _English_. “We bury no more in -this ground. Victor Emmanuel forbids it!” - -An Italian murmur in the depths of his frowsy beard was not a -benediction upon the tyrant. Members of monastic orders cursed him -more deeply in private, as they would have banned him openly, by -bell and by book, had they dared, when he commanded, that same year, -the conscription of young men for the Italian army to extend to the -native-born neophytes and pupils in convents and church-schools. - -“VITTORIO EMMANUELE!” The musical name was very clearly printed at the -foot of a placard, glazed and hung in the vestibule of the Collegio -Romano. Guide-books of a date anterior to that enunciated so venomously -by our Capuchin, in describing the museum attached to this institution, -were fain to add:—“The museum can be seen on Sundays only, 10-11 -o’clock, A.M. Ladies not admitted.” - -By the grace of the printed proclamation, throwing open the collection -of antiquities and library to well-behaved persons of both sexes, we -passed the unguarded doors, mounted the stone staircase, dirty as are -all Roman stairs, and were, without let or hindrance, in the midst of -what we wished to examine and from which there is no conceivable reason -for excluding women. - -Most of the Catacomb inscriptions that could be removed without -injury to the tablets bearing them, have been deposited elsewhere for -safe-keeping and more satisfactory inspection than is consistent with -the darkness of the underground cemeteries. The shelves, arranged -like those in modern vaults, stripped of the stone fronts that once -concealed their contents, are still partially filled with fine -ashes—sacred dust, mixed with particles from the friable earth walling -and flooring the labyrinth of narrow passages. Fragments of sculptured -marble lie where they have fallen from broken altars or memorial -slabs, and in the wider spaces used as oratories, where burial-rites -were performed, and, in times of sorest tribulation, other religious -services held, there are traces of frescoes in faded, but still -distinguishable colors. - -In the Collegio Romano are garnered most interesting specimens -of the mural tablets brought from catacombs and columbaria. The -Christian Museum of San Giovanni in Laterano embraces a more extensive -collection, but in the less spacious corridors and rooms of the -Collegio, one sees and studies in comfort and quiet that are not to -be had in the more celebrated halls. In the apartment devoted to -Christian antiquities are many small marble coffers, sculptured more -or less elaborately, taken from columbaria. These were receptacles for -the literal ashes of the departed. They are out of keeping with our -belief that the early Christians regarded incremation with dread as -destructive, in the popular mind, of the doctrine of the resurrection -of the body. They committed their beloved dead tenderly to the keeping -of the earth, with a full recognition of the analogy between this act -and seed-planting, so powerfully set forth by St. Paul. Else, why the -Catacombs? These cinerary caskets, whether once tenanted by Christian -or pagan dust, merit careful notice. They are usually about twelve or -fourteen inches in height, and two or three less in width. The lid -slopes gently up from the four sides to form a peaked centre like a -square house-roof, with pointed turrets or ears at the corners. The -covers were firmly cemented in place when deposited in the columbaria. -We saw one or two thus secured to protect the contents, but all have -probably been broken open, at one time or another, in quest of other -treasure than relics precious to none save loving survivors. The lids -of many have been lost. - -The mural slabs were arranged against the wall as high as a man could -reach. The lettering—much of it irregularly and unskillfully done—is -more distinct than epitaphs not thirty years old, in our country -church-yards. The inscriptions are often ungrammatical and so spelt -as to betray the illiterate workman. But there is no doubt what were -the belief and trust of those who set them up in the blackness and -damps of a Necropolis whose existence was scarcely suspected by their -persecutors. - -“IN CHRISTO, IN PACE,” is the language of many, the meaning of all. It -may be only a cross rudely cut into soft stone; it is often a lamb, -sometimes carrying a cross; a dove, a spray meant for olive, in its -mouth—dual emblem of peace and the “rest that remaineth.” The Greek -Alpha and Omega, repeated again and again, testify that these hunted -and smitten ones had read John’s glorious Revelation. On all sides, we -saw the, to heathen revilers, mystical cypher, early adopted as a sign -and seal by the Christians, a capital P, transfixing a St. Andrew’s -Cross. - -From one stained little slab, we copied an inscription entire and -_verbatim_. - -[Illustration: - - Puer Decessit Qui vixit - Nomine Dulcis’us Annos V - Mensis VI] - -Above Benjamin Franklin’s baby-daughter, buried beside him in the -almost forgotten corner of an intra-mural graveyard, we can, with -pains, read—“_The dearest child that ever was_.” We thought of it and -of another “child” whose brief, beautiful life is summed up in words as -apt and almost as few:— - - “The sweetest soul - That ever looked with human eyes.” - -O, holy Nature! the throbbing, piercèd heart of parenthood! the same in -the breast of the mother who laid her boy to sleep, until the morning, -in the starless night of the Catacombs, as within the Rachel who weeps -to-day beside the coffin of her first, or latest-born! - -We had seen the wall in Nero’s barracks from which the famous -“_Graffito Blasphemo_” was taken, about ten years before. To behold -the sketch itself was one of our errands to this Museum. It is a -square of cement, of adamantine hardness, in a black frame, and hangs -in a conspicuous position at the end of the principal corridor. The -story, as gathered from the caricature and the place in which it -was discovered, is probably something like this:—A party of Nero’s -soldiery, gathered in a stall or barrack belonging to the Imperial -household, amused themselves by ridiculing one of their number who had -been converted to Christianity. Paul was, about that time, dwelling -in his own hired house in Rome, or as a prisoner awaiting trial or -execution. A part of the richly-sculptured marble bar indicating the -Tribune in the Basilica Jovis, before which he was tried, is still -standing, not a bow-shot from where the lounging guards made a jest -of their comrade’s new faith. One of them drew, with the point of his -sword, or other sharp instrument, upon the plastered wall, a rough -caricature, representing a man with the head of an ass, hanging upon a -cross. His hands are bound to the transverse arms, his feet rest upon a -shorter cross-piece fastened to the upright beam. From this position, -the head looks down upon a small figure below, who raises his hand in a -gesture of adoration more intelligible to the pagan of that date than -to us. A jumble of Greek and Latin characters, crowded between and -under the figures, points the ribald satire, “_Alexamenos adores his -God_.” Nero went to his account. The very site of his Golden House is a -matter of dispute among archæologists who have bared the foundations -of the palace of the Cæsars. But after eighteen hundred years, when the -rubbish was dug out from the soldiers’ quarters, there appeared the -blasphemer’s sketch, as distinct as if drawn at last week’s debauch. - -From the observatory of the Collegio Romano a signal is given daily, at -twelve o’clock, for the firing of the noon cannon from the Castle of -San Angelo. As we entered the Piazza di Spagna on our return, the dull -boom shook the air. The streets were full of people, the day being a -fine one in early Spring, and, as happens every day in the year, every -man, from the _cocchière_ upon his box, to the _élégant_ strolling -along the shady side of the square to digest his eleven o’clock -breakfast, looked at his watch. Not that the Romans are a punctual -people, or moderately industrious. “The man who makes haste, dies -early,” is one of their mottoes. “_Dolce far niente_” belongs to them -by virtue of tongue and practice. “Lazzaroni” should be spelled with -one z, and include, according to the sense thus conveyed to English -ears, tens of thousands besides professional beggars. - -There is no pleasanter place in which to be lazy than in this -bewitching old city. Our own life there was an idyl, rounded and pure, -such as does not come twice to the same mortal. The climate, they -would have had us believe was the bane of confiding strangers, was to -us all blessedness. Not one of us was ill for a day while we resided -in the cozy “_appartamento_” in Via San Sebastiano; nor was there a -death, that winter, among American visitors and residents in Rome. -For myself, the soft air was curative to the sore lungs; a delicious -sedative that quieted the nerves and brought the boon, long and vainly -sought—Sleep! My cough left me within a month, not to return while we -remained in Italy. We made the natural mistake of tarrying too late in -the Spring, unwilling to leave scenes so fair, fraught with such food -for Memory and for Imagination. After mid-April, the noon-day heat was -debilitating, and I suffered appreciable diminution of vigor. - -I do not apologize for these personal details. Knowing how eagerly -invalids, and those who have invalid friends, crave information -respecting the means that have restored health to others, I write -frankly of my own experience in quest of the lost treasure. It would -be strange if I could think of Rome and our home there without felt -and uttered gratitude. Convalescence was, with me, less a rally of -energies to battle with disease and weakness, than a gradual return, -by ways of pleasantness and paths of peace, to physical tranquillity, -and through rest, to strength. I hardly comprehended, for awhile, that -I was really getting better; that I might be well again in time. I -only knew that to breathe was no longer pain, nor to live labor that -taxed the powers of body and spirit to the utmost. There was so much -to draw me away from the contemplation of my own griefs and ailments -that I could have supposed the new existence a delusion, my amendment a -trick of fancy. I forgot to think of and watch myself. I had all winter -but one return—and that a slight one, induced by unusual exertion—of -the hæmorrhages that had alarmed us, from time to time, for two years -preceding our departure from America. The angel of healing had touched -me, and I knew it not. - -One morning I had gone, as was my custom, to a window in the _salon_, -so soon as I left my bed-chamber; thrown it open and leaned upon the -balcony-railing to taste the freshness of the new day. We clung to our -pillows, as a family rule, until the sonorous cry of the vendor of a -morning journal arose to our drowsy ears. - -“Popolo Ro-ma-a-no!” - -“There is Old Popolo!” Boy would shout from his crib. “It is eight -o’clock!” - -It was half-past eight on the day of which I speak, and the shops were -not yet open; the Piazza deserted but for a flock of goats and the -attendant contadini who milked them from one door to another for their -customers. Birds were twittering among the trees in the Pincian Gardens -upon my left; there was a lingering flush of pink in the sky that would -be, within an hour and until evening, of the “incomparable sweet” blue, -American heavens put on after one thunder-shower, and before another -blackens them. In Italy nobody calls the exquisite depth of color “a -weather-breeder.” A church-bell was ringing so far away that it was -a musical pulse, not a chime. Down the Via della Croce to my right, -over half a mile of tiled roofs, round and distinct in the dry, pure -atmosphere, towered the Castle of San Angelo—the bronze angel on the -summit sheathing the sword of pestilence, as Pope Gregory affirmed he -beheld him at the approach to the Tiber of the penitential procession -headed by the pontiff. As the goats turned into the Via del Babuino, -the faint tinkle of their bells was blent with the happy laugh of a -young contadina. I quaffed slow, delicious draughts of refreshment that -seemed to touch and lift the heart; that lulled the brain to divinest -dreaming. - -Then and there, I had a revelation; bowed my soul before my Angel of -Annunciation, I should not die, but live. Then and thus, I accepted -the conviction that, apart from the intellectual delight I drew from -our present life—the ministry of sky and air, of all goodly sights and -sounds and the bright-winged fancies that were a continual ecstasy, was -to my body—HEALTH! That hour I thanked GOD and took courage! - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -“_Paul—a Prisoner._” - - -JUST outside of the Ostian Gate is the pyramid of Caius -Cestius—Tribune, Prætor and Priest, who died thirty years before Christ -was born, and left a fortune to be expended in glorification of himself -and deeds. The monument is one hundred and twenty feet high, nearly -one hundred feet square at the base, built of brick and overlaid with -marble slabs. Modeled after the Egyptian mausoleums, and unaccountably -spared by Goth and Pope, it stands to-day, after the more merciful wear -and tear of twenty centuries, entire, and virtually unharmed. Alexander -VII., when he had the rubbish cleared away from the base, also ordered -a door to be cut in the side. The body, or ashes of Cestius had been -deposited in the centre of the pyramid before its completion, and -hermetically inclosed by the stupendous walls. What was done with the -handful of dust that had been august and a member of the College of -Epulones, appointed to minister by sacrifices to the gods, history does -not relate. The great pile contains one empty chamber contemptible in -dimensions by comparison with the superficies of the exterior. The -walls of this retain signs of frescoes, designed for the delectation of -the dead noble, and such ghostly visitants as were able to penetrate -the marble facing and twenty feet of brick laid with Roman cement. The -custodian of the English burial-ground has the key of Alexander’s door, -and shows the vault for a consideration. Nobody goes to see it a second -time. - -The Ostian Gate is now the Porta S. Paolo, and is a modern structure. -Here begins the Via Ostiensis, in St. Paul’s life-time, the -thronged road to Rome’s renowned sea-port. Ostia is now a wretched -fishing-village of less than one hundred inhabitants. Over the -intervening country broods malaria, winter and summer. Conybeare -and Howson have told us in words that read like the narrative of -an eye-witness, how the route looked when, “through the dust and -tumult of that busy throng, the small troop of soldiers”—having Paul -in charge—“threaded their way under the bright sky of an Italian -midsummer.” - -The silence and desolation of the Campagna on the February day of our -excursion to Tre Fontane, or Aquas Salvias,—the Tyburn of the Romans -under the Emperors, were as depressing as the seen shadow of Death. -The sunlight brought out warm umber tints upon the gray sides of the -pyramid. Children, ragged and happy, rolled in the dust and basked in -the sun before the mean houses on the wayside. Women in short, russet -skirts, blue or red bodices, with gay handkerchiefs, folded square, -laid upon the top of the head and hanging down the back of the neck, -nursed brown babies and spun flax in open doors, or sitting flat upon -the ground. Men drank and smoked in and about the wine-shops, talking -with such vehemence of gesticulation as would frighten those who did -not know that the subject of debate was no more important than the -price of macaroni, or the effect of yesterday’s rain upon the growing -artichokes. - -But, from the moment our short procession of three carriages emerged -from the city-gate and took the road to Ostia, the most mercurial -spirit amongst us felt the weight as of a remembered sorrow. We -had seen the opening in the floor of the lower chapel of S. Pietro -in Montorio, where S. Peter’s cross had stood, and the golden sand -in which the foot of it was imbedded; groped down the steps of the -Mamertine Prison, and felt our way by torchlight around the confines -of the cell in which both of the Great Apostles, it is said, perhaps -truly, were incarcerated up to the day of their martyrdom. We had -surveyed the magnificence, without parallel even in Rome, of the -Basilica of St Paul’s Without the Walls; the very sepulchre of St Paul, -the ostensible reason for this affluence of ecclesiastical grandeur, -and believed exactly as much and as little as we pleased of what -the Church told us of localities, and authorities in support of the -authenticity of these. But the evidence that St. Paul was beheaded near -Rome, in Via Ostiensis, was irrefragable. There was no ground for cavil -in the statement, sustained by venerable traditions, that he perished -at Tre Fontane. - -Half-way between the Gate of St. Paul and the Basilica, is a squalid -chapel, the entrance rather lower than the street, with an indifferent -bas-relief over the door, of two men locked in one another’s arms. -Here—according to the apocryphal epistle of St. Dionysius the -Areopagite to Timothy—Peter and Paul, who, Jerome states, were executed -upon the same day, parted. Besides the bas-relief, the tablet over the -lintel records their farewell words: - -“And Paul said unto Peter,—‘Peace be with thee, Foundation of the -Church, Shepherd of the Flock of Christ!’” - -“And Peter said unto Paul,—‘Go in peace, Preacher of Good Tidings, and -Guide of the Salvation of the Just!’” - -We were in no mood to make this one of the stations of our pious -journey. Nor did we stop at the Basilica, the dingy outside of which -offers no promise of the superb interior. Beyond the church spread -the sad-colored Campagna, irresponsive to the sunshine, unbroken save -by leafless coppices and undulations where the surface rolled into -hillocks that caught no light, and into hollows of deeper gloom. A -few peasants’ huts upon the edge of a common, and mounds of shapeless -ruins, are all the signs of human habitation, past or present. It is -unutterably mournful—this “wilderness that moans at the gates” of -the seven-hilled city. The sun was oppressive in the unshaded road, -although the sky was filmy, and the horses moved sluggishly. Ours was -a funeral cortége, following the figure loving fancies set before -us in the lonely highway. An old man, enfeebled by imprisonment, by -“weariness and painfulness, by watchings often, by hunger and thirst, -by fastings often, by cold and nakedness,” yet pressing forward, ready -and joyful to be offered. We had read, last night, in anticipation of -this pilgrimage, his farewell letter to his adopted son; noted, as -we had not in previous perusals, his confident expectation of this -event; and the yearning of the great, tender heart over this dearest of -earthly friends,—his desire to see him once more before his departure -breaking in upon his clearest views of Heaven and the Risen Lord. It -was the backward glance of a father from the top of the hill that will -hide the group of watching children from his eyes. - -“Henceforth, there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which -the Lord—the righteous Judge—shall give me at that day.” - -(This was after he had been brought before Nero the first time, -where—“no man stood with me, but all men forsook me.”) - -“And not unto me only, but unto all them also that love His appearing. - -“Do thy diligence to come _shortly_ unto me!” - -And, again:—“The Lord shall deliver me from every evil work, and will -preserve me unto His heavenly kingdom. To whom be glory forever and -ever! AMEN! - -“Do thy diligence to come to me _before winter_!” - -He had not thought his end so near, then. The likelihood is that he -was hurried to the judgment the second time, and sentence speedily -pronounced. He may have been still bewildered by this haste when he -walked with his escort, along the road to Ostia. It was June, and -the sun beat fiercely upon his head. After the cool twilight of the -dungeon, the air must have scorched like furnace-vapors. He would be -very weary before the three miles beyond the gates were accomplished, -unless the rapturous certainty that he would, that very day, stand -face-to-face with Him who also suffered without the gate, lightened the -burden of heavy limbs and fainting flesh. - -A high wall, rising abruptly from barren fields, incloses three -churches, a small monastery, a flower and kitchen-garden, and some rows -of thrifty Eucalyptus trees. Thus much we saw, through the grating of -the gate, while awaiting the answer to our ring. A monk admitted us. -The Convent was made over to the Order of La Trappe in 1868. Twelve -brethren, by the help of Eucalyptus and the saints, live here, defying -isolation and malaria. Their rules are strict, enjoining many fastings -and prayers. They wear sandals instead of shoes, and have, therefore, -the shuffling gait inseparably connected, in our minds, with pietistic -pretension. A man in loose slippers recalls the impression to this -day. The habit of the order is brown cloth, and is worn day and night, -without change, for three years, when it is laid aside—or drops off of -its own weight and threadbareness—for a new one. Our monk had donned -his—we estimated, charitably—just two years and eleven months anterior -to our acquaintance with him, and eaten onions three times every day. -He was a social brother, alert and garrulous, and shortly grew more -gallant to the young ladies of our party than became his asceticism -and his paucity of front teeth. He stared open-mouthed—consequently, -disagreeably—at our refusal to enter the church nearest the gate. - -“It is the church of Santa Maria Scala Cœli!” he represented, -earnestly. “Twelve thousand Christian martyrs, who built the Thermæ of -Diocletian, slumber beneath it. Holy St. Bernard had here a dream of -angels carrying souls up a ladder from purgatory to heaven.” - -“Very interesting!” we acknowledged, suavely. “But our time is short!” - -The brother regretted. “But messieurs and mesdames will not pass the -second door! The church of Saints Vincenzo and Anastasia. Very antique, -founded in 625. One sees there, still, frescoes celebrating the deaths -of these holy men, by cooking upon a gridiron and by strangling. -Mesdemoiselles will enjoy looking upon these.” - -Unmoved by his tempting lures, we passed on to the third, last, -and evidently, in his opinion, the least attractive of the three -edifices—San Paolo alle tre Fontane. He followed, discontented, but -always obsequious. - -The vestibule walls are adorned with bas-reliefs of St. Paul’s -execution in the presence of Roman guards. The pavement of the church -is a large and fine mosaic, found in the ruins of ancient Ostia. -The subject is the Four Seasons, and the monk, checking us when we -would have trodden upon it, threw himself into a studied transport of -admiration. There was not another mosaic like it in Italy. Contemplate -the brilliant dyes! the graceful contour of the figures! Artists from -all lands flocked to the Abbey delle tre Fontane, entreating permission -from the Superior to copy it. - -We broke the thread impatiently from the reel. We were here to see -where St. Paul was beheaded. - -“_Vraiment?_” politely, smothering his chagrin. “But, certainly! Upon -that block in the corner!” - -It was a pillar, not a block, and marble, not wooden. An imposition so -bare-faced did not pass unchallenged. We argued that the pillar was -modern in workmanship, and too clean. No blood-stains disfigured its -whiteness. - -“There _had_ been blood-stains without doubt. Beyond question, also, -the kisses and tears of the faithful had erased them.” - -But it was absurd, unheard of, to talk of decapitation upon a stone -block, waiving objections to the height and shape of this. The axe, in -severing the head, would be spoiled utterly by contact with the hard -surface beneath. - -“So I should have said, Monsieur. It is the dictate of _le bon sens_, -Madame! But me—I am here to repeat what the Church instructs me to say. -When I arrive at this so holy place, I find the pillar here, as you see -it—protected by an iron rail from destruction at the hands and lips of -devotees. I am told, ‘It is the pillar on which was cut off the head -of St. Paul the Blessed Martyr.’ Who am I, a poor lay-brother, that I -should doubt the decree of the Church?” - -Seeing absolution in our faces after this frank confession, he entered, -with interest, upon the history of the three fountains enclosed in as -many marble altars, ranged at one side of the church. In the front -of each is an opening large enough to admit the hand, arm, and a -drinking-cup kept ready for dipping. Above each aperture is a head of -Paul in bas-relief. In the first, the eyes are open, the features -instinct with life. The second portrays the relaxed lineaments of a -dying man, the third, the rigidity of death in closed eyelids and -sunken cheeks. Keeping close to the letter of the lesson he had been -taught, our unsavory cicerone related that the Apostle’s head made -three bounds upon the earth after its separation from the body, and -that at each touch a fountain had burst forth. To establish the truth -of the miracle to unbelievers in all ages, no less than to kindle the -enthusiasm of true worshippers at this shrine, the water of the first -spring is still warm; of the second, tepid; of the third, ice-cold. - -“Will Mademoiselle,” turning to the young girl near him, and grimacing -in what was meant to be a fascinating fashion—“Will Mademoiselle -vouchsafe to taste the healing waters? For that they are a veritable -catholicon is attested by many cures. Or, is it that Mademoiselle is -never ill? Her blooming cheeks would say, ‘No.’ Ah, then, so much the -better! A draught of the miraculous fountains—accompanied, of course, -by an ‘Ave Maria,’ is efficacious in procuring a husband. May he be _un -bon Catholique_!” - -But one of the company tasted the waters, and she affirmed roundly—in -English, for our benefit, in French for the friar’s—that the -temperature of all three was the same. - -“That is because you have not faith!” chuckled the lay-brother, -throwing what was left in the cup upon the Four Seasons. “The Catholic -husband will cure all that!” - -His cackling laugh was odious, his torrent of talk wearisome. We -hurried to escape them by quitting the church and proffering the -gate-fee, a franc for each person. At sight of the money, he ceased -laughing and began to whine. The fees were the property of the Convent. -For himself, he had no perquisites save such as he earned from the -sale of Eucalyptus syrup. Unlocking the door of a store-house, he -showed us shelves crowded with bottles of the elixir, prepared by the -brethren, and used freely by them in the sickly season. Formerly, we -were informed, no one could live here even in winter. The place was a -miasmatic swamp, the churches and abbey were almost in ruins. But the -monks of La Trappe enjoyed in an extraordinary degree (the whine rising -into a sanctimonious sing-song) the favor of Our Lady and the saints. -They stayed here, the year around, encouraged by His Holiness the Pope -in the cultivation of the Eucalyptus, chiefly, that the elixir might be -bestowed upon the contadini who ventured to live in the pestilential -district, and charitable _forestieri_, (foreigners) unused to the -climate. We assured him, coldly, that we would not buy medicine we did -not need, and satisfied his benevolent intentions us-ward, by paying -him for some flowers and pieces of marble we brought away as souvenirs. -We left him standing in the gateway, grinning at the young ladies, and -breathing so hard that we imagined we smelt garlic and sour wine a -hundred yards down the road. - -“A filthy cur!” uttered Caput, and nobody said him nay. - -Even the demon of malaria might scorn such prey. - -We were told by those qualified by long residence in Italy to speak -advisedly concerning these matters, that, while the priesthood of that -country comprises many men eminent for learning, the mass of minor -ecclesiastics, especially in the country, are ignorant and vulgar -beyond our powers of credence. For ages, the monastic orders have -been a swarm of caterpillars, battening upon the fat of the land, and -blighting, while they devoured. To the King, who let the light into -their nests, clearing out many, and leaving in the nest only those who -were too infirm to begin a work, so unfamiliar to them all, as earning -their livelihood—the thanks of civilization and philanthropy are due. - -So harshly had our experiences in the church jarred upon the mood in -which we had approached it, that we could not, as it were, get back -to St. Paul that day. We deferred the pilgrimage to his supposed tomb -until we were in better tune. - -Tradition—“the elder sister of history”—asserts that as devout men -carried Stephen to his burial, Paul’s friends and converts, including -persons of influence in the city, even some attachés of the Imperial -household, took charge of _his_ remains. It is interesting to note the -names of certain disciples, who were, we know, of that faithful band. -Clement, of Rome, whose writings and whose Basilica remain with us unto -the present day; Claudia, a British Princess, a Christian convert, and -the _protégée_ of an Emperor; Pudens, her husband, whose daughter and -hers was the foundress of the primitive Cathedral of Rome. - -This church—I digress to state—is now joined to a convent in Via -Quatro Fontane. It occupies the site of the house of the daughters -of Pudens—Prudentia and Praxedes. Or—what is more likely,—it was -an enlargement of the family chapel—or “Basilica.” The repute of -these sisters, the children of the noble pair who were Paul’s -fellow-laborers, has descended to us by more trustworthy channels -than those through which church-legends are generally transmitted. In -the early persecutions their house was a refuge for the fugitive, a -hospital for the wounded and dying,—a sacred _morgue_ for bodies cast -forth from torture-chamber and scaffold, to be eaten of dogs and crows. -In one of the chapels of the old church is a mosaic of these sisters of -mercy, pressing sponges soaked in martyrs’ blood into a golden urn. -Another depicts them in the presence of their enthroned Lord, and, -standing near, Paul and Peter. The women hold between them the martyr’s -crown, earned for themselves by fidelity to the Faith and friends of -their parents. - -One of Paul’s disciples was a Roman matron named Lucina, who—to return -to our tradition—gained possession of the Apostle’s lifeless body, and -buried it in her own catacomb or vineyard in the vicinity of the Ostian -Gate. Eusebius says the catacomb was shown in his day; Chrysostom, that -“the grave of St. Paul is well known.” - -“St. Cyprian”—writes Macduff—“is the interpreter, in a single sentence, -of the sentiment of the faithful in those ages: ‘_To the bodies of -those who depart by the outlet of a glorious death, let a more zealous -watchfulness be given._’ Can we believe that those who by means of rude -sarcophagi and inscriptions in the vaults of the Catacombs, took such -pains to mark the dormitory of their sainted dead, would omit rearing a -befitting memorial in the case of their illustrious spiritual chief?” - -From the same catacomb have been unearthed inscriptions belonging to -the Pauline era. The story was so thoroughly believed in the reign of -Constantine that he built the original Basilica of St. Paul’s above -this catacomb, and placed the bones of Paul, or relics supposed to be -his, within the crypt. Since that date, this church has had them in -ward. - -With these credentials fresh in our memories, we took advantage of -a very mild morning whose influences somewhat tempered the chill -of aisles and chapels, to make a prolonged examination of _San -Paolo-fuori-le-mura_—St. Paul’s-beyond-the-Wall. The outside is, as I -have intimated, tamely ugly. He who passes it by will remember it as -the least comely of the hundred unsightly churches in and about the -city. From the moment one enters the immense nave,—stands between the -columns of yellowish alabaster, presented by Mehemet Ali, which are -the prelude to a double rank of eighty monoliths of polished granite, -cut from the Simplon,—to his exit, the spectacle is one of bewildering -magnificence. Macduff likens the floor to a “sea of glass,” nor is the -figure overstrained. The illusion is heightened by the reflection upon -the highly-polished surface of the brilliant tints of the series of -mosaic medallions, each the portrait of a pope, set in the upper part -of the wall and girdling, in a sweep of splendor, nave and transept. -The blending and shimmer of the gorgeous colors upon the marble -mirror are like the tremulous motion of a lake just touched by the -breeze. The costliest marbles, such as we are used to see wrought into -small ornaments for the homes of the wealthy, are here employed with -lavishness that makes tales of oriental luxury altogether credible, -and the Arabian Nights plausible. Alabaster, malachite, rosso and -verde-antique are wrought into columns and altars, and each chapel has -its especial treasure of sculpture and painting. The pictures in the -Chapel of St. Stephen, representing the trial and death of the martyr, -would, by themselves, make the church noteworthy. - -Surrounded by this inconceivable wealth of splendor, rises a -_baldacchino_ surmounted by a dome, supported by four pillars of red -alabaster, also the gift of the Turkish Pacha. An angel stands at each -corner of the canopy. Within this miniature temple is another, and -an older, being the altar-canopy, saved from the fire that, in 1823, -destroyed the greater portion of the ancient building. Under this, -again, is the marble altar—crimson and emerald—enshrining it is said, -the bones of St. Paul. The inscription runs along the four sides of -the baldacchino: - - “TU ES VAS ELECTIONIS. - SANCTE PAULE APOSTOLE. - PRÆDICATOR VERITATIS. - IN UNIVERSO MUNDO.” - -A railing, inclosing an area of perhaps a dozen yards, prevents too -close an approach to the altar. - -“You must first have a _permesso_ from the Pope, or, at least, from -a Cardinal,” said a passing verger to whom we communicated our -desire to go in. Discovering, upon trial, that the gate was not -locked, we felt strongly inclined to make an independent sally, but -were withheld by a principle to which we endeavored to be uniformly -true,—namely,—obedience to law, and what the usages of the time and -place decreed to be order. A priest, belonging, we guessed from his -dress, to a higher order than most of those we had encountered in our -tour of the building, knelt on the low step surrounding the railing, -and while my companions strolled on, I loitered near the forbidden -gate, one eye upon him who prayed at the shrine of “Sancte Paule -Apostole.” When he arose, I accosted him, having had leisure in which -to study a diplomatic address. I chanced to have in the pocket of -my cloak a box of Roman pearls and other trinkets I had bought that -forenoon. Producing this, as a prefatory measure, and beginning with -the conventional, “_Pardon, Monsieur!_” I informed him in the best -French at my command, that I was a stranger and an American—facts he -must have gleaned before I had dropped three words;—that, although not -a Roman Catholic, I desired to lay these trifles upon the tomb of St. -Paul. Not out of custom or superstition, but as I might pick a flower -from, or touch, in greeting, the grave of a friend. - -He had a noble, gentle face and hearkened kindly to my petition. - -“I comprehend!” he said, taking the beads from my hand, and, beckoning -up a sacristan, motioned him to open the gate. - -“You can enter, Madame!” he continued, with a courteous inclination of -the head. - -I followed the two; stood by while they bent the knee to the altar-step -and made the sign of the cross. The superior priest turned to me. - -“You know, do you not, that Timothy is buried here, also,” touching a -tablet upon which was cut one word—“TIMOTHEI.” - -“I hope so!” answered I, wistfully. - -Was it wrong to hold lovingly the desire—almost the belief—that the -“beloved son” had taken alarm at the import and tone of the second -epistle from “Paul the Aged,” and come long enough before winter to -brighten his last days? “It is possible,” students and professors of -Church History concede to those who crave this rounding of a “finished” -life. It seemed almost sure, with Paul’s name above us and Timothy’s -under my hand. - -My new friend smiled. “_We_ believe it. Timothy’s body was brought to -Rome after his martyrdom—he outlived his master many years—and interred -beside him in the Catacomb of St. Lucina.” - -“I know the legend,” I said; “it is very beautiful.” - -“It is customary,” the priest went on to say, “to lay chaplets upon the -shrine. But you are an American,” another grave smile. “Would you like -to look into the tomb?” - -He opened a grating in the front of the altar. By leaning forward, I -fancied I saw a dark object in the deep recess. - -“The sarcophagus is of silver. A cross of gold lies upon it. Then, -there is an outer case.” - -He knelt, reached the hand holding the beads as far through the opening -as his arm would go, and arose. - -“They have touched the coffin of St. Paul!” simply and solemnly. - -While they lay over his fingers he crossed the beads, murmured some -rapid words. - -“My blessing will not hurt them, or you!” restoring them to me with the -gentle seriousness that marked his demeanor throughout the little scene. - -I thanked him earnestly. Whether he were sincere, or acting a -well-conned part, his behavior to me was the perfection of high-toned -courtesy, I said that he had done me a kindness, and I meant it. - -“It is nothing!” was the rejoinder. “It is I who am grateful for the -opportunity to render a stranger, and an American, even so slight a -service.” - -Some of our party made merry over my adventure; affected to see in my -appreciation of the increased value of my blest baubles, deflection -from the path of Protestantism rectilinear and undefiled. I think -all were slightly scandalized when, turning in their walk across the -nave, they saw the tableau within the sacred rail; myself, between two -priests, and bending toward the open tomb of St. Paul. - -To me it is a pleasing and interesting reminiscence, even if the story -of Paul’s and Timothy’s tenancy of the crypt be a monkish figment. And -this I am loath to admit. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -_Tasso and Tusculum._ - - -THE church and convent of S. Onofrio crown the steepest slope of the -Janiculan. Our _cocchieri_ always insisted, more or less strenuously, -that we should alight at the bottom of the short _Salita di S. -Onofrio_, and ascend on foot while the debilitated horses followed at -their ease. Our first drive thither was upon a delicious morning in -February, when the atmosphere was crystalline to the Sabine Hills. The -terrace before the church-portico was clean and sunny, the prospect so -enchanting, that we hung over the parapet guarding the verge of the -hill, for a long quarter of an hour. Under the Papacy, S. Onofrio was -barred against women, except upon the 25th of April, the anniversary of -the death of Torquato Tasso, for whose sake, and that alone, strangers -would care to pass the threshold. - -Beyond the tomb of Tasso, and that of the lingual prodigy, Cardinal -Mezzofanti, the church offers no temptation to sight-seers. We -therefore turned almost immediately into the cloisters of the now -sparsely inhabited monastery. The young priests and acolytes are -winning honest bread by honest labor elsewhere. Gray-bearded monks -stumble along the corridors, keep up the daily masses, and sun -themselves among the salad and artichoke beds of the garden. - -“Slow to learn!” said Caput, shaking his head before a fresco in the -side-arcade of the church. - -It represented St. Jerome, gaunt, wild-eyed and distraught with the -sense of his impotence and sinfulness, at the moment thus described -by him;—“How often, when alone in the desert with wild beasts and -scorpions, _half dead with fasting and penance_, have I fancied myself -a spectator of the sins of Rome, and of the dances of its young women!” - -Victor Emmanuel had biting reasons of his own for knowing what is the -sway of the flesh and the devil, leaving the world out of the moral -sum. Merciful humanitarian as well as wise ruler, he led would-be -saints into the wholesome air of God’s working-day world. - -The passage from the church to the conventual buildings is decorated -with unlovely scenes from the life of that unlovely hermit, S. Onofrio. -His neglected nakedness and ostentatious contempt for the virtue -very near akin to commonplace godliness, make one wonder the more -at the sweet cleanliness of the halls and rooms nominally under his -guardianship. - -“Ecco!” said our guide, opening the door of a large chamber. - -Directly opposite, in strong relief against the bare wall, stood a -man. Dressed in the doublet and hose worn by Italian gentlemen two -hundred years ago, he leaned lightly on the nearest wainscot, with the -easy grace of one who listens, ready to reply to friend or guest. The -beautiful head was slightly bent,—a half-smile lighted features that -were else sad. A step into the room, a second’s thought dispelled the -illusion. Some of the company said it had never existed for them. For -myself, I gladly own that I was startled by the life-like expression of -figure and face. It is a fresco, and critics say, cheap and tawdry,—a -mere trick, and not good even as a trick. I got used, after awhile, -to disagreement with the critics, and when a thing pleased me, liked -it, in my own heart, without their permission. This fresco helped me -believe that this was Tasso’s room; that he had trodden this floor, -perhaps leaned against the wall over there, while he looked from that -window upon the Rome that had done him tardy justice by summoning him -to receive in her Capitol the laureate’s crown. - -Wrecked in love and in ambition; robbed and maligned; deserted by -friends and hounded by persecutors; confined for cause as yet unknown, -for seven years in a madman’s cell, he was at fifty-one—uncheered by -the blaze of popular favor shed upon him at evening-time—bowed in -spirit, infirm in body. The Coronation was postponed until Spring in -consideration for his feeble health. The ceremony was to surpass all -former literary pageants, and preparations for it were in energetic -progress when Tasso removed, for rest and recuperation, to the -Convent of S. Onofrio. He had worked hard that winter in spite of -steadily-declining strength. He would rally his forces against the -important day that was to declare his life to have been triumph, not -failure. We recall the bitterer address of Wolsey at the door of the -convent in which he had come to lay his bones, in reading Tasso’s -exclamation to the monks who welcomed him: “My fathers! I have come to -die amongst you!” When informed by his physician that the end was very -near, he thanked him for the “pleasant news” and blessed Heaven for “a -haven so calm after a life so stormy.” - -To a friend, he wrote—“I am come to begin my conversation in Heaven -in this elevated place.” The Pope sent him absolution under his own -hand and seal. “I _shall_ be crowned!” said the dying poet. “Not with -laurel, as a poet in the Capitol, but with a better crown of glory in -Heaven.” - -The monk who watched and prayed with him on the night ending with the -dawn of April 25, 1595, caught his last murmur:— - -“_In manus tuas, Domine!_” - -He had instructed his friend, Cardinal Aldobrandini, to collect and -destroy all his printed works, the mutilation of which had nettled -him to frenzy, a few years before. They were nothing to him now; -the memories of his turbulent life a dream he would forget “in this -elevated place.” - -A glass case in this chamber holds a wax cast of his face taken after -death. It is brown, cracked, dreesome, the features greatly changed by -sorrow and pain from those of a marble bust near by, and very unlike -those of the frescoed portrait. The head is small and well-formed, the -forehead high, with cavernous temples. A shriveled laurel-wreath is -bound about them, discolored and brittle as the wax. The crucifix used -by him in his last illness and which was enclasped by his dead hands -is also exhibited, with his inkstand, a page of MS. and the iron box -in which he lay buried until the erection of his monument. But for the -graceful figure upon the wall in the corner by the left-hand window, -and the view framed by the casements, we could not have remembered that -life, no less than death, had been here;—still less, that this was, in -truth, a Coronation-room. - -Through the garden a broad alley leads between beds of thrifty -vegetables to Tasso’s oak. From the shattered trunk, which has suffered -grievously from the winds, shoots a single vigorous branch. We picked -ivy and grasses from the earth about the roots where Tasso sat each -day, while he could creep so far;—the city at his feet, the Campagna -beyond the city unrolled to the base of the mountains, and Heaven -beyond the hills. The only immortelle I saw growing in Italy, I found -so near to Tasso’s oak that his foot must often have pressed the spot. - -At the left of the oak, and winding along the crest of the hill is -a terrace bordered by a low, broken wall, bright that day, with -mid-winter turf and bloom. Rust-brown and golden wall-flowers were -rooted among the stones; pansies smilingly pushed aside the grass to -get a good look at the sun; daisies, like happy, lawless children, ran -everywhere. - -“This is what I crossed the Atlantic to see and to be!” Caput -pronounced, deliberately, throwing himself down on the sward, and -resting an elbow upon the wall, just where the flowers were thickest, -the sunshine warmest, the prospect fairest. “You can go home when you -like. I shall remain here until the antiquated fathers up at the house -drive me from the premises. I can touch Heaven—as the Turks say—with my -finger!” - -While we affected to wait upon his pleasure, we remembered that a more -genial saint than the patron of the convent—to wit—S. Filippo Neri, was -wont to assemble here Roman children and teach them to sing and act his -oratorios. What a music-gallery! And what a theme for artist’s brush -or pen were those rehearsals under this sky, at this height, with the -shadow of Tasso’s oak upon the al fresco concert-hall! - -“The view from Tusculum is said to be more beautiful than this,” -observed our head, murmurously, from the depths of his Turkish trance. -“We will see it before the world is a week older!” - -Nevertheless, the earth was two months further on in her swing around -the sun, and that sun had kissed into life a thousand blushing flowers, -where one had bloomed in February, when we really set out for the site -of that venerable town. We had appointed many other seasons for the -excursion, and been thwarted in design, crippled in execution. Mrs. -Blimber’s avowal that she could go down to the grave in peace could -she but once have seen Cicero in his villa at Tusculum, was worn into -shreds among us. When we did meet, by appointment, our friends, the -V——s at the station in time for the eleven o’clock train to Frascati, -we had a story of an inopportune call that had nearly been the fortieth -obstacle to the fruition of our scheme. - -It was April, but the verdure of early summer was in trees and herbage. -Nature never sleeps in Italy. At the worst, she only lapses into -drowsiness on winter nights, and, next morning, confesses the breach -of decorum with a bewitching smile that earns for her abundant pardon. -The exuberance of her mood on this day was tropical and superb. The -tall grasses of the Campagna were gleaming surges before the wind, -laden with odors stolen from plains of tossing purple spikes—not -balls—yet which were clover to taste and smell. Red rivulets of -poppies twisted in and out of the corn-fields and splashed up to the -edge of the railway, and ox-eyed daisies were foamy masses upon the -scarlet streams. Even in Italy, and in spring-tide, the olive is the -impersonation of calm melancholy. In all the voluptuous glory of this -weather, the olive trees stood pale, passionless, patient, holding on -to their hillsides, not for life’s, but for duty’s sake, sustaining -resolution and disregarding gravitation, by casting backward, grappling -roots above the soil, like anchors played out in rough seas. They could -not make the landscape sad, but they chastened it into milder beauty. -Between dark clumps of ilex, overtopped by stately stone pines—ruined -towers and battlements told their tale of days and races now no more, -as the white walls of modern villas, embosomed in groves of nectarine -and almond, and flowering-chestnut trees—like sunset clouds for rosy -softness—bespoke present affluence and tranquillity in which to enjoy -it. - -In half an hour we were at the Frascati station. A mile of steep -carriage-drive that granted us, at every turn in the ascent, new and -delightful views, brought us to the cathedral. It is very ugly and -uninteresting except for the circumstance that just within it is the -monument dedicated by Cardinal York to his brother, Charles Edward, -better known by his sobriquet of “Young Pretender,” than by the string -of Latin titles informing us of his inherited rights and claim. -Vexatious emptiness though these were, the recitation of them appears -to have been the pabulum of soul and spirit to the exiled Stuarts unto -the third generation. - -We lunched moderately well—being hungry—at the best inn in Frascati, -and discarding the donkeys and donkey-boys clustering like flies in -the cathedral piazza, we bargained for four “good horses” to take us -up to Tusculum. Mrs. V—— was not well, and remained at the hotel while -our cavalcade, attended by two guides, wound up the hill. The element -of the ludicrous, never lacking upon such expeditions, came promptly -and boldly to the front by the time we were fairly mounted, and hung -about the party until we alighted in the same spot on our return. Dr. -V—— stands six feet, four, in low-heeled slippers, and to him, as -seemed fit, was awarded the tallest steed. Prima’s was a gaunt beast, -whose sleepy eyes and depressed head bore out the master’s asseveration -that he was quiet as a lamb. Caput’s horse was of medium height and -abounding in capers, a matter of no moment until it was discovered that -my lamb objected to be mounted, and refused to be guided by a woman. -After a due amount of prancing and curveting had demonstrated this -idiosyncrasy to be no mere notion on my part, a general exchange, -leaving out Prima, was effected. I was lifted to the back of the -lofty creature who had borne Dr. V——. Caput demanded the privilege of -subduing the misogynist. To the lot of our amiable son of Anak fell a -Rosinante, who, as respectable perhaps in his way as his rider was in -his, became, by the conjunction of the twain, an absurd hexaped that -provoked the spectators to roars of laughter, his rider leading and -exceeding the rest. - -“The tomb of Lucullus!” he sobered us by exclaiming, pointing to a -circular mass of masonry by the roadside. “That is to say, the reputed -tomb. We know that he was Cicero’s neighbor—that they borrowed one -another’s books in person.” - -The books that, Cicero tells Atticus, “gave a soul to his house!” -The brief, every-day phrase indicative of the neighborliness of the -two celebrated Romans made real men of them, and the region familiar -ground. The road lay between oaks, chestnuts, laurels, and thickets -of laurestinus, the leaves shining as with fresh varnish—straight up -the mountain, until it became a shaded lane, paved with polygonal -blocks of lava. This is, incontestably, the ancient road to Tusculum, -discovered and opened within fifty years. The banks were a mosaic -of wild flowers;—the largest daisies and anemones we had yet seen, -cyclamen, violets, and scores of others unknown by sight or name to -us. In response to our cry of delight, both gentlemen reined in their -horses, and Dr. V—— alighted to collect a bouquet. The tightening of -Caput’s rein brought his horse’s ears so near his own, he had to throw -his head back suddenly to save his face. The animal had a camel’s neck -in length and suppleness,—a mule’s in stubbornness, and put upon, or -off, his mettle by the abrupt jerk, he gave marvelous illustrations -of these qualities. He could waltz upon four legs or upon two; dance -fast or slow; rear and kick at once, or stand like a petrifaction under -whip, spur, and an enfilading fire of Italian and American expletives; -but his neck was ever _the_ feature of the performance. Whether he made -of it a rail, an inclined iron plane, the handle of a jug, or a double -bow-knot, it was true to one purpose—not to obey rein or rider. - -“The wretched brute has no martingale on!” cried the latter, at length. -“See, here! you scamp! Ecco! Voilà! V——! what is the Italian for -martingale? Ask that fellow what he means by giving such a horse to a -lady, or to any one whose life is of any value, without putting curb or -martingale upon him?” - -The doctor, who, by the way, was once described to me by a Roman -shopkeeper as the “tall American, with the long beard, and who speaks -Italian so beautifully,” opened parley, when he could control his -risibles, with the owner of the “_molto buono_” animal. - -“He says he could not put upon him what he does not possess,” was the -epitome of the reply. “That he has but three martingales. And there are -four horses. Supply inadequate to demand, my dear fellow! He implores -the _signore Americano_ to be reasonable.” - -“Reasonable!” The signore swung himself to the ground. “Say to him, -with my compliments, that I implore him to take charge of a horse that -is altogether worthy,—if that could be—of his master! I shall walk! -_He_ ought to be made to ride!” - -We begged off the cowering delinquent from this extreme of retribution. -Picking up the bridle flung to him, he followed us at a disconsolate -and respectful distance. Cicero had a fine, peppery temper of his own. -Did he ever have a fracas with his charioteer in this steep lane, I -wonder? - -We dismounted at what are supposed to be the ruins of his Villa. Some -archæologists give the preference to the spot now occupied by the Villa -Ruffinella, which we had seen on our way up. The best authorities had -decided, at the date of our excursion to Tusculum, that the orator’s -favorite residence, “_ad latera superiora_” of the eminence culminating -in the Tusculan fortress, stood nearer the city than was once thought, -and that its remains are the thick walls and vaulted doorway we -examined in profound belief in this theory. It is not an extensive -nor a very picturesque remainder, although the buried foundations -may be traced over a vast area. Against the sunniest wall grows an -immense ivy-tree, spreading broad arms and tenacious fingers over -the brick-work. The side adhering to the wall is flat, of course. We -measured the outer surface, at the height of five feet from the ground. -It was thirty-nine inches from side to side. This may almost be rated -as the diameter, the bark being very slightly protuberant. - -For beauty of situation the Villa was without an equal. Forsyth -says,—“On the acclivity of the hill were scattered the villas of -Balbus, Brutus, Catullus, Metellus, Crassus, Pompey, Cæsar, Gabinus, -Lucullus, Lentulus and Varro, so that Cicero was in the midst of his -acquaintances and friends.” - -“In that place, alone”—wrote Cicero of his Tusculan home to his best -friend and correspondent—“do I find rest and repose from all my -troubles and toil.” - -In his “Essay upon Old Age,” he drawls an attractive picture of the -country-life of a gentleman-farmer at that time. I have not room -to transcribe it here, faithfully as it portrays the real tastes -and longings of the ambitious lawyer and successful politician. -“What need”—and there is a sigh for the Tusculan upper hillside in -the sentence—“to dwell upon the charm of the green fields, the -well-ordered shrubberies, the beauty of vineyards and olive-groves?” - -These smile no more about the site of the desolated villa. Terraces, -slopes and summits are overgrown with wild grass. A few goats were -feeding upon these at the door where little Tullia—the “Tulliola” of -the fond father—his “_delicia nostræ_”—may have frolicked while he -watched her from the colonnade overlooking Rome,—or one of “the seats -with niches against the wall adorned with pictures;”—or, still, within -sound of her voice, wrote in his library to Atticus, that the young -lady threatened to sue him, (Atticus,) for breach of contract in not -having sent her a promised gift. - -The paved road, firm velvet ridges of turf rising between the blocks, -runs beyond the Villa, directly to a small theatre. The upper walls -are gone, but the foundations are entire, with fifteen rows of seats. -It is a semicircular hollow in the turfy bank, excavated by Lucien -Bonaparte while he lived at Villa Ruffinella. We descended half a -dozen steps and stood upon the stone platform where it is generally -believed Cicero held the famous Tusculan Disputations. The topics of -these familiar dialogues or talks were “Contempt of Death,” “Constancy -in Suffering,” and the like. Did he draw consolation from a review of -his own philosophy, upon that bitter day when, deserted by partisans, -and chased by his enemies, he withdrew to his beloved “Tusculaneum” and -from these heights looked down upon the city whose pride he had been?— - - “_Rerum, pulcherrima Roma!_” - -Waiting, doubting, dreading, he at length received the news that a -price had been set upon his head, fled in a blind, strange panic; -returned upon his steps; again took flight, doubled a second time upon -the track, and sat down, stunned and desperate, to await the death-blow. - -Instead of the myrtle-tree, thorn-bushes and brambles grow rankly in - - “The white streets of Tusculum.” - -The reservoir that fed the aqueducts; the ruins of Forum and Theatre; -piles of nameless stones breaking through uncultivated moors; on the -side nearest Rome, mossy pillars of the old gateway; outside of this, -a stone drinking-trough set there in the days of the Consulate, and -through which still runs a stream of pure cold water,—this is what is -left of the town founded by the son of Circe and Ulysses; erst the -stanch ally of Rome, and the queen-city of Latium up to the battle of -Lake Regillus. The best view of the encompassing country is to be had -a little beyond the gateway. From this point is visible the natural -basin, shut in by wooded hills, which contains Lake Regillus, now a -stagnant pond, quite dry in summer. Under our feet were the stones from -which the hoofs of Mamilius’ dark-gray charger struck fire on the day -of battle. - -Repeating the rhyme, we looked around to trace the route by which - - “He rushed through the gate of Tusculum; - He rushed up the long white street; - He rushed by tower and temple, - And paused not from his race - ’Till he stood before his master’s door - In the stately market-place.” - -“Poetry—not history!” objected one. - -“Better than statistical facts!” said another. - -Glancing in the direction of Rome, we were the witnesses of an -extraordinary atmospheric phenomenon. The city, a dozen miles away, -was lifted from the plain and floating upon a low-lying band of -radiant mist. The dome of St. Peter’s actually appeared to sway and -tremble as a balloon strains at its cords. The roofs were silver; the -pinnacles aërial towers. Thus the background, while between it and our -mountain, the Campagna was a gulf black as death with the shadow of a -thundercloud that had come we know not from what quarter. It was not -there five minutes ago. We had barely time to exclaim over the marvel -of contrasted light and gloom, when the cloud dropped like monstrous -bat-wings upon the valley, flew faster than did ever bird of day or -night toward us. There was not a roof in Tusculum. The guides brought -up the horses in haste, and three of us were in the saddle by the time -the first big drops dashed in our faces. - -“_Ride!_” ejaculated the fourth, in response to the supplicating -pantomime of the leader of the unmartingaled beast. “On _that_ thing!” - -Tusculum rain had not extinguished his sense of injury, and this was -insult. There was but one umbrella amongst us, and this was forced -upon me. Caput threw my bridle over his arm and walked at my tall -horse’s head, calmly regardless of the drenching storm. Dr. V—— and -his four-footed adjunct jogged placidly at the head of the line. Next -rode Prima, humming softly to herself, while cascades poured from her -hat-brim upon her shoulders, and her soaked dress distilled green -tears upon the sides of her white horse. We followed, I very high, and -selfishly dry. The guides, to whose outer men the plentiful washing was -an improvement, straggled along in the rear, leading the recalcitrant -horse. It was a forlorn-looking, but perfectly good-humored procession. -There was little danger of taking cold from summer rain in this -warm air. However this might be, to fret would be childish, to -rebel foolishly useless. Caput uttered the only protest against the -proceedings of the day, and that not until we left our horses in the -piazza in front of the cathedral, and waited in the sunshine succeeding -the shower, while the guides were paid. - -“I don’t mind the walk up and down the mountain,” beating the wet from -his hat, and wiping the drops from his face. “Nor the wetting very -much, although my boots are ruined. I _do_ grudge giving ten francs for -the privilege of seeing that brigand lead his villanous horse three -miles!” - -But he paid the bill. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -_From Pompeii to Lake Avernus._ - - -WE were at Naples and Pompeii in the winter, and again in the spring. -The Romans aver that most of the foreigners who die in their city with -fever, contract the disease in Naples. We credited this so far that we -preferred to make short visits to the latter place, and, while there, -passed much time in the open air. It is our conviction, moreover, that -little is to be apprehended from malaria in the worst-drained city of -Italy if visitors will stipulate invariably for bed-room and parlor -fires. The climate is deceitful, if not so desperately wicked as many -believe. Extremes of heat and cold are alike to be avoided, and the -endeavor to do this involves care and expense. It must be remembered -that in America we have no such winter suns as those that keep alive -the heart of the earth in Southern Europe. Nor are our houses stone -grottoes, constructed with express reference to the exclusion of -the fierce heats of eight months of the year. The natives affect to -despise fires in their houses except a charcoal-blast in the kitchen -while meals are cooking, and a brazier, or _scaldino_ of coals in the -_portière’s_ lodge, in very cold weather. Our Roman visitors evidently -regarded the undying wood-fire in our _salle_ as an extravagant -caprice. It was pretty, they admitted. It pleased their æsthetic -taste, and they never failed to praise it, in taking their seats as -far as possible from it. Indoor life to them is a matter of secondary -importance in comparison with driving, walking and visiting. The ladies -have few domestic duties, or such intellectual pursuits as would tempt -them to sit for hours together at home. Cookery, sewing and housework -are done by hirelings, who are plentiful, content with low wages and -who live upon salads, black bread and sour wine, never expecting even -savory crumbs left by their employers. Americans are apt to construe -literally the injunction to live in Rome as the Romans do, leaving out -of view the grave consideration that they are not, also, born and bred -Italians. They have cold feet incessantly, even at night, they will -tell you; are chilled to the marrow by stone walls and floors; the -linen sheets are so many snow-drifts; the air of their apartments is -that of ice-vaults upon their incoming from outdoor excursions. - -“Yet, it is too absurd to have fires in this lovely weather! Who would -think of such a thing at home on a June day?” - -Forgetting that “at home” the June air would make its way to the inner -chambers and modify the temperature of the very cellars. One more -sanitary hint, and I leave practical suggestions for the present. Wear -thick flannels and woolen stockings in the Italian winter, and keep -at hand light shawls or sacques that may be cast about the shoulders -indoors, in laying aside the wrappings you have worn in the street. -Always recollect that the danger of taking cold is greatest in coming -in, not in going out. - -The winter weather in Naples was so fine as to banish our fears of -illness. We had heard that sea-storms a week long were not uncommon at -that season, and to make sure of Pompeii, drove out thither, the day -after our arrival. The entrance to the long-entombed city provoked and -amused us. The Hôtel Dioméde is to the eye a second-class lager-bier -saloon, the name conspicuous above the entrance. A smart and dirty -waiter ran down the steps, opened the carriage-door, and ushered us -into the restaurant, where the proprietor received us bowingly, and -pressed upon us the hospitalities of the establishment. - -Crest-fallen at the news that we had lunched, he opined, -notwithstanding, that we would purchase something in the Museum, and -passed us on to the custodian of the inner room. This was stocked with -trinkets, vases, manufactured antiquities, etc., prepared to meet the -wants of those travellers to whom a cheap imitation is better than a -costly original; people who wear lava brooches and bracelets, crowd -their mantels with mock Parian images and talk of “_Eye_talians” and -“Pompey-_eye_.” We were not to be stayed, having seen the turf and sky -beyond the back-door. - -A flight of steps took us up to a high terrace where was the -ticket-office. A revolving bar passed us through between two guards. A -guide in the same uniform was introduced to us. - -“No. 27 will show you whatever you wish to see,” said an officer. - -No. 27 touched his cap, and belonged to us henceforth. - -No ashes, or scoria heaps yet! No ruins,—no lava! For all we could -perceive—no Pompeii. Only a pleasant walk between high turfed banks and -portulacca-beds, with Vesuvius, still and majestic, a mile or two away, -a plume of white vapor curling slowly above the cone. We traversed a -short, covered corridor, and began the ascent of a paved alley—dead -walls on each side. - -“_Porta della Marina!_ _Via della Marina!_” said our guide, then, -translating into French the information that we had entered Pompeii by -the Gate and the Street of the Sea—the highway of city-traffic before -the imprisoned demons of the mountain broke bounds. - -The streets are all alleys, like this first, laid with heavy polygonal -blocks of tufa, and grooved—most deeply and sharply at the corners—by -wheels. The ruts of Glaucus’ chariot-wheels! But what were the -dimensions of the bronze vehicle “of the most fastidious and graceful -fashion,” drawn by _two_ horses of Parthian breed that “glided rapidly” -by others of the same build between these blocks of buildings? Or was -there a Pompeian law requiring those who went in a certain direction to -proceed by specified streets? - -We were not prepared for the difficulty of ascertaining which was the -West End of the town which Glaucus tells Clodius, “had the brilliancy -of luxury without the lassitude of its pomp.” Nearly every house has -a shop attached to it. “Stalls” we would style them, in which the -brick counter, formerly covered with marble, takes up at least half -the room. The shops were closed at night by wooden doors or shutters -filling up the entire width of the front. These, having decayed or -burned away, the visitor steps from the street into the cell walled -in on three sides, and roofless. The entrance to the dwelling had no -connection whatever with the stall built on to it. If this was the -proprietor’s abode, he, in genuine Epicurean fashion, “sank the shop” -out of work-hours. It is supposed that the wealthier citizens rented -their street-fronts at a high rate, to tradespeople, without the -consequent depreciation of gentility that would befall a member of New -York uppertendom, were he to “live over” or back of a “store.” Another -surprise was the band-box tenements in which people who made more -account of ease and beauty than of their own immortality, contrived to -live. The vestibule, running beside the shop-wall from the street into -the Lilliputian mansion, is scarcely five feet wide in some of the best -houses. The court-yard behind is not larger than a square table-cloth; -the fountain-basin in the middle resembles a big punch-bowl. Beyond -this, separated now by a marble or paved walk, formerly, also, by a -curtain that could be raised or lowered, is a larger court. This part -of the building was devoted to such public dealings as the owner might -have with the outer world. Here he received office-seekers, beggars -and book-agents; paid bills and gave orders. The family court—the -_peristylium_—was still further back, and usually raised by the height -of a marble step above the second. This was enclosed by pillars, -painted red, a quarter of the way up,—the rest white. Another curtain -shut in this sanctum from the general gaze. In the middle of the court -was a flower-bed, its centre a fountain. About these three courts were -built dining-room, kitchen, dressing- and bed-rooms and other family -apartments. The upper stories were of wood and usually occupied as -servants’ dormitories. These have slowly mouldered away, having been, -some think, calcined by the hot ashes. There are, of course, variations -upon this plan, and some mansions of respectable size without the -commercial attachment, but the above may serve as an outline draught of -the typical Pompeian dwelling, even of the richer classes. - -“Have you read the ‘Last Days of Pompeii?’” the guide amazed us by -saying when we had wandered in his wake for an hour. - -We had a copy with us and showed it to him. He believed it to be an -Italian work, it presently appeared, having read it in that language, -_sans_ preface, we suppose, for he also accepted it as sober, veracious -history. We allowed ourselves to share his delusion in beholding the -plot of ground—a sheet would have covered it—in which Nydia tended -the flowers of Glaucus; the shrine of the Penates at the back of the -peristyle; the _triclinum_—or banqueting-room in which the young Greek -supped with Lepidus, Pansa, Sallust, Clodius and his _umbra_; where -the slave-carver “performed that office upon the Ambracian kid to the -sound of music, his knife keeping time, beginning with a low tenor, and -accomplishing the arduous feat amidst a magnificent diapason.” - -The apartment is, like the others, small but well-proportioned, and -the frescoes are still quite distinct. We allotted places to the host -and his several guests about an imaginary table, the guide smiling at -our animated interest without a misgiving that the _dramatis personæ_ -were dream-children of Signore Bulwer’s brain. I dare not attempt his -Italianization of the noble author’s title. Workmen were repairing the -step by which we left the inner court for the _tablium_, or master’s -office. An accident had shivered the marble sheathing and several -bits were cast aside as worthless. With the guide’s sanction, I -pocketed them, and afterward had them made into dainty little salvers, -purely clear as the finest Parian, or the enamored Glaucus’ ideal of -Ione—“that nymph-like beauty which for months had shone down upon the -waters of his memory.” - -The silence that has its home in the deserted city is something to -dream of,—not describe. The town is swept and clean—doubtless cleaner -than when the gargoyles on the fountains at every other corner gushed -with fresh winter. That the Pompeians were a thirsty race, water- as -well as wine-bibbers,—is distinctly proved by the hollows worn in the -stone sides of these enclosed hydrants, just where a man would rest his -hand and lean his whole weight to swing his body around in order to -bring his lips in contact with the stream from the carved spout. No. -27 showed us how it was done and by the simple action made stillness -and solitude more profound. Thousands of swarthy hands—the callous -palms of laborer and peasant,—must have rested thus for hundreds of -years to produce such abrasion of the solid stone. And here were he -and five pale-faced strangers,—the only living things in sight in a -street of yawning shop-fronts, built in compact blocks; to the right -a grove of columns and expanse of tessellated flooring—the Temple of -Justice, to which none now resorted, to which none would ever come -again for redress or penalty, while Time endures. Wherever the eye -fell were temples of deities whose names live only in mythology and in -song, the shrines and fanes of a dead Religion. This was the strangest -sight of all;—in this professedly Christian land, temples and altars -with the traces of slain and bloodless sacrifices that had smoked -upon them, to Mercury and Jupiter and Venus. There was the temple of -Isis—whose statue we saw, subsequently, in the Neapolitan Museum,—with -the chamber where the priests held their foul orgies, and the secret -passage by which they reached the speaking-tube concealed in the body -of the goddess; and the room in which Calenus and Burbo were found. -An earthquake may have overthrown upper chambers and toppled down -images but yesterday. Yet it is a city in which there is not the sign -of a cross, or other token that Christ was born and died; whose last -inhabitants and worshippers ate, drank, married and were given in -marriage in the name of Juno, while He walked the earth. - -I have said that Pompeii is a band-box edition that looks like a -caricature of a town in which men once lived and traded and reveled. -The bed-rooms in the houses of Glaucus, Sallust, Pansa and even -in Diomed’s Villa, are no larger than the wardrobe closet of a -Philadelphia mechanic’s wife. A brick projection fills up one side. On -this the bed was laid. In some there are no windows; in others were -slits to admit air, but through which, owing to the thickness of the -walls and the contiguity of other buildings, little light could have -entered. The positive assertion of guide-books that window-glass was -unknown to the Pompeians is contradicted by the recent excavation of -a house in which a fragment of a pane still adheres to one of these -apertures. We saw it and can testify that it was a bit of indubitable -glass, set firmly in its casing. How Julia and Ione contrived to -light their dressing-rooms sufficiently to make such toilettes as -we see in ancient paintings, baffles our invention when we look at -the glimmering loop-holes and the tiny lamps that held but a few -thimblefuls of perfumed oil. Bulwer calls the _cubicula_ and boudoirs -“petty pigeon-holes,” but alleges that these darkened chambers were -“the effect of the most elaborate study”—that “they sought coolness -and shade.” We are dubious, in reading further of the fair Julia’s -toilette-appointments, that her “eye, accustomed to a certain darkness, -was sufficiently acute to perceive exactly what colors were the most -becoming—what shade of the delicate rouge gave the brightest beam to -her dark glance,” etc. In one house of the better—i. e.—larger sort—is -a really cozy boudoir, almost big enough to accommodate two people, a -dressing-table and a chair. The floor is in mosaic, wrought, as was -the Pompeian fashion, of bits of marble, black and white, less than -half-an-inch square, set with cement. The central design is a pretty -conceit of three doves, rifling a jewel-casket of ropes of pearls. This -work, like the image of the bear in the house to which it has given its -name, is covered with coarse sand to protect it from the weather. “The -fierce dog painted”—in mosaic—“on the threshold” of Glaucus’ house, has -been removed, with the immense “Battle of Darius and Alexander,” to the -Naples museum. - -The variety and affluence of decoration in these dollhouses is -bewildering to the Occidental of this century. Every inch of wall and -floor was crowded with pictures in fresco and mosaic; statues in bronze -and marble adorned recess and court, and if the pearl-ropes perished -with her who wore them, there are enough cameos and intaglios of rarest -design and cutting; chains, bracelets, tiaras, finger and earrings and -necklaces, in the Neapolitan Museum, to indicate what were the other -riches of the despoiled casket. - -I wish I could talk for awhile about this Museum, so unlike any other -in the world. Of its statuary, vases and paintings; of the furniture, -so odd and yet so beautiful, taken from the unroofed dwellings; of the -contents of baker’s, grocer’s, fruiterer’s, artist’s, jeweller’s and -druggist’s shops; of the variety of household implements that were -familiar to us through others of like pattern upon the shelves of our -own pantries and kitchens. Of patty-pans, fluted cake-moulds with -funnels in the middle; of sugar-tongs; ice-pitchers and coffee-urns; -of chafing-dishes, colanders and tea-strainers; sugar-scoops and -flour-sifters. Of just such oval “gem”-pans, fastened together by the -dozen, as I had pleased myself by buying the year before—as “quite a -new idea.” When I finally came upon a sheet-iron vessel, identical -in size and form with those that await the scavenger upon Fifth -Avenue sidewalks; beheld the dent made by the kick of the Pompeian -street-boy, the rim scorched by red-hot ashes “heaved” into it by -the scullion whose untidiness and irresponsibility foreshadowed the -nineteenth-century “help”—I sank upon the edge of a dismantled couch -that may have belonged to the Widow Fulvia, profound respect for the -wisdom of the Preacher filling my soul and welling up to my tongue! - -“Is there anything of which it may be said, ‘See! this is new?’ It hath -been already of old time which was before us.” - -I did not see clothes-wringer, vertical broiler, or Dover egg-beater, -but I make no doubt they were there, tucked away in corners I had -not time and strength to explore, behind a sewing-machine and -telephone-apparatus. - -We have not—as yet—reproduced in America the so-termed nearly extinct -volcano of Solfatara. It is near the road from Naples to Baiæ. - -I am tempted to lay down my pen in sheer discouragement at the thought -of what we saw in that drive of twelve hours, and how little space I -ought, in consistency with the plan of this work, to devote to it. Baia -was the Newport of Neapolis and other cities of Southern Italy, under -the consuls and emperors. Many rich Romans had summer-seats there, and -it had, likewise, a national reputation as the abode of philosophers -and authors. - -“I grant the charms of Baiæ,” Bulwer puts into Glaucus’ mouth. “But I -love not the pedants who resort there, and who seem to weigh out their -pleasures by the drachm.” - -The route thither lies through, or above the grotto of Posilipo, a -tunnel built, some assert, by order of Nero—the only commendable deed -recorded of him. On the principle, “To him that hath shall be given,” -others choose to ascribe the work to Augustus. It is certain that the -grotto existed in Nero’s time, as his contemporaries mention its gloom -and straitness. The tomb of Virgil is hidden among the vineyards on the -hill to the left as one leaves the tunnel, going from Naples. The tomb -beside which Petrarch planted a laurel! One of its remote successors -still flourishes—somewhat—at the door of the structure which belongs -to the class of Columbaria. A good-sized chamber has three windows -and a concave ceiling. Around the walls are pigeon-holes for cinerary -urns. There was a larger cavity between this room and a rear wall, -in which tradition insists Virgil was interred in compliance with his -often-expressed desire. Antiquarians and historians have squabbled over -the spot until plain people, with straightforward ways of thought, -question if Virgil ever lived at Posilipo, or elsewhere than in the -imagination of his countrymen. It is recorded that an urn, sealing up -his ashes, was here about the middle of the fourteenth century, and -that, running around the lip, was the epitaph known to every classic -smatterer, beginning— - - “_Mantua me genuit, Calabri rapuere._” - -Neither urn nor epitaph remains. A later inscription commences, “Qui -cineres?” Most visitors “give it up.” But Petrarch was here once, and -King Robert of Sicily, who helped Laura’s lover plant the laurel. And -Virgil—or his ashes—may have been. We generally gave the departed the -benefit of the doubt in such circumstances. - -A mile aside from the Baiæ road is the Grotto del Cane, distinguished -for dogs and mephitic vapors, which, as Henry Bergh’s country-people, -we declined to enter. - -Pozzuoli—Puteoli, when Paul landed there, after his shipwreck—is a -dirty, sleepy little town, in general complexion so dingy, and in -expression so down-hearted, the visitor is inclined to suspect that -its self-disgust had something to do with the gradual sinking of its -foundations for the last three hundred years. The steps by which St. -Paul gained the pier are dimly visible under the waters lapping lazily -above them. Nothing seems alive but the breeze, fragrant of sea-brine, -and shaking the blue surface of the bay into wavering lines and bars of -shaded green, purple, and silver, that were worth seeing if Puteoli was -not. - -We alighted at the Temple of Serapis, _restored_ by Marcus Aurelius -and Septimus Severus. The site has shared the fate of Pozzuoli, having -been lowered by a succession of volcanic shocks a dozen feet below its -former level. The Egyptian deity was magnificently enthroned before the -decline of paganism, and this sea-side country, upon a pedestal in a -circular temple, enclosed by a portico of Corinthian columns—African -marble—sixteen in number. The pillars have been removed to the royal -palace at Caserta, and the salt ooze lies, sullen and green, over their -bases. The quadrangle of the temple had once its guard of forty-eight -granite columns, and a porch supported by six of marble, three of -which are left standing. It is a mournful ruin, the water lying deep -in the sunken centre and in pools over the highest part of the uneven -pavement, and is not made cheerful by the incongruous addition of -bath-houses on one side. Salt springs, some of them hot, broke through -the crust at the latest eruption—that which threw up Monte Nuovo in -1538. - -Cicero had a villa on this coast—the “Puteolaneum,” beloved only less -than Tusculaneum. It was built upon rising ground, now occupied by a -vineyard and orchard, but commanding a beautiful view of sea and shore. -Here, Hadrian was buried after his decease at Baiæ, A.D. 138, and -rested until the construction of his Roman mausoleum. - -Passing the amphitheatre of Pozzuoli, crumbled down to the seats, in -the arena of which Nero fought in person, and Diocletian fed wild -beasts with Christian martyrs by the hundred; by the chapel that -commemorates the death of Januarius, the patron saint of Naples, we -were in a steep road full of rough stones—a country lane where horses -could hardly hold their footing. Here Ernesto, the useful, who was, -at once, coachman and guide, informed us regretfully, that we must -walk to the gate of Solfatara. Moreover, with augmented regret—that, -although he had, up to this point, been able to protect us from the -sallies of other _ciceroni_, at, at least, five places where Baedeker -parenthesizes—(“Guide—1 franc for each pers.”)—he dared not push -righteous audacity too far. The tempers of the Solfatara men were -uncertain and hot, like their volcano—(nearly extinct). - -“I veel stay ’ere veez de ’orses!” subjoined Ernesto, who means to go -to America in eight or ten years’ time, to seek a coachman’s place, and -practises English diligently to that end. “You veel meet at de gate von -man, verra ceevil, who veel zhow you all!” - -The civil man awaited us at the top of the short, sharp climb; undid -the gate of the enclosure, and called our attention to the stucco -manufactory on the inside of the high fence. In his esteem, it -outranked the subterranean works whose bellowing and puffing filled -our ears. The earth used for this stucco is a pink pumice or clay, -pleasing to the eye and very plastic. The plain is composed entirely of -it. Men were digging and donkey-carts transporting it to a long shed -by the gate, where a huge wheel ground it into paste. Tumuli of the -same, natural and artificial, were scattered over the area, which is -an oblong basin among chalky hills. At brief intervals, smoke ascended -slowly from cracks in the arid earth which was hot to the touch. A man -stood near the volcano (nearly extinct) ready to hurl a big stone upon -the ground and awaken hollow echoes that rumbled away until lost in the -sea on one hand, among the volcanic hills on the other. - -If Solfatara were in her usual mood that day, her reputed half-death is -an alarmingly energetic condition. Bunyan saw the place in his dreams -twice: - -“About the midst of the valley, I perceived the mouth of hell to be. -Ever and anon the flame and smoke would come out in abundance, with -sparks and hideous noises. The flames would be reaching towards him; -also, he heard doleful noises and rushings to and fro.” - -Again: “There was a door in the side of a hill. Within, it was very -dark and smoky. They also thought that they heard there a rumbling -noise as of fire, and a cry as of some tormented, and that they smelt -the scent of brimstone. The shepherds told them—‘This is a by-way to -hell.’” - -So said our very civil man. - -“What makes the noise down there?” I asked, loudly, to be heard above -the roaring and groaning. - -“The fire, Madame!” - -“But who keeps up the fires?” - -“The devil, Madame, without question. That is his home.” - -We listened. The sound, when we were somewhat used to it, had a -diabolical rhythm, as of the rise and fall of a thousand pistons, -propelled by a head of steam that, without this safety-valve, would -rend the solid globe asunder. It was angry, threatening, fiendish. The -deep crevice was faced with bright crystals of sulphur that glowed like -gems between the bursts of smoke. A man broke off some with a long -pole, and dragged them out to cool until we could handle them. The -ground is saturated with sulphurous gases, and the lips of the numerous -fissures encrusted with sulphites and alum. The idea of the conscious -malignity of the volcano was sustained by the warning of two of the men -standing near to a gentleman who had lighted a cigar. - -“No! no! the signore must not bring that here. _She_ will not allow it. -_Ecco!_” as a volume of stifling vapor gushed out in our direction. “It -comes to you, you see!” - -“Government monopoly! No interference tolerated,” said Caput, as the -offender retreated. - -“It is always so! She does not like cigars, nor so much as a match,” -was all the solution we could get from the men of the phenomenon. “She -will smoke. Nobody else must.” - -Fifty yards to the right of the nearly extinct crater is a fountain -of hot mud in a little hollow. An ugly, restless thing, that shivers -and heaves continually, and, every few moments, spouts like a whale, -or an uneasy villain whose conscience periodically betrays him into a -visible casting up of mire and dirt. The mud is a greasy black compound -of unpleasant ingredients, beginning with brimstone, and, to test the -heat, our civil man offered to boil eggs in it. - -“Suppose one were to fall in?” queried I, eying the chaldron in -expectation of the next upward rush. - -“Ah, Madame! he would be boiled also. Unless he should go too soon, all -the way _down_,” pointing ominously. - -The horrible stuff trembled, surged in the middle as if a goblin-head -were rising—bubbled, and sank with a groan. The imp would try it again -presently, perhaps emerge to sight. I continued to gaze. - -“Madame!” said a deprecating voice. - -My friends had moved away. The guide, in the act of following, had -glanced back, and, seeing me motionless beside the mammoth egg-boiler, -recalling my question, descried suicidal intent in my eye and mien, and -rushed back to avert a _contretemps_ that might hurt his reputation as -a safe conductor and civil man. - -“The friends of Madame await her,” he said, insinuatingly. “Nor is -it good for the lungs of Madame to inhale the gas from the pool,” -affecting to cough. “The pool is not handsome. In effect, it is a devil -of a place! Will not Madame have the goodness to walk on? There are -other things to see, very interesting!” - -I laughed, frightening him still more, I fear, for he kept near me all -the time we were in the grounds, and whispered significantly to the -gate-keeper as I passed out. Hawthorne doubts if his Zenobia would -have drowned herself had she foreseen how disfigured a thing would be -dragged up by the grappling-hook. Similar knowledge of feminine nature -would have corrected our civil man’s suspicion of me. _Felo de se_ in -a boiling mud-hole would not tempt the maddest maniac who had, ever in -her life, cared to look in her mirror. - -Monte Nuovo is a really dead, if not gone, volcano, a mile and a half -to the west of Pozzuoli. It came up in a night in 1538—a conical hill -of considerable height—a conglomerate of lava, trachyte, pumice and -ashes, now covered with shrubs and trees. The earthquake that created -it, lowered the coast and cut off Lake Lacrinus from the sea. In -mythological days, Hercules built a breakwater here that he might drive -the bulls of Geryon from the neighboring marshes. This sank at the -Monte Nuovo rising, but can be seen when the water is calm, together -with ruined piers and masses of masonry. A road branches off here from -the Baiæ thoroughfare to Lake Avernus. - -Leaving the carriage on the shore of the latter, we went on foot to -the Grotto of the Sibyl. It is a dark, damp opening in the hill on -the south side of the lake. Rank vines festoon and evergreen thickets -overshadow the mouth. Five or six fellows, with unshorn hair and -beards, and in sheepskin coats and hats, clamored for permission to -pilot us through the long passage—the fabled entrance of hell—into the -central hall which lies midway between Lakes Avernus and Lacrinus. - -“Should not be attempted by ladies!” cried Miss M—— from her open -Baedeker. - -One and all, we raised remonstrative voices against the resolution of -our escort to penetrate the recess. Not see it when Homer had sung of -it and Virgil depicted the descent of Æneas by this very route to the -infernal regions! This was the protest as vehement as our entreaties. -One might draw inferences the reverse of complimentary to himself from -our alarm. Of what should he be afraid? - -Had he heard how our friend, Mr. H——, after being carried in the -guide’s arms through the shallow pool covering the grotto-floor, had -been set down on the other side and forced to pay ten francs before the -wretch would bring him back? - -Yes! he had had the tale from the victim’s lips. - -“And should I not appear within the hour, send Ernesto in to see what -has become of me. Two honest men are a match for six such cutthroats -as these. I must own, candidly, that I never beheld worse countenances -and toilettes. If they won’t bring me back, I can wade through twelve -inches of water. Now, my fine fellows—are you ready?” - -They had lighted their candles, strapped their breeches above their -knees and looked like utterly disreputable butchers, prepared for the -shambles. - -We were ill-at-ease about the adventure, but, dissembling this for the -sake of appearances, before the brace of desperadoes who had remained -outside,—it would seem to watch us—strolled to the edge of the water -and sat down in the shade. The lake is a cup, two hundred feet in -depth, less than two miles in circumference, with a rich setting of -wooded hills. It was joined to Lacrinus in the reign of Augustus by -canals, and Roman fleets lay here in a sheltered harbor, Monte Nuovo -cut off this communication, traces of which can be seen in both lakes. -At the upper end of Avernus are the fine ruins of a Temple of Apollo. -We knew the ancient stories of noxious exhalations that killed birds -while flying over it, and of other manifest horrors of the location; -of gullies, infested by Cimmerian shades; of the Styx, draining its -slow waters in their sevenfold circuit of hell, by an underground -current from the bottom of this reservoir; of the ghostly boatman, the -splash of whose oars could be heard in the breathless solitude of these -accursed shores. Upon the hillsides, in the noisome depths of forests -polluted by the effluvia of the waters, smoked sacrifices to Hecate. - -We saw a placid sheet, mirroring the skies as purely as do Como and -Windermere. The ravines were cloaked by chestnuts and laurels, and the -hills upon the thither side were clothed with vineyards. A lonely place -it is, with a brooding hush upon it that was not wholly imaginary. It -is assuredly not unlovely, nor in the slightest degree forbidding. The -only uncanny object we found was a vine at the entrance of the grotto. -It had a twisting, tough stem, and leaves in shape somewhat resembling -the ivy, although larger and more succulent, each marked in white -with the distinct impression of a serpent. Upon no two was the image -exactly the same in form or position, but the snake was there in all, -partly coiled, partly trailing over the dark-green surface, clearly -visible even to the scales, the head and, in some, the forked tongue. -We remembered the pampered viper of the witch of Vesuvius, and wondered -if the Sibylline spell had perpetuated in the leaving of this vine, the -image of a favorite familiar, or cursed a hated plant with this brand. -We gathered and pressed a handful of the mystic leaves from which the -sinuous lines faded with the verdure into a dull brown, after some -weeks. - -The pair of cutthroats, removed to a barely respectful distance, -whispered together as we examined our floral gains, staring at us -from under black eyebrows. Traditions, known to the peasants, may have -divulged the secret of the odd veining. More likely—our neighbors were -objurgating Victor Emmanuel and his obedient soldiery for spoiling the -honest trade of brigandage, and reminding one another how their honored -ancestors would have fleeced these bold _forestieri_. Brigandage was -a hereditary possession in those fair old times; held in high esteem -by those who lived thereby, and, it was murmured, so gently rebuked by -the Government that it throve, not withered under the paternal frown. -It was openly asserted and generally believed that Cardinal Antonelli -came of such thievish and murderous stock, although he died the richest -man—save one—in Rome. The declension in Government morals on this head -may have had much to do with Caput’s triumphant egress from the cave -before the expiration of half the period he had named. - -He reported the interior to consist of two narrow passages, ventilated -from above, and two chambers hewn in the rock. Through the larger -of these lay the entrance to the lower regions. No trace remains of -the route. Probably it was closed by earthquakes as useless, so many -other avenues to the same locality having been discovered. The smaller -room—the Sibyl’s Bath—is floored with mosaic and flooded to the depth -of a foot with tepid water, welling up in an adjacent nook. The walls -are smoke-blackened, the air is close, the ante-chamber to Hades less -imposing and more comfortless than when Ulysses passed this way, and -Dido’s perfidious lover was led by the Sibyl through corridor and hall -to the shadier realms underneath. - -We stopped at a public house upon the Lucrine Lake, for lunch, and were -served with Falernian wine of really excellent flavor, and small yellow -oysters, tasting so strongly of copper as to be uneatable by us. People -get to liking them after many attempts, we were informed by Roman -epicures. One American gourmand, who had lived ten years in Italy, was -so far denaturalized as to protest that our “natives” are gross in size -and texture, and flavorless, when compared with these bilious-looking -bivalves. - -“Baedeker says they were celebrated in ancient times,” remarked Miss -M——. - -Glaucus regretted that he could not give his guests the oysters he -“had hoped to procure from Britain,” yet subjoins that “they want the -richness”—(the copperiness)—“of the Brundusium oyster.” - -Old Baiæ is a heap of confusion and desolation that cumbers the hill -overlooking the modern town. The only ruins at all suggestive of the -state and luxury which were the boast of patrician Rome when Augustus -reigned and Horace wrote, are the foundations and part of the walls of -the Temples of Mercury and Diana. The former is around building with a -domed roof open-eyed at the top, like the Pantheon. Six horrible hags, -their parchment dewlaps dangling odiously, their black eyes glittering -with hunger and cunning, in rags like tattered bed-quilts, here insist -upon dancing the tarantella for the amusement of _forestieri_. They are -always in the temple. They have, presumably, no other abode. In other -doomed pleasant palaces than those of Babylon, the imagination takes up -Isaiah’s lament:— - -“Their houses shall be full of doleful creatures, and _the daughters of -the owl shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there_!” - -The Villa Bauli used to stand near Baiæ. Here, Nero plotted his -mother’s murder. Another ruined pile was the villa in which he -consented, with a feint of reluctance that did not impose upon his -accomplice, to the proposition of Anicetus to drown her by the sinking -of her galley. Julius Cæsar had a summer residence upon the neighboring -heights. - -Ernesto brought us back to Naples over the hill of Posilipo, instead -of through the tunnel, gaining the summit when the glory of the -sunsetting was at fullest tide. Such light and such splendor as were -never before—or since—for us upon land or sea. To attempt description -in human speech would be, in me, presumption so rank as to verge upon -profanation. But when I would renew—in such faint measure as memory -and fancy can revive past ecstasy—the scene and emotion that made that -evening a joy for ever, I recite to myself words evoked by the view -from a true poet-soul and— - - “With dreamful eyes - My spirit lies - Under the walls of Paradise.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -“_A Sorosis Lark._” - - -WHEN we left Naples in January the snow lay whitely upon the scarred -poll of Vesuvius. Yet, as we drove to the station, we were beset by -boys and girls running between the wheels of our carriage and ducking -under the horses’ heads, clamorously offering bouquets of roses, -violets and camellias that had blossomed in the open gardens. To save -the bones, for which they showed no regard, each of us loaded herself -with an immense bunch of flowers she was tempted, a dozen times before -night, to throw out of the car-window. I counted ten japonicas in -mine—white, creamy, and delicate pink—and I paid the black-eyed vender -fifty centimes, ten cents, for all. - -We ran down to the sea-shore again in April, the laughing, fecund -April, that rioted over the Campagna the day we went to Tusculum. -Caput was detained in Rome, and I acted as chaperone to five of the -brightest, merriest American girls that ever set off upon a pleasure -trip. “A Sorosis Lark,” one named it, while another was inquisitive as -to the kinship of this bird to Athené’s owl. - -We took the railway from Naples to Pompeii. Used as we were to the -odd jumble of old and new forced upon our notice on all public -lines of travel in the Old World, it yet gave us a queer thrill to -hear the station at Pompeii called out in the mechanical sing-song -that announces our arrival at “Richmond” or “Jersey City.” No. 27 -was already engaged, much to our regret, but he recognized us, and -introduced his comrade, No. 18, who, he guaranteed, “would give -us satisfaction.” A jolly, kindly old fellow we found him to be, -more garrulous than his friend, but so staid and respectable that, -when I grew tired, I committed the four younger ladies to his -guardianship, and sat me down in company with my dear, and for so long, -fellow-traveller, Miss M——, upon the top step of the Temple of Jupiter -to rest, promising to rejoin the party at the house of Glaucus. - -We spread our shawls upon the marble to make the seat safe and -comfortable, and when the voices of guide and girls were lost in -the distance, had, to all appearance, the exhumed city for our own. -Vesuvius was slightly restless at this date. The night before, we had -rushed out upon the balcony of the hotel parlor at a warning cry, and -seen the canopy of smoke above the mountain blood-red with reflections -from the crater. Now, as we watched the destroyer, fast bulging volumes -of vapor, white and gray, rose against the blue heavens. We pictured, -by their help, the Cimmerian gloom of the night-in-day that rained -ashes and scalding water upon fair and populous Pompeii. Night of -eighteen centuries to temple, mart and dwelling, leaving, when the -morning came, the bleached skeleton we now looked upon. “The City of -the Dead!” repeated Sir Walter Scott, over and again, as he surveyed -the disinterred ruins. Life seems absolutely suspended within its -gates. While we sat there, we heard neither twittering bird nor chirp -of insect. Even the lithe green lizards that frisk over and in other -ruined walls, shun these, blasted by the hot showers,—out of mind for -forty generations of living men. - -We must have rested thus, and chatted softly of these things, for fully -half an hour, when a large party, appearing suddenly in the echoless -silence, from behind the walls of a neighboring court-yard, stared -curiously at us, and we remembered that our being there without a guide -was an infringement of rules. The custodian of the strangers assumed, -politely, that we had lost our way, and when we named our rendezvous, -directed us how to get thither by the shortest route. We were properly -grateful, and when his back was turned, chose our own way and time for -doing as we pleased. Were we not _habitués_ of Pompeii—friends of older -inhabitants than he dreamed of in his round? - -We were too early, after all, for the rest, although long after the -hour agreed upon for the meeting. While Miss M—— sallied forth on a -private exploration of the vicinity, I sat in the shadow of the wall -upon the step of the peristyle once adorned by Nydia’s flower-borders, -and re-read the description of the scene between her and Glaucus -when, upon this very spot, he told the blind girl of his love for the -Neapolitan, summoning her from her graceful task of “sprinkling the -thirsting plants which seemed to brighten at her approach.” He had -bidden her seek him in the _triclinum_ over there—“the chamber of Leda” -when she had gathered the flowers he would send to Ione. Here, too, she -gave him the philtre that was to win his love, and robbed him of his -senses. - -The laggards rejoined us before I had become impatient. Gay, fresh -voices put phantoms and musing to flight. All were in high good humor. -Their guide had allowed them to loiter and investigate to their heart’s -content, and presented each with a bit of seasoned soap eighteen -hundred years old, which, by the way, we tried that night and proved by -the “lathering” to be saponaceous and of good quality. He had dashed -their complacency by remarking, without the remotest suspicion that -he was uttering dispraise, that he always recognized Americans by -their nasal articulation, but reinstated himself in their favor and -themselves, also, by expressing surprise and delight that all four -could converse fluently in his native tongue. We extended our ramble -beyond the Villa of Diomed into the Street of Tombs—the Via Appia—that, -in former times, extended, without a break, all the way to Rome. - -Was it in ostentatious display of their family mausoleums, or in -callous contempt of natural loves and human griefs, or, from a desire -to honor the _manes_ of the departed, and remind the living of their -mortality, that the traveler to these ancient cities entered them -between a double file of the dead? Was there recognition, however -vague, of the great fact that, through Death we gain Life? - -We were to spend the night at Castellamare, and having, through a -provoking blunder for which we could only blame ourselves, missed the -five o’clock train, were obliged to remain in the Pompeii station -until nine. We had lunched at the restaurant—and a villainous lunch -it was—and being hungry and weary, and out of patience with our -stupidity, would have been held excusable by charitable people had -we been slightly cross. I record that we were not, as an additional -proof of the Tapleyish turn of the feminine disposition. I take no -credit to myself. I was tired beyond the ability to complain. Laid -upon a bench, cushioned by the spare wraps of the party, my head in -Prima’s lap, I beheld in admiration I lacked energy to express, the -unflagging good-humor of my charges; the “small, sweet courtesies” that -made harmless play of badinage and repartee. They called up a boy of -ten, the son of the station-master, from his hiding-place behind the -door communicating with the family apartments, and talked to him of -his life and likings. He was civil, but not clean—a shrewd, knavish -sprite, judging from his physiognomy, but a fond brother to the little -sister who soon crept after him. She wore a single garment that had, -probably, never been whole or neat in her existence of two years. Even -“our girls” could not pet her. But they spoke to her kindly as she -planted herself before them on her two naked feet, her neck encircled -by her brother’s arm, and gave her _bon-bons_. The boy bade her say, -“_Grazie!_” and supplemented her lisp with “Tank ’oo!” and “Goot -morning!”—his whole stock of English. - -The four hours passed at last, and we quitted the dim waiting-room for -pitchy darkness and pouring rain outside. At Castellamare, we were set -down upon an open platform. The clouds were falling upon us in sheets; -the wind caught savagely at our light sun-umbrellas, our only defence -against the storm. The pavement was ankle-deep in water, and it was -ten o’clock at night. We had been recommended to go to Miss Baker’s -excellent _pension_ on the hill, but it was a full mile away, and we -were wet in an instant. In the dismayed confusion, nobody knew just -how it happened, or who first spoke the word of doom, but we packed -ourselves and dripping garments into carriages and were driven to the -Hôtel Royale. The land-lady—or housekeeper—stationed in the vestibule, -took in our plight and her advantage at one fell glance. She met us -with a feline smile, and we were hers. - -“My mother is not well. We must have a room, with a fire, for her, _at -once_. And not too high up!” said Prima, breathlessly, not waiting to -mop her wet face and hair. - -Felina smiled more widely; jingled her keys and studied the red rosette -of a slipper she put forward for that purpose. - -“I have rooms—certainly.” - -“Let us see them—please! This lady must not stand here in her wet -clothes!” cried all in one voice. - -“Here” was a lofty passage whose stone floor was swept by draughts of -damp air. - -“She will catch her death of cold!” subjoined Prima, frantic. - -Felina put out another slipper; assured herself that the rosette was -upon it, also. “I have rooms. One large. Two small. On third floor.” - -I will not prolong the scene. We stood where we were, in opposition -to our entreaties to be allowed to enter the _salle_, while the -negotiation was pending, until we agreed to take her three rooms, -unseen, at her prices. Extortionate we knew them to be and said as much -to Felina’s face, eliciting a tigerish expansion of the thin lips, -and—“As Mesdames like. I have said I have three rooms. One large. Two -small.” - -Up one hundred (counted) stone stairs we trudged, to a barn of a room, -the sea breaking and the winds screaming against the outer walls. There -we learned that neither fire nor hot supper was to be our portion that -night, and that for meals served in bed-chambers an extra sum must be -paid. - -“But you said we could not have supper down-stairs at this hour! We -have had no dinner. To say nothing of being wet to the skin. Cannot you -send up a bowl of hot soup?” - -Of course the plea dashed vainly against her smile. - -“But,” a touch of disdain for my weakness mingling with it, as she saw -the girls wrap me in dry blankets pulled from the bed, lay me upon the -sofa, and chafe my feet—“Madame can have a cup of tea should she desire -it.” - -A very grand butler brought up the tea-equipage at eleven o’clock. -Spread upon a broad platter were as many slices of pale, cold mutton -as there were starving guests. A roll apiece was in the bread-tray. -A canine hunger was upon us. Our teeth chattered with cold and -nervousness. We chafed under the knowledge of being cheated, outwitted, -outraged. Yet when the _supper_ was set out upon the round table -wheeled up to my couch, and we recognized in it the climax of our woes, -we shouted with laughter until the waiter grinned in sympathy. - -Then—we made a night of it—for two hours. We drained tea-pot and -kettle, and would have chewed the tea-leaves had any strength remained -in them; drank all the blue milk, and ate every lump of sugar; left -not a crumb of roll or meat to tell the tale of the abuse of hotel -and _padrona_ with which we seasoned their dryness. We told stories; -held discussions, historical, philosophical, and theological; laughed -handsomely at each other’s _bon-mots_, and were secretly vain of our -own,—wrapped, all the while, from head to heels in shawls, blankets, -and bedspreads, the girls with pillows under their feet to avoid the -chill of the flooring. The destined occupants of the small rooms kissed -us “Good night,” at last. Prima—still fuming, poor child! and marveling -audibly what report she should make to him whose latest words were an -exhortation “upon no account to let Mamma take cold,”—tucked me up -in one of the single beds, and pinned the flimsy curtains together. -They swayed and billowed in the gusts rushing between the joints of -the casements. The surf-roar was deafening; the wash of the waves so -distinct and sibilant, I fancied sometimes I heard it gurgling over -the floor. It was futile to think of sleep, but, after the fatigue -and excitement of the day, I watched out the hours between our late -bed-time and the dawn, not unhappily. - -Castellamare is the ancient Stabiæ—or, more correctly speaking—it -occupied the site of that ill-starred town destroyed by the earthquake -that forced from Vesuvius ashes and boiling water-spouts upon Pompeii. -Here perished the elder Pliny, suffocated by the mephitic vapors of the -eruption. By morning the storm had exhausted itself. From my windows -I looked down upon the spot where Pliny died, and over a sea of the -matchless blue no one will believe in who sees the Bay of Naples in -pictures only. Overhead, a sky whose serenity had in it no reminiscence -of last night’s rage, bowed over the smiling earth. - -We paid for our supper,—a franc for each bit of pallid mutton; -half-a-franc for each roll, and as much for every cup of tea; for -“service”—two francs each;—for lodgings, five francs for each hard -bed, and at the like rate for the stale eggs, burnt toast, and thick -chocolate that formed our breakfast. Then, heedless of Felina’s -representations that “strangers were always cheated in the town,” we -sent out an Italian-speaking committee of two, who hired a carriage -and horses at half the sum for which she offered hers, and were off -for Sorrento. The drive between the two towns is justly noted for its -beauty and variety. The play of prismatic lights upon the sea was -exquisitely lovely: Capri was a great amethyst; Ischia and Procida -milk-opals in the softly-colored distance, while on, above and below -the ridge along which ran the carriage-road, lay Fairy Land—the -Delectable Mountains—Heaven come down to earth! Mulberry trees looped -together for long miles by swaying vines laden with young grapes; -orange and fig-orchards in full bearing; olive-groves, silvery-gray -after the rain; all manner of flowering trees, shrubs, and plants; -lordly castles upon the high hills; vine-draped cottages nestling -in vales and hollows; ravines, dark with green shadows, that let us -catch only stray glimpses of flashing torrents and cascades, spanned -by bridges built by Augustus or Marcus Aurelius; under our wheels -a road of firmest rock, without rut or pebble; between us and the -steeps on the verge of which we drove—breast-high parapets adding to -our enjoyment of the wonderful scene the quietness of perfect security -against the chance of mishap—these were some of the features of the -seven most beautiful miles in Southern Europe. The sea-breeze was -fresh, not rude, the sky speckless, but the heat temperate. - -If we had sought a thorough contrast to the experiences of the previous -evening, we could not have attained our end more triumphantly than -by pitching our moving tent during our stay in Sorrento at the Hotel -Tramontana. It includes under its stretch of roofs the house of Tasso, -where he dwelt with his widowed sister, from June, 1577, until the -summer of the ensuing year,—retirement which purchased bodily health -and peace of mind, that had not been his in court and palace. The -situation of the hotel is picturesque, the balconies overhanging the -beach, and the seaward outlook is enchanting. All the appointments—not -excepting landlady and housekeeper—were admirable—and the terms less -exorbitant than Felina’s lowest charges. It was while guests here, and -in obedience to information rendered by the hospitable proprietor, that -we made our memorable and only raid upon an orange-orchard. Italian -oranges, let me say, _en passant_, are, in their perfection and at -the most favorable season, inferior in richness and sweetness to our -Havana and Florida fruit. The sourest I ever tasted were bought in -Rome, and warranted “_dolce_.” Single oranges, and oranges in twos and -threes, we had eaten from the trees in the garden of the Tramontana -Hotel. Oranges by the quantity—as we had vowed to behold and pluck -them—were to be had somewhere for the picking. In our character as -independent Sorosis larks, we pined for these and liberty—to gather at -our will. I have forgotten the name lettered upon the gate-posts at -which our _cocchière_ set us down. “Villa” Something or Somebody. We -saw no buildings whatsoever, going no further into the estate than the -orchard of orange and lemon-trees in luxuriant fruitage, and smaller, -sturdier trees, that had borne, earlier in the season, the aromatic -dwarf-orange, or _mandarino_. - -“_Tutti finiti!_” said the gardener when we asked for these. - -We consoled ourselves by filling our pockets with fruit when we had -eaten all we could. “Could” signifies more than the uninitiated can -believe to a group of American girls knee-deep in soft, lush grasses, -orange-flower scent distilling into the warm air from a thousand tiny -retorts, globes of red-gold hanging thick between them and the sky, -and such exuberance of fun as only glad-hearted American girls can -know, ruling the hour. We had made, in the hearing of our _cocchière_, -a bargain with the proprietor of the Hesperides. We were to eat all -we wanted, and carry away all we could without baskets, and pay him a -franc and a half at the gate on our return. I dare not say how many we -plucked, sucked dry and threw away empty, or how many more we carried -off in the pockets of over-skirts, lower skirts and jackets. We were -in the orchard for an hour, wading through the cool grass, making -critical selections from the loaded boughs and leisurely regalement -upon our spoils, and talking even more nonsense than we had done -during the nocturnal revel over cold, white mutton and weak tea at the -Hôtel Royale. The gardener followed us wherever we moved, eying us as -sourly as if he had lived from childhood upon unripe lemons. At the -gate he broke our contract by demanding two francs and a half for the -damage done his orchard. With (Italian) tears in his eyes he protested -that he had never imagined the possibility of ladies eating so many -oranges, or pockets so enormous; that we had consumed the profits of -his entire crop in one rapacious hour—and so much more to the like -effect that we passed from compassion and repentance to skepticism and -indignation, and called up the _cocchière_ as witness and umpire. He -scratched his head very hard, and listened very gravely to both sides, -before rendering a verdict. Then he hinted gently that, being novices -in the business of orchard-raids, we had possibly overacted our parts; -that our appetites orange-ward _had_ passed the bounds of the Sorrento -imagination, and that American pockets were a trifle larger than those -of his country-people. Naturally, since Americans had so much more to -put into them. But honor was honor, and a bargain a bargain. What if we -were to pay the unconscionable, injured husbandman—whose oranges were -the whole living of himself and family—two francs to compensate for his -losses and out of sheer charity. - -We were willing, the husbandman mournfully resigned, and _cocchière_ -received _buono mano_ for his amicable adjustment of the difficulty. - -We had a real adventure upon the return trip to Naples. Our party -filled a railway carriage with the exception of two seats, one of -which was taken by an elderly German, the other by an Italian officer, -whose bright eyes and bronzed complexion were brighter and darker for -his snowy hair. Ernesto had engaged to meet us at the station at nine -o’clock P.M. We had no apprehension on the score of the proprieties -with so steady and tried a coachman. But we were loaded down with -parcels of Sorrento woodwork, and the streets swarmed with daring -thieves. At a former visit to Naples, as we were driving through the -_Chiaja_, the fashionable thoroughfare of the city, a man had sprung -upon the carriage-step, snatched a gold chain and locket from the neck -of a young lady sitting opposite to me, and made off with his booty -before we could call out to Caput who sat beside the coachman. The -streets were one blaze of lamps, the hour early dusk; a hundred people -must have witnessed the robbery, but nobody interfered. - -“We shall have trouble with all these, I am afraid!” remarked I, -looking at the bulky bundles. - -“You vill, inteet!” struck in the German, respectfully. “I dit haf to -bay effer so mooch duty on some photograph I did dake from Bompeii to -Naple dis last veek.” - -“Duty! in going from one Italian city to another!” - -“Duty! and a fery heafy impost it is! Brigand dey are—de Gofferment and -all!” - -We had spent so much of our substance—rating available funds as such—in -the ruinously-fascinating shops of Sorrento that the prospect of -duties that might double the sum was no bagatelle. The story sounded -incredible. We appealed to the officer, making frank disclosure of -our purchases and ignorance of custom-house regulations. He was a -handsome man, with a fatherliness of manner in hearkening to our story -that won our confidence. It was true, he stated, that imposts were -levied by one Italian city and province upon the products of another. -Equally true that it was a relic of less enlightened days when union -of the different states under one government was a dream, even of -wise patriots. He advised us to conceal as many of our parcels under -our cloaks as we could, to avoid notice and a scene at the gate of -the station. Should we be stopped, he would represent the case in its -proper aspect, and do what he could to help us. - -“Although”—with a smile—“custom-house officials do not relish -interference from any quarter.” - -He spoke French fluently, but the conversation that succeeded was in -his own tongue. He was a gentleman, intelligent and social, with the -gentle, winning courtesy of speech and demeanor that characterizes -the well-bred Italian, infinitely more pleasing than the polished -hollowness of the Frenchman of equal rank. As we were running into the -station he asked permission to carry a large portfolio one of us had -bought. His short, military cloak, clasped at the throat, and falling -over one arm, hid it entirely. - -“And yours?” he turned to Miss M——, whose possessions were most -conspicuous of all. - -“Tell him,” she said to Prima, in her pleasant, even tones, “that I -will hide nothing. I have been all over the Continent with all sorts -of things known as contraband in my satchel and trunks, and have never -paid a cent of duty. Nobody troubles me. They see that I am an American -who speaks no language but her own, therefore is perfectly honest. They -would let me pass if I were made of Sorrento wood, carved and inlaid in -the most expensive style. You will see! I bear a charmed life.” - -I went through the gate first. There was room but for one at a time. - -“_Le panier_,” an officer touched my little basket of oranges. - -I opened it. - -“You can pass.” - -Miss M—— was next. Serene as a May morning in her native Virginia, -bending her head slightly and courteously to the myrmidons of the -law, as she walked between them, loaded up to the chin with flat, -round and irregular packages concerning whose contents there was not a -possibility of mistake—she was the impersonation of a conscience void -of offence to this or any other government. The officials were alive in -a second. - -“Sorrento!” ejaculated one, and in French, requested her to step back -into the custom-house office. - -“I don’t speak French,” said the delinquent, smiling calmly, and passed -right on. - -Six of them buzzed after, and around her, like so many bees, letting -the rest of the party walk unchallenged through the gate. - -“I don’t speak Italian!” she observed, with a pitying smile, at their -grimacing and posturing. “Not a word! I am sorry I cannot understand -you. I am an American!” - -Still walking forward, her parcels clasped in her arms. - -We laughed. We could not help it. But it was unwise, for the men -grew angry as well as vociferous, dancing around their prisoner in a -transport of enraged perplexity that put a new face upon the affair. -Prima went to the rescue of her undismayed friend. She assured the -officers that the lady was really ignorant of their language, and -willing to do what was just and right. Calming down, they yet declared -that she, and, indeed, all of us, must go into the office, give an -account of ourselves, and pay duty upon such contraband articles as -we had with us. It might be a form, but it was the law. Where was -our gray-haired officer all this while? We had not seen him since he -assisted us to alight from the carriage, the precious portfolio held -cleverly under his left arm. Now, casting anxious eyes upon the crowd -gathering about our devoted band, we looked vainly for the silvery head -and military cap, for the gleam of the gold lace upon his one uncovered -shoulder. It was plain that he had deserted us at the first note of -alarm. - -“And my beautiful portfolio!” gasped the late owner thereof. - -We were at the gate, Miss M—— the only composed one of the humbled -“larks,” the curious throng pressing nearer and closer, when down into -their ranks charged a flying figure, careless that the streaming cloak -revealed the Sorrento folio—waving a paper in his hand. The officers -raised their caps; fell away from us and ordered off the gaping -bystanders. - -“I am most sorry,” said our deliverer, breathless with haste. “But when -I saw the men stop you, I went into the Custom-House to obtain a pass -in due form from the chief.” - -Prima has it to this day. It certified that the contents of our parcels -were “_articles de luxe_” for our personal use, and ordered that we -should be suffered to proceed upon our way unmolested. - -“It was the shortest way, and the safest,” pursued our self-constituted -escort, walking with us to the carriage. “But allow me to express my -sorrow that you were subjected to even a momentary annoyance.” - -He handed us into our carriage; regretted that his return that night -to Castellamare would prevent him from being of further service to us -during our stay in Naples, smiled and disclaimed when we thanked him -warmly for his kindness, and uncovered his dear old head as we drove -away. - -Miss M—— sank back with a long sobbing breath, the first indication of -agitation she had displayed since the arrest at the gate: - -“I shall love the sight of the Italian uniform as long as I live!” she -averred, with heartfelt emphasis. - -“So said”—and so _do_—“all of us!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -_In Florence and Pisa._ - - -FLORENCE in May is a very different place from Florence in November. -Still it rained every day, or night, of the month we passed there; -showers that made the earth greener, the air clearer. We were homesick -for Rome, too, although our lodgings with Madame Giotti, then in Via -dei Serragli—now in Piazza Soderini, were the next best thing to the -sunny _appartimento_ No. 8, Via San Sebastiano, that had been home to -us for almost six months. - -Madame Bettina Giotti, trim and kindly, who speaks charmingly-quaint -English and “likes Americans,” was to us the embodiment of genuine -hospitality, irrespective of the relations of landlady and boarder. -We had a most comfortable suite of rooms, a private table, where she -served us in person, and which was spread with the best food, as -to quality, variety and cookery, we had upon the other side of the -water—Paris not excepted. - -We gave ourselves, thus situated, resolutely and systematically to -sight-seeing. - -The Invaluable and Boy had a pass that admitted them daily, and at all -hours, to the Boboli Gardens, and we left them to their own devices -while we spent whole days in the Uffizi and Pitti Galleries, roaming -among the tombs of the illustrious dead in S. Croce and S. Lorenzo, -studying and enjoying art everywhere in this, her home, and where men -most delight to do her honor. History and religion have here their -notable shrines, also. Both combine to make the extensive square before -the Palazzo Vecchio a spot to which pilgrim-footsteps turn from all -quarters of Christendom. - -It is the ancient Forum of the Florentine Republic. The surges of -commercial and political life yet beat upon and across it. The Palace -is old, and replete with interest to the historical student. The Great -Hall in its centre was built under the direction of Jerome Savonarola -in 1495. Three years later, they put him to death at the stake in -the Piazza della Signoria—the square just mentioned—and had the wind -set that way, the smoke of his burning must have filled the spacious -chamber planned by him while virtual Dictator of Florence. There -lies upon the table beside me, a photograph of a rude picture of his -martyrdom. The Palace is the same we look upon now, at the side of an -area, vaster then than at present, the same lofty, square tower capping -the gloomy building. The judges sit upon benches against the outer -wall. A temporary gangway extends from their platform to the gibbet -in the open space. On this walk the three condemned monks, in white -shrouds, each between two confessors in black, toward the fire blazing -under the gallows. They burned Savonarola’s body after it had suffered -the extremest indignity of the law, such was their lust of rage against -the man who had turned their world upside down—the Reformer born out of -time by two hundred years. Until very lately it was the custom among -the common people to strew with violets, on each anniversary of the -event, the pavement on which he perished. - - “To prove that all the winters that have snowed - Cannot snow out the scent from stones and air - Of a sincere man’s virtues.” - -Savonarola had had _his autos-da-fé_ in places as public as the Piazza -della Signoria—pyres, on which women cast rouge-pots, and false hair, -and all manner of meretricious personal adornments; to whose flames bad -books and licentious paintings and statues were resigned by converted -authors and owners. The thunders of his invectives against spiritual -wickedness in high places, reached and jarred the proudest throne -in Christian Europe. To the proffered bribe of a cardinal’s hat, he -returned word—“I will have no red hat, but one reddened with mine own -blood—the crown given to the saints.” - -Pope and rabble granted his wish. - -From the scene of his death we drove straight to the Convent of San -Marco, his home. Upon the walls and roof of the monastery, the friars -fought like trapped wolves on the night of the requisition for their -brother. It was he, not they, who surrendered the body of Savonarola to -save the sacred place from sack and fire. It was, then, outside of the -town that is now packed in dense, high blocks and far-reaching streets -all around church and cloisters. These last surround a quadrangle -of turf and flowers. The street-gate shut behind us with a resonant -clang, and conventual loneliness and quietness were about us. Above the -sacristy-door is a fresco of Peter the Martyr, his hand laid upon his -mouth, signifying that silence was the rule of the Dominican order. -The spirit of the brotherhood lingers here yet, impressing itself upon -all who pass within the monastic bounds. We spoke and stepped softly, -without bidding on the subject, in going from one to another of the -frescoes on the inner walls of the porticoes or open cloisters. They -are nearly all from the hand—and heart—of John of Fiesole, known best -as Fra Angelico, the monk of sweet and holy memory, who prayed while -he painted; whose demons were all amiable failures; whose angel-faces -came to him in celestial trances. The unoccupied cells of the monks on -the second floor—square closets, each containing a single window, are -adorned with pictures of the Passion from his brush. Faded, now—never -elaborate in color or finish, each tells its story, and with power. How -much more eloquent must that story have been when the solitary inmate -of the chamber knelt upon the bare floor, the awful silence that could -be heard shutting down upon him—the one token of human sympathy left -him, the agonizing image above his oratory! - -In Savonarola’s room are his chair, haircloth shirt, MSS., crucifix, -and, among other relics, a piece of wood from his gibbet. His portrait -hangs over his writing-table. It is a harsh, strong, dark visage in -striking profile, the monk’s cowl drawn tightly around it. We obtained -photographs of it in the convent, and one of Fra Angelico, a mild, -beautiful face, with a happy secret in the large, luminous eyes. Mrs. -Browning interprets it: - - “Angelico, - The artist-saint, kept smiling in his cell. - The smile with which he welcomed the sweet, slow - Inbreak of angels—(whitening through the dim, - That he might paint them).” - -Yet he was, in religious phrase, the “dear brother” of Savonarola, and, -for long in daily companionship with him. - -Fra Benedetto, the brother, according to the flesh, of John of Fiesole, -was, likewise, an artist. In the library of the convent, together -with many other illuminated missals, are the Gospels, exquisitely -embellished by him, with miniatures of apostles and saints. A smaller -hall, near the library, is lined with an imposing array of flags of all -the towns and corporations of Italy, collected here after the Dante -Festival, May 14th, 1865. - -Dante’s monument, inaugurated at that date, on the six hundredth -anniversary of his birth, stands in the Piazza S. Croce, facing the -church. A lordly pile in his honor, on the summit of which he sits in -sombre sovereignty, takes up much space in the right aisle of this -famous fane—“the Pantheon of Modern Italy.” His remains are at Ravenna. -The epitaph on his tomb-stone, dictated by himself, styles Florence the -“least-loving of all mothers.” She exiled him, setting a price upon his -head; made him for nineteen years, he says, “a vessel without sail or -rudder, driven to divers ports, estuaries and shores by that hot blast, -the breath of grievous poverty.” When she relaxed her persecutions so -far as to recall him upon condition of confession and fine, he refused -to enter her gates. Upon bended knee, Florence prayed Ravenna to -surrender his remains to his “Mother-city” less than a century after -he died, a petition oft and piteously renewed. But the plucky little -town holds him yet to her heart, and Florence accounts as holy, for his -sake, such things as the dirty bench fastened in the wall of a house -opposite the Campanile and Cathedral, whereon he used to sit day after -day to watch the building of the latter. - -The centuries through which this work was dragged were a woful drawback -to its external comeliness. Since we saw it, as we learn from the -indignant outcries of art-critics, it has been “cleaned.” “A perfectly -uninjured building,” wails one, “with every slenderest detail fine and -clear as the sunshine that streams on it in mid-summer—is drenched in -corrosive liquids until all the outer shell of the delicate outlines -is hacked and chipped away, the laborers hammering on at all these -exquisite and matchless sculptures as unconcernedly as they would -hammer at the blocks of _macigno_ with which they would repave the -streets!” I confess—albeit, as I have intimated before,—not an -art-critic, that in perusing the above, the “corrosive liquids” ate -into my finest sensibilities, and the “hammering” was upon my very -heart. But my recollection of the condition of the building in 1877 -is not of harmony, or such fineness and clearness as our plaintiff -describes. These existed unquestionably in form and proportion. But -the walls of black and white marble were “streaky,” soiled and clean -portions, fitted together without intervening shading, denoting where -the builders of one age left off and those of the next began anew. An -attempt to cleanse it, set on foot some years previous, had marred the -Duomo yet more. The effect was that of a “half-and-half” penitentiary -garment. Those who know edifices like this and the Milan Cathedral, -and that one of the “Seven Lamps of Architecture,” Giotti’s Campanile, -from photographs, have one advantage over _bona fide_ travelers. The -stains and cracks of time are softened into mellow uniformity in the -sun-picture that yet preserves faithfully each grace of design and -workmanship. He who dreams over the stereoscopic view which brings -out carvings and angles, and the expression of the whole building -with magic accuracy, is spared the pain of seeing that the miracle of -architectural genius in marble or bronze is undeniably and vulgarly -_dirty_. This is especially true of the Baptistery. The bronze doors (I -am not going to repeat Michael Angelo’s remark touching them upon the -thousandth part of a chance that one man or woman in the United States -may not have heard it) are so encrusted with the dust of as many ages -as they have hung in their present place that one cannot distinguish -between Noah drunk and Noah sober; between Cain slaying his brother and -Adam tilling the ground. The interior would be vastly improved, not by -hammering workmen, and corrosive liquids, but by a genuine New England -house-cleaning. A hogshead of disinfectants would not dispel the -mouldy, sickly odor that clings to the walls and unclean floor. All the -children born in Florence of Roman Catholic parents are brought hither -for baptism. We never peeped in at the mighty door without seeing -one or more at the font. After one closer view of the parties to the -ceremony, we refrained from approaching that part of the building while -it was thus occupied. - -We had been for a long drive in the Cascine—the Central Park of the -Florentines—extended into the country, and, our hands full of wild -flowers, the odors of field and hedge and garden lingering in our -senses, alighted at the Baptistery, attracted by the spectacle of a -group dimly visible from the sunlit street. It had seemed a pretty -fancy to us, this gathering all the lambs of Firenze into one visible -earthly fold, and one that peopled the dusky Rotunda with images of -innocence and beauty. We would make these definite and lasting by -witnessing the solemn rite. A priest in a dirty gown mumbled prayers -from a dog-eared book; a grimy-faced boy in a dirtier white petticoat -and a dirtiest short-gown, trimmed with cotton-lace, swung a censer too -indolently to disturb the foul air. A woman in clothes that were whole, -but not clean, held the _bambino_. I do not like to call it a baby. It -was wound from feet to arm-pits, as are all the Italian children of -the lower classes, in swaddling-linen, fold upon fold, until the lower -part of the body is as stiff as that of a corpse. These wrappings are -never loosened during the day. I cannot answer for the fashion of their -night-gear. The unhappy little mummy in question was, in complexion, a -livid purple, and gasped, all the while, as in the article of death. -The cradle-bands had apparently come down to it through a succession -of brother and sister _bambini_, with scanty interference on the part -of washerwomen, and bade fair to become its winding-sheet if not soon -removed. The priest made the sign of the cross in holy water on the -forehead, wrinkled like that of an old man, never pausing in his Latin -rattle and swing; the acolyte gave a last, lazy toss to the censer, -drawling, “A-a-men!” The woman, as nonchalant as they, covered in the -child from the May air with a wadded quilt, wrapping it over the face -as Hazael laid the wet cloth upon his master’s, possibly to the same -end. The touching rite was disposed of, and the priest shuffled out of -one door, the acolyte went whistling out of another. - -The accomplished author of “Roba di Roma,” says of -swaddling-bands—“There are advantages as well as disadvantages in this -method of dressing infants. The child is so well-supported that it can -be safely carried anyhow, without breaking its back, or distorting its -limbs. It may be laid down anywhere, and even be borne on the head in -its little basket without danger of its wriggling out.” - -He doubts, moreover, whether the custom be productive of deformity. -Perhaps not. But, our attention having been directed by the ceremony -just described to what was, to our notion, a barbarous invention for -the promotion of infanticide, we noted, henceforward, the proportion of -persons diseased and deformed in the lower limbs among the Florentine -street population. The result amazed and shocked us. On the afternoon -of which I speak, we counted ten cripples upon one block, and the -average number of these unfortunates upon others was between seven -and eight. Join to the tight bands about their trunks and legs the -close linen, or cotton or woollen caps, worn upon their heads, and the -lack of daily baths and fresh clothing, and it is easy to explain why -cutaneous diseases should be likewise prevalent. - -The mural tablets of Florence are a study,—sometimes, a thrilling one. -As when, for example, in driving or walking through the old street, -neither wide, light, nor picturesque, of S. Martino, we came upon a -tall, stone house with queer latticed windows very high up in the thick -walls,—and deciphered above the doorway these words:— - - “In questa casa degli Alighieri nacque il divina poeta.” - - (“In this house of the Alighieri was born the divine poet.”) - -There is the tenderness of remorse in the “least-loving mother’s” -every mention of her slighted son—now “chapeled in the bye-way out of -sight”—to wit,—sleepy little Ravenna. - -Bianca Capello—fair, fond and false—lived in what is now a very shabby -palace in Via Maggio, bearing the date, “1566.” Amerigo Vespucci was -esteemed worthy of a tablet upon a building in the Borgo Ognissanti. -Galileo’s house is near the Boboli Gardens, and, removed by a block or -two, is the Museum of Natural Sciences, enshrining, as its gem, the -Tribuna of Galileo, enriched by his portrait, his statue, paintings -illustrative of his life, and instruments used by him in making -mathematical and astronomical calculations. His tomb is in the church -of S. Croce, almost covered with ascriptions to his learning, valuable -scientific discoveries, etc., etc. Of tomb and epitaph the Infallible -Mother is the affectionate warden, guarding them, it is to be presumed, -as jealously as she once did the canon he was convicted of insulting. -“The world moves,” and so must The Church, or be thrown off behind. - -“Casa Guidi”! “Twixt church and palace of a Florence street!” From -which the clear-eyed poetess bent to gaze upon the hosts who,— - - “With accumulated heats, - And faces turned one way as if one fire - Both drew and flushed them, left their ancient beats - And went up toward the Palace-Pitti wall,” - -on a day which “had noble use among GOD’S days!” How well we had known -them, and the face that will look from them no more—while as yet the -sea divided us from the land of her love and adoption! - -Surely, never had poet more prosaic dwelling-place. Casa Guidi is a -plain, four-story house, covered with yellowish stucco, lighted by -formal rows of rectangular windows, without a morsel of moulding or the -suspicion of an arch to relieve the tameness of the front elevation. It -opens directly upon the sidewalk of as commonplace a street as Florence -can show to the disappointed tourist. Yet we strolled often by it, -lingeringly and lovingly; studied with thoughts, many and fond, the -simple tablet between the first and second-story casements: - - “_Qui scrisse e mori Elisabetta Barrett Browning che in - cuore di donna conciliava scienza di dotto e spirito di - poeta, e del suo verso fece un aureo anello fra Italia - e Inghilterra. Pone alla sua memoria Firenze grata, - 1861._” - - (“Here wrote and died Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who - combined with a woman’s heart, the science of the - savant and the mind of the poet, and by her verse - formed a golden link between Italy and England. Erected - to her memory by grateful Florence. 1861.”) - -This is a free English translation, but it does not—it cannot, being -English—say to ear and soul what the musical flow of the original -conveys. - -She is buried in that part of grateful Florence known as the English -Cemetery. It is smaller than that in Rome, and not comparable to it -in loveliness or interest. We coveted for the woman and the poet a -corner of the old Aurelian wall beside Shelley instead of the small -plot of the main alley of this village of the dead;—Keats’ coverlet of -violets rather than the marble sarcophagus, with a pillared base, set -hard and flat upon her grave. One panel bears her medallion profile in -basso-rilievo, and the initials “E. B. B., 1861.” There was no need -to write more. We would have been better satisfied with less—marble! -Buttercups and daisies pressed over the closed, cold mouth of the tomb, -and a tea-rose tree at the head had strewed it with blushing petals. - -Florence is the acknowledged Queen of Modern Art and gives lessons in -the same to all civilization. Yet this English Burial-ground can show -almost as many specimens of poor taste and mediocre manipulation as -there are monuments within its gates;—a puzzle and a pain to those who -have luxuriated in galleries and loggie, the very atmosphere of which -ought to be, not only inspiration, but education. - -Galileo’s Observatory, where he watched the stars pale before the -dawn for many happy nights,—and the Villa, in which he lived for -the last eleven years of his mortal life,—blind, illustrious, and, -if we may believe him, contented;—whither Milton came to visit and -console him and was moved to congratulation at the sight of his deep -tranquillity,—stand upon a hill from whose brow Florence is, indeed, -_la Bella_. Galileo’s lamp hangs in the Cathedral of Pisa. - -Our excursion to this city was in mid-May. It is distant from Florence -but four hours by rail. The intervening country is one of the loveliest -tracts in Northern Italy. The wheat-fields were ripening into palest -green, and every breath of wind that ruffled this revealed the -scarlet sheen of the poppy underrobe. The railway banks were beds of -mountain-pinks, separated by acres of buttercups and blue flax, clumps -of wild roses and geraniums. Up to this we had felt no oppressive -heats, fast though the season was advancing, and to-day, while the -train was in motion, we rather enjoyed the blaze of sunshine under -which the landscape glowed, while we gazed, into more vivid coloring. -But the radiations from the white streets of Pisa were blinding. The -breeze lost itself among the flat outskirts of the town, and was never -suspected inland. - -We took carriages at the hotel and drove, untempted to loiterings -in the shadeless thoroughfares, directly to the Cathedral. It is -fortunate for travelers who come to Pisa in spring or summer, that the -four principal objects of interest, all that one cares to see in the -whilom “queen of the western waves,” are grouped within a radius of -fifty yards from the Duomo. Seeking its shadow from the pitiless sun, -we looked up at the Leaning Tower “over the way.” It did not lean as -emphatically as we had hoped for, nor was it as high as it should have -been. But from the first glimpse of it, its lightness and grace were an -agreeable surprise. And it was _clean_! Seven hundred years have not -defiled it to the complexion of the Florentine Duomo, or even to the -cloudiness of “that model and mirror of perfect architecture,” Giotto’s -Tower. Its eight-storied colonnades of creamy tints passing into white, -were cast up upon the deep blue background like the frost arcades -raised at night by winter fairies. It was loftier, presently, and as it -heightened, inclined more gracefully toward the earth. - -“Like an ice-cream obelisk melting at the base,” suggested a heated -spectator pensively. - -We walked around the beautiful, majestic wonder; gazed up at its bent -brow from the overhanging side; measured the dip of the foundation by -the deepening of the area in which it is set, and laughed at ourselves -for the natural recoil from walls that seemed to be toppling over upon -us. While the young people, in the convoy of a guide, climbed the three -hundred—save six—stairs winding up to the summit of the Campanile, -Caput and I gladly took refuge in the cool dimness of the Cathedral. -Seated upon a bench exactly over the spot where Galileo used to set -his chair in order to gaze at the mighty chandelier pendent from the -ceiling, we, too, watched it. - -It is a grand sight—that great bronze lamp, its scores of disused -candle-sockets hanging empty from the three broad bands. Five naked -boys brace themselves upon their chubby feet against the lower band, -and do Caryatide-duty for the upper. Scrolls, branches, and knops are -exquisitely wrought, and the length of the chandelier must be at least -twelve feet. The sacristan told us, in a subdued voice, how Galileo had -the “habitude” of resorting to the church, day after day, and sitting -“just here” to think and to pray. How his eyes, fixed mechanically upon -the lamp, noted, one day, that the inclination of the long, slender -rod to which it is attached was not quite the same at different hours; -of his excitement as he divined the cause of the variation; that, -after this, he haunted the Duomo continually until he thought out -the truth—“or”—crossing himself, apologetically—“the Blessed Virgin -revealed it to her faithful worshipper.” - -Having Protestant and inconvenient memories, we had our thoughts -respecting the reception the discovery, to which the Virgin helped her -_protégé_, had from her other faithful sons. But we liked the story all -the same. We were still more pleased when he deserted us to escort two -German priests, the only other persons present beside ourselves, to the -contemplation of a large picture of the birth of Our Lady. There are -many paintings in the Cathedral and some good ones. Ninety-nine and a -half per cent. are in honor of the Virgin Mary. The Madonna and Child -over the _bénitier_ near the entrance are attributed to Michael Angelo. - -We saw all these things while waiting for our juniors; then, went back -to our bench and our contemplation of the lamp, until they rejoined us. - -The Campo Santo is a quadrangle enclosed by chapels, with corridors -open toward the burial-ground, and paved with flat tomb-stones. When -the Crusaders of the thirteenth century lost the Holy Land, a pious -archbishop of Pisa had between fifty and sixty ship-loads of earth -brought hither from Mount Calvary, and made into a last bed for those -who loved Jerusalem and mourned her loss. The sacred soil had the -property of converting bodies laid within it into dust so quickly and -thoroughly that others could follow them within a short time without -inconvenience to dead or living. The Campo Santo became tremendously -fashionable, and graves were bought at terrifically high prices when -one considers the dubious character of the privilege connected with -the situation. No interments have been made here for so long that the -quadrangle is a smooth lawn edged with flower-borders. - -The frescoes of chapels or corridors are the leading curiosity of the -place. Guide-books and local inventories, without a gleam of humor, -write these down as “remarkable,” “admirable,” “celebrated.” Only -by beholding them can one bring himself to believe in the horrible -grotesqueness of these Biblical and allegorical scenes. Hideous and -blasphemous as they were to me, I bought several photographs that my -home-friends might credit my story of mediæval religious art. The lower -part of one I draw, at random, from my collection, represents the -Creation of Adam. The Creator, a figure with a nimbus about his head, -a train of attendants similarly crowned, behind him,—lifts a nude, -inert man from the earth. A toothed parapet separates this scene in the -Drama of Life from one above, where the same crowned Figure, in the -presence of a larger retinue, draws Eve from the side of sleeping Adam. -She stares about her in true feminine curiosity, clasping her hands in -a gesture of amazement, or delight, designed, no doubt, to contrast -strongly, as it does, with the stupid, half-awake air with which Adam -comes into the world. The sleeping bridegroom is disturbed by the -extraction of his rib, for, without awaking, he puts his hand under -his arm, touching Eve’s toe as it leaves his side. The gravest Puritan -cannot but see that he is _tickled_ by the operation. The lower section -of this panel has Adam, clothed in skins, digging with a rude hoe, in -the parallelograms and circles of an Italian garden. The sequence of -the narrative is interrupted here to put the curse of labor in more -significant juxtaposition with the gift of a wife. At the right-hand -corner of the photograph appears what properly belongs to the third -place in the series;—the guilty pair crouching together, after the -transgression, amid the trees of the garden, and betrayed in their -covert by a darting ray of light from heaven. Below this are Adam and -Eve, driven by two angels in knight’s armor through the Norman-Gothic -door of a machicolated tower. Cain and Abel, quarreling beside an altar -modeled after the pulpit of the Pisan Baptistery, are crowded into the -background. - -The lack of room for the amplification of subjects and the artist’s -conceptions of these, led to a terrific “mix” upon the walls, which -are literally loaded with frescoes. The entire Book of Genesis is -illustrated upon the surface of the North wall, my photograph being a -fair specimen of the style of the decorations. The partisans of Pietro -di Paccio and of Buffalmacco claim for their respective masters the -honor of the upper line of scenes. A Florentine, Benozzo Gozzoli, -began with Noah’s drunkenness,—a favorite theme in wine-growing -countries—and ran the Jewish history down to the interview of Solomon -and the Queen of Sheba. To him was awarded the distinction of a grave -beneath the history of Joseph. - -The two German priests were going into convulsions of merriment before -a monstrous spectacle of the Last Judgment and Hell, in which devils in -green, red and yellow, are fighting over souls of equivocal reputation, -with angels in blue-and-white liveries. The spirits in dispute have -so dire a time between them that the terrors of the fate which befall -them, when relinquished by the angels, must be materially mitigated -by recollections of the escaped horrors of dismemberment. The Inferno -of Dante’s countryman the artist, whose name is unknown, is a huge -chaldron, crammed with heretics, apostates and Jews. The Chief Cook, -his very horns a-tingle with delight, is ramming down some and stirring -up others with a big pudding-stick. The priests laughed themselves -double over our dumb disgust. Probably they credited the fidelity of -the representation less than even we. - -The Baptistery is a four-storied rotunda. The lower story is set around -with half-columns; the second, with smaller whole pillars. Above this -rise two tiers of pointed arches, the first row enclosing niches in -which are half-length figures of saints. The upper arches are windows. -A fine dome covers all. An octagonal font occupies the centre of the -one vaulted chamber whose ceiling is the roof. It is raised by two -steps from the floor, and is of white marble carved into patterns as -delicate and intricate as the richest lace-work. The pulpit is scarcely -less lovely, being adorned with bas-reliefs descriptive of the Life of -our Lord from the Annunciation to the Last Judgment. It is a hexagon -and there are five of these panels, the sixth side opening upon the -steps. The reticulated marble is singularly pure in quality and wrought -into elaborateness of finish that has never been excelled. - -We were examining it and objurgating the ubiquitous Goth who has -mutilated several of the finest figures, when the custodian, standing -a little apart from us, sounded three notes in a sonorous baritone. -Angel-voices caught them up and repeated them in every variety of -harmonious intonation; then, a loftier choir echoed the strains; -another and another, and still another until the rejoicings were lost -in the heaven of heavens. - -We sank upon the steps of the font, and listened, as, in obedience to -our wordless gesture, the man, once and again, gave the signal for -the unearthly chorus. The voices were human, if human tones are ever -perfect in sweetness, roundness and harmony, the transition of the -theme from each band of singers to a higher, a complete illusion of -the enchained senses. The responses, clear, tender, thrilling, invoked -such images as we had seen in the Uffizi and Pitti galleries—concentric -circles of cherubim and seraphim and rapturous redeemed ones, with -uplifted faces and glad, eager eyes, reflecting the effulgence of the -Great White Throne and Him that sat thereon. - -Carlo Dolci knew how to paint such, and Raphael, and Fra Angelico. We -had heard their quiring while looking upon the pictured canvas. We -_saw_ them as we hearkened to the hymning that ascended to the stars. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -“_Beautiful Venice._” - - -FROM Florence we went to Venice—eight days thereafter, to Bologna. - -We “did” Venice leisurely and with great delight. - -“The one place on the Continent that bored me!” I once heard a young -lady declare at an American watering-place;—a sentiment heartily -seconded by several others. “You can do everything there in two days!” -continued the critic. “After that, it is the stupidest old hole in -creation. I thought I should have died!” - -Our friend, Miss M—- had been in Venice in December, and described -the blackened fronts of palaces dripping and streaming with rain; low -clouds excluding the sea-view; lead-colored drains where poets had seen -canals, and a depressing silence through which the gondolier’s cry was -like—“Bring out your dead!” - -We were prepared to behold the ghost of a city, whispering hollowly of -a sublime Past;—a monotonous succession of ditches washing the slimy -foundations of crumbling walls;—almost the stillness and desolation of -a desert. We left Florence on a hot day; the railway train was crowded; -the long, dusty ride the least picturesque we had had in Italy. It was -late in the afternoon when we alighted at the station-quay and saw -our first gondola. It was wedged in with fifty others against the -pier, so tightly that the manner of its extrication was a mystery. A -bend of the gondolier’s wrist did it all. He had held up his hand, and -Caput had nodded. In a minute more he had brought his craft close to -our feet, and balanced himself by means of a long pole with a paddle -at the end, while he raised his cap and offered his services. He had -a family gondola, black as a hearse, a murderous-looking battle-axe, -edge outward, fastened to the prow, and seats for six upon the cushions -under a striped awning. Our luggage was quickly disengaged from the -confused mass discharged from the baggage-car, and stowed away in the -bows; we settled ourselves among the cushions and shot out into the -canal out of sight and hearing of the noisy station. - -We were in Venice! The Bride of the Sea! Venice of the Doges—of the -thousand isles—of the cloudy-winged thousand years! Heat, dust, fatigue -went out of our minds with the play of the cool air over our faces, the -ripple of the salt-water under the keel of our boat. For this was also -the Venice of our old-time poetic fancies—not the sad city photographed -upon imagination by our friends’ descriptions. The lofty palaces were -ancient, blurred and seamed, but not ruinous—the smooth sunniness of -the canals allured the eye on to the sea, the highway and bulwark of -the city. Groves of masts streaked it here and there, line and spar -delicately defined against the flushing west. At longer intervals, -government buildings or warehouses sat blackly upon the breast of the -water, the tide lapping their thresholds twice a day. Purplish banks, -lying close to the horizon in the hazy amber distances, were the _lidi_ -and _murazzi_—(sand hills and embankments)—protecting the Lagune -from oceanic irruptions in tempestuous weather. All this was lost, -presently, by the narrowing of the watery highway and closer line of -buildings. The canals were dull tracks but for the tossing wake in the -middle of each as our gondolier cleft a path with his long-armed sweep. -His call before turning a corner was a guttural dissyllable, not easy -of imitation. Poets—and Mark Twain—say gondoliers used to sing. We -never heard them. Our Antonio, our first acquaintance, and our faithful -boatman and guide until he deposited us at the station, the morning of -our departure—could not sing a note. Nor could any of his professional -brethren, he said. - -“It was perhaps the sea-fogs that spoiled their throats. Or the -exposure in all weathers, signore. The signora would observe that a -gondolier’s life was one of hardship, summer and winter. He had no -breath to spare for singing. _Misericordia_, not a great deal! Nor -heart for it when the _sposa_ and _bambini_ must have their mouths -filled with food. And _polenta_ dearer every season!” - -We were Antonio’s friends before we landed at the Hôtel Luna, and had -engaged him for a moonlight excursion upon the Grand Lagune that very -night. We hired him for the day, next morning, and upon several other -successive forenoons. - -For Venice did not bore us. The Piazza S. Marco was just around the -corner from our quiet but excellent hotel—a matter of a hundred steps, -perhaps, on dry land—and the Basilica of S. Marco—_the_ attraction of -Venice to us. Prancing over the great entrance are the four bronze -horses, stolen from the triumphal arch of Nero by Trajan to adorn -_his_; from Trajan by Constantine for the new city of his founding and -name; from Constantine by Doge Dandolo for the Venetian Cathedral; from -Venice by Napoleon I. for the arch in the Place Carrousel, finally, -restored by the Emperor Francis to St. Mark’s. They are sturdy -roadsters, with good “staying” qualities, if one may judge from their -build and history, in no wise jaded by their travels and changes of -climate, and look fresh, but not impatient for another start. - -The pigeons feed in the Piazza at two o’clock every day. It is “the -thing” for strangers and native-born strollers to congregate here at -that hour to witness the spectacle. About ten minutes before the bell -strikes, the birds begin to assemble, crowding the roofs, eaves and -window-sills of the surrounding buildings, preening and billing and -cooing, with the freedom of privileged guests. At the stroke of the -bell they rise, as one bird, into the air for a downward swoop upon the -scattered grain. The pavement is covered in an instant with a shifting -mass of purple and gray plumage, and the noise of fluttering and -murmuring, of pecking bills and clicking feet fills the square. A bevy -of their remote ancestors brought, six hundred years ago, dispatches of -such importance from the besieged island of Candia to Admiral Dandolo’s -fleet, that he sent the carrier-pigeons to Venice with the tidings of -his success in taking the island, and the aid they had rendered him. -They were put upon the retired list and fed at the public expense—they, -their heirs and assigns forever. - -The best photographs—and the cheapest—in Italy are to be bought upon -the Piazza San Marco. Florian’s celebrated _café_, is there, and -countless shops for the sale of Venetian glass and beads—_bijouterie_ -of all sorts, and for the general robbery of travelers—the rule -being to ask twice the value of each article when the customer is a -foreigner, and to “come down” should the victim object to the proposed -fleecing. - -The mosaic floor of San Marco billows like the _Mer de Glace_, having -settled in many places. The decorations of façade and interior are -oriental in character and color. St. Mark, after much _post mortem_ -travel, rests under the high altar. The altar-piece is of enameled -silver and gold plate, fretted with jewels. A canopy of _verde antique_ -overshadows the holy sepulchre. A second altar is behind the chief -shrine. The canopy of this rests upon four columns, curiously twisted. -The two forward ones are of alabaster, and semi-translucent. - -“Brought hither from Solomon’s Temple after the destruction of -Jerusalem,” affirmed our cicerone. - -“By whom?” - -The inevitable shrug and grimace, embodying civil surprise at the -query, and personal irresponsibility for the tradition. - -“Ah! the signora can answer that as well as I who have never thought of -it until now. Doubtless”—flashing up brilliantly—“San Marco, himself! -Who more likely?” - -The _Battisterio_ is a gloomy chapel, and as little clean as it is -bright. It has more the appearance of a lumber-chamber than a place of -worship. But the relics are priceless—the rubbish unique. The bronze -font, big enough for a carp-pond, dates from the 16th century, and is -presided over by John the Baptist. His head was cut off upon the stone -one sees at the left of the altar. Above the latter is another bit -of precious quartz or granite, from Mt. Tabor. St. Mark’s has drawn -heavily upon the Holy Land, if one-half the valuables stored within -the Cathedral are genuine. Sturdy old Doge Dandolo, who pensioned the -pigeons after the capitulation of Candia; who, old and purblind, led -the Venetians in the recapture of rebellious Zara, and to victory -in the siege of Constantinople; who accomplished what Pietro Doria, -two hundred years later, boasted that he would do after humbling the -arrogant Republic,—bridled the bronze horses and led them whithersoever -he would—is entombed in the Baptistery. - -With all of what some call its barbaric redundance of ornament and -color, and the neglected richness that seems incompatible with the -reputed veneration of the Venetians for their renowned Basilica, St. -Mark’s works powerfully upon those who are conversant with its history -and can appreciate the charm of its quaint magnificence. Talk of -“restoration” in this connection is a project to coat the dusky bloom -of a Cleopatra with “lily-white.” - -One hundred-thirty-and-four years was this thousand-year-old temple -in building, and, pending its erection, all homeward-bound vessels -were compelled to bring some tribute to the rising structure. The -five hundred columns of the façade are of rare marbles thus imported, -principally from the Orient. The wall between these is gorgeous with -mosaics—not frescos. The domes are begirt with a frontlet of pinnacles. -Sultana of the Sea, to whom all kingdoms have paid tribute, she sits -upon the shore in calm imperiousness befitting the regal estate -confirmed by a decade of centuries. The hack of chisel, the corrosion -of acids here will be sacrilege. Yet they say it is ordained that she -shall endure the outrage. They may smite,—they cannot belittle her. - -We disbelieved in the fragment of the true cross set in a silver column -exhibited in the “Treasury;” were disposed to smile at the splinter, or -chip, of St. John’s frontal bone “adorning” an agate goblet. We shook -our heads over St. Mark’s Episcopal throne as we had at St. Peter’s in -Rome, and would not look at the crystal urn said to contain some of the -Saviour’s blood. Nor were we credulous as to the authenticity of the -capitals brought from the Temple at Jerusalem crowning the pillars of -the Entrance-Hall. - -But we always stayed our steps at the red porphyry slabs embedded -in the floor of the vestibule. Here, Frederic Barbarossa, Emperor of -Germany, and twice-crowned King of Italy,—once by Pope, again by the -anti-pope of his own setting-up; Conqueror of Poland and Lombardy; -the most accomplished, as he was the most heroic warrior in an era -when heroism was knightly duty,—knelt to Pope Alexander III., at -the pacific instance of Sebastiano Ziani, Doge of Venice. Ten years -of excommunication; the disastrous battle on Lake Como, desertion, -treachery and disease had tired out, not quelled the haughty spirit. A -twenty years’ war, resulting in irrevocable defeat, probably wrought -more potently upon reason and will than the Doge’s arguments. His face -was of a more burning red than the hair and beard that earned his -nickname, as his knee touched the ground. - -Schiller makes Marie Stuart protest, after her betrayal into the like -act of subserviency to Elizabeth, that she “knelt not to _her_, but to -GOD!” The poet may have borrowed the equivocation from Barbarossa’s -kingly growl—“_Non tibi—sed Petro!_” - -Alexander was pontiff, diplomatist and magnanimous. - -“_Et mihi, et Petro!_” he said,—raising the humbled monarch and giving -him the kiss of peace. - -Ah! the languorous noons, when we loitered among the shadows of the -great Entrance-Hall, the “court of the Gentiles,” “thinking it all -over,” the pigeons cooing and strutting on the hot stones outside, -while St. Theodore, on his tall shaft, the Winged Lion of S. Marco on -his, stood guard over the deserted Piazzetta, and the breeze came up -past them from the Adriatic, the Bride of the Doges! - -“_In signum veri perpetuique dominii!_” Thus ran the ceremony of -espousal. The King of all Italy, Vittorio Emmanuele, paid a flying -visit to the royal palace on the Grand Canal while we were in the -city, and the wedded Adriatic took the event as quietly as she had -regarded the usurpation of Austrian and French conquerors. “Perpetual” -is a term of varied meanings in this world and life. - -Three stately cedar masts arise from ornamental pedestals before the -church. They were set up in 1505, and the captured banners of Candia, -the Morea and Cyprus used to flaunt there upon state festa-days while -the doges ruled Venice and the sea. The flag of United Italy is raised -upon each on Sabbaths and holidays. On a certain May morning, more than -two-and-half centuries agone, other trees adorned the Piazza S. Marco. -They had sprung up during the night, and each bore fruit, at the seeing -of which men fled affrighted and women swooned. Many of the spectators -had been guiltily cognizant of a conspiracy, headed by Spanish agents, -to murder Doge, nobles and Council, when they should come to S. Marco -on Ascension-Day. The faces of the strangled men swinging, each from -his gallows, revealed the awful truth that the Council of Ten had also -known of the plot and marked the ringleaders. - -We walked across the Rialto; stopped to cheapen Venetian glasses in the -tiny shops crowding the streets leading to and from the bridge; bought -here ripe, luscious oranges for a reasonable sum from one Jew, and paid -three prices to another for a woven grass basket to hold the fruit. It -is a Bowery neighborhood, at the best, from the cheap flashiness of -which Antonio would withdraw his aristocratic patronage were he now a -merchant of Venice. The Rialto is a steep, covered bridge, lighted by -green Venetian blinds, that help to make it a common-looking structure. -A bright-eyed Italian offered caged birds for sale on the pier where -our Antonio and the gondola waited for us. Upon a tray beside him were -heaped white cuttle-fish bones for the use of the canaries. - -“I do not want a bird,” I said. “But I will buy some of those”—pointing -to the cuttle-fish—“as a souvenir of the Rialto.” - -He plucked off his tattered cap in a low bow. - -“But the signora should not pay for a souvenir of the Rialto! I will -give her as many as she wants—gladly.” - -He pressed three of the largest upon me, and absolutely refused to -accept so much as a centime in return. - -“_Buono mano!_” insisted Caput, holding out a coin. - -The Italian put his hands behind his back. “It is nothing! Let it be a -souvenir of the Rialto to the signora from a Venetian.” - -“Unaccountable!” sighed Caput, as we dropped upon our cushions under -the awning. - -“Refreshing!” said I, gazing back at the bird-vender until a turn in -the canal hid him. - -He stands in the foreground of my mind-picture of the Rialto,—hung -about from neck to waist-band with rude wooden cages of chirping -linnets, canaries and the less expensive goldfinch, the petted -“cardellino” of the lower classes. Their fondness for the lively -little creature and his comparative worthlessness in the esteem -of bird-fanciers gives meaning to Raphael’s lovely “Madonna del -Cardellino,” and interprets the tenderness in the eyes of the Divine -Child as He arches His hand over the nestling offered him by John. - -S. Giovanni e Paolo ranks second to S. Marco in size, impressiveness -of architecture and historical interest. It is the burial-place of the -Doges. The last of their number, Manini, sleeps in the more modern -church of the Gesuiti (the Jesuits). “_Æternitati suo Manini cineres_” -is his only epitaph. His predecessors repose pompously in the old -church, begun in the 13th century and completed in the 15th. It feels -and smells like an ocean cave. So strong is the briny dampness of -flavor that one would hardly wonder to find sea-weed washed up in the -chapel-corners. Pietro Mocenigo,—as great in war as Tomaso Mocenigo -was in statecraft and finance, has a liberal share of the right aisle. -Fifteen statues surround the mausoleum constructed “from the spoils -of his enemies.” In the grave he could not relax his hold upon their -throats. - -“The only horses in Venice!” said a friend to me, once, in showing a -photograph of St. Mark’s “team.” - -He had been twice to Venice, but he must have skipped SS. Giovanni -e Paolo. Whether or not the Doges were, in life, adepts in noble -horsemanship, they are addicted to equestrian statues after death. Very -high amid the prevailing dampness, stand and paw their marble coursers -on the lids of sarcophagi, as stamping to arouse their slumbering -masters, and upon wall-shelves and niches. The Chapel of the Rosary, -founded in 1571, as a thank-offering of the Republic for the victory -of Lepanto, is now a smoke-blackened shell,—the valuable contents, -including the original of Titian’s “Death of St. Petrus, Martyr,” -having been destroyed by fire in 1868. - -The pictured wealth of Venice had not been conceived of by us prior to -this visit. Fresh from Florentine galleries as we were, our day in the -Accademia delle Belle Arti was a banquet enjoyed the more because it -was unexpected. Our surprise was the result of a want of reflection, -since we knew that Giorgione, Titian, Tintoretto and Paul Veronese were -Venetians. Still, as men and prophets go, that was hardly a reason -why we should behold their master-pieces in honored places in their -native, or adopted city. Titian’s “Presentation of Mary in the Temple,” -and “John the Baptist in the Wilderness,” Bonifazio’s “Banquet of -Dives,” “Jesus in the House of Levi” by Paul Veronese—(how well we -all know artists and subjects through the “blessed sun-pictures,” and -engravings!) are in the Academy of Fine Arts, a suppressed monastery of -modest dimensions and appearance, devoted now to better uses than of -yore. - -The Bridge of Sighs is another covered bridge, but with a level floor -and grated, instead of shuttered windows. A row of gargoyles grin upon -the lower arch. An allegorical figure which, we guessed, was St. Mark, -occupies the centre of the frieze,—a lion on each hand. The Bridge -looks like a place accursed. We did not quite like to pass under it. -It spans a narrow canal, shut in from the sunshine by the Palace of -the Doges on one side, a dingy, darksome prison on the other. The -water is inky-black in their shadow. A chill wind draws through the -passage on the hottest day. The last glimpse of the world framed by -the barred windows, could not have heightened the hardship of leaving -it. The prisons are empty dungeons, the walls exuding cold sweats; -badly-lighted and worse-ventilated. There is nothing in them to -recompense one for the discomfort and depression of a visit. - -We entered the Palace of the Doges by the Giant’s Staircase:— - - “The gory head rolled down the Giant’s stairs.” - -Of course we quoted the line; knowing the while, that Marino Falieri’s -head nor foot ever touched the stately flight. He was beheaded, at -eighty years of age, at the top of another staircase the site of which -is occupied by this. We saw the place where his name should be in the -Great Hall of the Doges. The walls are covered with miles of historical -canvas. Tintoretto’s gigantic picture,—said to be the largest -oil-painting in the world—of “Paradise” fills one end of the chamber. -On the other sides are scenes from the history of the Crusades,—notably -of the Venetians’ participation in the Holy Wars. The portraits of the -Doges are upon the frieze close to the ceiling. We gave none a second -glance. The whole procession of ermine and purple mantles and peaked -beards did not interest us one-hundredth part as much as did a sable -blank directly over the coronation of Baldwin of Flanders by one of the -Dandolos. - - “_Hic est locus Marino Falieri, decapitati pro criminibus._” - -Another Doge, whose craft, or inoffensiveness kept his head upon his -shoulders, takes up the indefinite series beyond the accusing tablet. - -Many of the historical pictures are by noted artists. Paul Veronese -and his pupils appear most prominently in the catalogue, although -Tintoretto and Bassano did their part, under princely patronage, -toward commemorating the glories, civic, ecclesiastic, and naval, of -Venice. So much Doge and Pope drove us from the field of observation -by the time we had spent an hour in the immense room. The Voting Hall, -visited next, afforded neither change nor relief. Thirty-nine Doges -could not be forced into the Council Chamber. The faithful Venetians -have made a frieze of them, also, at the end of which we read aloud and -thankfully, the name of Manini. We had seen his tomb, and remembered -him as the last of the worthy old gentlemen. Here we read the history -of the Republic again on ceiling and walls, except where a “Last -Judgment”—pertinent, but not complimentary—over the entrance, broke the -line of battle, which was, invariably, Venetian victory. - -The notorious _Bocca di Leone_ is a slit by the side of a door in a -second-story room. We were passing it, without notice, when the guide -pointed it out. It is no larger than the “slide” in a post-office -door, and like it in shape. If it could give breath to all the secrets -it swallowed when the Bridge of Sighs was a populous pathway to the -dungeons that meant death; when nocturnal hangings, with no public -preamble of trial or sentence, were legal executions—the little hole in -the wall would be as the mouth—not of the lion—but of hell! - -This Palace, whose foundations were laid A. D. 800, is a superb -fabric. It was finished in the fourteenth century. It faces the sea -on one side, upon another the Piazzetta, where St. Theodore stands -aloft, shield and spear in hand, the crocodile under his feet, and -the Winged Lion holds open the Book of the Gospels with his paw. A -double colonnade of more than a hundred columns, runs around both of -these sides. We counted carefully from the main entrance to the ninth -and tenth pillars. They are of rich red marble, and between them, in -the prosperous days of the Republic, stood the herald while he cried -aloud the sentences of death just decreed in the Great Hall. The Doges -were crowned upon the upper landing of the Giant’s Staircase. An inner -stairway is known as the Scala d’Oro, or Golden Stairs, and in the -same Republican age, none could tread it who were not registered among -the nobility. We saw the table around which convened the Council of -Ten,—perhaps the same over which the Spanish conspiracy was discussed, -and on which the death-warrants were penned. - -Then we rejoined patient Antonio at the foot of the Piazzetta, and -were rowed—or spirited—by winding ways, to the beautiful church of the -Franciscans, to see Canova’s monument. It was erected five years after -his death, from his own design for Titian’s tomb. The artist within -whose soul the exquisite conception grew into form should rest in this -mausoleum and none other. The door of the pyramidal tomb is pushed -open by a bending figure, (life-size,) in trailing weeds, who looks -longingly, yet fearfully, into the inner darkness. She is followed up -the short flight of steps by a procession of mourners,—Poetry, and -Sculpture, and Painting, among them,—bearing laurels and funereal -emblems. Titian’s monument, in another aisle, is a tasteless -monstrosity, in comparison with this “rejected” design. - -The Franciscan Monastery adjoining the church, contains the archives of -Venice since 883. There are not less than fourteen _million_ documents -in the collection. So boast the custodians. Three hundred rooms are -appropriated for their accommodation. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -_Bologna._ - - -I HAVE recorded the Traveled American girl’s experience in the Venice -we mourned at leaving after eight days’ sojourn. In the parlor of -the Hôtel Brun, in Bologna, we met the Average Briton, a spinster of -linguistic and botanical tastes—artistic too, as presently appeared—who -was “stopping overnight,” in the city. - -“Where there’s nothing to be seen, me dear,” she asserted to a -countrywoman of her own, in our hearing, “unless one has a fondness for -sausage. You remarked that they made a course of Bologna sausage at the -dinner-table. Ex’tror’nary—was it not? We thought it quite nasty. But -Bologna is a filthy old town—not a show-place at all. Nobody stops here -unless obliged to do so. We take the early train for Venice. Ah! there -is a wealth of art _there_!” - -“Will you walk?” asked Caput of me, so abruptly that the A. B. lifted -her eye-glass at him. - -The sidewalks are arcades, protected from sun and rain by roofs -supported upon arches and pillars. The shops were still open; the -pavements alive with strollers and purchasers. A cleanly, wide-awake -city it looked to be, even by night, and nowhere that we saw, dull or -“filthy.” - -“I lose my patience at the contradiction of fools!” ejaculated my -escort, unnecessarily, his demeanor having already spoken for him. -“That of sinners is a bagatelle compared with it. I will take you -to-morrow, first to the University of Bologna, one of the oldest -institutions of learning extant. A University founded more than seven -hundred and fifty years ago,—if not, as some declare, established by -Theodosius in 425, and subsequently restored by Charlemagne. There were -often, as late as the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, eight, -nine, ten thousand students in attendance at once in the various -departments, especially in the law-schools taught by the ablest -jurists of Europe. In anatomical research and discoveries, the medical -department gained almost equal fame. Galvani was a professor here, and -from the Bolognese University the knowledge of galvanism spread over -the civilized world. _You_ should be proud to know that there were -women-professors in this faculty centuries before ‘advanced ideas,’ and -the ‘co-education of the sexes,’ became fashionable jargon in America.” - -“I have heard of Novella d’Andrea, the Hypatia of the fourteenth -century—fabled to have been so beautiful that she was obliged to sit -behind a screen when she lectured.” - -“Upon Canon Law! The story is true. Inerius introduced here the study -of Roman law, and Novella was its able and eloquent expounder. Laura -Bassi received the degree of Doctor of Philosophy from the University -about 1700. She was Professor of Mathematics and Physical Science. -Madame Manzolini, in the same century, taught Anatomy. Clotilda -Tambroni, Professor of Greek, died in 1817. The character of the -branches studied and taught by them is the most remarkable thing. -_Belles-lettres_ and modern languages would seem more natural. - -“Bologna has produced nothing worthy of note except sausages! Yet the -king of linguists, Mezzofanti, was, likewise, a professor in this -University. Eight popes were born in Bologna, Benedict XIV. among -them, and other men far more eminent in their day and in ours, such -as Manfredi and Aldobrandini. In the Bolognese Accademia delle Belle -Arti are the very best paintings of a school that owes its name to -the city. Had that woman ever heard of Francesca Francia, Guido Reni, -Domenichino, or the three Caracci? Or, of the museum of Etruscan -curiosities in the University Buildings? Of the two Leaning Towers of -Bologna? Or, the Campo Santo? Sausage, forsooth! I _hate_ a fool!” - -“So did Mr. F’s aunt!” said I, at this climax. We both laughed, and the -Average Briton was dismissed for pleasanter topics. - -I was almost afraid, after this philippic, to hint that the Leaning -Towers, seen by the morrow’s light, were unfortunately like two -overgrown factory chimneys, canting tipsily to one side. They are of -grimy brick, devoid of ornament, and seven hundred and seventy years -old. Ugly, unfinished and useless, they impart a rakish, dissipated air -to an otherwise respectable quarter. The junior of the twain, and the -shorter, by one hundred and thirty-four feet, exceeds the greater in -obliquity. A century since, its inclination was eight feet southward, -three feet eastward, and it is said to have persisted in its downward -tendency during that hundred years. Its taller mate leans but three -feet out of the perpendicular. - -Dante honors the shorter and more ungainly tower, by likening to it -Antæus, who was but a son of the clod himself. Prima found the passage -in the Inferno, and read it to us: - - “Qual pare a riguardar la Carisenda - Sotto’l chinato, quando un nuvol vada - Sovr’ essa si, ch’ella in contrario penda; - Tal parve Anteo a me, che stava a bada - Di vederlo chinare:—” - -A less mellifluous rhyme arose to English-speaking lips in surveying -the incomplete shaft: - - “If I was so soon done for, - I wonder what I was begun for.” - -When the unstable foundations became an admitted fact, why were not the -Asinelli and Garisenda torn down and built upon firmer ground, or the -materials otherwise appropriated? - -We were bound for the University, having but made a _détour_ in our -drive thither, to see what the guide-books catalogued as the “most -singular structures in Bologna”—the drunken towers. - -The buildings occupied by the famous school of learning are -comparatively modern, and were, until 1803, the palace of the Cellesi, -a noble family of Bologna. The library of one hundred thousand volumes -is arranged in an extensive suite of rooms, frescoed, as are some -of the corridors, with the coats of arms of former students in the -University. - -“What if a student should not have a family escutcheon?” we suggested -to our guide. - -The objection was as intelligible, we saw, at once, as if we had asked, -“Must every student have a head of his own in order to matriculate -here?” - -While we speculated in our own vernacular as to the number of genuine -heraldic emblems four or five hundred American college-boys could -collect at such a demand from their Alma Mater, and the guide stood -by, puzzled and obsequious, we were accosted in excellent English by a -gentleman who had entered from another room. - -“Can I be of service to you? We are proud of our University and happy -to show it to strangers.” - -It was Sig. Giovanni Szedilo, of whose grammar of Egyptian -hieroglyphics we afterward heard much, and for the next three hours, he -acted as host and interpreter. - -The Bolognese Street of Tombs has been uncovered within a decade. It -was disclosed by that searcher of depths and bringer of hidden things -to light—a railway cutting. The bared sepulchres gave up wonderful -treasures, and the ancient University, as next of age in the region, -became their keeper. In one room of the museum are large glass cases -fastened to the floor, by brickwork, I think. In these lay the exhumed -Etruscan skeletons amid their native dust. The removal of the graves -with their tenants was so skillfully effected that we saw them exactly -as they had lain in the ground. Sons of Anak all—and daughters as -well. The women were six feet in length and grandly proportioned. -Tarnished bracelets, from which the gems had dropped, encircled the -fleshless wrists, and a tiara had slipped from the brow of one with the -gentle mouldering back to ashes. “Can a maid forget her ornaments?” -The Etruscans believed that she would not be content in the next -world—wherever they located it—without them. In the hand of each -person lay the small coin that was to pay the Etruscan Charon for the -soul’s passage over the dark river. Always a river to Pagan and to -Christian, and too deep for man’s fording! Beside the skeleton of a -little girl was a tray set out with a doll’s tea-set, as we would call -it, pretty little vessels of Etruscan ware, that were a dainty prize of -themselves, in a “collector’s” eyes. We would not have touched them had -they been exposed to manual examination—although the craze for antique -pottery had possessed us for many years. The outstretching of the small -arm, the pointing fingers in the direction of the plaything were a -sufficient guard. Other toys were laid away with other children; now -and then, a vase, or a cup of choicer ware, beside an adult. - -“Supposed to be two thousand years old!” said our erudite guide. “We -are assisted materially in our computation of dates by the articles -buried with them.” - -A running lecture upon Etruscan pottery ensued, illustrated by the -large and perfectly-assorted collection in the museum. There were -five different and well-defined periods in the history of the art, we -learned, and how to discern the features of each. We marked its rise -and decline from the earthenware pot, roughly engraved and rudely -colored, and the dark, or black jug, with slightly raised and more -graceful designs upon a smooth surface—to the elegant forms of chalice -and vase, embellished with groups of allegorical figures, and painted -tales of love and war. These declined in beauty and finish until, -about fifty years before the Christian era, all traces of the renowned -manufacture were lost. - -“There has not been a bit of _real_ Etruscan ware made since that -time,” reiterated the connoisseur, accentuating the dictum by tapping -gently upon the specimen in his hand, and smiling into our interested -faces, “Who asserts the contrary, _lies_!” yet more suavely. - -He blew invisible dust from the precious vase; replaced it tenderly -upon its shelf, and passed on to Egyptian mummies with the easy -sociability of a contemporary. There are papyrii by the score in the -archives of the University, and four thousand ancient MSS. in the “new” -buildings which are “all print” to him. He rendered the long-winded -hieroglyphical inscriptions upon sarcophagus and tablet as fluently -as we would the news summary of Herald, Tribune or Times. A pleasant, -gracious gentleman he proved to be withal. His courtesy to the party -of strangers whose sole recommendation to his hospitality was their -strangerhood, is held by them in grateful remembrance. - -S. Petronio, the largest church in Bologna, is, like the Leaning -Towers, unfinished, although begun in the fourteenth century. The -Emperor Charles V. was crowned here. A vast, hideous barn without, it -yet holds some valuables that well repay the trouble of inspection. -The marble screens of the chapels; the inlaid and carved stalls, of a -clear, dark brown with age; old stained glass that shames the gaudiness -of later art; one or two fine groups of sculpture, and a very few good -paintings enrich the interior. The astronomer Cassini drew, in 1653, -the meridian-line upon the pavement of one of the aisles. Much of the -stained glass is from the hand of the celebrated Jacob of Ulm. About -the church is a bare, paved space, devoid of ornament or enclosure, -that adds to the dreariness of the structure. - -Guido Reni is buried in S. Domenico, a smaller edifice, enshrining -the remains of its patron saint. The kneeling angel on one side of -his tomb, and the figure of St. Petronious (a new worthy to us) upon -the other, are by Michael Angelo. Guido Reni painted St. Dominic’s -transfiguration within the dome, and, with one of the Caracci, frescoed -the Chapel of the Rosary on the left. In the choir is the monument of -King Enzio. - -We had already seen the house in which he was confined for twenty-two -years after the disastrous fight of Fassalta. He was the son of the -Emperor Frederic II., and great-grandson of Barbarossa. Like his -auburn-haired ancestor, Frederic II. waged war for twenty years with -the Papal See, the Bolognese espousing the cause of the latter, and -that of the Guelphs. Euzio’s gift from his father of the Kingdom of -Sardinia was the pretext of the Pope’s second bull of excommunication -against the Emperor, and the cause of the war which resulted for the -brave young Prince in life-long captivity. His incarceration was rather -the honorable detention of a prisoner-of-state than penal confinement. -The Palazzo del Podestà was a luxurious home. Its Great Hall still -bears his name. It was not in this audience-chamber that he received -the visits of the most beautiful woman in Bologna, Lucia Vendagoli, -whom he secretly married. Euzio was, at the time of his capture, but -twenty-five years of age. At seventeen, he had fought his first battle -under his father’s eye; at nineteen, was King of Sardinia; at twenty, -was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial forces. To the bravery -and knightly accomplishments of his illustrious great-grandfather, he -united personal beauty and grace that made him irresistible to the fair -patrician. Her passion for him and her wifely devotion are the theme of -numberless ballads and romances, and were the solace of an existence -that must else have been insupportable to the caged eagle. - -From this union sprang the powerful family of the Bentivogli who -carried on the hereditary feud with the Pope until the latter sued -for peace and alliance. The Bentivogli were a stirring race and kept -Bologna in hot water for as many decades as their founder passed years -in the palatial prison. The staircase up which Lucia stole to meet her -royal lover; the apartments in which their interviews were held, are -still pointed out, although the palace is now a city hall where records -are made and preserved. - -We drove out to the Campo Santo upon the loveliest of June afternoons, -passing, within the town-walls, the house of Rossini, built under his -own eye, and the more modest abodes of Guercino and Guido Reni. The -frescoes of this last are from the master’s brush, but we had not time -to go in to look at them. “Something must be crowded out”—even in -Bologna. For example, we visited neither soap nor sausage-factory. - -The drives in the environs of the city are extremely beautiful, the -roads good. The Campo Santo was, until the beginning of this century, a -Carthusian Monastery. The grounds are entered through a gate in walls -enclosing church, cloisters and arcades, with a level space literally -floored with grave-stones. In this, the common burying-ground, -were re-interred the greater part of the bones unearthed by the -railway excavations through the Street of Tombs. Etruscans, Guelphs, -Ghibellines and modern Bolognese sleep amicably and compactly together. -Grass and purple clover spring up between the horizontal stones, -and the roses in the path-borders load the air with sweetness. The -distinguished dead have monuments in the arcades,—long corridors, -filled with single statues and groups, usually admirable in design and -workmanship. The vaults of the nobility are here, wealth combining with -affection to set fitting tributes above the beloved and departed. There -may be, also, a vying of wealth with wealth in the elaborate sculpture -and multiplication of figures. I did not think of this in pausing at -a father’s tomb on which stood upright a handsome lad of thirteen or -thereabouts, the mother’s only surviving child. She had bowed upon his -shoulder and buried her face in his neck in an agony of desolation, -clinging to him as to earth’s last hope. The boy’s head was erect, and -his arm encircled the drooping form. He would play the man-protector, -but his eyes were full, and the pouting underlip was held firm by the -tightened line of the upper. The careful finish of the details of hair -and dress did not detract from the pathos of the group. - -“That is not Art!” objected Prima, made critical by Roman art lectures -and illustrative galleries. - -“No!” I assented. “It is Nature!” - -The monument of Lætitia Murat Pepoli, Napoleon’s niece, is here, and -a matchless statue of King Murat in full uniform, sword in hand, one -advanced foot upon a piece of ordnance. Torn banners, a crown and other -trophies of victorious generalship, bestrew the ground. The pose of -head, the military carriage, the contained strength of the countenance -betoken the master of men and of himself. - -A monument representing Christ, attended by angels floating in the air, -is a surprisingly lovely bit of “artistic trickery.” - -Clotilda Tambroni is buried here, and in the cloisters are the busts -of men distinguished in science and in letters, Mezzofanti and Galvani -among them. When our erudite Sig. Giovanni seeks Etrurians and -Egyptians in the world of shades, the Bolognese will set up his marble -presentment beside his peers. - -Among the “crowded outs” of Bologna was _not_ the Accademia delle Belle -Arti. We almost pitied—under the mollifying and refining influences of -our stay within its courts,—the Average British Spinster who had taken -the early train for Venice and the “wealth of art _there_.” Baedeker -and his followers designate as the “gem of the collection” Raphael’s -picture of S. Cæcilia’s trance while angels discourse heavenly music -above her head. One demurs at the decision in beholding, in the -same gallery, Guido Reni’s “Crucifixion,” his “Victorious Samson” -and “Slaughter of the Innocents;” Domenichino’s “Martyrs,” with -supplicating saints and angels in the upper part; the best works of the -Caracci and Francesca Francia; Peruginos—for those who like them; more -pleasing pictures from Guercino, the Sirani, and a host of artists of -less note. - -We were to leave the uninteresting city at half-past twelve, the third -day after our arrival. The carriages stood at the door of the hotel, -piled with luggage, and the party, with one exception, were in their -places half an hour before the moment of the train’s departure for -Milan. Landlord, waiters, and _facchini_ were paid, vehicles engaged -and trunks brought down before Caput’s disappearance. Fifteen minutes -of tolerably patient waiting ended in inquiries among ourselves as to -who had seen him last and where. He had stepped around into the next -street, at eleven o’clock, we were assured by the proprietor. He would -be back very soon. Five restless minutes more, and the urbane host -ventured to ask if Monsieur had the “habitude” of losing trains. It was -the custom of some travelers. And what matter? It was an easy affair -to unload and dismiss the carriages and return to our apartments. -There were still unvisited attractions in Bologna. His smiles grew -broader, our anxiety more active as two, three, four minutes slipped -by. The fifth was upon us when a hot and hurrying figure dashed up -the street; sprang into the foremost carriage, and we drove off at a -gallop to the station. There, we had a breathless rush, as might have -been expected,—a scramble for tickets and seats. It was impossible -to secure a compartment for our party. The lunch-basket was in one -carriage; the fruit-basket in another. Nobody had her own satchel or -books. The Invaluable and Boy were separated by four compartments -from always-foreboding Mamma. We were fifty miles from the hills of -Bologna, and our eyes already sated with the watery flats, rice-fields -and broom-stick poplars of Lombardy before we found one another, our -respective belongings,—and our tempers. - -The cause of the delay and consequent turmoil maintained his -equanimity, as was meet. For, had he not had another hour in the -University? Did he not offer me, as a peace-gift, photographs of the -portraits of the quintette of Lady-professors of Bologna, including the -perilously-fair Novella? Was he not brimming and bubbling over with -priceless information imparted by the benevolent librarian, and burning -benevolently to make us partakers of his knowledge? And, securely -buttoned in the breast-pocket of his traveling-coat, did he not possess -the Grammar of Egyptian Hieroglyphics, written in flowing Italian by -Sig. Giovanni Szedilo? - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -“_Non é Possibile!_” - - -“_NON é possibile_!” said Boy, turning his flushed face to the pillow, -and away from me. - -“But it is arrow-root jelly, dear! Try to eat a little!” - -“_Non é possibile!_” murmured the little fellow, dreamily, and fell -into a feverish doze. - -We were detained ten days in Milan, waiting for letters and to -collect luggage. Coolness was not to be had in the city except in -the Cathedral, and among the streams, fountains and trees of the -Public Gardens. The older members of the party haunted the former -place, exploring every part from the private crypt where Carlo -Borromeo lies, like a shriveled black walnut, in his casket of -rock crystal, enwrapped in cloth-of-gold; a jeweled mitre upon his -head, a cross of emerald and diamonds over his breast;—four million -francs represented in sarcophagus and ornaments, while beggars swarm -upon the church-steps;—to the ascent “from glory to glory,” of the -hundred-pinnacled roof. Boy and his devoted attendant frequented the -Gardens—“the Publics,” as he called them, as they had what he had named -the “Bobbolos” in Florence. We believed him as safe as happy there. - -Yet, when he drooped and sickened within a few days after our arrival -at Cadenabbia on Lake Como, we feared lest malaria, the pest of Milan, -had lurked in the shaded glens, and on the brink of the ponds where he -used to feed the swans. The malady proved to be measles, contracted in -Lombardy or from some Cadenabbian playmate. It was an easy matter to -quarantine our apartments in the quiet hotel we had chosen because we -could be better accommodated, as a family, there, than at the larger -one lower down the lake. Three of our rooms on the second-floor were -_en suite_. We removed the patient into the farthest of these, a cool, -corner bed-room fronting the water, and the Invaluable had entire -charge of it. Happily, the only other children in the house were two -baby-girls whose parents were Americans, but now resident in Florence. -I went immediately to the mother, with the truth, when the eruption -appeared. She was a sensible woman, and a thorough lady. - -“My girls must have the disease at some time,” she said. “As well now -as later. Do not distress yourself.” - -Her husband, as considerate of us and as philosophical for their little -ones, added some valuable advice to his reassurances,—counsel I am glad -to transmit to others who may require the warning. - -“Say nothing to the _Padrone_ of the nature of Boy’s ailment. He -will, probably, demand a large sum for the damage done his hotel by -the rumor of the infectious disease. That is a favorite ‘dodge.’ -Travelers must pay for the luxury of illness in a country where there -are fewer appliances for the comfort of invalids than anywhere else in -Christendom.” - -We thanked him for his friendly caution, and followed his directions so -faithfully that, to this day, neither landlord nor domestic suspects -the harm they sustained through our residence with them. Boy had the -measles, as he does everything, with all his might. He could neither -taste nor smell, and the sight of food was odious. The room was shaded -to densest twilight while the sun was above the horizon, to spare the -weak eyes. The gentlest talk and softest songs were required to calm -the unrest of fever. When his mind wandered, as it often did, he would -speak nothing but Italian, fancying, generally, that he was talking -with the _padrone_ and his wife who had petted him abundantly before -his illness. Hence, the “_non é possible_” that had refused his supper. - -Seeing him sink into more quiet sleep than he had enjoyed for several -days, I set down the rejected cup; stole to the window and unbolted -a shutter. The sunny day was passing away, but the lake was a-glow -with its farewell. In the garden, separating the hotel from the shore, -was a group of American friends who had arrived from Milan two days -before. Three or four girls, looking delightfully cool and home-like in -their muslin dresses, sat upon low chairs with their fancy-work. The -gentlemen wore loose coats and straw hats. The coziness of content,—the -reposefulness expressed in attitude and demeanor, were in just harmony -with hour and scene. One was reading aloud, and while I looked, the -words formed themselves clearly upon my ear. They had talked at dinner, -of “Kismet,” then a new sensation in literary circles. But the tuneful -measures delivered by the fine voice of the reader were from no modern -novel or other ephemeral page:— - - “By Sommariva’s garden-gate - I make the marble stairs my seat, - And hear the water, as I wait, - Lapping the steps beneath my feet. - - The undulation sinks and swells - Along the stony parapets; - And, far away the floating bells - Tinkle upon the fisher’s nets. - - Silent and slow, by tower and town, - The freighted barges come and go, - Their pendent shadows gliding down - By town and tower submerged below. - - The hills sweep upward from the shore, - With villas, scattered, one by one, - Upon their wooded spurs, and lower, - Bellaggio, blazing in the sun. - - And, dimly seen, a tangled mass - Of walls and woods, of light and shade, - Stands, beckoning up the Stetvio Pass, - Varenna, with its white cascade. - - I ask myself—Is this a dream? - Will it all vanish into air? - Is there a land of such supreme - And perfect beauty anywhere? - - Sweet vision! do not fade away; - Linger until my heart shall take - Into itself the summer day - And all the beauty of the lake!” - -I do not apologize for the long quotation. I offer it as a pendant to -Buchanan Read’s “Drifting,” that brings before our closed eyes the -unrivaled loveliness of the “Vesuvian Bay.” Both are inspired—I use the -term reverently—word-paintings. Both excite within the soul of him who -has seen Naples from Posilipo and Como from Cadenabbia, something of -the sweet madness of poetic dreaming. It is all before us again with -the melodious movement of the verse—even to such realistic touches as -the trailing hand— - - “Over the rail, - Within the shadow of the sail”— - -and the tinkle of the floating bells that guide the fisherman by night -to his spread net. - -I believe Como disappoints nobody. Claude Melnotte’s description of -his ideal castle upon its banks reads like a fairy-story. Recalled at -Cadenabbia or Bellaggio, it may be aptly likened to a cleverly-painted -drop-curtain. - -I had been shut up in the darkened room all day; was weary of body, -and if not actually anxious, sympathized so earnestly with the little -sufferer that my heart was as sore as my nerves were worn. The view—the -perfumed air; the on-coming of an evening fairer than the day; the -home-comfortableness of the garden-party; the feeling and music of the -voice rendering the poem,—perhaps, most of all the poem itself, loved -and familiar as it was—were soothing and cordial for sleeplessness, -fatigue and _the mother’s heart pain_. I know no other ache that so -surely and soon drains dry the fountain of life and strength as the -nameless, terrible “goneness” and sinking I have thus characterized. - -The moon arose before the Iris hues faded out from the water. The -young people filled two boats and floated away upon the silvery track -laid smoothly and broadly from shore to shore. A band was playing -at the Hotel Bellevue, half-a-mile away, and the lake lay still, as -listening. In the pauses of the music the tinkling of the tiny bells -on the nets; the far-off murmur of happy voices, and the yet fainter -song of nightingales in the chestnut-grove behind the house filled up -the silence. From the richly-wooded hills and clustering villas at -the lower end of the lake, my eyes roved along the loftier crests of -the opposite heights to the snow-line of the Bernese Alps filling the -horizon to my left. We had meant to give but one week to Como, tempting -as it was. These seven days were to have been a breathing space after -Milanese heats before we essayed the St. Gothard Pass—the gate of -Switzerland. A mighty gate and a magnificent, and, up to June 10th, -locked fast against us. The band of white radiance, gleaming in the -moonlight, like the highway of the blessed ones from earth to heaven, -had been a stern “_non é possibile!_” to our progress before Boy fell -ill. A party had passed the barrier on the 7th, but at the cost of -great suffering and peril to the invalid of their company,—a report -duly conveyed to us, coupled with a warning against similar temerity. -_Now_—upon the 20th—we were a fixed fact, for three weeks, at the -least, and had taken our measures accordingly. Matters might have been -far worse. For instance, had the civil _padrone_ surmised the character -of Boy’s “feverish attack,” or the dear babies B—— caught it from him. -We were granted time to write up note-books, arrange photographs and -herbarium-albums, and bring up long arrears of correspondence. Had we -pressed on over the mountain-wall at the appointed date we should have -missed the reunion with the party of eight from lower Italy from whose -companionship we were drawing refreshment and sincerest pleasure. - -In the center of one leaf of my floral album—right opposite a view -of Bellagio and Villa Serbelloni, with the rampart of snow-capped -hills rising back of it into the clouds, the shining mirror before -it repeating white walls and dark woods, olive-terraces and -rose-gardens,—is a single pressed blossom. It is five-petaled, -gold-colored; the pistil of deepest orange protected by a thicket -of amber floss. The leaves are long, stiff, and were glossy, set in -pairs, the one against the other on a brown, woody stem. It grew in -the grounds of the Villa Carlotta. The spray of many fountains kept -the foliage green, when Bellaggio blazed most fiercely in the June -suns, and the lime-walks on the Cadenabbia side were deserted. Boscages -of myrtle, of lemon-trees and citron-aloe, honeysuckles, jasmine and -magnolias shadowed the alleys. Calla lilies, tall and pure, gave back -the moonlight from the fountain-rims, and musk-roses were wooed by the -nightingales from moonrise to day-dawn. - -This is what my yellow-haired princess says to me, as I unclose the -book, and a waft of the perfume she brought from the enchanted regions -steals forth. She was bright as the sun, clear as the day, sweeter than -the magnolias, when Caput came with her, into Boy’s room the day after -my moonlight reverie at the window, and gave her into my hand: - -“Mr. R—— S——’s compliments and regrets that you could not join the -walking-party.” - -She has a page to herself,—the peerless beauty! as the episode of -the four days’ visit of our transatlantic friends glows out from the -pale level of our social life during our as many weeks’ lingering at -Cadenabbia. - -We made excursions when Boy was well enough to leave his bed, by -boat, by carriage and on foot. We bought in Bellaggio more olive-wood -thimble-cases, ink-stands, silk-winders, darning-eggs and paper-cutters -than we shall ever get rid of on Christmases and birth-days. We visited -silk-factories; penetrated the malodorous recesses of stone cottages -to see the loathsome worms gorging themselves with mulberry-leaves; -going into silken retirement and enforced fasting after their gluttony, -and boiling by the million in a big pot, dirty peasant women catching -at the loosened threads and winding them on bobbins until the dead -nakedness of the spinner was exposed. We read, studied and wrote in -the scorching noons and passed the evenings in walking and sailing. We -did not tire of lake or country, but July was late for Italy, and my -system may have absorbed poison from the Lombardy marshes. When, on the -morning of July 4th, the diligence we had engaged for the journey to -Porlezza drove to the door, I was supported down the stairs after a -week of pain and debility, and lifted into my place in the _coupé_, or -deep front seat, facing the horses. - -Wedged in and stayed by cushions, I soon tested and approved the -sagacity of an eminent physician’s advice to invalids—chronic and -occasional. “Change air and place, instead of drugging yourself. Move -as long as you can stir. When you cannot,—be _carried_! But, go!” - -The air was fresh and invigorating, blowing straight from the -mountains. The road wound up and over terraced hills, cultivated to the -topmost ridges; through fertile valleys and delicious forest glades, -gemmed with wood blossoms. It was haying time. Purple clover and -meadow-grasses were swathed, drying, and stacked in a hundred fields, -the succulent stems yielding under the tropical sun the balm of a -thousand—ten thousand flowers. I have talked of the wild Flora of Italy -until the reader may sicken at the hint of further mention of such -tapestry as Nature rolled down to our wheel-tracks. Cyclamen, violets, -wild peas,—daisies, always and everywhere,—edged and pearled the green -carpet. The scenery changed gradually, without loss of beauty, in -nearing the Lake of Lugano. Lying among pillows on the deck of the -steamer we had taken at Porlezza, I noted that the very mountain shapes -were unlike those environing Como, and their coloring darker. There -were no more straight brows and abrupt precipices, but one conical -height was linked to another, furrowed by foaming cascades, springing -from crest and sides, until S. Salvador loomed up before us at the -terminus of our twelve-mile sail, majestic and symmetrical, wearing a -gray old convent as a bride her nuptial crown. - -At the Hotel Belle Vue, on the border of the lake, we tarried two -days, to rally strength for the continuous effort of the next week, -more than to inspect Lugano and its suburbs. We hired here a carriage, -in size and general features resembling a Concord stage. A written -contract was signed by both parties. The driver, vehicle and four -horses were ours until we should be delivered, baggage and bodies, -upon the steamboat plying between Fluelen, at the upper end of the -Lake of the Four Cantons, and the town of Lucerne. The _diligence_ -was well-hung, fitted up with red velvet seats, soft and elastic; the -horses were strong and true,—the driver spoke Italian—not German, -which we were beginning to dread. For almost a week we were to be only -passengers, free to eat, sleep and see at our will, without the fear -of altered prices, extras and other sharp impositions, incessantly -weighing upon our foreign-born souls. - -How we climbed the Alps is too long a story to relate in detail. -Maggiore, the Ticino, Bellinzona, the quiet Sabbath at Faido near the -mouth of the St. Gothard tunnel, then building,—I catch the names in -fluttering the leaves of our note-books, and each has its story. - -Julius Cæsar fought his way from Rome to Gaul through the valley of -the Ticino. The plains on each side of the classic river, as level as -an Illinois prairie, are a narrow strip between the mighty ranges of -snow-mountains. The meadow-farms are divided by hedge-rows and flecked -with grazing flocks. Other herds are pastured high up the hill-sides in -the summer, the huts of their keepers black or tawny dots, when seen -from below. Every few furlongs, cataracts flash into sight, hasting -by impetuous leaps, down the rocks to the river, not infrequently -dispersing themselves in spray and naught, in the length and number of -their bounds. - -We crossed the Pass, July 9th—a cloudless day. Since early morning we -had been climbing. The road is built and cut into the solid mountain, -and barely wide enough to permit the skillfully-conducted passage of -two diligences. It winds up and around spurs and shoulders, and is -protected at the more dangerous curves and steeper cliffs by stout -stone posts. The traveler eyes the thickness and obstinate expression -of these with growing satisfaction as the villages below dwindle into -toy-hamlets and the fields into dolls’ patchwork-quilts of divers -shades of green and yellow; while he makes rapid silent calculations -of the distance between them, and their relation to the length and -breadth of the stage. _Could_ we go down backward, sideways, anyway, -were a horse to balk, or a trace to break, or a wheel come off? Looking -directly upward, we saw a tedious succession of terraces, similarly -guarded; dizzy inclines that were surely inaccessible to hoof or wheel. -The next hour showed us from the most incredible of these, the road -from which we had surveyed it. - -“I begin to comprehend ‘Excelsior,’” said Secunda, solemnly. “No wonder -he died when he got to the top!” - -We were nearing the snow-line. We were warmly wrapped, but the -increasing frostiness of the air warned us to unfasten shawl-straps -and pull from beneath the seats the carriage-rugs we had stowed -away at Faido. Caput had spent as much time out of the _diligence_ -as in it, in the ascent. A bed of scarlet pinks or blue gentian; a -blanket of hoary moss capped with red; a clump of yellow pansies—the -tiny “Marguerites” of the Alps,—branchy shrubs of rose-colored -rhododendrons;—were continually-recurring temptations to leap over the -wheel from his place in the _coupé_. Once out, it was hardly worth -his while to get in again when, for a mile or two ahead, the like -attractions, and many others, cushioned the rocks, nodded from their -brows and smiled from every crevice. Now, as he came up to the side of -the carriage to toss in upon us his burden of beauty, his face was -reddened by cold,—not sunburned;—he struck his emptied hands smartly -together to quicken the circulation, and the rime began to form upon -his moustache. Scanty patches of snow no longer leaked from sheltered -nooks across the road. Brown earth and barren rocks were hidden -partially, then, entirely,—then, heaped over by the gray drifts. They -_were_ gray,—positively grimy. Not quite as dirty as city-snow, but of -a genuine pepper-and-salt that was a surprise and a disgust. From below -they were as dazzlingly pure as the clouds that caught against them, -with the same cold azure shadows in their clefts. We were driving now -between cloven banks of packed snow,—six, twelve, twenty feet high, on -which the heavens might have showered ashes for as many days and nights -as darkness had brooded over Pompeii, so befouled were they. The July -sun shone full upon the glistering surface, with no more perceptible -effect than if the month had been December. The ingrained dust had been -swept from the iron crags jutting into the snow-cutting at the next -turn of the pass, and frowning upon us from yet loftier terraces. It -was granitic powder, disintegrated and beaten fine by frost and blast. - -Once in a while, we passed a low house with deep eaves and great stones -laid upon the roof. These supplied refuge at night and in storm, to the -goats browsing on Alpine moss and grasses. The herdsmen wore jackets, -coats and caps of goat and sheepskin. Wiry dogs, not at all like the -pictorial St. Bernard, slunk at their heels, or barked crossly at a -straying kid. A clatter of hoofs and rattle of trace-chains upon the -upper road prepared us for the appearance of a single horse, trotting -steadily by us in the direction from which we had come. - -“Has there been an accident?” we inquired. - -We might see a coach rolling back upon us next. The driver explained -that the summit of the Pass was but a mile or two ahead; that the -fourth horse was not needed in the descent and was accordingly released -from each _diligence_ at the post-house at the top, and sent home by -himself. - -He was a saturnine “whip,”—for one who spoke Italian—but he smiled -grimly at the next question; “Will he certainly find his way home? Will -nobody try to stop, or steal him?” - -“It is an everyday affair, Signorina. His supper is at the foot of the -hill. Who should stop him, since everybody knows to whom he belongs and -whither he goes?” - -Peering over the edge of the precipice from my window, I saw the -trained creature, already two hundred feet below our level, trotting -at the same even gait, down the zigzag highway. Before we had gone -half-a-mile further, a second met and passed us, harness on, the traces -hooked up out of the way of his heels, going downward at the regulation -rate of speed, neither faster nor slower than his predecessor. It was -at this point that a volley of soft snow-balls flew against and into -the carriage, and from their ambush, behind a drifted heap, emerged -Caput and Prima, rosy with laughter and the sharp air. They had left -the carriage an hour ago to walk directly across the ice-fields to this -height, a straight track of two miles, while we had toiled and doubled -over more than six to the rendezvous. - -Snow-balling in July! The story of the “three little boys who went out -to slide, All on a summer’s day,” need not have been fictitious if they -were St. Gothardites. In a trice, Secunda had torn off entangling rugs -and was upon the ground, and Boy halloaing vociferously to be allowed a -share in the sport. The driver sat upon the box, gazing at his horses’ -ears, unmoved by the whizzing missiles, merry shrieks and deafening -detonations from the frozen rocks. I was cramped by long sitting, even -in my luxurious nest upon the back seat. I would get out. The snow was -not white, but it was snow. I longed to feel it crisp and crunch under -my feet. - -“Is it quite prudent?” remonstrated Miss M——, gently. - -“Come on!” encouraged the revelers. - -After a dozen trial-steps, I boldly avowed my intention to walk to the -nearest curve in the road. Caput gave me his arm and we sent the coach -on with the others. The ground was smooth as a skating-pond, but not -so slippery. A mountain-wall, five hundred feet high, arose in sheer -perpendicular at our left. - -“Take it slowly!” cautioned my escort. “You are weak, and the air -highly rarefied.” - -_That_, then, was the reason why respiration passed rapidly from -difficulty to pain. I should get used to it soon, and to the horrible -aching in my right lung. But, when, having walked beyond the lee of the -rocky rampart, the breeze from a neighboring glacier struck us in the -face, I thought breath was gone forever. In vain Caput, turning my back -to the wind, sheltered me with his broad shoulders and assured me the -pain would be short-lived. The agony of suffocation went on. I had but -one distinct recollection in the half-death: - -“A traveler died, last year, near the top of the Pass from _collapse of -the lungs_!” a gentleman had said to another one evening at the hotel -as I passed through the hall. - -I had scarcely thought of it again until now, when I was dying in the -same way. I heard Caput’s shout to the driver; saw mistily the entire -party tumble out into the snow, and Prima, plunging down a steep bank -to reach us the sooner,—brandy-bottle in hand. As if swallowing were -easier than breathing! They got me into my nest again; wound me up in -shawls and rugs; poured some wine down my throat; chafed my hands, and, -after an age of misery, the tiniest whiff of breath found entrance to -the laboring lungs, as when a closed bellows is slowly opened. - -The driver, during all this commotion, sat, rigid as the nearest Alp, -without abating his scrutiny of his leaders’ ears. Collapsing lungs -were no novelty and no terror to him, and none of his business. He had -contracted to deliver us, alive or dead—(and our luggage,) upon the -deck of the Fluelen steamer within a week, for and in consideration -of the sum of so many hundred francs. That was all he knew or cared -about the matter. He loosened one of our horses at the post-house on -the summit, and the patient beast trotted off down the mountain in -the convoy of a dog chained to his collar. The cold was now piercing; -the never-thawed ice of the lake before the Hospice, blue and hard as -steel. Caput added to his adjurations to haste, a gratuity that touched -a chord of natural feeling in the wooden man. He fairly raced down the -other side of the mountain, spinning around curves and grating upon the -wheel-brakes while our hair stood on end and our teeth were on edge. -Down defiles between heights that held up the heavens on each side; on -the verge of precipices with the wheels almost scraping upright rocks -on the left and grazing the outermost edge on the right; thundering -over bridges and flying through the spray of waterfalls, we plunged, -ever downward—until, at sunset, we whirled out into the open plain and -into the yard of the Hotel Belle Vue at Andermatt. - -In ten minutes more, I lay, smothering in the well of one feather-bed, -another upon me, and was cold withal. A Swiss maid was building a fire -in the stove, within four feet of the bolster. The Invaluable and the -spirit-lamp were brewing a comforting cup of tea upon the round stand -at my side. - -The hotel was excellent, being clean, commodious, well-provisioned and -handsomely-appointed as to furniture and service. The rest of the party -used it as a center for all-day excursions to the Furca Pass and the -Rhone Glacier, while I lay in bed, too worn and miserable to be more -than feebly diverted by scraps of conversation that arose to my windows -from the piazza and lawn. Such, for example as this: - -_English Voice_—feminine and fat. “I _guess_ you are an American boy, -stranger!” - -_Boy._ “What makes you think so?” - -_E. V._ “Oh! I judge—I mean, I guess—by the cut of you.” - -_Boy_ (who never “guesses”—) “And I judge you are English. I can tell -them wherever I see them.” - -_E. V._ “How—I should like to know?” - -_Boy_ (knowing and sententious). “Americans are white and thin. English -are fat and red.” - -_E. V._ “Upon me word! _You_ are not very white, I am sure!” - -_Boy._ “Ah! but if you had seen me when I had the measles at -Cadenabbia! _Misericordia!_ I was as red as you!” - -This chapter has two morals for those whom they may concern. - -To Traveling Americans and those who hope to become such: Heed wisely -Nature’s emphatic or hinted “_Non é possible!_” Do not attempt the St. -Gothard or Simplon Pass if you have unsound lungs or heart. - -To the Average Briton: A monkey is better at cutting capers than an -elephant. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -_Lucerne and The Rigi._ - - -PHOTOGRAPHS, casts and carvings of the Lucerne Lion are well-nigh as -plentiful as copies of the Beatrice of the Palazzo Barberini. All—even -the best of these—fall lamentably short of expressing the simple -grandeur of Thorwaldsen’s boldest work. The face of a perpendicular -sandstone cliff was hewn roughly,—not smoothed nor polished in any -part. Half-way up was quarried a niche, and in this, as in his lair, -lies a lion, nearly thirty feet long. The splintered shank of a lance -projects from his side. The head—broken or bitten off in his mortal -throe, lies by the shield of France, which is embossed with the _fleur -de lys_. One huge paw protects the sacred emblem. He has dragged -himself, with a final rally of strength to die upon, while caressing -it. He will never move again. The limbs are relaxed, the mighty frame -stretched by the convulsion that wrenched away his life. He is dead—not -daunted;—conquered,—not subdued. The blended grief and ferocity in his -face are human and heroic, not brutal. In the rock above and below the -den are cut a Latin epitaph, and the names of twenty-six men. - -“_Helvetiorum fidei ac virtuti. Die X Aug. II et III Sept., 1792_;” -begins the inscription. The date tells the story. - -Who has not read, oft and again, how the Swiss Guard of twenty-six -officers and seven hundred and fifty privates were cut to pieces to a -man in defence of the royal prisoner of the Tuileries against the mob -thirsting for her blood? In the little shop near the monument they show -a fac-simile of the king’s order to the Guards to be at the palace upon -the fatal day. Trailing vines have crept downward from the top and -fissures of the cliff. Tall trees clothe the summit. A pool lies at -the base, a slender fountain in the middle. There are always travelers -seated upon the benches in front of the railing guarding the water’s -brink, contemplating the dead monarch. It is the pride of Lucerne. - -Just above it is the Garden of the Glacier, lately uncovered. The earth -has been removed with care, revealing cup-like basins in the sandstone, -worn by the glacial action of the round stones lying in the bottom of -the hollows. - -“Do you believe it?” I overheard an American girl ask her cavalier, as -they leaned over the railing of a rustic bridge crossing the largest -“cup.” - -“Not a bit of it! It’s gotten up to order by some of these foreign -scientifs. Stones are too round, and the marks of grinding too plain. -Fact is—the Glacial Theory is the nobby thing, now-a-days, and if -there’s no trick about this concern, it’s _proved_—clear as print! But -they’ve done it too well. Nature doesn’t turn out such smooth jobs.” - -It _is_ very smooth work. Those who believe in the authenticity of -the record, gaze with awe at the stones, varying in size from a -nine-pin ball to boulders of many tons’ weight, forced into their -present cavities by the slow rotation of cycles. Ball and boulder have -been ground down themselves in all this wear and tear, but the main -rock has been the greater sufferer. The glacier was the master and -resistless motive-power. - -The great Glacier of the Uri-Rothestock was in sight of my bed-room -windows, flanked by the eternal snow-line of the Engelberger Alps. -Across the lake from the city loomed Mt. Pilatus. - - “If Pilatus wears his cap, serene will be the day; - If his collar he puts on, you may venture on your way. - But if his sword he wields, at home you’d better stay”— - -is an English translation of a Lucerne rhyme. Guide-books refer to him -as the district-barometer. Our experience—and we watched him narrowly -for a month,—proved him to be as unstable as was he for whom he was -named. There is a gloomy tarn upon the southern declivity in which -Pontius Pilate drowned himself, a remorseful exile, driven from palace, -judgment-seat and country, but unable to evade the torment of memory -and the accusing vision of “that Just Man.” So runs the popular legend, -and that the “cap,” “collar” and “sword” of the mountain rise from this -dark and accursed lake. Moreover, it is believed by the peasants that -storms follow the approach of a foreigner to the haunted spot. With all -his humors and untruthfulness, Pilatus deserves a better name. He is a -striking and magnificent accessory to a view that is glorious in every -aspect. - -Every rood of ground around Lake Lucerne, otherwise known as the Lake -of the Four Cantons, is memorable in the history of the gallant little -Republic. Near it, Arnold Winkelried gathered into his breast the red -sheaf of spears upon the battle-field of Sempach, July 9th, 1386. - -The Confederate Brethren of Uri, Schwyz and Unterwalden, met at Rütli -upon the very border of the lake, on the night of November 7th, 1307, -and swore to give no rest to mind or body until Switzerland should be -free. - -William Tell was born at Bürglen, a few miles above Fluelen. It is -fashionable to call him a myth, and his biography symbolical. If our -opinion on this head had been demanded prior to our going to Lucerne, -the spirit, if not the letter of our reply would have been akin to -Betsey Prig’s “memorable and tremendous words,”—“I don’t believe -there’s no sich a person!” By the time we had re-read Schiller’s -“William Tell,” and visited, with it in hand, Altorf, Küssnacht and -Tell’s Platte, we credited the tales of his being and daring almost as -devoutly as do the native Switzers. - -Küssnacht is but a couple of miles back from the lake in the midst of -a smiling country lying between water and mountains. A crumbling wall -on a hill-side to the left of the road was pointed out to us as the -remains of Gessler’s Castle, pulled down and burned by the Confederates -the year after the Oath of Rütli. The Hollow Way in which Tell shot him -is a romantic lane between steep, grassy banks and overhanging trees. -It was by this that Gessler approached the tree behind which Tell lay, -concealed, cross-bow in hand. The exact place of the tyrant’s death -is marked by a little chapel. A fresco in the porch depicts the scene -described by Schiller. The purple Alpine heather blossoms up to the -church-door, and maiden-hair ferns fringe the foundation walls. The -short, warm season in Switzerland is blessed by frequent and copious -showers; the face of the earth is freshly green and the herbage almost -as luxuriant as are the spring-crops of Italy. We drove a mile beyond -the chapel to Immensee, a hamlet upon Lake Zug. Lunch was spread for -us at a round table in the lakeside garden of a _café_. The Rigi rose -abruptly from the southern and narrower end of the blue sheet. Drifts -of gauzy haze were sailing slowly across the broad brow. - -“Almost six thousand feet high!” remarked Prima, following the outlines -with thoughtful eyes, “And Zug is thirteen hundred feet deep. Lake Thun -fifteen hundred. One’s imagination needs Swiss training in order to -grasp such figures.” - -The opposite heights were a much lower group, graceful in undulation -and form, and heavily wooded. To our right as we sat, was a barren -line, like a mountain-road, running sharply down the side of one of the -range. - -“The Goldau Landslip!” We had heard of it almost as long and frequently -as of the Wyllie disaster in the White Mountains. In 1806, a strip of -the mountain, one thousand feet long and one hundred thick, slid, on a -September afternoon, at first slowly, then, with frightful velocity, -until it crashed, three thousand feet below, upon four peaceful -villages at the foot of the slope and into the Lake of Lowerz. To this -day, a solemn mass is said in the sister-village of Artli, upon the -anniversary of the calamity, for the souls of the four hundred-and-odd -men, women and children who perished in that one hour. Lowerz, forced -thus suddenly from its bed, reared, a tottering wall of waters, eighty -feet high, and fell backward upon islands and shores, bearing churches, -dwellings and trees before it. It is a mere pond now, a little over a -mile wide, and but fifty feet deep, the _débris_ of the slide having -settled in it. A peaceful eye of light, it reflected the quiet heavens -as we looked back upon it from the hill above Immensee, but the awful -track on which neither tree nor bush takes root, leads down into it. - -Tell’s Platte—or “Leap”—is marked by a tiny chapel upon the extremest -water’s edge near Rütli. Its foundations are built into the rock upon -which the patriot sprang from Gessler’s boat. The present shrine -belongs probably to the sixteenth century, but the original chapel was -consecrated,—declare the annalists of the country, and the English -translator of Schiller,—when men who had seen and known Tell were alive -and present at the ceremony. An altar stands within the recess—it is -only that. The front is arched and pillared, and the steps are washed -by the wake of each passing steamer. A great Thanksgiving Mass for -Swiss liberty is performed here once in the year, attended by a vast -concourse of people in gaily-decorated boats. There is not room on the -shelving shore for a congregation. - -Altorf is a clean Swiss village where the window-curtains are all -white, and most of the casements gay with flowers, and where the -children, clean, too, but generally bare-legged and bare-headed, turn -out in a body to gather around the strangers who stop to look at the -monument. A very undignified memorial it is of the valiant Liberator. -A big, burly plaster statue of the father, erected on the ground where -Tell stood to shoot at the apple, brandishes the reserved arrow in -the face of an imaginary bailiff. “With which I meant to kill you had -I hurt my son!” says the inscription on the pedestal. The lime-tree -to which the boy Albert was tied to be shot at was one hundred and -forty-seven measured paces away. A fountain is there now, adorned by -the statue of the magistrate who gave it to the town. Upon the sides of -a tower that antedates Tell’s day, are faded frescoes, commemorating -the apple-shot, his jump from the rocking boat and Gessler’s death. -The Swiss are not enthusiastic idealists. They believe—very much—in a -veritable Tell, preserve with jealous and reverential affection all -traces of his existence and national services. - -Our first ascent of the Rigi was made in company with two of our -American “boys,” college-mates who had “run over” to pass a three -months’ vacation upon “the other side.” Letters announcing this -intention had been sent to us from home, and a later missive from -London, containing a copy of their “itinerary,” repeated the invitation -to join them at the steamboat landing in Lucerne, July 23d, 4.10 p.m. -for a sail up the lake and a night on the Rigi. - -“But how very-very extror’nary! Quite American in point of fact!” -ejaculated an English lady, to whom I spoke at the lunch-table of our -intended excursion. “When you have heard nothing from them in three -weeks! They may have altered their plans entirely. You will not meet -them, you may be sure.” - -I smiled confidently. “The engagement is of six weeks’ standing. They -will keep it, or we should have had a telegram.” - -The steamboat touched at our side of the lake for passengers and I got -on there, while Caput, who had an errand in the town, walked around -by the iron bridge. I watched him cross it; noted what we had cause, -afterward, to recollect,—the white radiations from the stone pavement -that forms the flooring of the long causeway, and that the deck was hot -to my feet. - -“The intensest sun-blaze I have ever felt!” he said, coming aboard at -the railway terminus. “Strangely sickening too! It made the brain reel!” - -The train was puffing into the station. Among the earliest to step on -the gangway were two bronzed youths on whose beards no foreign razor -had fallen. Each carried a small satchel and had no other luggage or -_impedimenta_ incompatible with a quick “run.” New Yorkers going out to -Newark or Trenton to pass the night with friends would have evinced as -much sense of strangeness. - -“We planned everything before sailing from home,” they said when we -commended their punctuality “Lucerne and the Rigi were written down for -to-day.” - -They had never seen Lucerne before, but they had “studied it up” and -were at home on the lake so soon as they got the points of the compass -and we had swung loose from the pier. They would return with us to the -town on the morrow and spend a day in seeing it. Including the Lion, -of course, and the Glacial Garden and the old covered bridge with the -queer paintings of the Dance of Death. And hear the grand organ in the -Stifts-Kirche at vespers. The city-walls were better-preserved than -they had imagined they would be. The nine watch-towers—where were they? -They could count but six. They were on the lookout for the four arms -that make the lake cruciform and traced them before we could designate -them. Was that old tower in the rear of the handsome château over there -the famous Castle of Hapsburg? Pilatus they recognized at a glance, and -the different expression of his shore from the cheerful beauty of the -Lucerne side, the pleasant town and the rising background of groves and -fields, gardens and orchards. Vitznau? Were we there so soon? The sail -had been to the full as charming as they had anticipated. - -All this was, as the English lady had said, “quite American.” To -us, used for many months to alternate _douches_ of British _nil -admirai-ism_ and hot baths of Italian and French exaggeration of -enthusiasm, the clear, methodical scheme of travel, the intelligent -appreciation of all that met the eye, the frank, yet not effusive -enjoyment of a holiday, well-earned and worthily-spent, were as -refreshing as a dipper of cool water from the homestead spring would -have been on that “blazing” day. - -If we had never gone up the Mount Washington Railway, the ascent of -the Rigi would have been exciting. The cars are less comfortable -than those on the New Hampshire mountain, and the passengers all -ride up backward, for the better enjoyment of the view,—a miserable -arrangement for people of weak stomachs and heads. Mt. Washington had -been a thrilling terror that fascinated me as did ghost-stories in my -childhood. The Rigi is a series of gentle inclines with but one span -of trestle-work that could have scared the most indefatigably-timid -woman. But Mt. Washington offers no such prospect as was unfolded for -us in wider and more wondrous beauty with each minute. The sun was -setting when, instead of entering the Hotel Rigi-Kulm where our rooms -had been engaged by telegraph from Lucerne, we walked out upon the -plateau on which the house stands. Against the southwestern horizon -lay the Schreckhörner, Finsteraarhorn, and—fairest of “maidens,”—the -Jungfrau,—faint blushes flickering through the white veils they have -worn since the fall of the primeval snow. On the south-east the -Bristenstock, Windgelle, Ober-Alp, and a score of minor mounts, unknown -to us by name, caught and repeated the reflected fires of the sunset. -The air was perfectly still, and the distances so clear as to bring -out the lines of heights like penciled curves, that are seldom seen -even from an outlook embracing an area of three hundred miles. “Alps -on Alps!” Mountain rising behind and overtopping mountain, until the -sublime succession melted into the outlined curves just mentioned. In -the direction of Lucerne, stretched right beneath us what seemed a -level, checkered expanse of farms, groves and villages, lighted, once -in a while, by the gleam of a lake (we counted ten without stirring or -turning from where we stood) and intersected by an hundred streams. The -twilight was gathering upon the plain. When the light had died out from -lake and river, we stood in the sunshine, and the snow-summits were -deepening into crimson. The air was chill, but we lingered to show our -friends the “Alpen-glow,”—to us a daily-renewed and lovely mystery. -The lowlands were wrapped in night; the ruddied snows paled into -pink,—ashes-of-roses,—dead white. The West was pallid and still. The -day had waned and died, blankly and utterly. When, suddenly, from peak -to peak, glowed soft flame,—a flush of exquisite rose-color, quivering -like wind-blown fire, yet, lasting a whole minute by my watch, ere it -trembled again into dead whiteness. Another minute, and the phenomenon -recurred, but less vividly. It was a blush that rose and blenched as -with a breath slowly drawn and exhaled. One could not but fancy that -the white-breasted mountains heaved and fell with the glow in long -sighs, before sinking and darkening into slumber. - -“It is really night now!” Caput broke the silence. “We will go in. -But it was worth staying to see, though one had witnessed the like a -thousand times.” - -We came out again after an excellent dinner, but the wind had risen, -the night was piercingly cold, and we were driven into our beds. By -nine o’clock there was nowhere else to go. The lights were extinguished -in the _salon_ and main halls, and bed-room fires had not been thought -of. The only suggestion of comfort was in the single beds heaped higher -than they were broad with blankets and _duvets_. The window at the foot -of my couch was unshuttered. Sleep was slow in coming, while the wind -thundered like rock-beaten surf against the house, threatened to burst -the rattling casements. - -I pulled another pillow under my head, and had a picture before me that -made me revel in wakefulness. The moon was up and near the full. The -horizon was girdled with effulgence, sparkling, chaste—inconceivable. -The valleys were gulfs of purple dusks; the forest-slopes black as -death. I could discern the glitter of granitic cliffs, and upon -inferior hills, the sheen of snow-banks left in sunless hollows. Had -my eyes been sealed, I should have pronounced it a tempestuous night. -Could I have closed my ears, the divinest calm had brooded upon the -world enclosed within the white mountains. - -“The strength of the hills is His also!” The strength of these heights! -Serenity of power! The perfectness of Peace! - -I did not mean to sleep. There would be other nights,—and days—if I -chose to take them—for that. But the bugle-call at half-past three -startled me from slumber in which moonlight and mountains were -forgotten as though they were not. The snow-tops were dimmer in the -dawn than they were under the high moon, the sky behind them dun and -sullen. Guests are forbidden by English, French and German placards to -“take the blankets from their beds.” The wisdom of the prohibition was -palpable to all who assembled upon the plateau to see the sun-rise. -The wind was still furious, the morning colder than the night, and, I -think, not ten people out of the forty or fifty shiverers present had -made a regular toilette. Ladies had thrown on double flannel wrappers, -and tied up their heads in hoods and scarfs. Gentlemen had donned -dressing-gowns, and some had come forth in slippered haste. All wore -cumbrous shawls, waterproof cloaks and railway rugs. One half-frozen -Frenchman was enveloped in a strip of bed-side carpet brought from his -chamber. A more serious annoyance than cold or gale, was the dust, -raised by the latter,—or more correctly speaking, minute grains of -attrite granite that offended eyes and nostrils. I had dressed snugly -and warmly, and tied a thick veil over my face and ears, but the wind -tore viciously at my wraps, and the pulverized particles sifted through -the net until I could scarcely breathe, even by turning my back upon -it, while my three cavaliers formed a close guard between me and the -hurricane. We could not forget discomfort, but we disregarded it when -we had cleared our eyes from the stinging sand. - -The lower landscape was still in shadow, the mountains wrapped -in bluish-gray indistinctness. Presently, warm glows of color -suffused the dun vapors of the lower heavens,—saffron and rose and -carmine;—quivering arrows of amber light shot upward and outward -from an unseen center below the horizon verge,—and, one by one, as -beacons respond to the flash of the signal-fire, the loftiest tips of -Finsteraarhorn, Schreckhörner, Wetterhorn, the Monch, the Eiger—the -Jungfrau—flamed up above the mists. Floods of changeful lights rolled -down upon the lesser hills, revealing peak, chasm and valley; pouring, -finally, a benign deluge over the plain. It was not a swift, capricious -darting of rays hither and yon, but a gradual growth of the power -of the light into a fullness of occupation. The sun came in calm -stateliness out of his chamber in the east, and the world was awake. - -Early as it was, women and boys were threading the crowd with -chamois-horn paper-cutters and knobby bunches of dirty Edelweiss and -Alpine roses for sale at Rigi-Kulm—(or tip-top) prices. An Englishman, -in an Indian-pattern dressing-gown, a smoking-cap bound over his ears -with a Madras handkerchief,—swore roughly at them collectively, and at -one poor hag in particular, as she offered the shabby bouquet. - -“Picked but yesterday, milor’, from the edge of a glacier. -Milor’ knows—”with a ghastly smirk—“that the Edelweiss is the -betrothal-flower?” - -He may have understood the wretched _patois_ of Swiss-German-French. He -probably comprehended nothing except that she wanted him to buy what -he styled, not inaptly—“filthy rubbish.” But he would have sworn as -vehemently in either case, for the wind had tangled him up badly in his -voluminous skirts, and while striving to disengage his calves with one -hand he held on to his cap—possibly to his peruke—with the other. - -“Monsieur!” implored the woman, lifting the flowers to the face of that -one of “our boys” nearest me. - -He shook his head with a smile,—being American, and a gentleman—gave a -look at her pinched visage and poor garments, and his hand moved toward -his pocket. - -“I don’t want them, you know!” to me. “But—” another merciful glance. - -“_Combien?_” I said to the woman. - -She had, in my hearing, asked the Anglo-Indian to give her half a franc -for the bunch. - -She now protested that the three Edelweiss were cheap at five sous -(cents) each, and the three Alpine roses should go as a bargain to “_le -beau Monsieur_” at three cents a piece. - -“You are a cheat—and a very foolish one!” I said. To my young -friend—“American sympathy is a marketable commodity over here. Only, he -who gives it, pays in current coin her who receives it.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -_Personal and Practical._ - - -I HAVE alluded to the intense blaze of the sun upon the day of our -tryst with the newly-arrived travelers. Until then we had not suffered -from heat in Switzerland. Our _pension_ was a stone building, with -spacious, high-ceiled rooms, in which the breeze from lake and icy -mountains was ever astir, and we were rarely abroad excepting at -morning and evening. - -On our way home the next afternoon, after a delightful sail to Fluelen -and back, and a visit to Altorf, we met Boy and nurse at the gate of -the public park where he and I went daily for the “milk-cure.” Three -or four cows and twice as many goats were driven into the enclosure at -five o’clock and tethered at the door of a rustic pavilion. There they -were milked, and invalids and children drank the liquid warm from great -tumblers like beer-glasses. Goats’ milk had been prescribed for me, and -I could endure the taste when it was fresh. When cold, the flavor was -peculiar and unpleasant. Boy usually relished his deep draught of cows’ -milk, but to-day he would not touch it. He had a grievance, too, that -had tried temper and pride. - -“Things bother me so, mamma! The people here are so foolish! A woman -had some fruit to sell down there by the Schweizerhof and said a long -nonsense to me. I said—‘_Non capisco Tedeseo!_’ and everybody laughed. -It’s good Italian, and means—‘I don’t understand a word of your horrid -old Dutch!’” - -He began to sob. Papa picked him up and carried him to our carriage. -When we were in our rooms, the Invaluable had her story to tell. Boy -had taken a long walk with his sister in the forenoon and had come -home complaining of headache and violent nausea. Seeming better toward -evening, he had insisted upon going for his milk, and she had hoped the -cooler air would refresh him. - -“I want to go back where people have sense and can understand me!” -moaned the little fellow. “I’m not a bit sick! I’m _discouraged_!” - -The fever ran high all night. The following day we summoned Dr. -Steiger, the best physician in Lucerne. There are few better anywhere. -For the next fortnight—the saddest of our exile—his visits were the -brightest gleams in the chamber shadowed by such wild fears as we -hardly dared avow to one another. Cheerful, intelligent, kindly, the -doctor would have been welcome had his treatment of our stricken child -been less manifestly skillful. - -“He is a sick boy. But you are brave?” looking around at us from his -seat at the pillow of the delirious patient. “I will tell you the -truth. He has had a _coup de soleil_. He is likely to have a long -fever. It is not typhoid yet, but it may be, by and by. Strangers -unused to the sun in Switzerland are often seriously affected by it. -When he gets well, you will be careful of him for one, two, three -years. Now—we will do our best for him. I have four boys of my own. -And—”a quick glance at me—“I know what is the mother’s heart!” - -I would not review, even in thought, the three weeks succeeding this -decision, were it not that I cannot bring myself to withhold the -tribute of grateful hearts—then so heavy! to the abundant goodness -of the stranger-physician whose name we had never heard until our -boy’s illness, and to the sympathy and active kindness that were -our portion from every boarder in a house filled with English and -Americans. Jellies, ices, fruit, flowers, toys, were handed in at Boy’s -door, with tender inquiries, from hour to hour, as to his condition. -Music-loving girls who had scarcely left the piano silent for fifteen -minutes during the day and evening, now closed it lest the sufferer -should be disturbed by the sound, his chamber being directly over the -_salon_. Every foot trod softly upon the polished floor of the upper -hall and the stairs, and offers of personal service were as earnest and -frequent as if we had dwelt among our own people. I write it down with -a swelling heart that presses the tears to my eyes. For Heaven knows -how sore was our need of friendly offices and Good Samaritans at that -juncture! The house was handsome, well-furnished and kept beautifully -clean. Well people fared comfortably enough. But, for sickness we -found, as we had everywhere else—notably at Cadenabbia—no provision -whatever, and with regard to dietetic cookery, depths of ignorance that -confounded us. - -I could not for money—much less for love or pity’s sake—get a cup of -gruel or beef-tea made in the kitchen. When Boy was convalescent and -his life depended upon the judicious administration of nourishment, I -tried to have some oatmeal porridge cooked, according to directions, -below stairs, paying well for the privilege. There were two pounds of -oatmeal in the package. I ordered half-a-cupful to be boiled a long -time in a given quantity of water, stirred up often from the bottom and -slightly salted. The cook—a professed _cordon bleu_—cooked it all at -once and sent it up in a prodigious tureen,—a gallon of soft, grayish -paste, seasoned with pepper, salt, lemon-peel and chopped garlic! - -I did give the landlady credit for an inexplicable fit of motherly -kindness when, at length, fish and birds, nicely broiled, came up, -every day or two, to brighten the pale little face laid against the -cushions of his lounge; thanked her for them heartily and with emotion. - -“It is not’ing!” she said, beaming (as when was she not?) “I only wis’ -to know dat de beautiful child ees better. I t’ought he could taste de -feesh.” - -I was grateful and unsuspicious for a week, recanting, repentantly, -the hard things I had said of continental human nature, and admitting -Madame to the honorable list of exceptions, headed—far above hers—by -Dr. Steiger’s name. Then, chancing to come down-stairs one day, shod -with the “shoes of silence” I wore in the sick-room, I trod upon the -heels of a handsome young Englishman, almost a stranger to me, who -was spending the honeymoon with his bride in Switzerland. He had been -three weeks in this house, and we had not exchanged ten sentences with -him or his wife. He stood now in the hall, his back toward me, in -close conference with Madame, our hostess. He was in sporting-costume, -fishing-rod on shoulder. Madame held a fine fish, just caught, and was -receiving his instructions delivered in excellent French: - -“You will see that it is broiled—with care—you know, and sent, as you -have done the others, to the little sick boy in No. 10. And this is for -the cook!” - -There was the chink of coin. The cook! whom I had feed generously and -regularly for preparing the game and fish so acceptable to my child! - -I stepped forward. “It is you, then, Mr. N——, whom I should thank!” -with a two-edged glance that meant confusion to Madame, acknowledgment -and apology to the real benefactor. - -The young Briton blushed as if detected in a crime. Madame smiled, -without blushing, and bustled off to the kitchen. - -Happily, Americans are not without “contrivances” even on the -Continent. A summary of ours while the fever-patient needed delicate -food such as American nurses and mothers love to prepare, may be useful -to other wayfarers on the “road to Jericho.” We carried our spirit-lamp -and kettle with us everywhere. Besides these, I bought a small tin -saucepan with a cover and a tin plate; made a gridiron of a piece of -stout wire, and set up a hospital kitchen in one of our rooms at an -open window that took smoke and odor out of the way. Here, for a month, -we made beef-tea, broiled birds and steak and chops—the meat bought -by ourselves in the town; cooked omelettes, gruel, arrowroot jelly, -custards, and boiled the water for our “afternoon tea.” Cream-toast -was another culinary success, but the bread was toasted down-stairs by -the Invaluable when she could get—as she phrased it—“a chance at the -kitchen-fire.” Cream and butter were heated in the covered tin-cup over -our lamp. - -For fifteen days, the fever ran without intermission, sometimes so -fiercely that the brain raged into frenzied wanderings; for three -weeks, our Swiss doctor came morning, afternoon or evening—sometimes -all three; for a month, our boy was a prisoner to his own room, and -we attended upon his convalescence before daring to strike camp and -move northward into Germany. And all in consequence of that long walk, -without shade of trees or umbrella, under the treacherous Swiss sun! We -had had our lesson. I pass it on to those who may be willing to profit -thereby. - -But for this unfortunate break in our plans we would have had a happy -month in Lucerne. We could not stir out of doors without meeting -friends from over the sea, and, every day, cards, inscribed with -familiar names, were brought in to us. All the American traveling-world -goes to the Swiss lakes and crosses the Passes in the short summer. -Lucerne is picturesque in itself and environs. The lake ranks next to -Como in beauty; the drives and walks in and about it are attractive in -scenery and associations. Of the healthfulness of those portions of the -town lying along the quay we had grave doubts. The cellars are flooded -after every heavy rain, and copious rains are a feature of the climate. -Our morning walk for our letters lay past one of the largest hotels, -patronized extensively by English and Americans. A rainy night or day -was sure to be followed by an opening of the rear basement windows, -and a pumping into the gutter of hogsheads of muddy water. The rapid -evaporation of the surplus moisture under the mid-day heats must have -filled the atmosphere with noxious exhalations. - -The evening-scene on the quay was brilliant. Hundreds of strollers -thronged the broad walks beneath the trees; the great fountain threw -a column of spray fifty feet into the air. A fine band played until -ten o’clock before the Hôtel National; pleasure-boats shot to and fro -upon the water; the lamps of the long bridge sparkled—a double row—in -the glassy depths. Upon certain evenings, the Lion held levees, being -illuminated by colored lights thrown upon the massive limbs that seemed -to quiver under their play, and upon the roll of honor of those who -died for their queen and for their oath’s sake. - -Lucerne is very German in tongue and character—a marked and unpleasant -change to those who enter Switzerland from the Italian side. Ears used -to the flowing numbers of the most musical language spoken by man, are -positively pained by the harsh jargon that responds to his effort to -make himself intelligible. The English and French of the shopkeepers -and waiters, being filtered through the same foul medium, is equally -detestable. Our friend, Dr. Steiger, spoke all three languages well -and with a scholarly intelligence that made his English a model -of conciseness and perspicuity. Our experiences and difficulties -with other of the native residents would make a long chapter of -cross-purposes. - -Three times a week the fruit-market is held in the arcades of the old -town. One reaches them by crooked streets and flights of stone steps, -beginning in obscure corners and zigzagging down to the green Reuss, -swirling under its bridges and foaming past the light-house tower to -its confluence with the Lake. The summer fruits were, to our ideas, an -incongruous array. Strawberries—the small, dark-red “Alpine,” conical -in shape, spicily sweet in flavor; raspberries, white, scarlet and -yellow; green and purple figs; nectarines; plums in great variety and -abundance; apples, peaches and pears; English medlars and gooseberries; -Italian _nespoli_ and early grapes were a tempting variety. We had -begun to eat strawberries in April in Rome. We had them on our -dessert-table in Geneva in November. - -The second time I went to the fruit-market, I took Prima as -interpreter. The peasant-hucksters were obtuse to the pantomime I had -practised successfully with the Italians. The shine of coin in the -left palm while the right hand designated fruit and weight—everything -being sold from the scales—elicited only a stolid stare and gruff -“_Nein_,” the intonation of which was the acme of dull indifference. -Thick of tongue and slow of wit, they cared as little for what we -said as for what we were. Intelligence and curiosity may not always -go hand-in-hand, but where both are absent, what the Yankees call “a -trade,” is a disheartening enterprise. Having at my side a young -lady who “knew” German, I advanced boldly into the aisle between the -stalls of the sellers, and said—“Ask this woman the price of those -gooseberries.” Big, red and hairy as Esau, they were a lure to American -eyes and palates. Prima put the question with a glibness truly pleasing -to the maternal heart, however the gutturals might grate upon the ear. -The vender’s countenance did not light up, but she answered readily, if -monotonously. Prima stared at her, disconcerted. - -“What does she say? That is not German!” - -Italian and French were tried. The woman gazed heavily at the -Wasserthurm, the quaint tower rising from the middle of the river near -the covered bridge of the Capelbrücke, and remained as unmoved as that -antique land-mark. - -“This has ceased to be amusing!” struck in Caput, imperatively, and -turning about, made proclamation in the market-place—“Is there nobody -here who can _speak English_?” - -A little man peeped from a door behind the stall. “I can!” - -The two monosyllables were the “Open Sesame” to the fruity wealth that -had been Tantalus apples and a Barmecide banquet and whatever else -typifies unfulfilled desire to us, up to the moment of his appearing. - -“How odd that the woman should understand me when I did not comprehend -a word _she_ said!” meditated our discomfited interpreter, aloud. - -The enigma was solved at lunch, where the story was told and the -ridiculous element made the most of. A pretty little Russian lady -was my _vis-à-vis_. The Russians we met abroad were, almost without -exception, accomplished linguists. They are compelled they say, -jestingly, to learn the tongues of other peoples, since few have the -courage and patience to master theirs. My neighbor’s English caused us -to fall in love with our own language. Her speech with her children was -in French, and she conversed with German gentlemen at the table with -equal facility. - -“Your daughter is quite correct in her description of the Lucerne -dialect,” she said, rounding each syllable with slow grace that was -not punctiliousness. “It is a vile mongrel of which the inhabitants -may well be ashamed. I have much difficulty in comprehending their -simplest phrases, and I lived in Germany five years. The Germans would -disown the _patois_. It is a provincial composite. The better classes -understand, but will not speak it.” - -I take occasion to say here, having enumerated the summer-delicacies -offered for sale in the Lucerne market, that those of our countrypeople -who visit Europe with the hope of feasting upon such products of -orchard and garden as they leave behind them, are doomed to sore -disappointment. Years ago, I heard Dr. E. D. G. Prime of the “_New York -Observer_,” in his delightful lecture, “All Around the World,” assert -that “the finest fruit-market upon the globe is New York City.” We -smiled incredulously, thinking of East Indian pine-apples and mangoes, -Seville oranges and Smyrna grapes. We came home from our briefer -pilgrimage, wiser, and thankfully content. We murmured, not marveled -at the pitiful display of open-air fruit in England, remembering the -Frenchman’s declaration that _baked_ apples were the only ripe fruit -he had tasted in that cloudy isle. Plums and apricots there are of -fair quality, the trees being trained upon sunny walls, but the prices -of these are moderate only by contrast with those demanded for other -things. Peaches are sixpence—(twelve-and-a-half cents) _each_. Grapes -are reared almost entirely in hot-houses, and sell in Covent Garden -market at two and three dollars a pound. Pears, comparable to the -Bartlett, Seckel or Flemish Beauty are nowhere to be had, and, in the -same celebrated market of fruit and flowers, “American apples” were -pressed upon us as the finest, and, therefore, costliest of their -kind. Gooseberries are plentiful and quite cheap, as are cherries -and currants. Pine-apples in England—“pines”—bring a guinea or a -half-guinea apiece, being also, hot-house products. - -“Do the poor eat no fruit?” I asked our Leamington fruiterer, an -intelligent man whose wares were choice and varied—for that latitude. - -“They are permitted to pick blackberries and sloes in the edges. Of -course, pines and peaches are forbidden luxuries to people in their -station.” - -He might have added—“And plums at two cents, apricots at four, pears at -five cents apiece, and strawberries”—charged against us by our landlady -at half-a-dollar per quart in the height of the season. Tomatoes ranged -from six to twelve cents _apiece_! asparagus was scarce and frightfully -dear; green peas, as a spring luxury, were likewise intended for rich -men’s tables. For Indian corn, sweet potatoes, egg-plants, Lima and -string-beans, summer squash and salsify we inquired in vain. Nor had -any English people to whom we named these ever seen them in their -country. Many had never so much as heard that such things were, and -asked superciliously—“And are they really tolerable—eatable, you know?” - -Our English boarders in Lucerne smiled, indulgent of our national -peculiarities,—but very broadly—at seeing us one day at the -_pension_-table, eat raw tomatoes as salad, with oil, vinegar, pepper -and salt. They were set in the centre of the board as a part of the -dessert, but our instructions to the waiters broke up the order of -their serving. Madame and daughters confessed, afterward, that they -were not certain where they belonged, but had heard that Americans -liked tomatoes, and so procured them. - -Matters mended, in these respects, as we moved southward. When the -weather is too hot, and the climate too unwholesome for foreigners -to tarry in Southern France and Italy, the natives revel in berries, -peaches and melons. We ate delicious grapes in Florence as late as -the first of December, and a few in Rome. By New Year’s Day, not a -bunch of fresh ones was exhibited in shops, at this time, filled with -sour oranges, sweet, aromatic _mandarini_, mediocre apples and drying -_nespoli_ and medlars. The _nespoli_, let me remark, is a hybrid -between the date and plum, with an added cross of the persimmon. -Indeed, it resembles this last in color and shape, also, in the -acerbity that mingles with the acid of the unripe fruit. When fully -matured they are very good, when partially dried, not unlike dates in -appearance and flavor. Medlars are popular in England, and in request -in Paris. To us, they were from first to last, disagreeable. To be -candid, the taste and texture of the pulp were precisely those of -rotten apples. We thought them decayed, until told that they were only -fully ripe. In these circumstances how tantalizing were reminiscences -of Newtown and Albemarle pippins, of Northern Spy and Seek-no-further! -We could have sat us down on the pavement of the Piazza di Spagna, -and, hidden by mountains of intolerably tart oranges, plained as did -the mixed multitude at Taberah, that our souls were dried away in -remembering the winter luxuries of which we did eat freely in our own -land; the Catawba, Isabella and Diana grapes, close packed in purple -layers in neat boxes for family use, late pears and all-the-year-round -sweet oranges; plump, paly-green Malaga and amethyst Lisbon grapes, -retailed at thirty and twenty-five cents per pound. Were we not now -upon the same side of the ocean with Lisbon and Malaga? It was nearly -impossible to credit the scarcity of these sun bright lands in what we -had so long received and enjoyed as everyday mercies to people of very -moderate means. - -As to bananas, we did not see a dozen in two years. I did not taste one -in all that time. Desiccated tomatoes and mushrooms are sold in Italian -cities by the string. Canned vegetables are an American “notion.” -Brown, in the Via della Croce in Rome, had fresh oysters—American—for -eighty cents a can. As the daintiest canned peas and the useful -_champignons_ are imported by United States grocers direct from -France, it was odd that we could not have them, for the asking, in -Switzerland and Italy. Esculents for salad grow there out of doors all -winter, including several varieties not cultivated with us. Potatoes, -spinach, rice, celery,—cooked and raw—onions, cabbage, cauliflower, -macaroni, a root known as “dog-fennel,” and,—leading them all in -the frequency of its appearing, but not, to most people’s taste, in -excellence,—artichokes—are the vegetable bill-of-fare. If there are -eight courses at dinner, the probability is that but two of them will -be vegetables. An eight-course dinner on the Continent may be a very -plain affair, important as it sounds, and the diner-out be hardly able -to satisfy a healthy appetite ‘though he partake of each dish. Soup is -the first course;—sometimes, nourishing and palatable,—as often, thin -and poor. Fish succeeds. If it be salmon, whitebait, whitings, soles or -fresh sardines, it is usually good. But, beyond Paris, we were rarely -served on the Continent with any of these, except the last-named, that -could be truthfully called, “fresh.” The sardines of Naples and Venice, -just from the water, are simply delicious. - -Meat comes next—a substantial dish, and an _entrée_ of some sort. These -are separated by a course consisting of a single vegetable, potatoes -or stewed celery or macaroni _au gratin_, or, perhaps, cauliflower with -_sauce tartare_. Another vegetable precedes the first meat-course. -Salad follows the second. Then, we have pastry or some other sweet, -and dessert, meaning fruit, nuts and _bon-bons_. Finally, coffee. The -dinner is _à la Russe_, no dishes being set upon the table, excepting -the dessert. The carving is done in another room and the guests are not -tempted to gluttony by the amount served to each. - -“If they would only give me a potato with my boiled fish!” lamented -an American to me, once. “Or serve the green peas with the lamb! -And mutton-chops and tomato-sauce are as naturally conjoined in the -educated mind as the English _q_ and _u_!” - -On the Continent the exception to the rule he objurgated is the serving -of chicken and salad—lettuce, endive or chervil,—together upon a _hot_ -plate. The vinegar and oil cool the chicken. The heated plate wilts -and toughens the salad. Common sense might have foretold the result. -But chicken-and-salad continue to hold their rank in the culinary -succession, and are eaten without protest by those who are loudest in -ridicule and condemnation of transatlantic solecisms. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -_Home-life in Geneva—Ferney._ - - -OUR German experiences, sadly curtailed as to time by Boy’s sickness, -scarcely deserve the title of “loiterings.” We passed two days in -Strasburg; as many in Baden-Baden, a day and night at Schaffhausen; a -week in Heidelberg; a few hours at Basle, etc., etc., too much in the -style of the conventional tourist to accord with our tastes or habits. -At Heidelberg our forces were swelled by the addition of another family -party, nearly allied to ours in blood and affection. There, we entered -upon a three weeks’ tour, a pleasant progress that had no mishap or -interruption until we re-crossed the Alps into Switzerland, this time -by the Brünig Pass, traveling as we had done over the St. Gothard, -_en famille_, but in two _diligences_, instead of one, taking in -Interlaken, The Staubbach, Lauterbrunnen, Grindelwald, the Wengernalp, -Freiburg, Bern and a host of other notable places and scenes, and -brought up, in tolerable order, if somewhat travel-worn, at ten o’clock -one September night, in Geneva. - -We were to disband here; one family returning to Germany; Miss M—— -going on to Paris; ourselves intending to winter again in Italy. I had -enjoyed our month of swift and varied travel the more for the continual -consciousness of the increase of health and strength that enabled me -to perform it. But I had taken cold somewhere. The old cough and pain -possessed me, and for these, said men medical and non-medical, Geneva -was the worst place one could select in autumn or winter. The _bise_, -a strong, cold, west wind, blows there five days out of seven; for -weeks the sun is not visible for the fog; rain-storms are frequent -and severe, and the atmosphere is always chilled by the belt of -snow-mountains. This was the meteorological record of the bright little -city, supplied by those who should have known of that whereof they -spoke. - -For three days after our arrival, it sustained this reputation. The -_bise_ blew hard and incessantly, filling the air with dust-clouds and -beating the lake into an angry sea that flung its waves clear across -the Pont du Mont Blanc, the wide, handsome bridge, uniting the two -halves of the city. I sat by the fire and coughed, furtively. Caput -looked gravely resolute and wrote letters to Florence and Rome. Then, -Euroclydon—or _Bise_,—subsided into calm and sunshine, and we sallied -forth, as do bees on early spring-days, to inspect the town—“the -richest and most popular in Switzerland.” (Vide Baedeker.) - -The air was still cool, as was natural in the last week of September, -but as exhilarating as iced champagne. Respiration became suddenly -easy, and motion, impulse, not duty. We walked up the _Quai Eaux -Vives_ to the first breakwater that checks the too-heavy roll of the -waves in stormy weather; watched the wondrous, witching sheen of -ultramarine and emerald and pearly bands upon the blue lake; down -the broad quay by the English Gardens, through streets of maddening -shop-windows, a brilliant display of all that most surely coaxes money -from women’s pockets;—jewelry, mosaics, laces, carvings in wood and -in ivory, photographs, music-boxes,—a distracting medley, showed to -best advantage by the crystalline atmosphere. We crossed to Rousseau’s -Island in the middle of the lake by a short chain-bridge attaching it -to the _Pont des Bergues_, and fed the swans who live, eat and sleep -upon the water; marked the point where the Rhone shoots in arrowy -flight from the crescent-shaped lake to its marriage with the slower -Arve below the city. Thence, we wound by way of the Corraterie, a -busy street, formerly a fosse, to the Botanical Gardens; skirted the -Bastions from which the Savoyards were thrown headlong at the midnight -surprise of the “Escalade,”—and were in the “Old Town.” This is an -enchanting tangle of narrow, excursive streets, going up and down by -irregular flights of stone steps; of antique houses with bulging upper -stories and hanging balconies and archways, and courts with fountains -where women come to draw water and stay to gossip and look picturesque, -in dark, full skirts, red boddices and snowy caps. We passed between -the National Cathedral of St. Pierre and the plain church where Père -Hyacinthe preached every Sabbath to crowds who admired his eloquence -and had no sympathy with his chimerical Reformed Catholicism; along -more steep streets into a newer quarter, built up with handsome -mansions,—across an open space, climbed a long staircase and were upon -the hill on which stands the new Russian Church. - -It is a diminutive fabric, made the most of by a gilded dome and four -gilt minarets, and by virtue of its situation, contrives to look twice -as big as it is, and almost half as large as the old Cathedral which -dates from 1024. - -Geneva was below us, and diverging from it in every direction, like -veins from a heart, were series of villas, châteaux and humbler homes, -separated and environed by groves, pleasure-grounds and hedge-rows. The -laughing lake, which seldom wears the same expression for an hour at a -time, was dotted with boats that had not ventured out of harbor while -the wind-storm prevailed. Most of these carried the pretty lateen sail. -The illusion of these “goose-winged” barques is perfect and beautiful, -especially when a gentle swell of the waves imparts to them the -flutter of birds just dipping into, or rising from the surface;—birds -statelier than the swans, more airy than the grebe circling above and -settling down upon the _Pierres du Niton_. These are two flat boulders -near the shore whereon tradition says Julius Cæsar once sacrificed to -Neptune,—probably to propitiate the genius of the _bise_. Across the -water and the strip of level country, a few miles in breadth, were the -Juras, older than the Alps, but inferior in grandeur, their crests -already powdered with snow. On our side of the lake behind town and -ambitious little church,—outlying _campagnes_ (country-seats) and -dozens of villages, arose the dark, horizontal front of the Saléve. It -is the barrier that excludes from Geneva the view of the chain of Alps -visible from its summit. Mont Blanc overtops it, and, to the left of -its gleaming dome, the _Aiguilles du Midi_ pierce the sky. Others of -the “Mont Blanc Group” succeed, carrying on the royal line as far as -the unaided eye can reach. Between these and the city rises the Mole, a -rugged pyramid projecting boldly from the plain. - -Chamouny, the Mer de Glace, Martigny, Lausanne, Vevay, Chillon, Coppet, -Ferney! To all these Geneva was the key. And in itself it was so fair! - -We talked less confidently of Italian journeyings, as we descended -the hill; more doubtfully with each day of fine weather and -rapidly-returning strength. Still, we had no definite purpose of -wintering in Geneva, contrary to the advice of physicians and friends. -It was less by our own free will than in consequence of a chain -of coincident events, which would be tedious in the telling, that -December saw us, somewhat to our astonishment, settled in the “Pension -Magnenat,” studying and working as systematically as if Italy were -three thousand watery miles away. - -That a benignant Providence detained us six months in this place we -recognize cheerfully and thankfully. I question if Life has in reserve -for us another half-year as care-free and as evenly happy. There are -those who rate Geneva as “insufferably slow;” the “stupidest town on -the Continent,” “devoid of society except a _mélée_ of Arabs, or the -stiffest of exclusive cliques.” Our American “clique” may have been -exceptionally congenial that year, but it supplied all we craved, or -had leisure to enjoy of social intercourse. Foreigners who remain there -after the middle of December, do so with an object. The facilities for -instruction in languages, music and painting are excellent. Lectures, -scientific and literary, are given throughout the season by University -professors and other _savans_. The prices of board and lessons are -moderate, and—an important consideration with us and other families of -like views and habits—Sabbath-school and church were easy of access and -well-conducted. - -There were no “crush” parties, and had they been held nightly, our -young people were too busy with better things to attend them. But -what with music and painting-classes; German and French “evenings;” -reading-clubs in the English classics; the “five o’clock tea” served -every afternoon in our _salon_ for all who would come, and of which -we never partook alone; what with Thanksgiving Dinner and Christmas -merry-making, when our rooms were bowers of holly and such luxuriant -mistletoe as we have never seen elsewhere; with New Year Reception and -birth-day “surprise;” daily walks in company, and, occasionally a good -concert, our happy-family-hood grew and flourished until each accepted -his share in it as the shelter of his own vine and fig-tree. We were a -lively coterie, even without the _divertissements_ of the parties of -pleasure we got up among ourselves to Coppet, Ferney, Chillon and the -Saléve. Shall we ever again have such pic-nics as those we made to the -top of the Grand Saléve—our observatory-mountain, driving out to the -base in strong, open wagons, then ascending on foot or on donkeys? - -There are those who will read this page with smiles chastened by tender -thoughts of vanished joys, as one by one, the salient features of those -holiday excursions recur to mind. Donkeys that would not go, and others -that would not stop. The insensate oaf of a driver who walked far ahead -of the straggling procession and paid no attention to the calls of -bewildered women. The volunteer squad of the stronger sex who strode -between the riders and the precipice, and beat back the beasts when -they sheered dangerously close to the edge. The gathering of the whole -company for rest and survey of the valley, at the stone cross half-way -up. The explorations of straggling couples in quest of “short cuts” to -the crown of the upper hill, and their return to the main road by help -of the bits of paper they had attached to twigs on their way into the -labyrinth of brushwood and stones. Who of us can forget the luncheons -eaten under the three forlorn trees that feigned to shade the long, low -hut on the summit? When, no matter how liberal our provision, something -always gave out before the onward rush of appetites quickened by the -keen air? How we devoured black bread bought in the _Châlet_ where we -had our coffee boiled, and thought it sweeter than Vienna rolls! Do you -remember—friends belovéd—now so sadly and widely sundered—the basket -of dried thistles proffered gravely, on one occasion, and to whom, -when the cry for “bread” was unseemly in vociferation and repetition? -And that, when our hunger was appeased, we, on a certain spring day, -roamed over the breast of the mighty mount, gathering gentians, yellow -violets, orchis and scraggy sprays of hawthorn, sweet with flowers, -until tired and happy, we all sat down on the moss-cushions of the -highest rocks, and looked at Mont Blanc—so near and yet so far,—stern, -pure, impassive,—and hearkened to the cuckoo’s song? - -I know, moreover, because I recollect it all so well, that you have -not forgotten the as dear delights of talking over scene and adventure -and mishap—comic, and that only in the rehearsal,—on the next rainy -afternoon. When we circled about the wood-fire, tea-cups in hand, -raking open the embers and laying on more fuel that we might see each -others’ faces, yet not be obliged to light the lamps while we could -persuade ourselves that it was still the twilight-hour. We kept no -written record of the merry sayings and witty repartees and “capital” -stories of those impromptu conversaziones, but they are all stored up -in our memories,—other, and holier passages of our intercourse, where -they will be yet more faithfully kept—in our hearts. - -If I am disposed to dwell at unreasonable length upon details that -seem vapid and irrelevant to any other readers, I cry them, “pardon.” -The lapse may be overlooked in one whose life cannot show many such -peaceful seasons; to whom the time and opportunity to renew health and -youth beside such still waters had not been granted in two decades. - -Rome was rest. Geneva was recuperation. I have likened the air of -Switzerland to iced champagne. But the buoyancy begotten by it had -no reaction: the vigor was stable. I had not quite appreciated this -fact when, at Lucerne, I talked with fair tourists from my own land -who “would have died of fatigue,” if compelled to walk a couple of -miles, at home, yet boasted, and truly, of having tramped up the Rigi -and back—a distance of three leagues. But when I walked upon my own -feet into Geneva after an afternoon at Ferney, and experienced no -evil effects from the feat, we began to discredit scientific analyses, -dealing with the preponderance of ozone in the atmosphere, and to -revert to tales of fountains of perpetual youth and the Elixir of Life. - -The town of Ferney is a mean village four miles-and-a-half from Geneva, -and over the French frontier. The château is half-a-mile further;—a -square, two-storied house set in extensive and handsome grounds, -gardens, lawn, park and wood. It is now the property of a French -gentleman who uses it as a country-seat, his chief residence being in -Paris. A liveried footman opened the gate at the clang of the bell and -showed two apartments that remain as Voltaire left them. These are on -the first floor, the entrance-hall, or _salon_, being the largest. The -floor is of polished wood inlaid in a cubic pattern. An immense stove -of elaborate workmanship stands against the left wall; a monument of -black and gray marble in a niche to the right. A tablet above the urn -on the top of this odd construction is inscribed:— - - “_Mon esprit est partout, - Mon cœur est ici._” - -Below is the very French legend:—“_Mes manes sont consolés, puisque mon -cœur est au milieu de vous._” - -“The stove of Voltaire! His monument!” pronounced the servant in slow, -distinct accents. - -“But his heart is not really there?” - -“But no, monsieur. He is interred in Paris. Madame comprehends that -this is only an epitaph.” - -Inferentially,—a lie. - -Pictures hung around the room; one remarkable etching of “Voltaire and -his friends;” old engravings and some paintings of little value. The -furniture, of the stiffest order of the antique, was covered with faded -embroidery. - -“The work of Madame du Chatelet, the niece of Voltaire,” continued the -footman, demurely. - -The next room was his bed-chamber. A narrow bed, head and foot-board -covered with damask to match the arras; more embroidered chairs -from the niece’s hand, and, just opposite the door, a portrait of -Voltaire, painted at the age of twenty-five. A dapper, curled, and -be-frilled dandy of the era that produced Chateauneuf, Ninon de -l’Enclos and Chaulieu. The visage is already disfigured by the smirk -of self-satisfaction he intended should be cynical, which gives to the -bust in the outer apartment, and to sketched and engraved likenesses, -taken in mature manhood and old age, the look of a sneering monkey. -Close to the young Voltaire hung the portrait of Madame du Chatelet. - -“The niece of Voltaire!” reiterated the serving-man, pointedly. - -There could then be no impropriety in our prolonged survey of the -beautiful face. She was the mistress of a fine fortune and château -at Cirey, when Voltaire sought a retreat in the neighborhood from -governmental wrath, excited by his eulogistic “_Lettres sur les -Anglais_.” She was the ablest mathematician of her time, revelling in -the abstruse metaphysics and political economics which were Voltaire’s -delight, and so thorough a Latinist that she read the “_Principia_” in -Latin from choice. Her husband was much older than herself, an officer -in the French army, and thus furnished with an excuse for absenteeism -from the society of a woman too much his superior mentally to be an -agreeable help-meet. The Platonic attachment between the accomplished -_châtelaine_ and the poet-satirist lasted nineteen years. He was -thirty-six when it began. Her death broke what little heart he had. -There is a story that he sent his confidential _valet_ into the room -where her corpse lay, the night after her demise, to take from her -hand a ring he had given her, long ago, containing his miniature. When -it was brought to him, he kissed it passionately, and, before fitting -it upon his own finger, touched the spring of the seal concealing the -picture. It was not his, but the handsomer face of a younger man, that -met his eyes, one who had bowed, she would have had Voltaire believe, -hopelessly, at her feet. The duped lover bore the dead woman no malice -for her perfidy, if the contents of the Ferney apartments be admitted -as evidence. On the mantel in the bedroom is a glass case, covering the -model designed by him for her sarcophagus. The flat door of the tomb is -cleft in twain by the rising figure of the woman, holding in her arms -the babe that cost her life and was buried with her. - -The Philosopher’s Walk, Voltaire’s favorite promenade, is nearly a -hundred yards in length, and completely embowered by pollarded limes, -the lateral branches meeting and interlacing over the broad alley. -From the parapet of the adjoining terrace can be had, on clear days, -a magnificent view, comprehending the Bernese Alps, the Juras, the -Aiguilles and their crowned Monarch—Mont Blanc—by day, a silver -dome,—at the rising and going down of the sun, a burning altar of -morning and evening sacrifice. - -“In sight of _this_, the Man of Ferney could say—‘There is no GOD!’” -interjected an indignant voice, while we hung, entranced, over the wall. - -“The ‘Coryphæus of Deism’ never said it!” answered Caput. “His last -words,—after he had, to secure for his meagre body the rites of -Mother Church, signed a confession of faith in her tenets—were,—‘I -die, worshiping GOD, loving my friends, not hating my enemies, _but_ -detesting superstition.’” - -The philosopher had, presently, another and more enthusiastic defender. -I had tried, unsuccessfully, to obtain a photograph of the little -church outside the gate of the château. Albeit no artist, except for my -own convenience and amusement, I resolved to have something that should -look like the interesting relic. While my companions strayed down the -pleached walk into the woods, I returned to the entrance, sat down upon -the grassy bank opposite the church-front and began to sketch. There -was no one in sight when I selected my position, but, pretty soon, a -party of three—two ladies and a gentleman—emerged from the gate and -stopped within earshot for a parting look at the lowly sanctuary, now a -granary. - -The Traveling American dashes at dead languages as valiantly as at -living. - -“_Deo erexit Voltaire_” is cut into a small tablet below the belfry. - -Will it be believed that I heard, actually and literally, the -conversation I now write down? - -“_I_ call that blasphemous!” - -The speaker was a lady, in dress and deportment. - -“Heaven-daring blasphemy!” she added, in a low, horrified tone, reading -the Latin aloud. - -“I don’t see that—exactly,” answered a deeper voice. “It is strange -that an infidel, such as Voltaire is usually considered, should build a -church at all, but there is nothing wrong——” - -“But look at the inscription! ‘GOD _erects it to Voltaire_!’ Horrible!” - -“I doubt if that is _quite_ the right translation, my love”—began the -spouse. - -The lady caught him up—“I may not be a classical scholar, but I hope I -can read, and I am not altogether ignorant of Latin. And Baedeker says -it is an ’ostentatious inscription.’ I suppose Baedeker knows what he -is talking about—if I do not!” - -They walked off down the lane. - -Voltaire built the church for the use of his servants and tenantry. -The Bishop refused to consecrate it, and Voltaire created a Bishopric -of Ferney. The priest was paid by him and was often one of the -château-guests. Upon Sabbath mornings, it was the master’s habit to -march into church, attended by visitors and retainers, and engage, with -outward decorum, in the service. Religious ceremonies were a necessity -for the vulgar and ignorant, as were amusements. He provided for both -needs on the same principle. - -The building is of stone, with sloping roof and two shed-like wings -joined to the central part. A small clock-tower is capped by a -weather-cock. There is but one door, now partly boarded up. Over -this is a single large window with a Norman arch. It was a perfect -October afternoon, dreamy and soft. Chestnuts and limes were yet in -full leaf; the garden was gay with flowers untouched by a breath of -frost. I had my turfy bank all to myself for half an hour, and in the -stillness, could hear the hum of the bees in the red and white clover -of the meadow behind me, the voices of men and women in the vineyard, -three fields away. It was the vintage-season and they were having rare -weather for it. Heavy steps grated upon the road; were checked so near -me that I looked up. The intruder was a peasant in faded blue shirt -and trowsers, a leather belt, a torn straw hat and wooden shoes, and -carried a scythe upon his shoulder. A son of the soil, who grinned and -touched his hat when I saw him. - -“_Pardon, madame!_” - -I nodded and went on with my work. He stood as still as the church,—an -indigo shadow between me and the sky. I glanced at him again, this -time, inquiringly. - -“_Pardon, madame!_” - -He was respectful, and had he been rude, I could call through the gate -to my friends who were walking in the grounds. There was nothing to -alarm me in his proximity, but a certain annoyance at his oversight of -my occupation. - -“Are you one of the laborers on the estate?” asked I, coldly. - -“Madame is right. I am the farm-servant of M. David.” - -Who, it was so evident, did not suspect that he was impolite in -watching me that I forgave him. - -“I am only making a little sketch of the church,” I deigned to explain. - -“_Est-ce que je vous gêne, Madame?_” said the “clod,” deprecatingly. -“If so, I will go. I am an ignorant peasant and I never, until now, saw -a picture make itself.” - -Upon receiving permission to remain, he lowered his scythe and stood -leaning upon it, while the poor little picture “made itself.” To put -him at his ease, I asked who built the church. - -“M. Voltaire. My grandfather has told me of him.” - -“What of him?” - -“That he built Ferney and would have made of it a great city—much finer -than Geneva—perhaps as grand as Paris. Who knows? And free, Madame! He -would have had all the people hereabouts”—waving his hand to indicate a -circuit of miles—“free, and learnèd, and happy. He was a wise man—this -M. Voltaire! _un si bon Protestant!_” - -“Protestant!” - -“_Mais, oui, parfaitement, Madame!_ He hated the priests. He succored -many distressed Protestants. He was, without doubt, a good Christian.” - -I recollected Calas and Sirven, and refrained from polemics. - -“Ferney is free, now that France is a Republic. You vote, and so govern -yourselves.” - -My friend was out of soundings. “_Plaît-il?_” staring imbecilely. Then, -pulling his thoughts together—“Madame is right. France is a great -country. She demands many soldiers. Conscripts are taken every year -from Ferney. It maybe I shall go, one day. Unless I can lose these two -front teeth, or, by accident, cut off this finger.” - -He had his inquiry when the sketch was done. - -“The pictures one sees on the walls in Geneva—beasts and people—red and -blue and many colors—that are to play in the _spectacles_—are they made -like that?” - -I laughed—“They are printed,”—then, as the difficulty of enlightening -him on the subject of lithography struck me, I added—“Somebody makes -the drawing first.” - -He shook his head compassionately. “I never knew how much of work they -were! Ah! I shall always think of it when I see them. And of the poor -people who draw them!” - -“_Les Délices_”—Voltaire’s home in Geneva prior to his purchase of -Ferney, is now a girls’ boarding-school. We had friends there, and -were, through the kindness of the Principal, allowed free access to the -grounds and such apartments as retained traces of Voltaire’s residence. -The house is large and rambling, and Voltaire’s dressing- and bed-rooms -are, as at Ferney, upon the ground-floor. The frescoes are fairly -distinct, as yet, and the carved mantels unaltered. One long wing is -unused and closed. This was the private theatre that shattered, at -last, and forever, the brittle friendship between Voltaire and Rousseau. - -“You have basely corrupted my Republic!” was the angry protest of the -author of “_La Nouvelle Héloïse_.” - -Voltaire retorted by satire, caustic and pointed;—some say, with the -famous sarcasm upon the Canton of Geneva, which is but fifteen miles -square:— - -“When I shake my wig, I powder the whole Republic!” - -The theatre was built, in spite of Rousseau’s remonstrances; actors -brought from naughty Paris, and complimentary tickets for the first -representation sent to the magnates of Calvin’s city. Not one of these, -from the Mayor down to the constable, had any intention of going. All -were thrilled with horror at the suspicion that some weak brother might -be allured by the forbidden fruit. All were curious to know who the -recreant would be, and burning with jealousy for the purity of the -public morals. Early in the afternoon of the appointed day, loungers -and spies stationed themselves on the bridge and road by which the -delinquents must pass to _Les Délices_. The cordon lengthened and -spread until the throng at Voltaire’s gates pressed back upon those -pouring out of the city. When the theater-doors were opened, the crowd -rushed in, still moved by pietistic and patriotic fervor; the seats -were filled and the curtain rose. - -Reckoning shrewdly upon the revulsion of the human nature he knew -so well, Voltaire sent privily to the Cathedral of St. Pierre for -the triangular chair of Calvin preserved there, with holy care, and -introduced it among the stage-properties in the last scene. The -Genevese municipality recognized it immediately, as did the rest of the -spectators, but so intoxicated were they by now with the novel draught -of “corrupting” pleasure, that they actually applauded its appearance! - -We heard this story from the lips of the Lady-Principal of the -_pensionnat_, upon the threshold of the barred doors of the theatre. -Groups of girls sat under the spreading chestnuts; walked, arm-in-arm, -up and down the avenues. The casements of the old house were open to -the warm air. Boy, who had accompanied us, in defiance of the ordinance -excluding young gentlemen, was the cynosure of the merry band, and -being spoiled faster than usual by offerings of flowers, confectionery, -kisses and coaxing flatteries. - -A faintly-worn path beyond the theatre marks “Voltaire’s Walk.” It -is shaded by a double row of splendid trees, and at the far end is a -mossy stone bench on which he used to sit. It was easy for Fancy to -conjure up the picture of what might have been there on the morrow -of the theater-opening, and the image of him who was the life of the -party, glorying insolently in their triumph. The meager figure wrapped -in the gorgeous dressing-gown, remembered still at _Les Délices_—the -sardonic smirk that poisoned equivoque and epigram; the Du Chatelet’s -lover-comrade; the friend and slanderer of Frederick the Great; the -pupil of the Jesuits, and the _bon Chrétien_, who “hated the priests;” -the philosopher, who died, worshiping his Maker, and at peace with the -world,—but who had, living, feared not GOD, neither regarded Man! - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -_Calvin—The Diodati House—Primroses._ - - -THE house in which Calvin lived and died has never been photographed. -“Madame does not reflect how narrow is the street!” pleaded the -picture-dealer to whom I expressed my surprise at this. - -But the camera would have been set up in one of the windows across the -way had there been a lively demand upon the thrifty Swiss for mementoes -of the Reformer. John Calvin is out of fashion on the Continent, and -Geneva is not an exception to the prevalent obsoleteness of reverence -for his character and doctrines. - -“_Fanatique!_” ejaculated a Genevese lady who worshiped statedly in the -Protestant Cathedral, and called herself “dévôte.” - -Our friend Mrs. G—— the artist, _par excellence_, of our happy family, -had made an excellent copy of an original portrait of Calvin which M. -Reviliod had, as an especial favor, lent her from his fine collection -of pictures, a compliment of which we were proud for her. Herself the -daughter of a clergyman who had fought a good fight for the truth as he -held it, she had copied the picture _con amore_. - -“I have lived in Calvin’s age—not in this, while I painted,” she said -when I looked into her parlor to see how the work was getting on. “An -age that needed such men! The face is not lovely in any sense, but I -have laid in each stroke tenderly. My father used to say that the -Church at large owes more to-day to John Calvin than to any other one -man who ever lived.” - -The face was, as she had said, not lovely. It was not benign. The -hollow temples, deep-set eyes; the small, resolute mouth were the -lineaments of an ascetic whose warfare with the world, the flesh and -the devil—and the church he conceived in his honest, stubborn soul to -be a compound of all three—was to the death. He wore the Genevan cap -and gown, the latter trimmed with fur. His black beard was long, but -scanty. One thin hand was lifted slightly in exhortation. A man of -power, he was one whom not many would dare to love. - -“Greater in thought and in action than Luther; as brave as Zwingli; as -zealous as Knox!” pursued his admirer, touching the canvas lightly with -her brush, as if reluctant to demit the work. “Ah, mademoiselle!” to -the entering visitor, the Genevese Protestant aforesaid. “You are just -in time to see my finished Calvin!” - -Then, the Genevese said, with a grimace, “_Fanatique! Moi, je déteste -cet homme!_” - -If she had been one man, the artist another—(and unregenerate) I am -afraid the predestined portion of the last speaker would have been a -blow of the maul-stick. - -The Genevese have swung completely around the circle in three hundred -years. - -“They would be insupportable to me, and I to them!” replied Calvin to -the recall of the Council after his two years of banishment. - -But how earnestly he served them and Protestantism in the -quarter-century that intervened from the time of the refusal and -the months during which he lay “long a-dying” in the strait Rue des -Chanoines, almost in the shadow of the Cathedral! - -The ground-floor and part of the second-story of the “plain house -provided for him,” are now used as a dispensary and doctor’s office,—a -charitable institution. A placard at the door sets forth the hours at -which patients can be admitted to the consulting-rooms. After Calvin’s -death, and until within a few years, it was occupied as a convent and -school by a Roman Catholic sisterhood. The building is of brick and -“plain” to humbleness, two stories in height, and built around four -sides of an open court. We saw the closet in which Calvin studied and -wrote—so overwhelmed by preparations for the pulpit, the university -lecture-room, and with voluminous correspondence with churches at home -and abroad, that he passed whole nights without laying by his pen, and, -by day, had not, he says, “time to look up to the light of the blessèd -sun;”—and the chamber in which he died. This is low-ceiled and of fair -size, wainscoted with dark wood. Over the doors are paneled paintings -representing the Four Seasons. These were there during Calvin’s -occupancy, as was the carved mantel of black oak. Two windows open upon -a balcony hung thickly with ivy. - -One speculates fruitlessly touching the incidents of the private life -of him of whom it was said that “he was never for one day unfaithful to -his apostolate.” We questioned the woman who showed us the house and -who said she was a Protestant,—hoping to glean some interesting local -traditions. But she knew nothing beyond her lesson—a brief and a dry -one. We longed to know if in this apartment came and went the child -whose biography is comprised by the father in one line:— - -“GOD gave us a little son. HE took him away.” - -The mother who “always aided, never opposed” her husband, survived the -boy eight years. Calvin never married again. Henceforward, his earthly -ties were the Reformed Church and Geneva. “I offer to my GOD my slain -heart as a sacrifice, forcing myself to obedience to His will,” became -the motto of a life that had, no more, in it the sweet elements of -home-happiness and repose. - -The sun set while we stood upon the balcony, the room behind us growing -darker and more desolately-silent, while the heavens brightened, -ruddying the tiled roofs and time-stained walls of the “Old Town” -in which the house stands. The wife may have sat here at even-tide, -thinking of the babe that was coming to cheer her lonely, frugal -dwelling, and, in those eight childless years, of the little son -GOD took away. Her husband had no time for loverly converse or sad -reverie—with his daily sermon every other week; his Theology lectures; -his semi-weekly Consistory-meeting; his written controversies with -Unitarians and Anabaptists, and the government, in all its details, of -a municipality that owned him Dictator of letter and of spirit. - -“Geneva”—wrote Knox to a friend during a visit to Calvin’s model -town—“is the most perfect school of Christ the world has seen since the -days of the Apostles.” - -Scoffers said that Calvin resisted the Divine decree in his own case -when the physicians pronounced him to be dying from _seven_ mortal -diseases. When he could no longer eat or sit up, he dictated, between -the paroxysms of nausea and faintness, letters to all parts of Europe -to one scribe, comments upon the Book of Joshua to another. He fainted -in the pulpit, his sermon unfinished, the last time he was carried to -the Cathedral. One month before his death, the most eminent medical -authorities in Switzerland declaring that he could not survive a day -longer, civil and ecclesiastical officers were collected to receive his -solemn farewell. Still he lived—in such agony of body as chills the -blood to read of, but in calm joyfulness of soul, until the end of May, -almost four months after the Sabbath when he was brought back from the -Cathedral fainting—it was believed, in a dying condition. The Battle -of Life was with him a favorite figure in speech and writings. How he -fought it until the last drop of blood was drained from his veins and -heart is worthily told by Theodore Beza. - -His handsome face hangs near Calvin’s in the Reviliod Gallery. So -genial and _débonnaire_ does this one of the Reformers look that we -marvel—not at the charge of French levity brought against him by -certain of his _confrères_—but that he should have loved so well -his stern, joyless brother-in-arms. Yet gentle Melanchthon sighs, -oppressed by the conviction that “Old Adam is too strong for young -Melanchthon,”—“If I could but lay my weary head upon thy” (Calvin’s) -“faithful heart and die there!” - -Beza carries his affectionate partizanship so far as to defend the -burning of Servetus for obstinate heresy, by the Genevan authorities. -Men have chosen to execrate Calvin as the author of an act which -was in exact accordance with the temper of the State-Church at that -time. The Council of Geneva, after long and stirring debate, and much -advisement with other Cantons, condemned the Spanish heretic-physician -to the stake as a political necessity. Farel was earnest in advocating -this extreme penalty of the law, and exhorted him, at the place -of execution, to recantation. Melanchthon gave it unqualified, if -sorrowful sanction, as did Bullinger. The one voice raised against the -horrible cruelty was Calvin’s. He pleaded, vainly—since the man must -die—that he should be beheaded, not burnt. - -The Genevese declare they do not know “just where” this violation of -the avowed principles of Protestantism occurred. The burning-place was -upon the Champel, a pretty green hill, south of the city. - -Of Calvin, guide-books and travelers have long asserted—“No man -knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day.” The truth being that, several -years ago, careful measurement of the cemetery of Plain Palais, and -examination of the record of his burial, pointed out the locality he -desired should be forgotten lest a costly monument might dishonor the -memory of the poverty he had borne for Christ’s sake. His bones rest -not many rods from the wall of the burial-ground. A lofty hemlock grows -directly upon the grave. The boughs have been torn off by relic-hunters -as far up as a tall man can reach. A sloping stone of gray granite, -a foot square and about as tall at the highest side, is lettered, -“J. C.” That is all. There is no mound to warn aside the unwary -foot, although the graves about it are carefully kept, distinguished -by memorial-tablets and adorned with flowers. Upon his return from -Strasbourg, in compliance with the prayers of Geneva—Canton and -town—the people gave him, in addition to the “plain house,” a “piece of -cloth for a coat.” The bald covering of earth is all he would accept -from them in death. - -Plain Palais is a dismal last home even for John Calvin. Low, flat and -damp on the sunniest days, it is a pity it should not be, as Baedeker -describes it—“disused.” But one passes on the route to Calvin’s grave, -the gorgeous red granite tomb of the Duke of Brunswick who bequeathed -his wealth to the city. And in our numerous visits to the cemetery we -rarely went in or out without meeting a funeral train. The paths are -greened by moss-slime, and the short winter afternoons are briefer and -gloomier for the mists that begin to rise here by four o’clock. - -Very different in location and aspect is the grave of the historian of -the Reformation, Merle d’Aubigné. The walk up the quay took us past his -former residence, a comfortable homestead, now occupied by his widow. -Leaving the lake-edge, about half-a-mile from the town, we turned to -the left into a crooked road paved with cobble-stones. High walls, -covered with ivy and capped by the foliage of fine old trees, rooted -within the grounds, seclude on both sides of the way the _campagnes_ of -wealthy Genevese who desert them in the winter for the confined streets -and noise of the city. A brook of clear water, issuing from the wall, -runs gaily down to the lake. The road winds irregularly up the hill, -yet so sharply that we were content to rest on the brow, and, sitting -upon a wayside bench, enjoy the view of Lake Leman and the Juras on one -hand, the Mont Blanc chain of Alps upon the other. The small cemetery -was gained by an abrupt turn to the right and another rise. It is -enclosed on all sides by a brick wall, entered through strong iron -gates, and, we judged from the lack of traces of recent occupancy, -was in truth “disused.” D’Aubigné is buried in a corner remote from -the gate. Some of his kindred sleep within the enclosure, but none -near him. We had read the names of others of the noble race upon mural -brasses in the old Cathedral. He selected the spot of his interment -“that he might rise in sight of Mont Blanc at the Last Day.” - -So runs the story. It was impressive, told, as we heard it, grouped -about the grave, the solemn, eternal whiteness of the mountain in -full view. A profile of the historian in bas-relief is upon the -head-stone. Climbing roses bound this and the mound with lush withes of -grayish-crimson and pale-green, and plumes of golden-rod nodded over -his head. The ancient wall is hung and heaped with ivy, as common in -Geneva and the neighborhood as the grass and field-flowers. - -We never knew when we had walked far enough in Switzerland. On this -afternoon we extended our ramble a mile further up the lake beyond -the cemetery, keeping upon the ridge of the range, to the Diodati -House. It is one of the old family seats that stud the hill-sides -in all directions. Milton was here a welcome guest for months, and -under the patronage of the Diodati, a French translation of “Paradise -Lost” was printed. A degenerate son of the house, upon a visit to -England, became intimate with a poet of different mold. When Byron -left his native land after the separation from his wife, he accepted -the invitation of young Diodati to his ancestral home. The host became -so enamored of his guest’s society that he assigned to him a suite -of apartments overlooking the lake, as his own, so long as he would -honor him by occupying them. Shelley had rooms in the neighboring -village of Cologny. The balcony before the second-story front windows -is designated as the habitual lounging-place of the two at sunset and -through moonlight evenings. The morals of Diodati the younger were -not amended by the companionships of the year spent by Byron in the -enjoyment of his hospitality. Tales of the orgies of the comrades are -still rife in the region, to the shame of all three. From this balcony -Byron witnessed the thunderstorm by night upon Lake Leman, described -in the third canto of Childe Harold, written at the Diodati House. Its -pictures of the lake-scenery are faithful and beautiful. The opening -lines recur to the memory of the least poetical tourist who has ever -read them, when he reclines, as we did on that day, and many others, on -the lawn before the mansion. - - “Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, - With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing, - Which warns me with its stillness, to forsake - Earth’s troubled waters for a purer spring. - This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing - To waft me from distraction. Once I loved - Torn ocean’s roar, but thy soft murmuring - Sounds sweet as if a sister’s voice reproved - That I with stern delights should e’er have been so moved.” - -Shelley’s second wife, Mary Wollstonecraft, was with her husband, and -about the English party collected a jovial company of both sexes for -whom the Diodati homestead was the rendezvous. At the close of the year -they journeyed southward to Ravenna, to Pisa and to Spezzia, near which -latter place Shelley and Williams were drowned. - -The old house is very peaceful now in restored respectability. A very -Quaker of a _campagne_, in faded dove-color and broad-brimmed roof, -it is square-built like Ferney, and without tower or battlement. So -English is its expression of home-comfort in spacious rooms, spreading -lawn and clumps of shade-trees, that Byron must have had recalled to -him continually the land he affected to despise and hate. - -In the Spring, we found our earliest primroses in the Diodati grounds. -We had never seen them growing wild before, and emulous parties sallied -forth, every day, for fresh spoils of these and the fragrant purple -violets, unknown to American fields. A week later, the meadows upon the -left bank of the lake were yellow as gold with them. But on the day of -my first primrose-hunt they had just begun to show their straw-colored -faces, and so tentatively that our quest had to be close and keen. -We—two of us—strayed into the grounds of a closed country-house on a -warm March afternoon, not sanguine of success after the assurances of -sundry laborers and rosy-cheeked nurses whom we had met and catechized, -that “_les primevères_” were never found thereabouts. The day before, -two of “our girls” had come in to five o’clock tea, with handfuls of -the pale beauties picked in the Diodati woods, so we knew they were -above-ground. The lawn chosen by my friend J—— and myself, as the scene -of our trespass, was level and open to the sun, except where branchy -limes and tent-like chestnuts made cool retreats for the “summer-days -a-coming.” The turf was so deep, our feet sank into it, so elastic, -it was a joy to tread it. We had gone perhaps twenty yards from the -entrance-gates when something smiled up suddenly at us, as if it had, -that instant, broken ground. We were down upon our knees in a second, -tugging so hard at the prize that the tender stems snapped close to the -flowers. Then, perceiving that the stalks were long as well as frail, -we dug down through the turf with our gloved fingers, parasol-handles, -hair-pins—anything that might penetrate to the root. Not a stick -was visible upon the neat lawn. Being only two women, we had not a -pocket-knife between us. I would not declare that we would not have -used our teeth had nothing better offered, so excited were we over our -treasure-trove. They shone at us above the sward on all sides, after -we espied that one cluster. The depth of the roots below the surface -is amazing. Our digging and scraping assumed the dignity of scientific -excavations by the time we had filled handkerchiefs and veils. - -The uprooted primroses did not lose their character for bravery. -Embedded in a bank of moss laid within a dish, and supplied with -moisture, they lived for days, unfurling buds and leaves as assiduously -as if the teeming bulk of their native earth had underlain them, -subject to the call of the torn fibers. Our “primrose-bank,” renewed -again and again in the season of their bloom, was a cherished feature -of our _salon_, that happy Spring-time. The fragrance is faint, but -pleasant, and has, in a peculiar degree, the subtle _associativeness_ -possessed by some other wood-flowers, granting us, with the inhalation, -visions of the banks on which they grew; of tossing brooks and wet, -trailing grasses, swinging in the eddying water; of ferny glades, cool -in the hottest noons; of moss-grown hollows under shelving rocks; of -bird-call; the grasshopper’s rattle and the whirr of the quail;—the -thousand nameless pleasures of Memory that are the mesmeric passes with -which Imagination beguiles us into forgetfulness of sorrow, time and -distance. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -_Corinne at Coppet._ - - -THE sail of nine miles up the lake to Coppet, the residence, for so -long, of Madame de Staël, is one of the pleasantest short excursions -enjoined by custom upon the traveler sojourning for a few days in -Geneva. - -The village is nothing in itself;—a mere appanage, in olden days, -of the Neckar estate. The château is reached by a short walk up a -quiet street—or road—for there is neither side-walk nor curbing. The -house-front is lake-ward, but entrance is had from the street through -a paved court-yard at the side. A brick wall surrounds this. A pair of -great gates admit the passage of carriages. We were met at each visit, -in the lower hall, by a plump housekeeper in white cap and black silk, -who showed the mansion and received our douceur at parting, with gentle -dignity. The main hall is large and nearly square. Wide settees are -set against the walls. A bust of Neckar is in one corner. A flight of -oaken stairs, broad and easy, ascends to the upper hall. The floors -are of polished wood, as slippery as glass. The _salon_, entered -from the second-story hall, is handsomely plenished with antique -furniture and pictures, mostly family portraits. Mad. de Staël is here -as Corinne. David was the artist, but the likeness is not pleasing. -The “pose” in character is too apparent. The abstracted stare and -fixed intellectuality are plainly “done to order.” The Duchess de -Broglie, the daughter of the great De Staël, hangs at the other end -of the room. As _châtelaine_ of Coppet,—a home preferred by her to -Paris _salons_,—her memory is held in grateful esteem by rich and poor -neighbors. Her face is purely and sweetly womanly, with a pensive cast -that tells of long-sustained physical or mental pain. She had passed -Life’s prime when the portrait was taken, but was still very lovely. -In her youth she was far more beautiful and infinitely more amiable -than her distinguished mother. Beside the mantel is a painting—cabinet -size—of three grandchildren of Madame de Staël, children of her only -son by her first marriage. They died in infancy and early youth, and -are here depicted sleeping in the arms and against the knees of the -Saviour. Design and painting are exquisite. - -This _salon_ communicates with another, not quite so large, but more -interesting. Neckar is here, as at the height of his splendid career -as the prince of financiers; saviour of the realm from bankruptcy; -reverenced by the sovereign and adored by the populace. - -“I shall never cease to regret”—says the daughter to whom he was ever -the greatest and dearest of men—“that it had not pleased GOD to make me -his wife, instead of his child.” - -She who was his wife in law, if not in spirit and affection, is also in -this gallery of family-pictures—a haughty dame whose hard, passionless -features sustain the stories of the severity of discipline practised -in the education of her only child. In looking from her to the noble, -frank gentleman who lifted her from the station of governess in a Swiss -country-house to rank and wealth, one easily comprehends the daughter’s -fond partiality for one of her parents. - -“She is well enough!” (“_assez bien_”—) Madame Neckar would say, with a -resigned shrug, when congratulated upon her child’s brilliant success -in literature and society. “But nothing to what I would have made her, -had not her father interfered.” - -The deprecated interference was the result of the decision of the -best physician in France that the girl was dying under the mother’s -intolerable regimen of study and home-etiquette. She was blooming too -rapidly in a social and educational hot-house, and the doctor summoned -by the father, earned the mother’s enmity by saving the patient’s life -at the price of a long, idle vacation at Coppet. - -Madame Neckar was, prior to her marriage, madly beloved by—some say, -the betrothed of Gibbon the historian. She wedded Neckar to establish -herself well in life. To the same end she married her daughter, at -twenty, to Baron de Staël, a Swedish nobleman. - -“Her mother had done wrong,” writes sensible Madame de Genlis of -Mademoiselle Neckar at sixteen—“in allowing her to spend three-fourths -of her time with the throng of wits who continually surrounded her, and -who held dissertations with her upon love and the passions.” - -These disquisitions and their subjects did not enter into her -calculations in accepting the hand of a man double her age. She was -weary of her mother’s tyranny and the restraints of singlehood. -Married to this good-natured nobleman, who had engaged not to take -her to Sweden, she could begin to live. The Baron’s portrait is in -the Coppet _salon_,—at a reasonable remove from his lady-wife, as she -liked to keep him when both were alive. A portly figure and round, -florid visage, as blank as to expression, as the wall behind him; a -fine court-suit, with plenty of gold and thread-lace—these are what -the canvas presents to us. Diagonally opposite is David’s celebrated -portrait of Anne-Marie-Louise-Germaine, Baronne de Staël-Holstein -(_née_ Neckar). A Persian shawl is wound, turban-wise, about her head, -dark curls falling below it upon her forehead and bare shoulders. -Her short-waisted dress is of crimson silk, with short sleeves. A -dark-blue Cashmere shawl falls low upon her skirt, and is caught up by -one arm. The other is bare, and lies lightly on a table by which she -stands, the hand drooping over the edge. In the right hand, the arm -crossing her figure horizontally to hold the shawl, is the green spray -without which she would not talk in company. Captious critics affirmed -that she held and twirled and gesticulated with the leafy scepter to -attract admiration to her beautiful hands. These, her eyes, and her -finely-moulded arms were all that commended her to the eye. In form -she was clumsy; her complexion was muddy and rough; her mouth large, -and her teeth were so prominent that the lips hardly met over them. -Yet this portrait, not cloaking these defects, is of the queen this -woman undoubtedly was. The head is turned slightly, as in listening,—a -thing which, by the way, she never did,—and a little upraised; the eyes -are full of life and spirit;—the glow of inspiration, as unlike the -factitious animation of the “Corinne” in the other room, as day-light -to gas-glare, shines through and from the heavily-cast features. The -colors are as rich and fresh as if laid on but yesterday. - -Auguste de Staël, her son, at thirty, hangs near, a fresh-colored -_gentilhomme_, without a trace of the refined loveliness of his sister, -or of his mother’s genius, in his Swedish physiognomy. Yet, it is -related that, when a lad of seventeen, he pleaded well and bravely with -Napoleon for the recall of his mother from exile, offering his personal -guarantee that she would not meddle with politics were she suffered to -return to Paris. Napoleon knew better than to trust her, but he liked -the young fellow’s fearlessness so well that he playfully pulled his -ear in denying his petition. - -Down-stairs are the library and bed-chamber of Madame de Staël, opening -by long windows upon balcony and parterre. The bed-room is large, -and furnished in a style befitting the fashion, then popular, of -using what we regard as the _penetralia_ of a home,—to wit—“my lady’s -chamber”—for morning-receptions. The French single bed in a distant -corner alone indicates that the occupant of the apartment really slept -there. The walls are hung with tapestry,—Gobelin, or a fair imitation -of it;—chairs and sofa are embroidered to match, in designs from Æsop’s -Fables. A tall mirror is set between the windows. In the center of -the room, on a large Turkish rug, is Madame de Staël’s escritoire, at -which she always wrote, a chair before it, as she used to have it. It -is a cumbrous affair,—long and not high,—with pigeon-holes, carved -legs and brass-handled drawers. The mistress, as Sappho, looks down -upon it from the wall. We liked this portrait least of all. It is a -Bacchante, in inflamed complexion and wild eyes. The original preferred -it to all others. The library adjoins the bed-room, and is lined with -book-shelves to the ceiling. The floor is polished to glassiness,—the -dark wood of doors and casement-frames and the ranks of sober-hued -volumes reflected in it, as in a somber pool. - -We looked back into the shadow and silence from the threshold, thinking -of the goodly company of intellectual athletes who frequented it when -the most wonderful woman of her age held court here as regally as when -in Paris. De Goncourt described her as a “_man_ of genius, by whose -hands France signed a treaty of alliance with existing institutions, -and, for a period, accepted the Directory. The daughter of Neckar”—he -continues—“forbade France to recall the line of kings; she retained -the Republic; she condemned the throne.” - -Or, as when forbidden to approach within thirty miles of Paris, she -established her household at precisely that distance, and her residence -was crowded with guests from the Capital. - -“She pretends”—growled the Emperor—“to speak neither of public affairs, -nor of me. But it happens invariably that every one comes out of her -presence less attached to me than when he went in.” - -Hunted to Coppet, she was attended there by Benjamin Constant—“the -scribe of her dictation; the aid-de-camp of her thought; the man who -almost equaled her in conversational power;”—visited there, by Byron, -Schlegel, Sismondi, and so many other men of mark and power that a -cordon of French police was drawn about the house near enough to watch -all comers and goers without revealing their proximity. Madame Récamier -braved the danger of discovery and the consequent wrath of Napoleon by -journeying thither by post-carriage from France, expressly to see her -persecuted friend. Arriving under cover of the darkness, she tarried -but a night, departing early the next morning. So soon as the news -could travel to Paris and a post be sent in reply, a messenger overtook -her in her Swiss tour with an order from the Emperor, prohibiting her -return to the metropolis under penalty of fine and imprisonment. - -Above the broad arch of the doorway, within which the two women—one as -eminent for her beauty as was the other for her genius, met and parted, -is carved the Neckar coat-of-arms. The court-yard is full of flowers, -the high iron fence separating it from lawn and park, wreathed with -roses and white jasmine. The central building and two wings of the -château encompass it on three sides. Great iron gates give egress in -the direction of the grounds. These are extensive and of much natural -beauty. A road bends around a lawn brightened by beds of geraniums and -coleas. An oval pond is in the center, a solitary willow drooping above -it. Beyond pool and circling drive, is an old stone bench from which -we got the best view of the house. It is of gray stone, shaded darkly -by age. Above the second story is a high, sloping roof, pierced by -dormer windows and many chimneys. The wings are peaked towers, capped -by quaint wooden knops and spires that may be seen far up and down the -lake. Masses of chestnuts and limes, diversified by a few hemlocks -and spruces, embower the mansion. The undulating line of the Juras is -visible above it, like another roof-tree. Branching off from the wider -road are foot-paths, overhung by trees. A swift brook is the limit of -the lawn at the right. The banks are steep and green with turf and the -ivy that has strayed downward from the tree-boles. Lime and poplar -leafage make the clear water darkly deep. Foot-bridges span it by which -one can pass into the meadows beyond. - -“Ah, madame!” said Chateaubriand, while walking in the peaceful demesne -with its mistress,—“If the Emperor would but banish me, likewise—to -Coppet!” - -She paced these walks like a caged lioness; ate her heart out in the -fine old house yonder. - -“I would rather,” she cried, passionately,—“live in the Rue Jean Pain -Mollet, with two thousand francs a year, than upon one hundred thousand -at Coppet!” - -Her egotism was as magnificent as her genius. For the food of one and -the display of the other, Paris was the only place upon the globe. - -It was while she lived at Coppet that she made her love-match with De -Rocca, a young French officer, and an invalid, absent from the army -on furlough at Geneva. He was eminently handsome, and she worshiped -beauty. The suit of a man of twenty-two to a widow twenty years his -senior, was dangerous flattery to one who drew in admiration as the -very breath of life. Other men had paid court to her intellect, her -position, her wealth. This man loved the _woman_ he would make his wife. - -“My name belongs to Europe!” she replied to his first offer. - -“I will love you so well as to _make_ you love me!” was his answer. - -The marriage was a secret, kept until disclosed in her will after her -death. We gain a glimpse of the morals of the day that is a shock -to our ideas of decorum, when we read in the same paragraph of his -residence at Coppet; his companionship in her travels, and that their -son was born without the revelation of their relation as husband and -wife. - -It was not until our third trip to Coppet that we were able to see the -bust of De Rocca in one of the upper rooms not shown to strangers while -the family are at home. It is a beautiful head, with a sweet manliness -of look that excuses the seemingly absurd union, to susceptible -lady-visitors. - -Neither then, nor at any other time, could we prevail upon any employé -of the De Broglies (Madame de Staël’s grandson now owns the estate) to -unlock the rusty gate of the family cemetery across the road. It is -environed by neglected commons, and the brick wall is, at least, ten -feet high. It looks like a fortified forest, so dense is the unpruned -foliage of the tall trees. We walked all around it, each recalling -something he, or she had heard or read of the burial-chapel of the -Neckars so safely hidden in the heart of the wood. Of Neckar’s tomb -and recumbent statue, and his wife’s at his side. Of their daughter’s -request that her grave might not be made a show-place, and the pious -respect accorded by her son and daughter and their descendants to a -wish so incongruous with the passion for notoriety that swayed her from -the nursery to the death-bed. - -She had suffered intensely in her latest years. Natural nervousness -was aggravated by the use of opium in such quantities to dull severe -paroxysms of pain, that it lost its effect as a sedative. She seemed -to have forgotten how to sleep. But her mind retained its strength and -clearness. - -“I know now,” she said, “what the passage from life to death is. The -goodness of GOD makes it easy. Our thoughts become indistinct. The pain -is not great.” - -The habit of analytical thought was strong to the last. - -In spite of the sternly-barred gates, prying curiosity has found its -way to the sequestered chapel. At one angle of the wall, out of sight -of the house, bricks have been picked out at intervals to supply a -foothold for the climber, and the coping is fractured. A gentleman of -our party put his toe into a crevice and looked over. - -“More than one person has passed in this way,” he said. “The grass is -trampled and the underbrush broken. The place is a jungle of matted -bushes and large trees.” - -He stepped back gently to the ground, and we strolled on. - -“_Hic tandem quiescit, quæ nunquam quievit_,” reads her tombstone. The -embosoming trees; the lofty wall; the locked gate are not without their -meaning. - -GOD rest her soul in keeping yet more wise and tender! - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -_Chillon._ - - -THE Castle of Chillon is a whitey-gray pile, with towers of varying -heights and black, pointed roofs, like extinguishers, clustering about -the central and tallest. The lake washes the base on all sides. A -wooden bridge, once a “draw,” joins the fortress to the shore. This -was the scene of the casualty to Julie’s child, and his rescue by the -mother, resulting in the death of the latter, narrated by Rousseau in -the concluding chapters of “La Nouvelle Héloïse.” - -In spring and summer, the aspect of the storied prison is not -forbidding. The walk from the steamboat is pleasantly shaded throughout -much of its length. Trees grow down in the old moat; pretty creeping -plants drop in festoons and knots from the top and face of the -shore-wall; birds hop and sing in bending branches that dip in the -water. The “thousand years of snow on high” are verdant slopes below. -“The white-walled distant town,” “the channeled rock,” “the torrent’s -leap and gush”—are as familiar to Byron’s reader as the fields and -hills about his childhood’s home, distinct as a photograph painted by -Swiss sunshine. - -The scenery near Chillon is the grandest on Lake Leman, reminding -one of the snow-capped ramparts of Lucerne. When, at eleven o’clock -of the last day of October, we left the steamboat dock in front of -the Hôtel Russie in Geneva, sky and wave were still and smiling. Mont -Blanc drew a cowl over his face by the time we touched the Nyon pier. -But the ugly old town had never been more nearly sightly. The five -Roman towers of the ancient castle were softly outlined against the -blue; the browns, grays and blacks of the houses, crowding into the -lake, were foil and relief to the scarlet and gold of massy vines, -the russet and purple and lemon-yellow of the trees on the esplanade -and the steep, winding streets. The cowl unfolded into mantling mist -upon “the left bank” (our right) as we sailed by Vevay, the “livest” -town on the upper lake. A company of school-boys in uniform were -drilling in the parade-ground close to the wharf, to the music of drum -and fife, a herd of _gamins_ peering enviously at them between the -pales of the fence. Window-gardens were flush with petunias, salvias -and pelargoniums. Woodbine streamed, as with living blood, from -hotel-balconies and garden-walls. The “grape-cure” was over and the -bulk of the vintage gathered, but purple bunches hung still among the -dying leaves,—luscious gleanings for the peasant-children trampling the -mellow soil with bare toes, and cheering shrilly as the boat glided -by. Clarens—“Julie’s” home—a village of pink, buff and pea-green -houses, more like painted sugar châteaux than human habitations, -harmonized better with the autumnal tints of aspen and poplar than -with their vernal green. The chestnut copse, known as the “_Bosquet -de Julie_,”—where she gave the first kiss to her lover, was like fine -gold for depth and brilliancy of hue. Montreux lies in the hollow of -a crescent-shaped cove, sheltered from adverse winds from whatever -quarter, a warm covert for invalids, where roses blossom eternally in -sight of never-melted snows. The bristly spines of mountains are its -rear-guard, and upon their lower terraces are hedges of evergreen -laurels, orchards of figs and pomegranates. - -Thus far, we had sunshine and color with us, while, upon the other -shore, the stealing fogs kept pace with our progress,—a level line -at the lower edge which rested mid-way up the sides of the nearer -mountains, but gradually encroaching upon the blue above, until, when -we stepped ashore at Chillon, the sun began to look wan. The days were -shortening rapidly at this season. To save time, we took a carriage at -the wharf and drove directly to the Château through the hamlet that has -taken its name. - -“GOD _bless the ingoers and outcomers_!” is the German legend above the -entrance, put there by the pious Bernese in 1643. - -Our guide was a rosy Savoyard girl in blue skirt, scarlet bodice and -white apron. Dangling a bunch of ponderous keys from her forefinger, -she tripped across a courtyard shut in by the tall buildings and peaked -roofs, and paved with round stones, to a flight of cellar-steps. Just -such cellar-steps as are used by farmers’ wives and dairymaids in going -to and from buttery and cream-room. The descent of six or eight stairs, -worn and uneven, brought us to the subterranean chapel of the Dukes -of Savoy, a long, low room floored with roughened stones, the ceiling -supported by four thick pillars, and so dim, on the windowless side, as -to cast doubt upon the received theory of its original uses. Although -Religion, as understood and practised by thirteenth century lordlings -and their vassals, was a thing that lurked in and filled the dark -places of the earth. Next, was a small room, not eight feet square, -where the condemned by the worshipers in the adjoining chapel, passed -the night preceding his execution. A niche in the rear wall was filled -to half its height by a sloping ledge,—a rocky bed, inclining upward -at the head. On this, the doomed wretch lay until the morning looked -in upon his misery through the slit in the outer wall. This series of -vaults was supplied with all the ancient improvements for executions. -In the third apartment a black bar, extending across the cell, was the -gallows, and in the wall near the floor an aperture, now closed with -rude masonry, finished the drama with business-like promptness, being -the “_chute_” into eight hundred feet of water. - - “Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls, - A thousand feet in depth below, - Its massy waters meet and flow.” - -Two hundred feet, more or less, do not materially alter the story, or -diminish or increase the horror. - -Bonnivard’s prison—_the_ dungeon of Chillon—is beyond the cell of -execution and the last of the grim suite of basement state-apartments. -The Prisoner of Chillon may have been the child of the poet’s brain. -Bonnivard was not a myth. Three times in arms against the ravening -beasts of war, known by the courtesy of history, as Dukes of Savoy, and -twice a prisoner, he was, at his second capture, immured in the Castle -of Chillon. Six weary years were spent by him in this rocky dungeon. -During two of these, he was chained to one of the “seven pillars of -Gothic mold” upbearing the ceiling. A stone of irregular shape is -embedded in the floor at its base. I sat down upon it; put my feet into -the hollow worn by his, as he rested thus, night after night, day by -day, year upon year! - -The girl had disappeared, in answer to a call from the outer-room. -Caput leaned against the pillar beside me. We could just trace the -circle beaten out of the solid stone by the prisoner’s measured pacing, -around the pillar as far as the chain would let him go,—then, back -again. It is plain enough by day, but the light was failing where we -were. Caput struck a match and held it close to the mournful little -track;—another, that we might decipher Byron’s name upon the “autograph -column.” Then, the blue flame expired, and the gloom was deeper -than before. We hearkened silently to the lap of the lake against -the foundation-stones, and the moan of the rising wind; watched the -glimmering slits, without glass or shutters, that admitted light and -air. - - “A double dungeon wall and wave - Have made—and like a living grave!” - -quoted Caput. “It is worse! The dead do not dream!” - -“Or hear!” I shuddered. “That dull ‘wash! wash!’ would drive me mad in -a week!” - -Our little maid reäppeared, all out of breath, brimful of excuses for -having left us so long. We were quitting the dungeon when I detected -gleams, as of soft eyes, in the darkest corner. - -“_Mes fleurs!_” smiled the girl. “They are safe here from frost and -need rest after blooming so well all summer. I bring them in every -winter. Would madame like some?” - -She clipped and broke until I checked her liberality. The gleams that -had caught my eye were large Marguerites, with lissome, white petals, -that scarcely discolored in the pressing and drying. - -“If they were mine I should rather leave them to the winds and -frost than have them winter here!” I said, touching the branches -compassionately. - -“_Plaît-il?_” answered the Savoyard, with wide, innocent eyes. - -Across the court-yard, upon the ground-floor of another building, is -the chamber of torture. This, too, has its memorial pillar, a slender, -wooden post in the middle of the room. To this, the prisoner was bound -for scourging. - -“Sometimes they used whips,” said the guide. “Sometimes,——” she pointed -to scorched places on the seasoned wood. - -The flesh tingles at sight of these dumb records, burned in upon the -memories of Protestants of that day, as they are into the surface of -the post. The scourge, in the cases of extreme offenders against ducal -and ecclesiastical law, was of fine wire, tipped with red-hot iron or -steel. When these missed the back of the victim, they wrote legibly and -lastingly upon the pillar of flagellation. There were other “ancient -improvements” here once, but they have been removed. - -One of note was exhibited in another room,—“_the oubliettes_,” -sometimes called, “the well of promise.” Both names are significant -enough. It is an opening in the floor, fenced in with stout rails. -Four stone steps slant downward from the brink. The eye cannot pierce -the obscurity of the chasm. To the edge of this, then undefended well, -the tried and secretly-condemned prisoner was led, blindfolded, and -instructed to step down a staircase that would lead him into the outer -air and to liberty. The abyss is eighty feet deep. The bottom was set -with sharp knives. - -Upon the second floor are the “family rooms,” the Duke’s bed-chamber -and the boudoir of the Duchess. This last is not large, and -so badly-lighted, that she must have required candles on the -toilette-table, except in the brightest weather. The walls are covered -with what masons style a “scratch-coat” of mortar. It was hung with -tapestry when Chillon was a ducal palace. This boudoir is immediately -above the chamber of torture. When we exclaimed at the proximity, the -girl explained, naïvely, that their Highnesses did not live here all -the year, having other residences. Probably, the operation of rack, -spiked helmet and collar, thumb-screw and scourging-post was subject to -the convenience of the Duchess. All the same, we wondered how she slept -with but the plank flooring between her and what she knew of, down -there. - -The window of her room frames a superb view, on fine days, of the -“wide, long lake,” the towering heights of the Savoy side, and the -“small, green isle” with its three trees. Looking out of it, now, we -saw only the water darkening under the wreathing mists that had chased -us all the way from Nyon, and ruffled by the wind. In the spacious -Knight’s Hall to which we went next, we could barely discern the stains -on the walls that were once frescos, and make out the design of the -carved mantel around the mighty-mouthed chimney-place. The windows -are all toward the lake and deeply recessed, with broad inner ledges. -Within one of these embrasures we sat, gazing upon the slowly-gathering -storm, and listening to the “knocking”—Byron used the right word,—of -the sullen waves, our little Savoyard attending motionless upon our -pleasure. We were going no further than Montreux that night, and our -carriage would wait. We would see—we did see—Chillon upon brighter days -and in merrier company. It suited us to linger and dream, in the weird -twilight, of what had been in the isolated stronghold,—of what, pray -Heaven! could never be again. - -The girl brought a lamp to guide us to the Duke’s private chapel. -The altar is gone, but the choristers’ seats of carved oak are left. -Benches are disposed in orderly rows for the Protestant service, held -here twice in the month. Chillon Castle is still a prison,—a cantonal -penitentiary,—in plainer English—a county jail. Upon each alternate -Sabbath, the inmates are gathered into the chapel, and one of the -neighborhood pastors ministers to them. - -In the court-yard we stopped to gather some yellow-blossomed moss -sprouting between the stones, and our Savoyard damsel added to my -bouquet of prison-flowers, scarlet and brown leaves from the woodbine -running rankly over the tower in which is the torture-chamber. She -stood upon the drawbridge as we drove away, a stalwart young turnkey -at her side,—who, by the way, had narrowly missed locking us into the -lower cells by mistake. Her smiling face, red bodice and white apron -were the only spots of brightness in the gray-and-black picture of the -frowning fortress, close-folded in the mists and the rolling glooms of -the water. - -We thought of the Marguerites in the dungeon. - - -FINIS. - - - - -A NEW VOLUME - -_In the “Common Sense in the Household” Series._ - -THE DINNER YEAR-BOOK. - -By MARION HARLAND, - -Author of “COMMON SENSE IN THE HOUSEHOLD,” “BREAKFAST, LUNCHEON, AND -TEA,” etc., etc. - -_WITH SIX ORIGINAL FULL-PAGE COLORED PLATES._ - -=One vol. 12mo, 720 pages, beautifully bound in cloth. Price $2.25.= - -KITCHEN EDITION IN OIL-CLOTH COVERS AT SAME PRICE. - -THE DINNER YEAR-BOOK is, in its name, happily descriptive of its -purposes and character. It occupies a place which, amid all the -publications upon cookery—and their name is Legion—=has never yet been -occupied=. - -The author truly says that there have been _dinner-giving_ books -published, that is, books of _menus_ for company dinings, “Little -Dinners,” for especial occasions, etc., etc.; but that she has never -yet met with a =practical directory= of this important meal =for every -day in the year=. 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Nothing that he has written - is more brilliant, more incisive, more interesting. * - * * He combines into a compact and nervous narrative - all that is known of the personal, social, political, - and military life of Cæsar; and with his sketch of - Cæsar, includes other brilliant sketches of the great - men, his friends or rivals, who contemporaneously - with him formed the principal figures in the Roman - world.”—_Harper’s Monthly._ - - “This book is a most fascinating biography, and is by - far the best account of Julius Cæsar to be found in the - English language.”—_London Standard._ - - “It is the best biography of the greatest of the Romans - we have, and it is in some respects Mr. Froude’s best - piece of historical writing.”—_Hartford Courant._ - - “Mr. Froude has given the public the best of all recent - books on the life, character and career of Julius - Cæsar.”—_Phila. Eve. Bulletin._ - -*** _For sale by all booksellers, or will be sent, prepaid, upon -receipt of price, by_ - - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, - 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. - - - - -Haworth’s - - BY - _FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT_, - - Author of “THAT LASS O’LOWRIE’S.” - - One Vol. 12mo, Illustrated. Price, $1.50. - - The publication of a new novel from Mrs. Burnett’s pen - has become an event of more than ordinary moment, both - to the critics and the public; and =HAWORTH’S= fulfills - the best anticipations of both. It is in the direct - line of development of the author’s strongest traits, - and marks a higher point than was reached even in the - best passages of her first story. - -_CRITICAL NOTICES._ - -“_Haworth’s_ is a product of genius of a very high order—a piece of -work which will hold a permanent place in literature; one of those -masterly performances that rise wholly above the plane of light -literature upon which novels are generally placed.”—_Evening Post._ - -“It is but faint praise to speak of _Haworth’s_ as merely a good -novel. It is one of the few great novels.... As a story, it is alive -throughout with a thrilling interest which does not flag from beginning -to end, and, besides the story, there is in it a wonderfully clever -study of human nature.”—_Hartford Courant._ - -“_Haworth’s_ will unquestionably be acknowledged one of the great -literary achievements of the day. The chief feature is its intense -dramatic power. It consists almost wholly of vividly-presented -pictures, which so impress themselves on the mind of the reader, that -the effect is more that of seeing the story acted than of reading -it.”—_Boston Post._ - -“Conversation and incident move naturally and with perfect freedom, yet -there is not a page which does not essentially aid in the development -of plot.... The handsome illustrations are in tone and keeping with the -spirit of the book.”—_Buffalo Courier._ - -“The book is original, powerful, helpful, dramatic, vivid and great. -Every character is cut with the distinctness of a cameo, and every one -is unique.... The art of the volume is perfect. Every word is needed to -effect the result. The pictures fit into one another. The whole is a -faultless mosaic.”—_Albany Argus._ - - *** _For sale by all booksellers, or will be sent, prepaid, upon - receipt of price, by_ - - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, - 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. - - - - -DR. J. G. HOLLAND’S _POPULAR NOVELS_. - - Each one vol., 12mo, cloth, - - - - $1.75. - - -NICHOLAS MINTURN: - -_A Study in a Story. Illustrated._ - -“It is unquestionably DR. HOLLAND’S ablest production. The characters -are sketched by a master hand, the incidents are realistic, the -progress of events rapid, and the tone pure and healthy. The book is -superbly illustrated.”—_Rock Island Union._ - -“_Nicholas Minturn_ is the most real novel, or rather life-story, yet -produced by any American writer.”—_Philadelphia Press._ - - -SEVENOAKS: - -_A Story of To-Day. Illustrated._ - -“DR. HOLLAND has added a leaf to his laurels. In _Sevenoaks_, he has -given us a thoroughly good novel, with the distinctive qualities -of a work of literary art. As a story, it is thoroughly readable; -the action is rapid, but not hurried; there is no flagging, and no -dullness.”—_Christian Union._ - - -ARTHUR BONNICASTLE: - -_A Story of American Life. Illustrated._ - -“The narrative is pervaded by a fine poetical spirit that is alive to -the subtle graces of character, as well as to the tender influences of -natural scenes.... Its chief merits must be placed in its graphic and -expressive portraitures of character, its tenderness and delicacy of -sentiment, its touches of heartfelt pathos, and the admirable wisdom -and soundness of its ethical suggestions.”—_N. Y. Tribune._ - - *** _The above books for sale by all booksellers, or - will be sent post or express charges paid, upon receipt - of the price, by_ - - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, PUBLISHERS, - 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. - - - - -“=Two as Interesting and valuable books of travel as have been -published in this country.=” - - NEW YORK EXPRESS. - - _DR. FIELD’S TRAVELS ROUND THE WORLD._ - - I. - FROM THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY TO THE - GOLDEN HORN. - - II. - FROM EGYPT TO JAPAN. - - By HENRY M. FIELD, D.D., Editor of the N. Y. Evangelist. - - Each 1 vol. 12mo. Cloth, gilt top, uniform in style, $2. - - CRITICAL NOTICES. - - By George Ripley, LL.D., in the New York Tribune. - - Few recent travellers combine so many qualities that - are adapted to command the Interest and sympathy of - the public. While he indulges, to its fullest extent, - the characteristic American curiosity with regard to - foreign lands, insisting on seeing every object of - interest with his own eyes, shrinking from no peril - or difficulty in pursuit of information—climbing - mountains, descending mines, exploring pyramids, - with no sense of satiety or weariness, he has also - made a faithful study of the highest authorities on - the different subjects of his narrative, thus giving - solidity and depth to his descriptions, without - sacrificing their facility or grace. - -From the New York Observer. - - The present volume comprises by far the most novel, - romantic, and interesting part of the Journey [Round - the World], and the story of it is told and the scenes - are painted by the hand of a master of the pen. Dr. - Field is a veteran traveller; he knows well what to - see, and (which is still more important to the reader) - he knows well what to describe and how to do it. - -By Chas. Dudley Warner, in the Hartford Courant. - - It is thoroughly entertaining; the reader’s interest is - never allowed to flag; the author carries us forward - from land to land with uncommon vivacity, enlivens - the way with a good humor, a careful observation, and - treats all peoples with a refreshing liberality. - -From Rev. Dr. R. S. Storrs. - - It is indeed a charming book—full of fresh information, - picturesque description, and thoughtful studies of men, - countries, and civilizations. - -From Prof. Roswell D. Hitchcock, D.D. - - In this second volume, Dr. Field, I think, has - surpassed himself in the first, and this is saying - a good deal. In both volumes the editorial instinct - and habit are conspicuous, Dr. Prime has said that - an editor should have six senses, the sixth being “a - sense of the _interesting_.” Dr. Field has this to - perfection. * * * - -From the New York Herald. - - It would be impossible by extracts to convey an - adequate idea of the variety, abundance, or picturesque - freshness of these sketches of travel, without copying - a great part of the book. - -Rev. Wm. M. Taylor, D.D., In the Christian at Work. - - Dr. Field has an eye, if we may use a photographic - illustration, with a great deal of collodion in it, - so that he sees very clearly. He knows also how to - describe just those things in the different places - visited by him which an intelligent man wants to know - about. - - - *** _The above books for sale by all booksellers, - or mill be sent, post or express charges paid, upon - receipt of the price by the publishers,_ - - CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, - 743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Archaic spellings such as -“checquered” and “chabybeate” were retained as was the varied -hyphenation. Text also uses Hotel Bellevue and Hotel Belle Vue. - -Page v, “Ollapodrida” changed to “Olla Podrida” - -Pages 25 and 27, “Bronté” changed to “Brontë” (Here the Brontë) (or the -sisters Brontë) - -Page 86, “brighest” changed to “brightest” (highest and brightest) - -Page 90, “surburban” changed to “suburban” (our suburban towns) - -Page 115, “faience” changed to “faïence” (faïence in a tumbling-down) - -Page 118, “clerygman” changed to “clergyman” (applied to the clergyman) - -Page 143, “Tuilleries” changed to “Tuileries” (Tuileries, where he had) - -Page 145, “revolulution” changed to “revolution” (another -revolution—that) - -Page 148, “l’infame” changed to “l’infâme” (fenêtre que l’infâme) - -Page 149, “brulée” changed “brûlée” (burned (_brûlée_), but) - -Pages 154 and 373, “chateau” changed to “château” (central château, -facing) (handsome château over) - -Page 155, “regle” changed to “règle” (_en règle_ for a) - -Page 162, “inquitude” changed to “inquietude” (and moral inquietude) - -Page 166, poem, “cimitiere,” “chére,” and “légére” changed to -“cimetière,” “chère,” and “légère.” - -Pages 205 and 240, “cocchiere” changed to “cocchière” (said our -_cocchière_) (the _cocchière_ upon) - -Page 219, “quareled” changed to “quarrelled” (crows quarrelled at) - -Page 228, “rilievo” changed to “relievo” (in basso-relievo) - -Page 229, “dasies” changed to “daisies” (picked the daisies) - -Page 230, “Réni” changed to “Reni” (by Guido Reni) - -Page 233, “Réni’s” changed to “Reni’s” (containing Guido Reni’s) - -Page 265, “stubborness” changed to “stubbornness” (a mule’s in -stubbornness) - -Page 272, “deceiftul” changed “deceitful” (climate is deceitful) - -Page 275, “Liliputian” changed “Lilliputian” (Lilliputian mansion, is) - -Page 302, “propretor” changed “proprietor” (with the proprietor) - -Page 359, “an” changed to “as” (level as an Illinois) - -Page 370, “Goldnau” changed to “Goldau” (The Goldau Landslip) - -Page 377, “heacons” changed to “beacons” (by one, as beacons) - -Page 382, “feed” is past tense of “fee” in this instance so is correct -as printed. - -Page 394, “chateaux” changed to “châteaux” (châteaux and humbler) - -Page 404, “géne” changed to “gêne” (je vous gêne) - -Pages 405 and 432, “Plait” changed to “Plaît” (Plaît-il?) - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Loitering in Pleasant Paths, by Marion Harland - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOITERING IN PLEASANT PATHS *** - -***** This file should be named 50511-0.txt or 50511-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/0/5/1/50511/ - -Produced by Emmy, MWS and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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