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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/77354-0.txt b/77354-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ba58686 --- /dev/null +++ b/77354-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2337 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77354 *** + + + + +“_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”--SHAKESPEARE. + +HOUSEHOLD WORDS. + +A WEEKLY JOURNAL. + +CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS. + + N^o. 330.] SATURDAY, JULY 19, 1856. {PRICE 2_d._ + {STAMPED 3_d._ + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + + + THE DIARY OF ANNE RODWAY. + BIRD HISTORY. + RHINE-LAND. + MILVERSTON WORTHIES. + SCOTCH COAST FOLK. + CHIP. + CHARLES THE FIFTH’S GLOVE. + + + + +THE DIARY OF ANNE RODWAY. + + +IN TWO CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE FIRST. + +March 3rd, 1840. A long letter to-day from Robert, which surprised +and vexed and fluttered me so, that I have been sadly behind-hand +with my work ever since. He writes in worse spirits than last time, +and absolutely declares that he is poorer even than when he went to +America, and that he has made up his mind to come home to London. How +happy I should be at this news, if he only returned to me a prosperous +man! As it is, though I love him dearly, I cannot look forward to the +meeting him again, disappointed and broken down and poorer than ever, +without a feeling almost of dread for both of us. I was twenty-six +last birthday and he was thirty-three; and there seems less chance now +than ever of our being married. It is all I can do to keep myself by +my needle; and his prospects, since he failed in the small stationery +business three years ago, are worse, if possible, than mine. Not that +I mind so much for myself; women, in all ways of life, and especially +in my dressmaking way, learn, I think, to be more patient than men. +What I dread is Robert’s despondency, and the hard struggle he will +have in this cruel city to get his bread--let alone making money enough +to marry me. So little as poor people want to set up in housekeeping +and be happy together, it seems hard that they can’t get it when they +are honest and hearty, and willing to work. The clergyman said in his +sermon, last Sunday evening, that all things were ordered for the best, +and we are all put into the stations in life that are properest for us. +I suppose he was right, being a very clever gentleman who fills the +church to crowding; but I think I should have understood him better +if I had not been very hungry at the time, in consequence of my own +station in life being nothing but Plain Needlewoman. + +March 4th. Mary Mallinson came down to my room to take a cup of tea +with me. I read her bits of Robert’s letter, to show her that if she +has her troubles, I have mine too; but I could not succeed in cheering +her. She says she is born to misfortune, and that, as long back as +she can remember, she has never had the least morsel of luck to be +thankful for. I told her to go and look in my glass, and to say if +she had nothing to be thankful for then; for Mary is a very pretty +girl, and would look still prettier if she could be more cheerful and +dress neater. However, my compliment did no good. She rattled her spoon +impatiently in her tea-cup, and said, “If I was only as good a hand at +needlework as you are, Anne, I would change faces with the ugliest girl +in London.” “Not you!” says I, laughing. She looked at me for a moment, +and shook her head, and was out of the room before I could get up and +stop her. She always runs off in that way when she is going to cry, +having a kind of pride about letting other people see her in tears. + +March 5th.--A fright about Mary. I had not seen her all day, as she +does not work at the same place where I do; and in the evening she +never came down to have tea with me, or sent me word to go to her. So +just before I went to bed I ran up-stairs to say good-night. She did +not answer when I knocked; and when I stepped softly into the room I +saw her in bed, asleep, with her work not half done, lying about the +room in the untidiest way. There was nothing remarkable in that, and I +was just going away on tip-toe, when a tiny bottle and wine-glass on +the chair by her bedside caught my eye. I thought she was ill and had +been taking physic, and looked at the bottle. It was marked in large +letters, “Laudanum--Poison.” My heart gave a jump as if it was going to +fly out of me. I laid hold of her with both hands, and shook her with +all my might. She was sleeping heavily, and woke slowly, as it seemed +to me--but still she did wake. I tried to pull her out of bed, having +heard that people ought to be always walked up and down when they have +taken laudanum; but she resisted, and pushed me away violently. + +“Anne!” says she in a fright. “For gracious sake, what’s come to you! +Are you out of your senses?” + +“O, Mary! Mary!” says I, holding up the bottle before her, “If I hadn’t +come in when I did----” And I laid hold of her to shake her again. + +She looked puzzled at me for a moment--then smiled (the first time I +had seen her do so for many a long day)--then put her arms round my +neck. + +“Don’t be frightened about me, Anne,” she says, “I am not worth it, and +there is no need.” + +“No need!” says I, out of breath. “No need, when the bottle has got +Poison marked on it!” + +“Poison, dear, if you take it all,” says Mary looking at me very +tenderly; “and a night’s rest if you only take a little.” + +I watch her for a moment; doubtful whether I ought to believe what she +said, or to alarm the house. But there was no sleepiness in her eyes, +and nothing drowsy in her voice; and she sat up in bed quite easily +without anything to support her. + +“You have given me a dreadful fright, Mary,” says I, sitting down by +her in the chair, and beginning, by this time, to feel rather faint +after being startled so. + +She jumped out of bed to get me a drop of water; and kissed me, and +said how sorry she was, and how undeserving of so much interest being +taken in her. At the same time, she tried to possess herself of the +laudanum-bottle which I still kept cuddled up tight in my own hands. + +“No,” says I. “You have got into a low-spirited despairing way. I won’t +trust you with it.” + +“I am afraid I can’t do without it,” says Mary, in her usual quiet, +hopeless voice. “What with work that I can’t get through as I ought, +and troubles that I can’t help thinking of, sleep won’t come to me +unless I take a few drops out of that bottle. Don’t keep it away from +me, Anne; it’s the only thing in the world that makes me forget myself.” + +“Forget yourself!” says I. “You have no right to talk in that way, +at your age. There’s something horrible in the notion of a girl of +eighteen sleeping with a bottle of laudanum by her bedside every night. +We all of us have our troubles. Haven’t I got mine?” + +“You can do twice the work I can, twice as well as me,” says Mary. “You +are never scolded and rated at for awkwardness with your needle; and I +always am. You can pay for your room every week; and I am three weeks +in debt for mine.” + +“A little more practice,” says I, “and a little more courage, and you +will soon do better. You have got all your life before you--” + +“I wish I was at the end of it,” says she, breaking in. “I’m alone in +the world, and my life’s no good to me.” + +“You ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying so,” says I. “Haven’t +you got me for a friend. Didn’t I take a fancy to you when first you +left your stepmother, and came to lodge in this house? And haven’t I +been sisters with you ever since? Suppose you are alone in the world, +am I much better off? I’m an orphan, like you. I’ve almost as many +things in pawn as you; and, if your pockets are empty, mine have only +got nine-pence in them, to last me for all the rest of the week.” + +“Your father and mother were honest people,” says Mary, obstinately. +“My mother ran away from home, and died in a hospital. My father was +always drunk, and always beating me. My stepmother is as good as dead, +for all she cares about me. My only brother is thousands of miles away +in foreign parts, and never writes to me, and never helps me with a +farthing. My sweetheart--” + +She stopped, and the red flew into her face. I knew, if she went on +that way, she would only get to the saddest part of her sad story, and +give both herself and me unnecessary pain. + +“My sweetheart is too poor to marry me, Mary,” I said. “So I’m not so +much to be envied, even there. But let’s give over disputing which is +worst off. Lie down in bed, and let me tuck you up. I’ll put a stitch +or two into that work of yours while you go to sleep.” + +Instead of doing what I told her, she burst out crying (being very like +a child in some of her ways), and hugged me so tight round the neck, +that she quite hurt me. I let her go on, till she had worn herself out, +and was obliged to lie down. Even then, her last few words, before she +dropped off to sleep, were such as I was half-sorry, half-frightened, +to hear. + +“I won’t plague you long, Anne,” she said. “I haven’t courage to go +out of the world as you seem to fear I shall. But I began my life +wretchedly, and wretchedly I am sentenced to end it.” + +It was of no use lecturing her again, for she closed her eyes. I tucked +her up as neatly as I could, and put her petticoat over her; for the +bed-clothes were scanty, and her hands felt cold. She looked so pretty +and delicate as she fell asleep, that it quite made my heart ache +to see her, after such talk as we had held together. I just waited +long enough to be quite sure that she was in the land of dreams; then +emptied the horrible laudanum-bottle into the grate, took up her +half-done work, and, going out softly, left her for that night. + +March 6th. Sent off a long letter to Robert, begging and entreating +him not to be so down-hearted, and not to leave America without +making another effort. I told him I could bear any trial except the +wretchedness of seeing him come back a helpless, broken-down man, +trying uselessly to begin life again, when too old for a change. It +was not till after I had posted my own letter, and read over parts of +Robert’s again, that the suspicion suddenly floated across me, for the +first time, that he might have sailed for England immediately after +writing to me. There were expressions in the letter which seemed to +indicate that he had some such headlong project in his mind. And +yet, surely if it were so, I ought to have noticed them at the first +reading. I can only hope I am wrong in my present interpretation of +much of what he has written to me--hope it earnestly for both our sakes. + +This has been a doleful day for me. I have been uneasy about Robert, +and uneasy about Mary. My mind is haunted by those last words of hers: +“I began my life wretchedly, and wretchedly I am sentenced to end it.” +Her usual melancholy way of talking never produced the same impression +on me that I feel now. Perhaps the discovery of the laudanum-bottle is +the cause of this. I would give many a hard day’s work to know what to +do for Mary’s good. My heart warmed to her when we first met in the +same lodging-house, two years ago; and, although I am not one of the +over-affectionate sort myself, I feel as if I could go to the world’s +end to serve that girl. Yet, strange to say, if I was asked why I was +so fond of her, I don’t think I should know how to answer the question. + +March 7th. I am almost ashamed to write it down, even in this journal, +which no eyes but mine ever look on; yet I must honestly confess to +myself, that here I am, at nearly one in the morning, sitting up in +a state of serious uneasiness, because Mary has not yet come home. I +walked with her, this morning, to the place where she works, and tried +to lead her into talking of the relations she has got who are still +alive. My motive in doing this was to see if she dropped anything +in the course of conversation which might suggest a way of helping +her interests with those who are bound to give her all reasonable +assistance. But the little I could get her to say to me led to nothing. +Instead of answering my questions about her stepmother and her brother, +she persisted at first, in the strangest way, in talking of her father, +who was dead and gone, and of one Noah Truscott, who had been the +worst of all the bad friends he had, and had taught him to drink and +game. When I did get her to speak of her brother, she only knew that +he had gone out to a place called Assam, where they grew tea. How he +was doing, or whether he was there still, she did not seem to know, +never having heard a word from him for years and years past. As for her +stepmother, Mary, not unnaturally, flew into a passion the moment I +spoke of her. She keeps an eating-house at Hammersmith, and could have +given Mary good employment in it; but she seems always to have hated +her, and to have made her life so wretched with abuse and ill-usage, +that she had no refuge left but to go away from home, and do her best +to make a living for herself. Her husband (Mary’s father) appears to +have behaved badly to her; and, after his death, she took the wicked +course of revenging herself on her step-daughter. I felt, after this, +that it was impossible Mary could go back, and that it was the hard +necessity of her position, as it is of mine, that she should struggle +on to make a decent livelihood without assistance from any of her +relations. I confessed as much as this to her; but I added that I would +try to get her employment with the persons for whom I work, who pay +higher wages, and show a little more indulgence to those under them, +than the people to whom she is now obliged to look for support. I spoke +much more confidently than I felt, about being able to do this; and +left her, as I thought, in better spirits than usual. She promised to +be back to-night to tea, at nine o’clock, and now it is nearly one in +the morning, and she is not home yet. If it was any other girl I should +not feel uneasy, for I should make up my mind that there was extra +work to be done in a hurry, and that they were keeping her late, and I +should go to bed. But Mary is so unfortunate in everything that happens +to her, and her own melancholy talk about herself keeps hanging on my +mind so, that I have fears on her account which would not distress me +about any one else. It seems inexcusably silly to think such a thing, +much more to write it down; but I have a kind of nervous dread upon me +that some accident-- + +What does that loud knocking at the street door mean? And those voices +and heavy footsteps outside? Some lodger who has lost his key, I +suppose, And yet, my heart----What a coward I have become all of a +sudden! + +More knocking and louder voices. I must run to the door and see what it +is. O, Mary! Mary! I hope I am not going to have another fright about +you; but I feel sadly like it. + +March 8th. + +March 9th. + +March 10th. + +March 11th. O, me! all the troubles I have ever had in my life are as +nothing to the trouble I am in now. For three days I have not been able +to write a single line in this journal, which I have kept so regularly, +ever since I was a girl. For three days I have not once thought of +Robert--I, who am always thinking of him at other times. My poor, dear, +unhappy Mary, the worst I feared for you on that night when I sat up +alone was far below the dreadful calamity that has really happened. How +can I write about it, with my eyes full of tears and my hand all of a +tremble? I don’t even know why I am sitting down at my desk now, unless +it is habit that keeps me to my old everyday task, in spite of all the +grief and fear which seem to unfit me entirely for performing it. + +The people of the house were asleep and lazy on that dreadful night, +and I was the first to open the door. Never, never, could I describe +in writing, or even say in plain talk, though it is so much easier, +what I felt when I saw two policemen come in, carrying between them +what seemed to me to be a dead girl, and that girl Mary! I caught hold +of her and gave a scream that must have alarmed the whole house; for, +frightened people came crowding down-stairs in their night-dresses. +There was a dreadful confusion and noise of loud talking, but I heard +nothing, and saw nothing, till I had got her into my room, and laid on +my bed. I stooped down, frantic-like, to kiss her, and saw an awful +mark of a blow on her left temple, and felt, at the same time, a feeble +flutter of her breath on my cheek. The discovery that she was not dead +seemed to give me back my senses again. I told one of the policemen +where the nearest doctor was to be found, and sat down by the bedside +while he was gone, and bathed her poor head with cold water. She never +opened her eyes, or moved, or spoke; but she breathed, and that was +enough for me, because it was enough for life. + +The policeman left in the room was a big, thick-voiced, pompous man, +with a horrible unfeeling pleasure in hearing himself talk before an +assembly of frightened, silent people. He told us how he had found her, +as if he had been telling a story in a taproom, and began with saying, +“I don’t think the young woman was drunk.” Drunk! My Mary, who might +have been a born lady for all the spirits she ever touched--drunk! I +could have struck the man for uttering the word, with her lying, poor +suffering angel, so white and still and helpless before him. As it +was, I gave him a look; but he was too stupid to understand it, and +went droning on, saying the same thing over and over again in the same +words. And yet the story of how they found her was, like all the sad +stories I have ever heard told in real life, so very, very short. They +had just seen her lying along on the kerb-stone, a few streets off, and +had taken her to the station-house. There she had been searched, and +one of my cards, that I give to ladies who promise me employment, had +been found in her pocket, and so they had brought her to our house. +This was all the man really had to tell. There was nobody near her when +she was found, and no evidence to show how the blow on her temple had +been inflicted. + +What a time it was before the doctor came, and how dreadful to hear him +say, after he had looked at her, that he was afraid all the medical men +in the world could be of no use here! He could not get her to swallow +anything; and the more he tried to bring her back to her senses, the +less chance there seemed of his succeeding. He examined the blow on her +temple, and said he thought she must have fallen down in a fit of some +sort, and struck her head against the pavement, and so have given her +brain what he was afraid was a fatal shake. I asked what was to be done +if she showed any return to sense in the night. He said, “Send for me +directly;” and stopped for a little while afterwards stroking her head +gently with his hand, and whispering to himself, “Poor girl, so young +and so pretty!” I had felt, some minutes before, as if I could have +struck the policeman; and I felt now as if I could have thrown my arms +round the doctor’s neck and kissed him. I did put out my hand, when he +took up his hat, and he shook it in the friendliest way. “Don’t hope, +my dear,” he said, and went out. + +The rest of the lodgers followed him, all silent and shocked, except +the inhuman wretch who owns the house, and lives in idleness on the +high rents he wrings from poor people like us. “She’s three weeks in my +debt,” says he, with a frown and an oath. “Where the devil is my money +to come from now?” Brute! brute! + +I had a long cry alone with her that seemed to ease my heart a little. +She was not the least changed for the better when I had wiped away +the tears, and could see her clearly again. I took up her right hand, +which lay nearest to me. It was tight clenched. I tried to unclasp the +fingers, and succeeded after a little time. Something dark fell out of +the palm of her hand as I straightened it. I picked the thing up, and +smoothed it out, and saw that it was an end of a man’s cravat. + +A very old, rotten, dingy strip of black silk, with thin lilac lines, +all blurred and deadened with dirt, running across and across the stuff +in a sort of trellis-work pattern. The small end of the cravat was +hemmed in the usual way, but the other end was all jagged, as if the +morsel then in my hands had been torn off violently from the rest of +the stuff. A chill ran all over me as I looked at it; for that poor, +stained, crumpled end of a cravat seemed to be saying to me, as though +it had been in plain words, “If she dies, she has come to her death by +foul means, and I am the witness of it.” + +I had been frightened enough before, lest she should die suddenly +and quietly without my knowing it, while we were alone together; but +I got into a perfect agony now for fear this last worst affliction +should take me by surprise. I don’t suppose five minutes passed all +that woeful night through, without my getting up and putting my cheek +close to her mouth, to feel if the faint breaths still fluttered out +of it. They came and went just the same as at first, though the fright +I was in often made me fancy they were stilled for ever. Just as the +church clocks were striking four, I was startled by seeing the room +door open. It was only Dusty Sal (as they call her in the house) the +maid-of-all-work. She was wrapped up in the blanket off her bed; her +hair was all tumbled over her face; and her eyes were heavy with sleep, +as she came up to the bedside where I was sitting. + +“I’ve two hours good before I begin to work,” says she, in her hoarse, +drowsy voice, “and I’ve come to sit up and take my turn at watching +her. You lay down and get some sleep on the rug. Here’s my blanket for +you--I don’t mind the cold--it will keep me awake.” + +“You are very kind--very, very kind and thoughtful, Sally,” says I, +“but I am too wretched in my mind to want sleep, or rest, or to do +anything but wait where I am, and try and hope for the best.” + +“Then I’ll wait, too,” says Sally. “I must do something; if there’s +nothing to do but waiting, I’ll wait.” + +And she sat down opposite me at the foot of the bed, and drew the +blanket close round her with a shiver. + +“After working so hard as you do, I’m sure you must want all the little +rest you can get,” says I. + +“Excepting only you,” says Sally, putting her heavy arm very clumsily, +but very gently at the same time, round Mary’s feet, and looking hard +at the pale, still face on the pillow. “Excepting you, she’s the only +soul in this house as never swore at me, or give me a hard word that +I can remember. When you made puddings on Sundays, and give her half, +she always give me a bit. The rest of ’em calls me Dusty Sal. Excepting +only you, again, she always called me Sally, as if she knowed me in a +friendly way. I ain’t no good here, but I ain’t no harm neither; and I +shall take my turn at the sitting up--that’s what I shall do!” + +She nestled her head down close at Mary’s feet as she spoke those +words, and said no more. I once or twice thought she had fallen asleep, +but whenever I looked at her, her heavy eyes were always wide open. +She never changed her position an inch till the church clocks struck +six; then she gave one little squeeze to Mary’s feet with her arm, and +shuffled out of the room without a word. A minute or two after, I heard +her down below, lighting the kitchen fire just as usual. + +A little later, the doctor stepped over before his breakfast time, to +see if there had been any change in the night. He only shook his head +when he looked at her, as if there was no hope. Having nobody else to +consult that I could put trust in, I showed him the end of the cravat, +and told him of the dreadful suspicion that had arisen in my mind, when +I found it in her hand. + +“You must keep it carefully, and produce it at the inquest,” he said. +“I don’t know though, that it is likely to lead to anything. The bit +of stuff may have been lying on the pavement near her, and her hand +may have unconsciously clutched it when she fell. Was she subject to +fainting fits?” + +“Not more so, sir, than other young girls who are hard-worked and +anxious, and weakly from poor living,” I answered. + +“I can’t say that she may not have got that blow from a fall,” the +doctor went on, looking at her temple again. “I can’t say that it +presents any positive appearance of having been inflicted by another +person. It will be important, however, to ascertain what state of +health she was in last night. Have you any idea where she was yesterday +evening?” + +I told him where she was employed at work, and said I imagined she must +have been kept there later than usual. + +“I shall pass the place this morning,” said the doctor, “in going +my rounds among my patients, and I’ll just step in and make some +inquiries.” + +I thanked him, and we parted. Just as he was closing the door, he +looked in again. + +“Was she your sister?” he asked. + +“No, sir, only my dear friend.” + +He said nothing more; but I heard him sigh, as he shut the door softly. +Perhaps he once had a sister of his own, and lost her? Perhaps she was +like Mary in the face? + +The doctor was hours gone away. I began to feel unspeakably forlorn +and helpless. So much so, as even to wish selfishly that Robert might +really have sailed from America, and might get to London in time to +assist and console me. No living creature came into the room but Sally. +The first time she brought me some tea; the second and third times she +only looked in to see if there was any change, and glanced her eye +towards the bed. I had never known her so silent before; it seemed +almost as if this dreadful accident had struck her dumb. I ought to +have spoken to her, perhaps, but there was something in her face that +daunted me; and, besides, the fever of anxiety I was in began to dry up +my lips as if they would never be able to shape any words again. I was +still tormented by that frightful apprehension of the past night, that +she would die without my knowing it--die without saying one word to +clear up the awful mystery of this blow, and set the suspicions at rest +for ever which I still felt whenever my eyes fell on the end of the old +cravat. + +At last the doctor came back. + +“I think you may safely clear your mind of any doubts to which that +bit of stuff may have given rise,” he said. “She was, as you supposed, +detained late by her employers, and she fainted in the work-room. They +most unwisely and unkindly let her go home alone, without giving her +any stimulant, as soon as she came to her senses again. Nothing is +more probable, under these circumstances, than that she should faint +a second time on her way here. A fall on the pavement, without any +friendly arm to break it, might have produced even a worse injury than +the injury we see. I believe that the only ill-usage to which the poor +girl was exposed was the neglect she met with in the work-room.” + +“You speak very reasonably, I own, sir,” said I, not yet quite +convinced. “Still, perhaps she may----” + +“My poor girl, I told you not to hope,” said the doctor, interrupting +me. He went to Mary, and lifted up her eyelids, and looked at her +eyes while he spoke, then added: “If you still doubt how she came by +that blow, do not encourage the idea that any words of hers will ever +enlighten you. She will never speak again.” + +“Not dead! O, sir, don’t say she’s dead!” + +“She is dead to pain and sorrow--dead to speech and recognition. There +is more animation in the life of the feeblest insect that flies, than +in the life that is left in her. When you look at her now, try to think +that she is in Heaven. That is the best comfort I can give you, after +telling the hard truth.” + +I did not believe him. I could not believe him. So long as she breathed +at all, so long I was resolved to hope. Soon after the doctor was gone, +Sally came in again, and found me listening (if I may call it so) at +Mary’s lips. She went to where my little hand-glass hangs against the +wall, took it down, and gave it to me. + +“See if the breath marks it,” she said. + +Yes; her breath did mark it, but very faintly. Sally cleaned the +glass with her apron, and gave it back to me. As she did so, she half +stretched out her hand to Mary’s face, but drew it in again suddenly, +as if she was afraid of soiling Mary’s delicate skin with her hard, +horny fingers. Going out, she stopped at the foot of the bed, and +scraped away a little patch of mud that was on one of Mary’s shoes. + +“I always used to clean ’em for her,” said Sally, “to save her hands +from getting blacked. May I take ’em off now, and clean ’em again?” + +I nodded my head, for my heart was too heavy to speak. Sally took the +shoes off with a slow, awkward tenderness, and went out. + +An hour or more must have passed, when, putting the glass over her +lips again, I saw no mark on it. I held it closer and closer. I dulled +it accidentally with my own breath, and cleaned it. I held it over +her again. O, Mary, Mary, the doctor was right! I ought to have only +thought of you in Heaven! + +Dead, without a word, without a sign,--without even a look to tell the +true story of the blow that killed her! I could not call to anybody, I +could not cry, I could not so much as put the glass down and give her +a kiss for the last time. I don’t know how long I had sat there with +my eyes burning, and my hands deadly cold, when Sally came in with the +shoes cleaned, and carried carefully in her apron for fear of a soil +touching them. At the sight of that---- + +I can write no more. My tears drop so fast on the paper that I can see +nothing. + +March 12th. She died on the afternoon of the eighth. On the morning +of the ninth, I wrote, as in duty bound, to her stepmother, at +Hammersmith. There was no answer. I wrote again: my letter was returned +to me this morning, unopened. For all that woman cares, Mary might be +buried with a pauper’s funeral. But this shall never be, if I pawn +everything about me, down to the very gown that is on my back. The bare +thought of Mary being buried by the workhouse gave me the spirit to dry +my eyes, and go to the undertaker’s, and tell him how I was placed. I +said, if he would get me an estimate of all that would have to be paid, +from first to last, for the cheapest decent funeral that could be had, +I would undertake to raise the money. He gave me the estimate, written +in this way, like a common bill: + + A walking funeral complete 1 13 8 + Vestry 0 4 4 + Rector 0 4 4 + Clerk 0 1 0 + Sexton 0 1 0 + Beadle 0 1 0 + Bell 0 1 0 + Six feet of ground 0 2 0 + --------- + Total £2 8 4 + +If I had the heart to give any thought to it, I should be inclined to +wish that the Church could afford to do without so many small charges +for burying poor people, to whose friends even shillings are of +consequence. But it is useless to complain; the money must be raised +at once. The charitable doctor--a poor man himself, or he would not be +living in our neighbourhood--has subscribed ten shillings towards the +expenses; and the coroner, when the inquest was over, added five more. +Perhaps others may assist me. If not, I have fortunately clothes and +furniture of my own to pawn. And I must set about parting with them +without delay; for the funeral is to be to-morrow, the thirteenth. The +funeral--Mary’s funeral! It is well that the straits and difficulties I +am in, keep my mind on the stretch. If I had leisure to grieve, where +should I find the courage to face to-morrow? + +Thank God, they did not want me at the inquest. The verdict given--with +the doctor, the policeman, and two persons from the place where she +worked, for witnesses--was Accidental Death. The end of the cravat was +produced, and the coroner said that it was certainly enough to suggest +suspicion; but the jury, in the absence of any positive evidence, held +to the doctor’s notion that she had fainted and fallen down, and so +got the blow on her temple. They reproved the people where Mary worked +for letting her go home alone, without so much as a drop of brandy to +support her, after she had fallen into a swoon from exhaustion before +their eyes. The coroner added, on his own account, that he thought the +reproof was thoroughly deserved. After that, the cravat-end was given +back to me, by my own desire; the police saying that they could make +no investigations with such a slight clue to guide them. They may think +so, and the coroner, and doctor, and jury may think so; but, in spite +of all that has passed, I am now more firmly persuaded than ever that +there is some dreadful mystery in connection with that blow on my poor +lost Mary’s temple which has yet to be revealed, and which may come to +be discovered through this very fragment of a cravat that I found in +her hand. I cannot give any good reason for why I think so; but I know +that if I had been one of the jury at the inquest, nothing should have +induced me to consent to such a verdict as Accidental Death. + + + + +BIRD HISTORY. + + +A certain learned physician, named Peter Belon, a native of the town +of Le Mans, the capital of what was then the province of Maine, but is +now the department of the river Sarthe, in France, bethought him that +very little was known in his native country at the time he lived--the +middle of the sixteenth century--of Natural History; and, being moved +by the example of Aristotle (at the trifling distance of nearly +nineteen hundred years) he resolved, having been a great traveller +and eke a great observer (two persons not always united) to give his +fellow-citizens and the world, the benefit of his experience and +opportunities, and take away the reproach which lay like a shadow over +the land. + +Prepared by much study for the cultivation of his favourite pursuits, +he left France in the year fifteen hundred and forty-seven, being +at that time twenty-nine years of age, and travelled successively +through Germany, Bohemia, Italy, Greece, Egypt, Palestine, and Asia +Minor, returning to Paris after three years absence with a large +and valuable collection of plants and specimens of natural history, +which he then occupied himself in arranging, preparatory to the +publication of the knowledge he had acquired. The first work which +he produced was a history of strange fishes and serpents, under the +title “De Aquatilibus;” but, tempting as the subject is, I do not at +present intend to examine it, having another of his productions before +me, which (from the fact of its being a borrowed book, and liable, +therefore, to sudden seizure by its owner, who otherwise would never +get it back), more immediately claims my attention. + +This coveted volume is the celebrated History of the Nature of Birds, +with their descriptions and lively portraits, taken from Nature, and +written in seven books, and is, perhaps, the principal work on which +is founded Peter Belon’s claim to be considered the father of modern +natural history. In the preface to it he promises--and he keeps his +word far better than might have been expected--that nothing shall +appear in these books which is not perfectly true; there shall be no +false descriptions or portraits of suppositious animals; nothing, +in short, that is not to be found in nature. Appropriate to the +publication of a work on ornithology, Peter Belon caused this volume +to be printed, in the year fifteen hundred and fifty-five, by William +Cavellat, in front of the college of Cambray, in Paris, at the sign +of the Fat Hen (a sure sign that Peter Belon came from Le Mans, a +city famous for its poultry); and that there should be no doubt of +the latter fact, the title-page also bore the living portraiture of +a domestic fowl in very high condition, enclosed within a circle, on +the outer rim of which was inscribed the legend “Gallina in pingui,” +an inscription that need not again be translated. A portrait of Peter +Belon, as he appeared to the justly-admiring world, at the age of +thirty-six, also embellished the volume. The learned physician appears +to have been a man with a good, sensible, honest countenance, wearing a +large Crimean beard, and having a cap on his head, the shape of which, +fortunately, has not yet been adopted for the British army. + +Like most other old authors, Peter Belon takes some time before he can +get fairly under weigh. There are, first, the dedication to the most +Christian king--Henry the Second of the name--whose humble scholar the +author declares himself to be. Then follows a homily addressed to the +reader, chiefly for the purpose of assuring him that, in the lively +portraits of the birds which he presents (Ah, could we but reproduce +some of them!), he is not practising on his credulity, but that, such +as he represents them, the fowls are themselves, and that, where he +cannot get an authentic likeness he has refused to invent one. + +The royal privilege to publish, sealed with yellow wax--like a bottle +of good old wine--comes next, and finally appear several copies of +verses in praise of the author, by certain of his friends, which +latter had better be skipped, that Peter Belon’s volume, which has in +it a great deal that is worth reading, may unfold its pages for our +gratification. It is not, however, a resumé of the work, or anything +like it, that I intend to make, but simply a dip into it--here and +there--extending some of the quaint fancies, curious digressions, and +sound opinions with which it is interspersed, always desiring our +reader to bear in mind that the author was a physician as well as a +naturalist. + +A word or two, before he fairly enters on his theme, may be allowed +him to describe the pains he was in the habit of taking to obtain +correct information. “It was my custom,” he says, “during my sojourn +in Padua, to go down the Brenta every Thursday evening, voyaging +all night in order to reach Venice on Friday morning, and to remain +there on Saturday and Sunday, as much for the convenience of seeing +birds as well as fishes; and after having conferred with fowlers and +fishermen, to return from thence on Sunday evening, thus losing no time +by taking the night-boat, and being ready to continue my studies on +Monday morning. During which time, on the aforesaid days of Friday and +Saturday, there was not a single fowler or fisherman who did not bring +to show me every rare creature he had been able to procure.” + +Commencing, then, “ab ovo,” Peter Belon discusses the properties of +eggs; but into the processes of fecundation and hatching which he +describes, I do not propose to enter, the gastronomic view of the +question presenting more novelty. After apologising for the puerility +of the subject, he tells us that in his time the French way of eating +eggs (they have six hundred and eighty-five ways now, if the Almanach +des Gourmands speaks sooth) was by breaking them at the small end +and carefully replacing the shell when emptied into the platter; +while the Germans, on the other hand--reminding us of Blefuscu and +Lilliput--opened their eggs at the side and finished by smashing the +shell; in which latter practice, says Belon, they followed the example +of the ancients, who held it a thing of evil augury to leave the shells +unbroken. Belon then proceeds to discourse on the numerous varieties +of eggs, considering those of pigeons, ostriches, pea-hens, geese, and +swans are ill-flavoured and indigestible,--not objecting to the eggs of +the tortoise or turtle,--but giving the preference, like a person of +taste, to those of the domestic fowl, which, he says, “are supposed by +many in France to assist greatly in prolonging life;” and he instances +the case of Pope Paul the Third, who used, with that end in view, to +eat two new-laid eggs for breakfast every morning. As to their shape, +he remarks that long eggs are supposed to be much better eating than +round ones; but without insisting on this point, he has no hesitation +in declaring that all are highly invigorating, as truffles are, and +artichokes, and raw oysters. Artichokes, indeed, were so much esteemed +in Belon’s time, that “no great nobleman feeling himself unwell would +finish his dinner without them,”--eating them by way of dessert. Belon +objects to hard boiled eggs, or such as are too much fried, “on account +of their engendering bad humours,” but upon poached eggs (œufs pochéz) +he looks with considerable favour. In all cases he prefers plain boiled +eggs (time--three minutes and a quarter) to those which are roasted; +notwithstanding the well-known proverb: “There’s wisdom in the roasting +of eggs.” The best way of preserving eggs, he says, is to keep them in +a cool place, bury them in salt, or dip them in brine. + +As the chicken issues naturally from the egg, so dining upon the one is +the regular sequence to breakfasting on the other. The younger your +pullet, says Belon, the easier it is of digestion, though he allows you +occasionally to eat an elderly male bird, when prescribed medicinally +(hormis le coq, qui est souvêt pris pour medicine). “Roasted or grilled +fowls are generally the most savoury; those which are boiled furnish +more humid nourishment to the body. The first are eaten hot, the last +cold.” This rule, however, does not, he tells us, always hold good: +“Because, if any one writing on the quality of the flesh of birds, +happened to be in a country where the people fed on a particular +kind not eaten elsewhere, and a male bird already old and tough were +offered him (avenait qu’on luy presentast de quelque oyseau des-ia viel +et endurcy), he ought not to conclude that its flesh is necessarily +fibrous and hard.” With all respect for the opinion of honest Peter +Belon, I should be inclined to think that a tough old cock, whatever +his nation, was somewhat difficult of digestion. I have a very vivid +recollection of a fowl of this sort at a certain hotel in Abbeville, +where nothing else was to be had for dinner, which the waiter assured +me was not to be surpassed in tenderness; a quality he might have +displayed towards his family when alive, but which certainly did not +belong to him after he was roasted. It is, perhaps, on the tolerant +principle of respecting other people’s prejudices (I can account for +Belon’s conclusion no other way), that he does not exclude even birds +of prey from good men’s feasts. “We know by experience,” he observes +(not his own experience, I hope), “what has taken place in Crete, where +the young ones of the vulture which have fallen from their rocky nests +near Voulèsmeni, have been proved at least as good eating as a fine +capon. And although some of the inhabitants (the greater part, I should +imagine) think that the old birds are not good to eat, because they +feed on carrion, the fact is otherwise; for good falconers say that +the hawk, vulture, and falcon are excellent meat, and being roasted +or boiled, like poultry, are found to be well-tasted and tender. +(Fancy a tender vulture!) We constantly see, if any of these birds +kill themselves, or break a limb in hunting game, that the falconers +do not hesitate to dress them for the table.” In Auvergne, he adds, +the peasants of the Limagne, and in the mountains, too, eat the flesh +of the goivan, a species of eagle; so that it may be concluded that +birds of prey, whether old or young, are tender,--an inference which I +presume to doubt. One saving clause Peter Belon has, which has at all +times done good service. If people generally are not in the habit of +eating kites, owls, and so forth, there are some who do: “tastes merely +differ”--(les appetits des hommes ne se ressemblent en aucune manière). + +The transition is easy from these delicacies to other less questionable +birds, and the manner of preparing them for the pot or spit; and +brings Peter Belon to what he evidently likes--a good dinner in a +general way. “You may talk,” he says, “of Spaniards, Portuguese, +English, Flemings, Italians, Hungarians, or Germans, but none of them, +in dinner-giving, come up to the French. The latter begin with meats +disguised a thousand ways (mille petits desguisements de chair); and +this first entry, as it is called, consists of what is soft and liquid, +and ought to be sent in hot, such as soups, fricassees, hashes, and +salads”! (Hot salads are a rarity now-a-days). The second course is +roast and boiled, of different kinds of meat, as well of birds as of +terrestrial animals, “it being well understood that no fish is eaten +except on fast-days.” The dinner ends with “cold things, such as +fruits, preparations of milk and sweets.” This is the outline of a +dinner only; but when Peter Belon enters into a detailed bill of fare, +the newspaper report of a Lord Mayor’s dinner pales beside it. A few +of the names of these dishes--as well as they can be translated--are +worth preserving. What do you think of pilgrim capons--lions--made +of the white meat of pullets; wild boar venison with chestnuts; +diamond-pointed jelly; goslings dressed with malvoisie; feet (whose +feet?) with infernal sauce (pieds à la saulce d’enfer); counterfeit +sea-hog; laurelled quails; partridges with capers; veal sausages; hop +salad; chestnut butterflies; golden-backed woodcock pasties; ox-heel +pasties; plumed peacocks; tipsy cake (gasteaux joyeux); little cabbages +all hot (petits chouy tous chaulds); and, amongst other varieties, +pomegranate salad? + +In treating of the uses to which birds have been applied, Peter +Belon does not omit divination. It is pretty clear, however, that +he has no faith in the auruspices, though he lets them down gently. +“These soothsayers exercised their mystery in the contemplation of +the inward parts as well of birds as of other animals, when offered +up for sacrifice. The question must then be asked, whether, by this +inspection, they really could foretell the things that were to come, +and if there were any probability, what they promised turning out true? +There can be little doubt that this system of divination had a very +simple origin, beginning by cajoling private persons, and promising +them what they desired (which is the greatest pleasure men can +receive), and afterwards, by investing it with a religious character, +and turning the same to their own profit.” The French soldiers, in +Belon’s time, imitated the Romans so far as to carry the sacred cock +with their baggage when they took the field; but it was for a very +intelligible species of augury,--to know, by his crowing, when the day +was about to break. Belon had much too good sense to credit either the +superstitions of the Romans or those of his own day, and was probably +only restrained by his fear of the Church, from expressing his opinions +too plainly. Passing from divination to sorcery, he says: “Every +contemplative man must have had reason to despise the ignorant people +who believe that sorcerers have the power attributed to them. We have +seen many condemned to death; but all have been either poor idiots or +madmen. Now, of two things, one must happen: that if they do mischief, +it must either be by the employment of some venomous drug put into +the mouth, or otherwise applied, or by invocations. It is not often +that one hears of people of quality being accused of sorcery--only the +poorer sort; and to tell the truth, no man of judgment would apply +his mind to such absurdities. To prevent the common people from doing +so, it is the custom once a-week to prohibit them formally. It may +easily happen that one of this sort, troubled in his wits, should +fancy incredible things, and even acknowledge to having committed +them; but we must set this down to the nature of their disease.” In +this way sensible Peter Belon disposes of the lycanthropists and other +self-created wizards. On the subject of antipathies, however, he +entertains a belief that it is reasonable; as in the case of the fox +and the stork, which are sworn foes, ever since the practical jokes, I +suppose, which we all know they played on each other. + +Being himself a physician, Peter Belon enlarges upon the maladies of +birds; but he tells us that, with the exception of falcons, which are +more especially under the care of man, they are their own doctors. +“The pelican, which builds its nest on the ground, finding its young +stung by a serpent, weeps bitterly, and piercing its own breast, gives +its own blood to cure them.” (This is a new reading of the old story). +“Quails, when they are indisposed, swallow the seeds of hellebore; +and starlings take hemlock. The herb chélidoine (celandine, from the +Greek kelidon, a swallow) derives its name from the fact that the +swallow administers the juice of the plant to her young. The stork +physics himself with marjoram. Wood pigeons, ravens, blackbirds, jays +and partridges take laurel; while turtle-doves, pigeons, and cocks +prescribe bird-weed. Ducks and geese eat sage.” (Sage enters largely +into the affair, in combination with onions, when ducks and geese are +eaten). “Cranes and herons employ marsh rushes. Thrushes and many +smaller birds swallow the seeds of the ivy--which would be hurtful +diet for man (qui seroit viande mauvaise à l’homme).” Not much worse, +however, than hellebore or hemlock! But it would seem that the eagle +family are exempt from the ordinary ailments of birds; for, in speaking +of the Chrysaëtos, or great royal eagle, Belon tells us: “Eagles never +change their place of abode, but always return to the same nest. It has +thus been observed that they are long-lived. But becoming old, the beak +grows so long that it becomes bent, and prevents the bird from eating, +so that it dies, not of any malady, or extreme old age, but simply +because it cannot make use of its beak.” I fear this is not one of the +facts derived from Belon’s own observation. + +Our fashionable ladies have passion for eider-down; but did they ever +hear that the vulture can supply them with an article quite as soft? +“Their skin,” says our author, “is almost as thick as that of a kid, +and under the throat is a spot about the breadth of a palm, where the +feathers are reddish, like the hair of a calf; and these feathers have +no quills, any more than those on both sides of the neck and under +the wings, where the down is so white that it shines like silk. The +furriers, after removing the large feathers, leave the down, and curry +the skins for mantles, which are worth a sum of money. In France they +use them chiefly to place on the stomach (what we call bosom-friends). +It would scarcely be believed that the vulture’s skin is so stout, +if one had not seen it. Being in Egypt and on the plains of Arabia +Deserta, we have noticed that the vultures are large and numerous, and +the down from a couple of dozen of these would quite suffice for a +large robe. At Cairo, on the Bezestein, where merchandise is exposed +for sale, the traveller may obtain silken dresses lined with the skins +of vultures, both black and white.” + +Belon was a great observer of all the birds of prey, and appears to +have taken many notes of their habits while living near the Monts +d’Or, in Auvergne, under the protection of M. Duprat, the Bishop of +Clermont. It was there he learnt the fact about the peasantry eating +the goivan, called also the boudrée, which he thus describes: “There is +not a peasant in the Limagne (a great plain) of Auvergne who does not +know the goivan, and how to capture him with traps baited with frogs, +or with lime, but more commonly with snares. He is taken principally in +the winter, when he is very good to eat, for he is so fat that no other +bird comes near him in that respect. The peasants lard or boil him, and +find his flesh quite as good as that of a hen. This eagle eats rats, +mice, frogs, lizards, snails, caterpillars, and sometimes serpents.” + +That there may be no doubt about the last-named viand being food for +eagles, one of Peter Belon’s lively portraitures follows the statement, +in which a goivan is depicted in the act of dining on a serpent, +twisted into a figure of eight (as, well he might be), and a number +of astonished frogs and fishes scurrying away for dear life,--all +save one philosophical member of the tadpole family, who, sitting on +the tumultuous waves of an adjacent ditch, calmly contemplates the +scene. It is observable throughout the plates in Belon’s work that the +smaller quadrupeds endure the infliction of being devoured alive with +far greater resignation than the Reptilia. I have before me at this +moment the portrait of a rabbit, on whose back a buzzard is standing as +if in the act of going to sing, while the long-eared animal on which +he has pounced seems to apprehend his fate no more than if he were a +music-stand. A mouse in the claws of a speckled magpie, puts on, in +another plate, an air of equal indifference. + +Amongst the birds of prey known to the French villagers--and to their +cost--is one called by the singular name of White John (Jan le Blanc), +or The Bird of St. Martin,--but why the latter name was bestowed on +it, Belon is at a loss to discover. The first is obvious enough, for +its belly and part of its tail are of spotless white. This fellow is +very daring, and carries off fowls and rabbits from under the eyes of +the owners; he feeds largely, too, upon partridges and all the smaller +birds, so that he is not a Cheap John, at all events. But Belon has +one comfort: White John has a natural antagonist in the Hobby-hawk, +and the way they fight in the air till they tumble entangled to the +ground and are taken, is quite a pleasant thing to see (moult plaisant +à voir). This combat is not depicted; but on the next page there is a +striking delineation of the manner in which a falconer lures a bird +of prey. He does it in this wise: a hawk having caught a partridge, +stands on its back in the air, quietly devouring it, and the cunning +fowler takes this opportunity of approaching with the leg of another +bird in his hand, which he offers on his knees to the hawk, in the +expectation, apparently, that the greedy bird of prey will give up +the whole for a part. Of the share which the falconer’s dog has in +the transaction, I say nothing; because, though in the foreground of +the picture, he is not a quarter the size of the victim partridge. It +must be confessed that Belon’s descriptions are more satisfactory than +the artist’s illustrations. This remark, however, does not apply to +the actual portraits of the birds, which are in most instances very +accurate. Nothing, for instance, can be better done than the Royal +Kite, which some in France call Huo, and others Escoufle. This bird, +being a lover of carrion, is protected; so much so, that “in England a +fine is imposed on those who kill him.” Belon records a pleasant piece +of pastime which this kite affords the infidels: + +“The Turks who live at Constantinople take pleasure in throwing lumps +of raw meat into the air, which the kites pounce upon so rapidly that +they seize and carry it off before it can fall to the ground.” + +The Venetian nobles amuse themselves differently--not with kites, +but cormorants. When the weather is calm, they go out on the lagoons +in light boots, two or three dozen in company, each boat being rowed +by six men, and pulled very swiftly. Having surrounded the cormorant +(like French huntsmen with a fox, to prevent him from getting away and +giving them a run), he cannot rise in the air (why not?), but dives +under the water, and every time he shows his head above the surface, +the noblemen let fly at him with their cross-bows, till at last he is +thoroughly done up, is half-suffocated, and gives in. “It is a fine +sight to behold this sport (c’est un beau spectacle de voir un tel +deduit), and also is to see a cormorant having caught a tolerably-sized +eel, which he tries to swallow, but has to fight a long time with +it before he can get it down.” The cormorants themselves are, oddly +enough, not thought good eating by the common people, who say of them +that they are “a dish for the devil” (qui voudroit jestoyer le diable, +il luy faudroit doñer de tels oyseaux); but Belon does not think them +so bad as they say (toute fois ne sont si mauvais qu’on crië). + +The stork, unfortunately, did not, when Belon flourished, enjoy the +same immunity; for though he admits that the Romans despised them at +table, he says, “now they are looked upon as a royal dish.” He moreover +tells us that the gizzard of a stork is an antidote to poison, and a +remedy against squinting (le gesier de la cigogne est bon contre les +venins et qui en aura mangé ne sera lousche en sa vie)! It appears also +that even the ostrich, which can digest iron, is itself digested by +Libyan gastronomers, who eat the flesh and sell the feathers. + +This tendency to discover what birds are most eatable, is manifested +throughout the volume of Peter Belon. Arriving at the noble Alectrion +or Rooster of the United States, he cites the following recipe, from +Dioscorides, for the concoction of cock-broth. “Take a fine strong old +bird, and having properly trussed him, stuff him well with roots of +fern, the seed of chartamus (whatever that may be), salt of mercury, +and soldanella (a purgative sea-weed), and, having sewn him up, boil +him well down.” A potage this, which bears some resemblance to “the +sillakickaby of the ancients,” described in Peregrine Pickle, and, I +should think, nearly as agreeable. + +The majority of the birds in Belon’s book are accurately described and +too well-known to afford much opportunity for quoting from what he says +of their forms and habits, but now and then we meet with a rara avis. +Such, for instance is the “Gellinote de bois” (Gelinotte) which, though +still found in the Ardennes, and occasionally a visitor to Monsieurs +Chevet’s shop in the Palais Royal, is rare enough to merit description +at second-hand. What their price may be I know not, but three hundred +years ago they cost two crowns a-piece, and were only seen at the +banquets of princes and the wedding-feasts of great lords. “The +feathers on the back are like those of the woodcock; the breast and +belly white, spotted with black; the neck is like that of a pheasant; +the head and beak resemble a partridge; the tail feathers are black +with white tips, the large wing-feathers variegated like the owl; down +to the feet the legs are feathered like the grouse.” If the gelinotte +combines the flavour as well as the plumage of the birds just mentioned +(omitting the owl) I should say it is worth the price which Monsieur +Chevet puts upon it before he stuffs it with the truffles. + +The Vanneau is another bird which, common enough in the marshy +districts of France (particularly in Bourbon Vendée) is, I believe, +unknown in England. It is a wading-bird, and bears some resemblance to +the peacock: hence, its name, corrupted from paonneau to vanneau; but +the peasants call it dinhuit, on account of its cry. It is crested with +five or six long black feathers, and is of changeable hue: in size it +is not much larger than a plover, and is perched on very high red legs. +There is no question about the estimation as a delicacy in which the +vanneau is still held. + +Belon has a good deal to say about quails, and the various modes of +catching them. One way is by means of an instrument made of leather +and bone, which, set in motion, utters a sound like the voice of the +female bird, and is called courcaillet, on hearing which the males run +rapidly and are caught in the fowler’s net; but this device is only +effectual during the season of courting. Every one has noticed how +low the quail’s cages are made. Belon says, it is because they are so +given to jumping and excitement that they would destroy themselves were +the cages higher. Of the crested lark (in French, cochevis), he tells +us, on the authority of several writers of antiquity, that when made +into a broth or roasted--like punch--they cure the colic; we all know +what capital pâtés are made of the lark uncrested. We learn that the +woodcock--how admirable is he, too, in a pâté--though called bécasse, +in French, on account of the length of his bill, ought to be designated +“vvitcoc,” that being an English word, which signifies “cock of the +wood,” and corresponds with the Greek term, “xilomita.” Some people, +Belon says, call him Avis cœca (blind bird), because he suffers himself +to be so easily caught, and he gives a sufficiently lively description +of one mode of effecting his capture. It is as follows:--“He who +desires to take the woodcock must put on a cloak and gloves, the +colour of the dead leaves, and conceal his head and shoulders beneath +a (brown) hat, leaving only two small holes to see through. He must +carry in his hands two sticks covered with cloth of the same colour, +about an inch of the ends of which must be of red cloth, and leaning +upon crutches (rather a lame way of proceeding) must advance leisurely +towards the woodcock, stopping when the bird becomes aware of his +approach. When the woodcock moves on he must follow until the bird +stops again without raising its head. The fowler must then strike the +sticks together very quickly (moult bellement) which will so amuse and +absorb the woodcock that its pursuer may take from his girdle a rod, +to which a horsehair noose is attached, and throw the latter round its +neck, for it is one of the stupidest and most foolish birds that are +known.” I should think so, if it allowed itself to be caught by this +tom-foolery. + +Of birds which are not stupid, but knavish rather, even to much theft, +Belon relates that the magpie is called Margot (the diminutive of +Margaret, as Charles the First called his beautiful sister, the wife +of Henry of Navarre); and the jay (Richard), each on account of their +cry. Being somewhat skinny, the jay is thought rather a tough morsel +by those who desire to dine upon him; but he himself eats everything +that comes in his way, and is particularly fond of peas--green peas +perhaps--at a guinea a pound. The common people think that the jay is +subject to the falling sickness, nevertheless they eat him when they +find him on the ground. It is, perhaps, a weakness in human nature +which cannot be remedied, the tendency to make a meal of everything +that has animal life. But for this, how severely might we not +animadvert on the gluttony of those who, not remembering their song in +spring, devour thrushes in the autumn: yet, that is the best time to +eat them, for they are then perfectly delicious as you would say, with +me, if you had made a diligence supper on thrushes travelling through +the Ardennes. + +But, I fear, if I read any more of Peter Belon’s volume, I shall write +an article on Gastronomy, a thing I had no notion of when I began. Let +me conclude with something more serious than eating--if anything be +more serious: let me lament, with all the world, that so useful a man +as Peter Belon should have been cut off sadly in the prime of his life +and full vigour of his intellect. He was only forty-five years of age +when he was murdered one night as he traversed the Bois de Boulogne on +his way to Paris; whether for the sake of plunder or revenge is not +known. + + + + +RHINE-LAND. + + + We lean’d beneath the purple vine, + In Andernach, the hoary; + And at our elbows ran the Rhine + In rosy twilight glory. + + Athwart the Seven-hills far seen + The sun had fail’d to broaden; + Above us stream’d in fading sheen + The highway he had trodden. + + His farewell crimson kiss he left + On clouds suffused with blushes: + One star beam’d down the dewberry-cleft + Across the mirror’d flashes. + + From cliffs of slate the vintage call’d + In muffled leafage dusky: + And down the river grandly wall’d, + The grape reel’d ripe and husky. + + We reach’d entwining hands to seize + The clusters round us glowing: + Our locks were fondled by the breeze + From southern sandhills blowing. + + The long-neck’d flask was not unbent, + The globed green glass unemptied; + The god of honest pleasure lent + Young Love his powers, untempted. + + Home-friends we pledged; our bridal-maids; + Sweet wishes gaily squander’d: + We wander’d far in faëry glades, + Up golden heights we wander’d. + + Like King and Queen in royal bliss, + We paced a realm enchanted, + A realm rose-vista’d, rich from this, + Tho’ not from this transplanted. + + For this Rome’s frontier foot endear’d, + Her armèd heel made holy; + And Ages grey as Time’s own beard, + Wreathed it with melancholy. + + Old days it has that live in gleams + Of suns for ever setting: + A moth-wing’d splendour, faint as dreams, + That keeps the fancy fretting. + + A gorgeous tracing dash’d with gloom, + And delicately dusted: + To grasp it is to spoil its bloom; + ’Twas ours because we trusted. + + No longer severing our embrace + Was Night a sword between us; + But richest mystery robed in grace + To lock us close, and screen us. + + She droopt in stars; she whisper’d fair; + The wooded crags grew dimmer; + The arrow in the lassie’s hair + Glanced by a silver glimmer. + + The ruin-rock renew’d its frown, + With terror less transparent, + Tho’ all its ghosts are hunted down, + And all its knights are errant. + + The island in the gray expanse, + We watch’d with colour’d longing: + The mighty river’s old romance + Thro’ many channels thronging. + + Ah, then, what voice was that which shed + A breathless scene before us: + We heard it, knowing not we heard; + It rose around and o’er us. + + It rose around, it thrill’d with life, + And did infuse a spirit + To misty shapes of ancient strife: + Again I seem to hear it! + + The voice is clear, the song is wild, + And has a quaint transition; + The voice is of a careless child + Who sings an old tradition. + + He sings it witless of his power; + Beside the rushing eddies, + His singing plants the tall white tower + Mid shades of knights and ladies. + + Against the glooming of the west + The grey hawk-ruins darken, + And hand in hand, half breast to breast, + Two lovers gaze and hearken. + + + + +MILVERSTON WORTHIES. + + +From his sixth year, my brother Davie manifested undeniable symptoms +of the divine afflatus, but it was not until fifteen that he commenced +his immortal poem, “The Vengeance of Bernardo Caspiato.” He was a +delicate, pretty, fair boy, with a spiritual countenance, a noble brow, +and abundance of silky brown hair; quite the poet to look at, and very +like my dear mother, as we all daily observed. It was expected that +he would cover the name of Cleverboots with a halo of glory: unlike +some families, we were the first to believe in our hero, and the most +constant in our faith in his splendid future. At the epoch referred to, +Davie began to tie his collar with a black ribbon, to wear his white +throat exposed, and his beautiful hair very long; his appetite did not +fail him in private, but at our little réunions he always partook of +dry toast and strong green tea; was very silent, abstracted, and averse +to men’s society: the women petted him, and called him “all soul.” He +was very kind-hearted and sweet-tempered, and rather vain, which was +nothing more than natural, considering how he was flattered. + +He had a little room at the top of the house which looked over the town +to Milverston mere, where the immortal poem was commenced. I remember +he began it on a wet evening, and it opened dismally, with a storm; he +had me up there with my plain sewing to listen to the first stanzas; +and he consulted me about one or two difficult rhymes: he was not +sure whether “horror” and “morrow” were correct. I thought not; and, +his birthday falling three days after, I presented him with a rhyming +dictionary. Subsequently, the poem made rapid progress. + +Cousin John had just gone up to London to study law, and my father +wished Davie to be articled to Mr. Briggs, the solicitor at Milverston. +This did not chime in with his taste at all; he stated that it was his +wish to follow the profession of letters. We did not quite understand +this at the time. Cousin Jack said it meant that he wanted to be +the idle gentleman. I had my doubts on the matter. Davie brought my +mother over to his way of thinking. “I shall be very poor, but very +happy, mother,” he used to say; “if you put me to anything else, I +shall be miserable and do no good.” So Davie got his own way; and, as +a preparation for his profession of letters, he stayed at home and +finished “Bernardo Caspiato.” It was a splendid work. I have wept over +it often. The heroine having been executed for witchcraft, her lover, +Bernardo, devotes his life to avenge her; and, after committing a +catalogue of murders, ends by disappearing mysteriously in a flash +of blue lightning to rejoin her in heaven. My mother objected to the +morality of the conclusion; but she acknowledged herself, at the same +time, ignorant of the laws and licence of poetry. + +With this great work, and some minor pieces of equal if not superior +merit, my brother Davie went up to London on foot, with ten pounds in +his pocket, and seventeen years of experience on his head. Cousin Jack +had taken comfortable lodgings for him at a small baker’s shop, kept by +a widow woman with a daughter named Lucy. The dear lad wrote us word +that he was quite suited, and that, after a few days to look about +him, he should carry his immortal poem to a publisher. His hopes were +sanguine; his visions of fame magnificent. + +To our surprise and grief, Bernardo Caspiato was declined with thanks. +Nobody was inclined to publish it unless the author would bear all the +expenses. Davie would not suffer my father to do this--he would earn +money for himself. We wondered how he could do it; but Cousin Jack +lent him a hand, and somebody who had something to do with a newspaper +bought his minor pieces. He lived, at all events, by his own exertions. +At this time, Lucy began to figure in letters to me marked “private.” +It would be impossible to give the whole story as therein developed, +but I will epitomise it as afterwards heard from his own lips. + +He fell enthusiastically in love with Lucy, whose beauty he raved about +as ethereal, heavenly, unsophisticated: before I heard of her at all he +was evidently far gone in the tender passion; and Lucy had listened so +often, and with such a graceful interest, to his literary struggles, +that he fancied he had every reason to believe that his affection was +returned. One morning, however, all these sunny hopes were rudely +dispelled. He had seen once or twice a young man of rustic appearance +in the shop, he had also known him to take tea in the back parlour +with Mrs. Lawley and her daughter, without attaching any significance +to his visits. As Davie sat at breakfast on this particular day, this +individual drove to the door in a gig, and was pleasantly received by +the landlady. He wore quite a festal appearance, and for the first time +a suspicion entered Davie’s mind which changed quickly to a certainty. +After speaking to Mrs. Lawley for a minute or two, the young man ran +out to stop the driver of a waggon loaded with sacks of grain, and, +while holding him in talk, the poor poet from the up-stairs window took +an inventory, as it were, of his rival’s personal graces. He was of +a very tall, straight, and robust figure, with a broad, comely face, +ruddy complexion, and curly brown hair. His voice was like the roll +of an organ, and his laugh the very heartiest of guffaws--altogether, +a very proper man, as Davie, but for his jealousy, must have +acknowledged. The stranger’s rollicking air of gaiety added present +insult to previous injury; and to get out of the hearing of his rich +“ha ha,” which seemed to pervade the whole neighbourhood, Davie +snatched up his hat, intending to walk off his spleen: he pushed +halfway down the stairs, but there paused--just below, in the passage +by the back-parlour door, was the obnoxious rustic, with his arm round +bonny Lucy’s waist, and his lips seeking a kiss; while the damsel’s +hand was put up to shield her cheek, and her tongue was saying, in that +pretty accent which lovers never take as truth, “Don’t, Tom; please +don’t!” Tom caught the uplifted fingers, and held them fast till he +had taken a dozen kisses to indemnify himself for the delay. Davie, +greatly discomfited, retreated to his room, and made cautious surveys +before venturing to leave it again. He quite hated Tom, who was a fine, +single-minded young fellow, guilty of no greater sin against him than +having won blue-eyed Lucy’s heart. + +When Mrs. Lawley came up-stairs to remove her lodger’s +breakfast-things, she looked glowing with importance, and, after a +short hesitation, confided to him the great family secret--Mr. Tom +Burton, of Ravenscroft Farm, had offered for Lucy, and they were to be +married that day week. “You’ll have seen him, sir, maybe?” said the +proud mother; “he’s been here as often as twice a-week; and, when I +told him it behoved him to stop at home and attend to his farm, he’d +tell me that corn would grow without watching; and I soon saw what he +meant. So, as Lucy was noways unwilling, I bade ’em have done with +all this courting and courting, and get wed out of hand. Perhaps, Mr. +David, you’ll be so good as go out for the day, and let us have your +room for breakfast--or we should be proud of your company, sir.” + +The poor poet almost choked over his congratulations, but he got +them out in a way. Soon after, he saw the lovers cross the street, +arm-in-arm, spruced up for the occasion, and looking as stiff as Sunday +clothes worn on a week-day always make rustic lovers look--everybody +who met them might know what they were. Tom had a rather bashful and +surprised expression; as if he were astonished to find himself part +owner of such a fresh, modest, little daisy of a sweetheart, and were +not quite sure that it was her cottage bonnet just below his great +shoulder, for so long as Davie had them in sight he kept looking down +into it to make sure Lucy was there. Davie’s feelings were almost too +much for him, but he made a magnanimous resolve that as Lucy had been +so good and attentive to him, he would make her a present, and, that +he might endure the deepest pangs, that present should be the wedding +dress and bonnet. He went off accordingly, post haste, to a great +millinery establishment, and purchased a dove-coloured silk dress, and +the most sweetly pretty white bonnet, with orange blossoms, that could +be had for money. When Lucy and Tom returned from their walk, he called +her up-stairs and presented them to her. She contemplated them with +surprised delight, blushing and clasping her hands over them: never was +there anything so beautiful. + +Davie bade her try the bonnet on, to see how it would fit, and, +without an atom of coquetry, she put it on, tied the strings under her +chin, and rose on tip-toe to peep at herself in the glass over the +chimney-piece. + +“I must let” (Lucy was going to say “Tom,” but she substituted “mother” +instead); “I must let mother see it!” and she ran out of the room, +leaving the door open, with that intent. But somebody met her on the +stairs, and stopped her for examination. Davie tried to shut his ears, +but he could not help hearing that ominous “Don’t, Tom; please don’t;” +though, as balm to his wounded feelings, he also caught the echo of +a--what shall I say?--a slap? a box?--what do you call it when a pretty +maiden brings her hand sharply in contact with her lover’s cheek? Well, +no matter--it is a something which always is or ought to be avenged by +six kisses on the spot; it was condignly punished in this instance, +for Tom lacked modesty even more than French polish. Davie instantly +slammed the door, and sat down to compose his feelings by inditing a +sonnet on “Disappointed Love.” When it was finished--the lines being +flowing and the rhymes musical--he felt more placid and easy in his +mind; but, before the wedding, he withdrew himself from the house, and +went into country lodgings to hide his griefs. In process of time he +rhymed himself into a belief that he was the victim of a disappointed +passion, the prey of a devouring sorrow; that his heart was a wreck, +a ruin, dust, ashes, a stone, dwelling alone; that life was stale, an +unfinished tale, a hopeless, joyless pageant: all because blue-eyed +Lucy had married Tom Burton of Ravenscroft. + +This was the early love-romance which furnished my brother Davie +with his cynicism, his similes of darts, flames, and wounds that are +scattered everywhere through his verses. Some of the productions of +his troubled muse, after he fled to Highgate, shall be quoted. What +would have been Lucy’s astonishment could she have heard herself +apostrophised in such burning numbers! her orbs of sunny blue would +have dilated until she would have looked, indeed, a round-eyed Juno. +Here is one of Davie’s effusions from a little manuscript-book, bound +in white vellum, the confidante of his poetical woes at this mournful +era:-- + + Thou hast come like a mist o’er my glorious dreaming, + Thy image stands up ’twixt my soul and the sun! + Oh! why, when youth’s noontide of gladness was beaming, + Hast thou darken’d all that it shone upon? + + To see thee, to love thee, ay, love thee to madness, + To know that thou ne’er couldst be aught to me! + To leave thee! and read in my spirit’s lone sadness, + That the love was all hopeless I centred in thee! + +The muse appears at this junction to have been quite troublesome +with her declarations. The following was written one evening instead +of going to dinner like a Christian gentleman to Uncle Sampson’s on +Christmas Day. It stands entitled, I Love Thee! and is written with a +neatness that says little for its spontaneity:-- + + I love thee! O, never did summer sea + Greet sunshine more gladly than I greet thee! + Like dew to spring flowers, like stars to dusk night + Art thou with thy glances of liquid light! + + I love thee, as only those hearts can love + Whose burning devotion is hard to move! + Life, beauty, and hope, thou art all to me,-- + A voice and an echo of melody! + +It seems rather as if sense were made subordinate to sound in some of +these lucubrations, but they are not so bad for seventeen. Davie came +back to Milverston for a little while at this season, and cultivated +his grief, to the great disorder of our regular household. One night he +stayed out so late that my father went in search of him and found him +by the mere, seeking inspiration from the stars. On this occasion he +produced eight more lines, which seem to have been the utmost his muse +could bring for that one time. It is called, in the vellum book into +which it is carefully transcribed, Tell me, my Heart:-- + + Tell me, my heart, the reason of thy sadness, + Why peoplest thou thy solitude with dreams? + Why dost thou shun the scenes of mirth and gladness + To find thy echo in the lonely streams? + + Alas! my heart, that thy poor love should wander, + Where it can meet with nought but cold disdain! + Sad that its treasures thus my soul should squander + Where it can reap but tears and griefs again! + +Good little Lucy would have been sorry, indeed, if she could have known +into what a limbo of anguish Davie was thrown by her marriage; but let +us hope, as she might have done, that the best half of the tortures +were only fancy. I know he had at the worst an excellent appetite for +lamb and asparagus, to which he was very partial. Dear Davie, to read +these effusions, tender imaginations may think of him as fine porcelain +fractured with the world’s hard usage, whereas he is stout and bald, +and wears green spectacles. The law does not undertake to deal with +poetry composed under false pretences, or many would be the sighing +Strephons and doleful Delias brought up for judgment. + +Last summer we had Davie at home for a month, and during that time +occurred the grand incremation of Bernardo Caspiato. I shall ever +regard it as a most cruel sacrifice, and Cousin Jack, who instigated +it, as an illiterate character. Davie brought it forth one evening +when we three were together, and read parts of it aloud: Jack +unfeelingly remarked that it was not like good wine, it did not improve +with keeping; that, like fruit plucked immaturely, it was green and +tasteless; it had not acquired mellowness and flavor, and if stored +up for another twenty years it would not taste better. Davie half +coincided with him; but I did not; so grandly majestic as was the march +of the lines, so delicate and true the rhymes, so thrilling the noble +catastrophe. It exasperated me to see Jack, first yawn to the full +extent of his jaws, then snatch the manuscript from Davie, and toss it +up to the ceiling, retreating afterwards in feigned fear lest he should +be crushed by its leaden fall. An ignoble fate was thine,--immortal +Bernardo! Convicted of the respectable sin of dulness--which none +pardon--thou wert condemned to be burnt! Davie did not act with undue +precipitation; Jack urged an immediate execution, but the poet took a +week to consider of it, and many a pang it cost him. Those who have +written immortal poems and destroyed them will appreciate his feelings; +none else can. Let anybody of experience call to mind the last time +he has read through the letters from his first love, just before she +was married to somebody else; or the letters from that particular old +friend, which it is of no use to keep because he is dead, or you have +quarrelled beyond hope of reconciliation, and then some faint idea will +be conceived of the poet’s sensations at this immolation of his first +love, his particular friend, and his pet child--all in one. + +It was the summer-season, and warm,--I found it very warm; there was no +fire in the grate, and the match-box on the writing-table was empty. +Jack supplied the want eagerly from his smoking apparatus, and Bernardo +Caspiato shrank into a pinch of tinder. I wept. + +“There!” said poor Davie, with a profound sigh, “it took two years to +write and two seconds to destroy--just like an eternal friendship, +an undying affection, or anything of that kind which half a dozen +indiscreet words are at any time enough to annihilate!” + +“Have a cigar, old boy; never mind moralising,” said Jack, to whom a +cigar would be consolation for the death of his grandmother; “have a +cigar; the business can’t be helped.” + +“Poor Bernardo!” said Davie, as feelingly as if he spoke of a brother, +“poor Bernardo! He gave me many an hour’s delightful occupation. I feel +as if I had lost a friend to whom I had been in the habit of confiding +my sentimental vagaries. I’m not sure that it was right to burn him.” + +“Have a cigar,” reiterated Cousin Jack. Davie accepted the offer with a +pensive sigh, put on his green spectacles, and went out for a walk in +mournful mood. It is a serious thing burning immortal poems. Nobody +can tell what losses the world has had in that way--nobody! + + + + +SCOTCH COAST FOLK. + +FOOTDEE IN THE LAST CENTURY. + + +The aged lady whose recollections I condense, and combine with my own +observations, says: + + Remote, but still distinct, the view appears, + Thro’ the long vista of departed years; + +although, towards the conclusion of the American War, the fish town of +Footdee was not one of those “green spots on which memory delights to +dwell.” The town consisted of several rows of low-thatched cottages +running from east to west, between the high-road and the harbour, or, +as it is called, the tide. During the high spring-tides, the furthest +waves came up to the bank of sand on which the ends of the houses were +built. Exteriorly, these cottages appeared comfortless enough, as each +dwelling fronted the back of its opposite neighbour, and, as in the +narrow space between there was a line of dunghills crossed over with +spars, upon which were hung lines, bladders, and buoys, intermixed with +dried dog-fish and skate. Their interior was not more alluring to a +stranger. The earthen-floor was uneven, and sometimes dirty, although +generally sanded over of an evening, or at least every Saturday, in +preparation for the Sabbath. Upon the wood or rafters which stretched +across horizontally from the tops of the walls, was a ceiling of old +oars and bits of drift-wood. The bare rough walls were not whitewashed. +Roof, walls, and rafters were all blackened by smoke from a fire at +one end of the cottage, placed upon the floor, and made of turf and +sea-weed. Soot-drops--curious black glossy accumulations, formed by +a similar process, doubtless, to that which produces stalactites and +stalagmites--hung here and there upon the walls, rafters, and roof. +These collections of pendulous carbon might have been deemed ornaments, +if they had not been signs of defective cleanliness. There was a small +window at each side of the door. Under each window was a clumsy black +bedstead. There was but one small deal table. There were only two or +three chairs, and as many sunkies, or low fixed seats resting upon +stakes driven into the floor, to sit upon. Beside the wall opposite the +door were seen the requisites of the fishing occupation--lines, creels, +murlains, &c. Such were the principal property and furniture visible. +There was no press or cupboard; and the only depository for keeping +things in was a chest or locker, in which lay the precious stores and +the Sunday clothes. The salt-backet, or box, was suspended in the +chimney. + +Such were the cottages in the eighteenth century. In the first quarter +of the nineteenth, the cottages were arranged upon the four sides +of squares, with a large open space in the centre; and outside every +cottage, upon the walls, hung fish-hakes or wooden triangles for drying +haddock. Inside the cottages the walls were occasionally whitewashed; +and there was fixed against the wall a series of wooden shelves for the +preservation and display of delft and earthenware crockery. There were +tea-cups in the cupboard in the corner. The little round table was of +pine-deal, but scrubbed into a whiteness by a truly Dutch cleanliness, +which made it rival tables covered with a fair white linen cloth. The +cruisie, an iron lamp of simple structure, consisting of one cup or +ladle, with a narrow lip for the whale-oil and wick, and another cup +of broader and larger dimensions, to receive the droppings, hangs in +the nineteenth, as in many centuries previously, near the chimney, and +produces, Rembrandt-like, lights and shades well worthy of the study of +an artist who should wish to rival the Dutch painters of the present +day, in the pictures they paint to show the effects of a lamp. + +The costumes of the fishers were, and continue to be, peculiar. The +elderly men wore broad blue woollen bonnets, coarse blue jackets, +and canvass kilts or short trousers. The younger men were rather +good-looking, had good-humoured faces, and were smarter in their dress. +The women wore caps, the original patterns of which still abound upon +the Continent, which did not prevent their features being injured by +the weather, and their skins being tanned by the sun. The middle-aged +women wore stuff gowns, with large flowered calico wrappers or short +gowns, over them. The young girls wore stuff wrappers and petticoats, +with their hair either drawn back with a large comb, which reached from +ear to ear, or fastened up in a very slovenly and unbecoming manner +with a head-dress of red worsted tape. The boys under fifteen were the +worst clad. They ran about in tattered old garments of their fathers’, +a world too wide, and remained in this condition until they were able +to earn a more decent covering for themselves. The little children of +both sexes were comfortably clad in a simple dress of white plaiding, +called a walliecoat, which, with their fair curly heads and rosy +cheeks, made them look very pretty, as they paddled in the pools of +water, and played with their tiny boats. + +In the last century, the fishermen were mostly ignorant of everything +unconnected with their own business. Few of them could read, and none +of the grown-up people could write. Some of the lads could read and +write a little; but as they went to sea in the night, and took their +repose in the day, they were not placed in favourable circumstances for +the development of the social faculties. No instance of intellectual +talent--no single person displaying a tendency towards any art or +science--occurred among them. Music and song, no doubt, contributed +to the enjoyment of their merry meetings; but the music was confined +to a fiddle, and their collection of songs scarcely extended beyond +The Praise of Paul Jones, The Waefu’ Ballad of Captain Glen, and the +Christmas carol of By Southend. As for the women--toiling, as they +were, incessantly--they had no time for mental improvement. But as they +grew old they gained practical knowledge and experience. Many of them +had a knowledge of simple remedies for curing diseases, which obtained +for their prescriptions a preference to those of medical men. Some of +them were supposed to be invested with supernatural powers, which made +it dangerous to offend them. + +I may interpose here a general remark. The superstitions which were +sweepingly condemned by the philosophy of the eighteenth century as +falsehood and imposture, the philosophy of the nineteenth finds to be +true in a sense. Instead of rejecting it in a heap, the student of the +present day shakes and washes the rubbish, and separates the grains of +truth from it. What, I may be asked, was it true that old fish-crones +possessed the powers of witchcraft? I have not a doubt of it. The +word witchcraft comes from wiccian, whence witchery, wickedness. It +means evil influence. Gifted with the power of reading characters and +actions, of seeing consequences and calculating results, and capable +of imparting a bias, laying a snare, adapting a temptation, planning a +vengeance, or instilling a physical or moral poison; and years give all +these powers to malignant intelligence. + +Anything may be twisted into stupid or incredible shapes. When affairs +did not prosper among the Footdee folk, it was attributed to an evil +foot, an “ill fit.” Prior to setting out upon any expedition or +enterprise, they were careful and particular about the first “fit” they +met in the morning. The Scum of the Well was an object of rivalry every +New Year’s Day morning, Old Style. As the midnight hour approached, +and the last moments of the year came on, the women assembled in a +solemn group, around the large old draw-well, and scolded and scuffled +to decide whose pan or bucket should carry off the first fraught (or +first freight). The superstition of the first foot may afford some +explanation of the phrase Putting his foot into it. Prior to commencing +anything, is it not well to note carefully who may be taking the +initiative for evil in it? Is not the first evil foot astir in it a +serious thing for any enterprise? As for the scum of the well, is not +the energetic housewife who obtains the first supply of the first +necessary of life,--water--likely to surpass all rivals in providing +for her household? I opine it is only a sort of piety due to our +forefathers to guess they were shrewder fellows than we might suppose +from our views of their superstition, witchcraft, and sorcery. + +Indeed there is something small in the minds which study superstitions +only to find in them occasions for indulging the sudden elation of +self-glory which Hobbes says is the cause of laughter. Our forefathers +inherited a spirit-world of personifications; and we have inherited +a mass of philosophical abstractions. Our forefathers inherited a +poetical and popular nomenclature, and we express our scientific +generalisations in crack-jaw words of Greek and Latin derivation. +Ghosts, wraiths, witches, fairies, mermaids and water-kelpies, are +personifications which have been covered with ridicule, and undoubtedly +there have been an abundance of ridiculous stories told respecting +them; but I suspect there is philosophy in them after all. The minds of +Coast Folk are peopled from early childhood with spectres belonging to +the land, sea, and sky; and no wonder, since, during long centuries, +catastrophes have desolated the homes of Coast Folk which have issued +mysteriously and terribly from land, sea, and sky. Seven miles from +Aberdeen there is a fishing-village which was buried in a sand-storm in +one night. Almost every soul of the inhabitants was smothered in the +sand-drift, and for many years the spire of the village church alone +marked the spot in the hollow treacherous sand-hills. When a boy I was +warned by words and looks of horror from approaching the fatal locality +where it was thought the wrath of the Almighty had displayed itself +so awfully. Several instances have occurred in which all the men of a +village have gone to sea, and perished in one night. A boat or a corpse +heard of as having been cast ashore on a distant beach, was sometimes +the only tidings ever heard of them. Mermaids have frightened many a +brave man; and, in several of the monthly magazines published in the +last century their existence was as seriously discussed as apparitions +of sea-serpents have been in our own day. Andrew Brands saw one. “I +recollect Andrew perfectly well. He was a stout man, with a broad +good-humoured face, and dark hair, who wore his bonnet upon the back of +his head.” Occasionally employed as a boatman or pilot, he looked more +like a jolly sailor than a sleepy fisherman. One summer day Andrew was +found lying insensible on the hill of Torry which faces the sea upon +the side of the river Dee, opposite to Footdee. When roused, he spoke +confusedly and incoherently. He was thought to be deranged. He was +carried to the ferry and rowed home. After several weeks of delirious +fever he became low and melancholy, and declined to give any account +of his illness. Under medical treatment he recovered, although reduced +to a skeleton. The fearful belief spread through the village that +Andrew Brands had seen something. When questioned after his recovery, +he said in substance: “I was upon the outlook lying upon my breast, +and looking over the top of the rocks, when I saw a creature like a +woman sitting upon a stone. She seemed to have something like a white +sheet, or grave-clothes wrapped around her. Sometimes she combed her +hair, and sometimes she tossed her arms in the air. All her ways were +fearsome, and at last she rushed into the sea, and vanished beneath the +waves. My heart lap (leapt), I grew blind, and I remember nothing more +until I awoke with all my bones sore, and the men lifting me up.” The +medical theory of his illness, as expounded by his doctor, was, that +he had gone out with incipient fever upon him, had fallen asleep in +an exposed situation, and the hallucinations of delirium had done all +the rest. My informant who remembered him well, maintained he had been +unwittingly the Actæon of a bathing Diana at a time when ladies rarely +bathed in Scotland, and had been punished by the vengeance of the +goddess. Probably, however, an accumulation of foam among the stones +of the beach had taken the flickering form of a woman. The white scum +would seem to rise up amidst the black stones, and Andrew Brands was +frightened by a mermaid because he had never been taught the effects +of perspective. Was it in some such way as this that Cytherea herself +was seen by the poetic eyes of a fisherman of Cyprus, issuing from +the froth of the sea until she was wafted in a shell to the shore by +Zephyrus, where the Graces received and adorned her for presentation to +the celestials of Olympus? + +Extraordinary physical phenomena generally precede extraordinary +catastrophes. Everybody has heard of the warning blue lights. During +the night which preceded a storm, in which seven men of a seaside +village were lost, an aged man, I have been assured, saw seven blue +lights passing in solemn procession from the roofs of their cottages +towards their grave-yard. He entreated the men to stay at home, and +not to go to sea. But they were obstinate, and went. He told some old +and some young people, who would listen to him, what he had seen, and +had scarcely finished his vaticination when the lightning leaped high +into the sky, the thunder pealed, and a hurricane lashed the sea into +furious madness. The boats were not far from the shore, but before +they could reach it a boat capsized, and seven men were lost within +sight of their families. A week afterwards, at the very hour of the day +corresponding to the hour of the night of the procession of the blue +lights, the funeral procession of the seven fishermen was seen going +from their cottages by the very way the lights had gone; and beneath +the very spots where the lights stood in the churchyard the corpses +rested for evermore. The law of the elders in these villages is, that +no boats ought to go to sea when the old men say they have seen +the blue lights. The blue lights are possibly electrical facts. The +traditions respecting their direction are as variable as the winds. The +guess is not a very hazardous one, that science would agree with the +old men in warning the fishers against going to sea when the air was +charged with electricity after midnight, in the coldest hours of the +twenty-four. + +When the Footdee fishers were found in the last century to be no more +scrupulous than other people respecting custom-house oaths, an oath was +framed for them, founded upon their superstitious fears, which proved +to be far more effectual than the ordinary one. It concluded with these +words: “If I do not speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but +the truth, may my boat be a bonnet to me.” + +Of course the fishers leaned to the side of the smugglers against the +excise and customs officers. Almost everybody did, in the last century +except the lawyers, something of a legal education being necessary +to see the propriety of establishing what Adam Smith, while himself +a Commissioner of the Board of Customs, denounced as the outposts of +Pandemonium. When examined before the courts in smuggling cases, the +fishermen contrived occasionally, under an appearance of simplicity, to +baffle with considerable cunning the cross-examinations of the counsel +for the Crown. Public sympathy was, in those days on the side of the +smugglers, who called themselves free-traders, a designation which +has since attained universal honour. The principle of obedience to +law, the sine quâ non of civilisation, is less easily enthroned upon +uneducated consciences than the principle of buying cheap and selling +dear. Lairds, merchants, and workmen, therefore, all admired the cool +duplicity with which the fishers sometimes evaded the truth when under +cross-examinations. Some of them were once witnesses in a case of +deforcement. The counsel for the prosecution asked a fisherman,--“While +the men were struggling in the water, did you not hear the prisoner +call out, ‘Drown the dogs?’” + +“We saw nae dogs there, sir,” was the demure and composed reply. + +“I do not ask you what you saw; but, on your oath, did you not hear him +call out, ‘Drown the dogs?’” + +“There was nae ony dogs there, sir,” was again the obstinate answer. + +Although no man of distinction in science or letters has ever arisen in +any of these villages, it cannot be doubted they have produced many men +whom Poodle or Doodle might have safely trusted upon his legs on the +floor of the House of Commons to answer the questions of honourable and +independent members. + +A century ago the fishers, who were hardy, industrious, decorous, and +honest, were nevertheless inveterate swearers--a fault which I did not +observe among them in an offensive degree in the nineteenth century. +Indeed, I have heard more swearing from two admirals in a London club +than I ever heard in fishing villages. In the last century, however, +the fishers would use the most tremendous oaths upon the most trivial +occasions. Anger was not necessary to provoke them; the oaths seeming +to be as necessary to the hauling up of a lugger, or the pushing out +of a boat, as the cries of “Yo-hee O!” Persons unaccustomed to hear +the strong phrases of swearing, feel their minds shocked by the ideas +conveyed by them, being ignorant that they have ceased to convey ideas +to the persons who use them. When a lady rebuked one of them for using +the word deil (devil), he said, + +“Eh! mem, I didna think it meant ony ill. Does it mean ony ill? I +thocht it was just a word to dad” (knock) “aboot.” + +The wrath of these good-natured and kind-hearted people was notoriously +harmless. Stabs were unknown, and blows rare among them, but the +language of their vituperation was expressive and opprobrious. My +informant has seen a woman in a passion take up a handful of burning +coals, and lay them down without seeming to feel pain. Ladies drilled +in the control of their gestures, if not of their feelings, in +boarding-schools, witnessed, with great astonishment, the violence +with which the women expressed grief and lamentation. The boats were +frequently in great danger in crossing the bar, and on these occasions +the women assembled upon the beach would tear their hair, clap their +hands, and utter piercing cries and shrieks. The simple and natural +principles upon which their marriages were formed, the chastity and +honour in which the married fishers lived, and the connubial and +family happiness of their homes, may explain, in part, the violence +of the emotions and the exuberance of the gestures of the wives when +their husbands were in danger. A fashionable dame of London related +sarcastically that she had known a fisherwoman of the Scotch east +coast who required four men to keep her from throwing herself over the +rocks when her drowned husband was carried into her cottage, become +calm in a fortnight, recommence work in a month, and marry again in a +twelvemonth. The poor child of nature had no sentiment! + +The marriages of the fishers were as natural and simple as the unions +of Isaac with Rebekah and Boaz with Ruth. Perversions about dowries, +pin-money, establishments, and settlements, did not interfere with the +natural action of mutual interest and honest preference. They married +young. The young man and young woman had probably played together in +childhood. Running, leaping, tumbling, paddling, laughing, the children +of the fishers are as joyous as their fathers are serious; and if their +mothers could not match them against the children of the Tuileries’ +Gardens, or of St. James’s Park, in point of pretty costumes, they +could challenge the world for them in regard to the healthiness of +their respiratory organs and the glee of their animal spirits. The boys +and girls soon become useful, the elder children being early employed +to nurse the younger. Both boys and girls thus grow up in systematic +training for the performance of the duties of their lives. + +The boy or lad went out to sea with the men, and worked at the oar +until he got enough of money to buy a share of a boat--and a boat +with its nets costs from a hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds. +When he had a share of a boat, he required some one to bait his lines +and sell his fish. Among the girls he knew, and whose tempers he had +tested in play, he naturally selected the girl he liked best, and asked +her first; and then, perhaps, like Kepler, the great astronomer, he +had a list in his mind, and asked one girl after another until he was +accepted. On the other hand, it is probable the principles of affinity +may sometimes have been in operation for years, and the boat may have +been a greater difficulty than the wife. As soon as they were betrothed +by the consent and blessings of the old folks, the young woman went +to live with her future father and mother-in-law for a week or two, +and in the house with the young man. No doubt she had been taught by +her own mother to search for bait, to tip and bait the lines, and do +all manner of household work; but the fisher-people judged wisely she +would be all the better for knowing all her mother-in-law could teach +her; and her husband would be likely to think all the more of her for +being as clever as his own mother could make her. A few days prior to +the marriage, she returned to her father’s roof, and the ceremony took +place in the house of her childhood. After the ceremony, the young +couple went to a house of their own. They went in procession from the +paternal to the connubial home. A fiddler playing merry strains, headed +the procession, and he was followed by a boat-mate of the bridegroom, +carrying the flag of the boat. When the bride arrived before the door +of the home of her husband, his boat-mates rolled their flag around +her. The spectators witnessed the ceremony in silence until she was +enveloped in the folds, and then they applauded the actors in it with +loud and long cheers. The ceremony seemed to be a public intimation +that the young wife was henceforth placed within the sanctuary of the +honour of the crew, who engaged themselves solemnly to protect her from +insult and injury, as brave men defend their flag. + +When a young couple had not money enough to pay for the share of the +boat, the furnishing of the house, and the expenses of the wedding, +they had what was called a penny-wedding. There was nothing royal or +aristocratic in a penny-wedding, to which any one might come who chose +to pay a shilling. The significance and rationale of the penny-wedding +was this: “We are a couple of young people who think it better to +marry than to do worse, and we deem it foolish and wicked to begin the +world with debt. We therefore invite you, good neighbours, to amuse +yourselves by dancing at our marriage, and, by paying as generously +as may be convenient for the amusement, help us to begin the world +with a fair chance of making both ends meet.” A common argument in +favour of the penny-wedding was: the young man wants ten pounds of +his share of the boat, and many persons gave their money who never +went to the dances. The canvas for the penny-wedding took place among +the carpenters, coopers, and sailors of the port; and employers, +shopkeepers, ship-owners, and captains had generally a half-crown to +spare for the young couple. The dinner at a penny-wedding consisted +of abundance of meat and Scotch broth, served in broad pewter dishes. +After dinner, the party adjourned to the links or downs, to dance “the +shame dance;” and then they danced until they were tired. Known bad +characters were inexorably excluded, decorum rigorously maintained, +and “liberties” would have been indeed dangerous in a community in +which every woman lived under the protection of a flag and at least +half-a-score of hard fists. A severe critic of propriety would not +probably have approved the amount of public kissing at a penny-wedding. +Indeed, in this respect, Footdee resembled more the Court of the Neva +than the Courts of the Thames or of the Seine; but in regard to the +moral essentials of the problem of life, if there be a word of truth +in court chronicles, the courtiers and courted of all the three royal +rivers might have learned lessons from the Coast Folk of Footdee. + + + + +CHIP. + +THE CONGRESSIONAL PRIZE-RING. + + +The forcible mode in which debates are conducted in the parliament of +the United States, and the personal encounters which sometimes follow +them, are believed by the present generation, to be novelties and only +recently brought to a culminating point by the Honourable Preston +S. Brooks’s life-preserver, upon the head, face, eyes, and body of +Senator Charles Sumner. This is a mistake. Fifty years ago, exciting +debates often ended in a regular stand-up fight in the lobby of the +House of Representatives. The combatants stripped, a ring was formed, +bottle-holders appointed, and the battle fought and reported quite in +the style of Moulsey Hurst and Bell’s Life in London. + +In corroboration of this statement we present to our readers the +following paragraph copied from the New York Evening Post of December +the thirteenth, eighteen hundred and five, into the Annual Register for +eighteen hundred and six:-- + + On Friday last, the well-known Leib, one of the representatives + of Pennsylvania, and the leader of the Duane party, and Joseph H. + Nicholson, one of the representatives of Maryland, met in the Congress + lobby about one o’clock, when Leib immediately called Nicholson + a liar; and, thereupon, commenced one of the best fought battles + recorded in the annals of congressional pugilism. The fight continued + till the sixty-fourth round, when Leib had received such blows as + deterred him from again facing his man. He protracted the fight; + falling after making a feeble hit. In the round which ended the fight, + those who backed him advised him to resign; which he did after a + combat of one hour and seventeen minutes. The combatants were both + very much beaten. + + + + +CHARLES THE FIFTH’S GLOVE. + + +There are few foreign trips, for English holiday-makers, that answer +better than a run into Belgium. Belgium is easily got at, and easily +left. Its features are varied and not vast. You can explore its +interior, inspect its circumference, and take the whole of it in, +without being tired. It is a pocket kingdom. Instead of wearing your +patience, as France does, when you are in a hurry to get from one +end of it to the other, you can dart across it with the ease of a +swallow skimming over the Isle of Wight. Moreover, Belgium is rich in +matters of interest considerably beyond the proportions of its size. +It gives you the idea of an originally extensive country, which has +been subjected, like an ungainly truss of hay, to hydraulic pressure. +For its area, it feeds a very large population. The district of St. +Nicholas, near Ghent, carries five thousand two hundred and ten +souls per square league--the space required, in savage life, for the +maintenance of a single individual. The large towns lie so close +together, that, as soon as you have done with one, by entering a +railway carriage you are landed in another in two, three, four, or five +quarters of an hour. + +A lovely May morning blesses, with its lucky omen, our approach to +the frontier. All nature smiles as we glide along. The orchards +are bedecked in white, pink, and green. Get ready your tubs, O +cyder-drinkers, the apple-trees promise you a plentiful supply! +Remember, however, that there’s many a slip between the apple-blossom +and the lip. The sower strides over the well-powdered earth with +measured step, and with white apron heavily laden. “Take that, old +lady,” he mentally exclaims, as each handful is scattered, “and give +me fifty-fold back again.” The cows in the meadows lie basking in the +sun, with their feet doubled under them. They are chewing the cud, +to give the grass a short respite, and to allow it a little time to +grow in peace. The homesteads are overtopped by clumps of poplars, +whose young and maidenly leaves blush ruddy pink at the touch of +the sunbeam. On the skirts of the forest are prudent oaks, who are +waiting till the blackthorn winter is over, before they put on their +summer fashions. Along the road which crosses our railway come Flemish +wagons, like triumphal cars in the processions of Ceres, and not of +Bacchus, but of the twin gods Baccy and Beer. And so we rush over a +flat fertile land, till we pass Roubaix, a wilderness of bricks and +mortar. Tourcoing also, and ditto; both very rural in their aspect for +manufacturing towns, and with atmospheres that Bradford and Leeds might +envy. At Mouscron, we are safely over the border. The custom-house +officers, I suppose, are ordered to ascertain whether new arrivals are +personally cleanly in their habits; for, as soon as they have inspected +my oiled-silk sponge-bag, my comb, and my bit of soap (which latter +they don’t supply you with at inns), they tell me I may lock up our +baggage again. It is too bad that they should rumple Mademoiselle’s +muslin-dress, with which she intends to make a sensation, into a wisp, +and should further annoy her by calling her Madame; but they are not a +bad set of fellows on the whole, nor wanting in a certain cordiality +of manner. They look at my passport, enter it in their book, and then +bid me good morning by name, as if they had known me for the last ten +years. They are Flemings, no doubt. You may know a Flemish man or woman +by the friendly vocatives with which they interlard their conversation. +Mon ami or mon cher ami is ever on their lips, while addressing you. +“What are you looking for, my friend?” asked a market-woman, whom +I had never in my life seen before--unless, perhaps, twenty years +ago, when she must have been a little girl. “I want half a hundred +cauliflower plants,” I replied.--“Ah, my dear friend, you won’t find +that for another fortnight. But you’ll come and see me again in another +fortnight; you’ll come to me for them, won’t you, my dear friend?” + +Returned once more to our railway carriage, a change has come over +the spirit of our journey. We lose the red-legged soldiery of France, +exchanging them for others with grey and pepper-and-salt continuations. +The military, too, are men of taller stature, with more flesh upon +their bones. Generally, the Belgians feed better than the natives of +the north of France, and show it in their personal appearance. Piebald +or rusty-brown monks and nuns flutter about and read their breviaries +in greater profusion. Belgium is still a monastic stronghold of +brotherhoods and sisterhoods; and the clergy are struggling hard for an +increase of power. + +The aspect of the country from Mouscron to Ghent is ever rich and +highly cultivated. The crops are mostly grown in ridges, with deep +furrows between them, indicative of a strong clayey loam, but wet. Of +wood, as in France, little is to be seen compared with England, except +where congregated into forests. Here and there are a few plantations of +Scotch firs, set very thick, to spindle them up for poles and railings. + +Railway travelling is cheaper (by something like a third), than in +France, and, consequently much cheaper than in England; children under +eight years of age pay half-price; under three, and in arms, nothing; +but certainly the article you get for your money is inferior in quality +to that furnished by the first-named country. In France every traveller +is allowed sixty pounds (French) of luggage gratis, independent of his +small personalities; in Belgium none at all. Whatever you do not take +into the carriage with you, such as a carpet-bag or basket of moderate +weight, has to be paid for in addition to your ticket. The first-class +carriages are handsome and comfortable, but small. The third-class +chars-à-bancs are open at the sides, exposed to the wind, the rain, and +the snow, which sometimes rake them fore and aft; in inclement weather, +they are not fit to carry sheep and cattle, much less human beings. +Dogs in Belgium pay third-class fare, but are snugly stowed away in +a baggage-wagon. In one of these locomotive pens for men, women, and +tender children, a fat hog might have his health seriously injured as +the consequence of a long day’s journey. + +The State is the sole proprietor of nearly all the Belgian railways; +and while it paternally confers on its subjects the benefit of cheap +circulation and traffic, it might also modify an arrangement which is +no other than unfeeling, and is deficient in that humanity which a +government ought to exercise towards all under its protecting sway, +without reference to wealth or rank. The second-class carriages are +tolerable, with stuffed seats and a little horizontal stripe of +stuffing to ease the back, and ladies may travel in them; but they are +of scant dimensions, very naked inside, and unprovided with any hooks +for hats or caps, or with receptacles for sticks and umbrellas. The +seats are fancifully arranged with a sort of passage left between them, +to give the means of stepping from one to the other, as if you were +occupying a little parlour; but the result is no addition to comfort. +The signal for starting is given, not by the whistle of the engine, but +by a little musical flourish, a tir-ely, consisting of three notes, +blown on his bugle by the conductor of the train. Of the officials, +general civility and obliging behaviour is the rule. The passengers’ +luggage department would be improved by assimilation with the system +adopted in France. But nations are often like wilful children; they +are determined to have a way of their own, for the sake of having it. +They refuse to attend to good advice, because it is counsel given by +another; and they persist in some evidently inconvenient mode of doing +things, merely to show that they are independent agents, and that they +can and will follow their own devices. + +Ghent, with its hundred thousand inhabitants and its considerable +trade, has still the air of a town half-asleep, as if you had caught +it yawning and stretching at half-past three on a summer’s morning. +Its extent is much exaggerated in the current printed descriptions. +Charles the Fifth’s time-honoured pun--“I could put Paris into my Gand” +(that is, my glove)--is apocryphal and highly improbable. If you doubt +it, mount the tower of the beffroi. People who lose their way in a +labyrinth of lanes, always fancy they have travelled over an enormous +area. Now, the map of Ghent puts you in mind of a Medusa’s head, or of +the clustered worms that are taken out into the country, on a sultry +day, to participate in the pleasures of a fishing party. Buy a map of +Ghent, colour the streets blue, the river Escaut yellow, the river Lys +red, and you will have a faithful representation of the famous Gordian +knot, if you happen never to have seen one before. I long wandered +about the streets of Ghent, trying to find the city, and could not. +It is a town made up of bits of west-ends, Faubourg St. Germains, and +fashionable suburbs, with no heart or kernel to it--no Cheapside, no +Ludgate Hill, no Rue de Rivoli, no Rue St. Honoré. There is a slight +recovery of suspended animation in the Marché-aux-Grains and the Rue +des Champs; but the pulse, even there, beats very feebly. The market +tries (when it is not market-day) to manifest its vitality in an +unhealthy, spasmodic way, by book-stalls of amatory literature, over +which a little censorship would be no great tyranny. In the street, to +enter a fashionable lace and embroidery shop, we had to ring at the +glass-door, as if it had been a private house. After waiting, while the +lady up-stairs gave a touch of arrangement to her cap and her hair, +we were duly admitted to make our purchase, much in the style of a +morning call. Elsewhere, in the modern quarters, you see unbroken lines +of large, handsome, well-painted houses, hybrids between a palace and +a ladies’ boarding-school. Business may be transacted therein, but it +is done in the quietest possible way. You see dentelles (lace), or +calicots (calicos), engraved on a neat brass-plate on a house-door, +as if some private individual,--Monsieur Dentelles, or Madame Veuve +Calicots,--were living there on their property, in great state and +dignified retirement. The older portions of the town are decorated +with houses built before the window-tax was born or thought of,--with +quaint, pointed gable ends, as if a child had been trying to cut fancy +conic sections out of a red brick wall. But in whatever direction you +wend your way, you can’t go twenty steps without crossing a bridge. For +the convenience at once of the land-carriage and the canal navigation, +these are swing bridges; often you have to wait while a barge, laden +perhaps with vegetable mould for the pot-plants in training by one of +the Vans,--Van Houtte, Van Schaffelt, or Van Geert,--intercepts the +passage. The time is not exactly lost, because it allows you to stare +about you without rudeness. But soon, the bridge-swinger takes his toll +from the barge, which he collects by means of a wooden shoe at the end +of a string fastened to a fishing-rod; the isthmus of planks is then +replaced, and resounds with the pattering of gros sabots. Certainly, +the popular costume is droll, in its extremes. At top, the women wear +a close-worked cottage hat of straw, with three dabs of blue ribbon +stuck on behind; at foot, they are garnished with masses of hollow +timber, which must be a serious drain on the Belgian forests. But hats +worn by women at the same time with sabots, are, in French eyes, or +in eyes accustomed to France, as utterly anomalous a combination as a +fish-tailed mermaid, or a man-headed centaur are considered, on cool +reflection, by Professor Owen. Conspicuous in the air rise the portly +towers of St. Nicholas, St. Michel, and St. Bavon, around which, and +the lofty houses, multitudinous swifts, whirl and scream, in delight at +the abundance of their insect game. The canals are propitious to the +propagation of gnats. Where is the carcase, there are the vultures; and +where are the gnats, there flock the swifts. + +That the quietude of the town is more apparent than real, and that busy +life is going on within, is plain from the Belgian fashion of sticking +looking-glasses outside the houses, at angles (sometimes they glance +in three directions) which allow the inmates to catch a glimpse of +passers-by, without being seen themselves. “Au Nouveau Miroir,” (the +new looking-glass) is occasionally used as the sign of an inn. The +mirrors are generally on a level with the first-floor; and a smaller +one receives the rays it reflects straight from the entrance door; so +that Not at home is easily responded to the inquiries of a dun, or +worse, a bore. It is not one city alone which adopts the system of +quicksilvered peepers; nor is the custom new, but was probably first +introduced by peculiarities of historical and political situation. In +Belgium, it has not always been convenient to open the door to every +new-comer. + +“If you please, monsieur,” we politely ask, “have the goodness to tell +us which is the way to the Botanic Garden?” + +“N’entends Français,” is the reply, accompanied by a disclamatory shake +of the head. It is a reminder that the Flemish tongue is master here, +in actual fact, if not by legal right. Even the government is obliged +to come to a compromise, and affix the names of the streets to their +corners both in Flemish and in French. The railway porter, who handed +us our luggage, was deaf and dumb as far as we were concerned, and +signed us over to a brother medium. The coachman who drove us to our +inn just comprehended the words “Hôtel de Flandre”--and a capital and +recommendable hotel it is--but he comprehended no more of the further +clever remarks addressed to him. Many of the Gantois who do speak +French manage it so badly, and are so decidedly not at home in it, that +you feel quite delighted at your own superiority to them, born Belgians +though they be. But Flemish has so close a relationship to our own +vernacular, that the names of trades over the shops, the bills, and the +public notices, are as amusing to read as it is to hear a foreigner +speak broken English. Drap Straet is Cloth, or Draper’s Street. One +man sells alle soorte of wares; another offers you cart-grease under +the name of wagen smeer; kelder te huren is cellar to hire; kamer te +huren is chamber to hire. A koperslager is a coppersmith. Professions +which require no interpreter are the bakker, the matte-maeker, the +timmerman, the apotheker en drogiste, and the boekhandlaer. The three +grand literary elements are announced for sale as pennen, inkt, en +papier. If your family is small, you may be content with securing Een +Huis to let; but should you be expecting a large and sudden increase, +you had better engage Twee Huyzen, if adjacent. In the Apelmerkt, you +could hardly mistake the fruit that is sold there. When thirsty, you +may go and drink a glass of dobbel-bier at the hospitable sign of De +Roose; or you may prefer to patronise the Oliphant (without a castle), +or the Bruyn Visch,--that is to say, the Red Herring. Good little boys +and girls punctually attend a zondagschool. Booksellers’ windows invite +you to the perusal of Flemish novels; such as Een Zwanenzang (a swan’s +song), by Jan Van Beers, and De Zending der Vrow (Woman’s Mission), by +Hendrik Conscience. + +“How triste, how sad it is for you not to be able to speak Flemish!” +ejaculated a dame who sold goeden drank, but who could not, though +she would, converse with me. In such cases, it rarely strikes the +tongue-tied Flemings belonging to the portion of society below the +middle-class, that they are like the fox who was minus a tail. They +are content with, and would have other people learn, a language which +confines them, as tightly as a tether fastens a cow, to a few score +square leagues of the earth’s vast superficies. But a striking point +in Flemish popular manners, is the forming themselves into bands +and societies. These little close corporations are perhaps, in some +degree, the result of their narrowly-diffused tongue. And so the +blue-bloused archers of one town go and shoot against the black-capped +long-bows of another, distant a quarter-of-a-day’s pedestrian journey; +the chorus-club of Schoutenhoul will pay a fraternal visit to the +orpheonists of Raspenscraep. In the French army, the French Flemings +hang together like bees at swarming-time. Here at Ghent, the workmen, +even at leisure hours and meal-times, form themselves into companies. +Young people, both girls and boys, run together in distinct and +closely-grouped herds, like flocks of young lambs at the same age. One +would think that babies in Flanders came all at once, in falls, in +imitation of the lambing season with Southdowns and Leicesters. + +But the Botanic garden--where is it? Let us first look at our map, +and then at the corner of the street, and endeavour to pilot our way +thither. In Belgian towns, generally, if you use your eyes with the +slightest expression of inquiring curiosity, up starts a phantom +before you, like a most impertinent Jack-in-the-box, calling himself a +commissionaire, but who must not be confounded with a superior being, +the French commissionaire. Where these creatures come from, I cannot +tell. They suddenly appear before you, as if the air had curdled itself +into human form. Peep into a shop window, and you have one at your +elbow; gaze up at a steeple, and, when you look down, you will find +a commissionaire between your legs; turn the angle of a street, on a +walk of discovery, and round the corner you knock your nose against a +commissionaire. They start from behind doors, down staircases, out of +cellars, from the dark mouths of narrow lanes; and I believe that, upon +inquiry, they would be found now and then to drop from the roofs. They +follow you about with the hungry look of a beast of prey, regarding +you as the game on their preserve, and themselves as very forbearing +to spare you a little while. I do not say that no respectable man +exercises the calling of commissionaire; but, whenever such jewels are +found, they ought to be set in sterling gold. In age, they vary from +sixteen to sixty. They deal in cigars, and have often a select female +acquaintance. They are mostly seedy in garment, cloudy in complexion, +uncleanly in person, offensive in breath, jargonic in speech, forward +in manner, and given to drink. Commissionaires attach themselves to +every hotel, as leeches hang to the side of their vessel, ready to +fix on anything that has blood or money to yield; and these consider +themselves the head of their profession. But there are wandering +commissionaires who prowl about the streets, willing to make themselves +useful in any way--too useful, at times, many people might think. + +One fellow, who pleaded his large family at home, and whom I took for +an hour or two to get over the ground more quickly, disappeared every +time we came to anything that required more than a minute to examine. +Each disappearance had for its object the injection of a dram into his +weakly stomach, which relieved me from listening to his account of +the lions. But, after a little unsteadiness, he tripped and tumbled +on the ground, and concluded by running into an iron post with a +violence that must have done serious damage to the post. I confess to a +prejudice against Belgian commissionaires, and never employ them when +I can help it. They attack you in the very churches. “You won’t leave +the cathedral without paying the concièrge,” was the parting remark +of a young commissionaire whose services I persisted in declining; +and, while hunting for the Botanic garden, I can’t proceed without +interruption, but am obliged to say to a person who continually crosses +my path, “I have already told you three times I do not want you. Cannot +you take an answer, and leave me to myself?” + +The garden, when found at last, is a painful instead of a pleasurable +sight, and must be far from gratifying to the citizens of Ghent. It +is a warning to avoid, and not an example to follow, as all botanic +gardens ought to be. The hardy perennials are the only plants in good +condition; among these is a remarkable Andromeda arborea. The enormous +carp, rising and sinking in their pond, are a lingering remnant of +former prosperity. In the houses, dirt, dust, thrips, scale, red +spider, and aphis, threaten to get the upper hand, and to establish +their dynasty on a permanent footing. A fine Doum palm, in a handsome +but filthy cage of glass, excites pity by its wretched want of comfort. +Other unhappy captives, lank and lean, bald and mangy, beg hard for +some one to have compassion on them. There are many noble specimens in +a deplorable way. + +Two small-leaved standard myrtles, in boxes, cannot be less than a +hundred and fifty or two hundred years old. Their trunks measure +thirteen or fourteen inches in circumference; it would be difficult to +find many such in Europe. A leading English nurseryman has endeavoured +to get them across the water; it is a pity he cannot, for they would +be properly cared for here. There are many other far-from-every-day +myrtles, which the head of the establishment seems trying hard to kill. +He is the Celestine Doudet of greenhouse evergreens; his pupils do not +thrive; his oleanders are in the last stage of suffering. The alleged +excuse is want of sufficient accommodation and hands; but when a thing +is to be done, it is not a bad plan to do it yourself. Had I such +handsome orange trees, so neglected, so begrimed with soot, I would get +up at three in the morning, and, in my shirt-sleeves, with an apron +on, with a bucket of soapsuds and a sponge in hand, would mount an A +ladder and work away, day after day, till the task was done. But are +there no such things as garden engines in Ghent? A Victoria, in a tank, +contrives to wash itself partially, though tattered and torn about the +leaves; but it is not clear what business a pit of pine-apples has in a +place for study, where scantiness of room is complained of. One plant, +or two, are all right and proper, but a botanical lecturer does not +want a crop of anything. + +Near the entrance of the garden stands a vase, conspicuously mounted on +a pedestal, in which grows what the official who did the honours was +pleased to point out as a rose-bush grafted on an oak-tree. I shook my +head in disgust at the falsehood. “Look,” he insisted, “the stem is +an oak-stem, the side branches are covered with oak-leaves, and the +central twig is the rose which has been grafted in the middle. You can +see that its leaves are rose-leaves, can’t you?--and it is full of buds +coming into flower.” + +“No, no; it is only a trick,” I answered, without apologising for +flatly contradicting him. “You have perforated the stem of the oak from +the root to the top; through the tube thus made you have inserted the +stem of a rooted rose-bush; but there is no union between the two, like +the junction of a scion with the stock. It grows independently in the +earth, as the oak-plant does, although encased within it; and you call +that grafting a rose on an oak, which I am gardener enough to know to +be impossible.” + +“Ah! you know that. You have found it out. And yet, many people, when +they see this specimen, go away persuaded that we have succeeded in +grafting a rose on an oak.” + +I made no further remark than my looks expressed; but I thought +that botanic gardens were instituted for the teaching of accurate +information and useful facts, and not to mislead ignorant persons and +to propagate error. An educational establishment, subsidised partly +by the government and partly by the town, forgets its duties when +it blazons forth a charlatanism which would upset the principles of +vegetable physiology and stultify the hard-earned acquirements of +science. + + On the 18th of July was published, price Five Shillings and Sixpence, + neatly bound in cloth, + + THE THIRTEENTH VOLUME + OF + HOUSEHOLD WORDS, + + Containing the Numbers issued between the Nineteenth of January and + the Twelfth of July, Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-six. + + Complete sets of Household Words may always be had. + + +_The Right of Translating Articles from_ HOUSEHOLD WORDS +_is reserved by the Authors_. + + +Published at the Office, No. 16, Wellington Street North, Strand. +Printed by BRADBURY & EVANS, Whitefriars, London. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + +This is from Volume XIV of the series. + +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted +to the public domain. + +Transcriber has generated a Table of Contents. + +This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. + +This file uses =equal signs= to indicate boldface text. + +Itemized changes from the original text: + + On page 1, changed “for” to “for.”, + near “morsel of luck to be thankful” + On page 1, changed “bed-side” to “bedside”, + near “the chair by her” + On page 4, changed “sweet-heart” to “sweetheart”, + near “with a farthing. My” + On page 8, changed “be” to “he”, + near “wrings from poor people” + On page 20, changed “bird” to “Bird”, + near “or The Bird of St. Martin” + On page 29, changed “melody!"” to “melody!”, + near “and an echo of” + On page 29, changed “again!"” to “again!”, + near “reap but tears and griefs” + On page 42, changed “third class” to “third-class”, + near “chars-à-bancs are open at the side” + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77354 *** diff --git a/77354-h/77354-h.htm b/77354-h/77354-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c04b483 --- /dev/null +++ b/77354-h/77354-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3715 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Household Words No. 330. | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } +hr.full {width: 95%; margin-left: 2.5%; margin-right: 2.5%;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } +table.autotable td { padding: 0.25em; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +/* Images */ + + + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +/* .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} */ +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2em;} + +/* Added by Ed: */ +.pre-heading { + text-align: center; + font-size: 150%; +} +.float-right { + float: right + } +.float-left { + float: left + } +.x-ebookmaker .float-right { + float: right + } +.x-ebookmaker .float-left { + float: left + } +.height { + height: 4em +} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77354 ***</div> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> + + + + +<div class="pre-heading"> +“<i>Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS.</i>”—<span class="smcap">Shakespeare.</span> +</div> + + +<h1>HOUSEHOLD WORDS.</h1> +<p class="center">A WEEKLY JOURNAL.</p> +<p class="center"><b>CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.</b></p> + + +<div class="height"> +<p class="float-left"><span class="float-left">N<sup>o.</sup> 330.]</span></p> +<p class="float-right"><span class="float-left">{<span class="smcap">Price</span> 2<i>d.</i></span><br> +<span class="float-left">{<span class="smcap">Stamped</span> 3<i>d.</i></span></p> + +<p class="center">SATURDAY, JULY 19, 1856.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="TABLE_OF_CONTENTS">TABLE OF CONTENTS</h2> +</div> +<div class="verse indent0"><a href="#THE_DIARY_OF_ANNE_RODWAY">THE DIARY OF ANNE RODWAY.</a><br></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><a href="#BIRD_HISTORY">BIRD HISTORY.</a><br></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><a href="#RHINE-LAND">RHINE-LAND.</a><br></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><a href="#MILVERSTON_WORTHIES">MILVERSTON WORTHIES.</a><br></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><a href="#SCOTCH_COAST_FOLK">SCOTCH COAST FOLK.</a><br></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><a href="#CHIP">CHIP.</a><br></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><a href="#CHARLES_THE_FIFTHS_GLOVE">CHARLES THE FIFTH’S GLOVE.</a><br></div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_DIARY_OF_ANNE_RODWAY">THE DIARY OF ANNE RODWAY.</h2> +</div> + + +<p class="center">IN TWO CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE FIRST.</p> + +<p>March 3rd, 1840. A long letter to-day +from Robert, which surprised and vexed and +fluttered me so, that I have been sadly +behind-hand with my work ever since. He +writes in worse spirits than last time, and +absolutely declares that he is poorer even +than when he went to America, and that he +has made up his mind to come home to +London. How happy I should be at this +news, if he only returned to me a prosperous +man! As it is, though I love him dearly, I +cannot look forward to the meeting him +again, disappointed and broken down and +poorer than ever, without a feeling almost of +dread for both of us. I was twenty-six last +birthday and he was thirty-three; and there +seems less chance now than ever of our being +married. It is all I can do to keep myself by +my needle; and his prospects, since he failed +in the small stationery business three years +ago, are worse, if possible, than mine. Not +that I mind so much for myself; women, in +all ways of life, and especially in my dressmaking +way, learn, I think, to be more +patient than men. What I dread is Robert’s +despondency, and the hard struggle he will +have in this cruel city to get his bread—let +alone making money enough to marry me. So +little as poor people want to set up in housekeeping +and be happy together, it seems hard +that they can’t get it when they are honest +and hearty, and willing to work. The clergyman +said in his sermon, last Sunday evening, +that all things were ordered for the best, and +we are all put into the stations in life that +are properest for us. I suppose he was right, +being a very clever gentleman who fills the +church to crowding; but I think I should +have understood him better if I had not been +very hungry at the time, in consequence of my +own station in life being nothing but Plain +Needlewoman.</p> + +<p>March 4th. Mary Mallinson came down to +my room to take a cup of tea with me. I read +her bits of Robert’s letter, to show her that +if she has her troubles, I have mine too; but +I could not succeed in cheering her. She says +she is born to misfortune, and that, as long +back as she can remember, she has never +had the least morsel of luck to be +thankful <a id="Change1"></a>for. +I told her to go and look in my +glass, and to say if she had nothing to be +thankful for then; for Mary is a very pretty +girl, and would look still prettier if she could +be more cheerful and dress neater. However, +my compliment did no good. She rattled her +spoon impatiently in her tea-cup, and said, +“If I was only as good a hand at needlework +as you are, Anne, I would change faces with +the ugliest girl in London.” “Not you!” +says I, laughing. She looked at me for a moment, +and shook her head, and was out of the +room before I could get up and stop her. She +always runs off in that way when she is going +to cry, having a kind of pride about letting +other people see her in tears.</p> + +<p>March 5th.—A fright about Mary. I had +not seen her all day, as she does not work at +the same place where I do; and in the evening +she never came down to have tea with +me, or sent me word to go to her. So just +before I went to bed I ran up-stairs to say +good-night. She did not answer when I +knocked; and when I stepped softly into the +room I saw her in bed, asleep, with her work +not half done, lying about the room in the +untidiest way. There was nothing remarkable +in that, and I was just going away on +tip-toe, when a tiny bottle and wine-glass +on the chair by her <a id="Change2"></a>bedside caught my eye. +I thought she was ill and had been taking +physic, and looked at the bottle. It was +marked in large letters, “Laudanum—Poison.” +My heart gave a jump as if it was +going to fly out of me. I laid hold of her +with both hands, and shook her with all +my might. She was sleeping heavily, and +woke slowly, as it seemed to me—but still +she did wake. I tried to pull her out of +bed, having heard that people ought to be +always walked up and down when they have +taken laudanum; but she resisted, and +pushed me away violently.</p> + +<p>“Anne!” says she in a fright. “For +gracious sake, what’s come to you! Are you +out of your senses?”</p> + +<p>“O, Mary! Mary!” says I, holding up +the bottle before her, “If I hadn’t come in +when I did——” And I laid hold of her to +shake her again.</p> + +<p>She looked puzzled at me for a moment—then +smiled (the first time I had seen her do +so for many a long day)—then put her arms +round my neck.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span></p> + +<p>“Don’t be frightened about me, Anne,” +she says, “I am not worth it, and there is no +need.”</p> + +<p>“No need!” says I, out of breath. “No +need, when the bottle has got Poison marked +on it!”</p> + +<p>“Poison, dear, if you take it all,” says +Mary looking at me very tenderly; “and a +night’s rest if you only take a little.”</p> + +<p>I watch her for a moment; doubtful +whether I ought to believe what she said, or +to alarm the house. But there was no sleepiness +in her eyes, and nothing drowsy in +her voice; and she sat up in bed quite easily +without anything to support her.</p> + +<p>“You have given me a dreadful fright, +Mary,” says I, sitting down by her in the +chair, and beginning, by this time, to feel +rather faint after being startled so.</p> + +<p>She jumped out of bed to get me a drop of +water; and kissed me, and said how sorry she +was, and how undeserving of so much interest +being taken in her. At the same time, she +tried to possess herself of the laudanum-bottle +which I still kept cuddled up tight in +my own hands.</p> + +<p>“No,” says I. “You have got into a low-spirited +despairing way. I won’t trust you +with it.”</p> + +<p>“I am afraid I can’t do without it,” says +Mary, in her usual quiet, hopeless voice. +“What with work that I can’t get through +as I ought, and troubles that I can’t help +thinking of, sleep won’t come to me unless I +take a few drops out of that bottle. Don’t +keep it away from me, Anne; it’s the only +thing in the world that makes me forget +myself.”</p> + +<p>“Forget yourself!” says I. “You have +no right to talk in that way, at your age. +There’s something horrible in the notion of a +girl of eighteen sleeping with a bottle of +laudanum by her bedside every night. We +all of us have our troubles. Haven’t I got +mine?”</p> + +<p>“You can do twice the work I can, twice +as well as me,” says Mary. “You are never +scolded and rated at for awkwardness with +your needle; and I always am. You can +pay for your room every week; and I am +three weeks in debt for mine.”</p> + +<p>“A little more practice,” says I, “and a +little more courage, and you will soon do +better. You have got all your life before +you—”</p> + +<p>“I wish I was at the end of it,” says she, +breaking in. “I’m alone in the world, and +my life’s no good to me.”</p> + +<p>“You ought to be ashamed of yourself for +saying so,” says I. “Haven’t you got me for +a friend. Didn’t I take a fancy to you when +first you left your stepmother, and came to +lodge in this house? And haven’t I been +sisters with you ever since? Suppose you +are alone in the world, am I much better off? +I’m an orphan, like you. I’ve almost as many +things in pawn as you; and, if your +pockets are empty, mine have only got nine-pence +in them, to last me for all the rest of +the week.”</p> + +<p>“Your father and mother were honest +people,” says Mary, obstinately. “My mother +ran away from home, and died in a hospital. +My father was always drunk, and always +beating me. My stepmother is as good as +dead, for all she cares about me. My only +brother is thousands of miles away in foreign +parts, and never writes to me, and never +helps me with a farthing. My <a id="Change3"></a>sweetheart—”</p> + +<p>She stopped, and the red flew into her +face. I knew, if she went on that way, she +would only get to the saddest part of her sad +story, and give both herself and me unnecessary +pain.</p> + +<p>“My sweetheart is too poor to marry me, +Mary,” I said. “So I’m not so much to be +envied, even there. But let’s give over disputing +which is worst off. Lie down in bed, +and let me tuck you up. I’ll put a stitch or +two into that work of yours while you go to +sleep.”</p> + +<p>Instead of doing what I told her, she burst +out crying (being very like a child in some of +her ways), and hugged me so tight round +the neck, that she quite hurt me. I let her +go on, till she had worn herself out, and was +obliged to lie down. Even then, her last few +words, before she dropped off to sleep, were +such as I was half-sorry, half-frightened, to +hear.</p> + +<p>“I won’t plague you long, Anne,” she said. +“I haven’t courage to go out of the world as +you seem to fear I shall. But I began my +life wretchedly, and wretchedly I am sentenced +to end it.”</p> + +<p>It was of no use lecturing her again, for +she closed her eyes. I tucked her up as +neatly as I could, and put her petticoat over +her; for the bed-clothes were scanty, and +her hands felt cold. She looked so pretty +and delicate as she fell asleep, that it quite +made my heart ache to see her, after such +talk as we had held together. I just waited +long enough to be quite sure that she was in +the land of dreams; then emptied the horrible +laudanum-bottle into the grate, took up +her half-done work, and, going out softly, left +her for that night.</p> + +<p>March 6th. Sent off a long letter to +Robert, begging and entreating him not to +be so down-hearted, and not to leave America +without making another effort. I told +him I could bear any trial except the wretchedness +of seeing him come back a helpless, +broken-down man, trying uselessly to begin +life again, when too old for a change. It was +not till after I had posted my own letter, and +read over parts of Robert’s again, that the +suspicion suddenly floated across me, for the +first time, that he might have sailed for England +immediately after writing to me. There +were expressions in the letter which seemed +to indicate that he had some such headlong<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> +project in his mind. And yet, surely if it +were so, I ought to have noticed them at the +first reading. I can only hope I am wrong +in my present interpretation of much of what +he has written to me—hope it earnestly for +both our sakes.</p> + +<p>This has been a doleful day for me. I have +been uneasy about Robert, and uneasy about +Mary. My mind is haunted by those last +words of hers: “I began my life wretchedly, +and wretchedly I am sentenced to end it.” Her +usual melancholy way of talking never produced +the same impression on me that I feel +now. Perhaps the discovery of the laudanum-bottle +is the cause of this. I would give +many a hard day’s work to know what to do +for Mary’s good. My heart warmed to her +when we first met in the same lodging-house, +two years ago; and, although I am +not one of the over-affectionate sort myself, I +feel as if I could go to the world’s end to +serve that girl. Yet, strange to say, if I was +asked why I was so fond of her, I don’t think +I should know how to answer the question.</p> + +<p>March 7th. I am almost ashamed to write +it down, even in this journal, which no eyes +but mine ever look on; yet I must honestly +confess to myself, that here I am, at nearly +one in the morning, sitting up in a state of +serious uneasiness, because Mary has not yet +come home. I walked with her, this morning, +to the place where she works, and tried +to lead her into talking of the relations she +has got who are still alive. My motive in +doing this was to see if she dropped anything +in the course of conversation which might +suggest a way of helping her interests with +those who are bound to give her all reasonable +assistance. But the little I could get +her to say to me led to nothing. Instead of +answering my questions about her stepmother +and her brother, she persisted at first, in the +strangest way, in talking of her father, who +was dead and gone, and of one Noah Truscott, +who had been the worst of all the bad +friends he had, and had taught him to drink +and game. When I did get her to speak of +her brother, she only knew that he had gone +out to a place called Assam, where they +grew tea. How he was doing, or whether +he was there still, she did not seem to know, +never having heard a word from him for +years and years past. As for her stepmother, +Mary, not unnaturally, flew into a passion +the moment I spoke of her. She keeps an +eating-house at Hammersmith, and could +have given Mary good employment in it; +but she seems always to have hated her, and +to have made her life so wretched with +abuse and ill-usage, that she had no refuge +left but to go away from home, and do her +best to make a living for herself. Her husband +(Mary’s father) appears to have behaved +badly to her; and, after his death, she +took the wicked course of revenging herself +on her step-daughter. I felt, after this, that +it was impossible Mary could go back, and +that it was the hard necessity of her position, +as it is of mine, that she should struggle on +to make a decent livelihood without assistance +from any of her relations. I confessed +as much as this to her; but I added that I +would try to get her employment with the +persons for whom I work, who pay higher +wages, and show a little more indulgence to +those under them, than the people to whom +she is now obliged to look for support. I +spoke much more confidently than I felt, +about being able to do this; and left her, as +I thought, in better spirits than usual. She +promised to be back to-night to tea, at nine +o’clock, and now it is nearly one in the morning, +and she is not home yet. If it was any +other girl I should not feel uneasy, for I should +make up my mind that there was extra work +to be done in a hurry, and that they were +keeping her late, and I should go to bed. But +Mary is so unfortunate in everything that +happens to her, and her own melancholy talk +about herself keeps hanging on my mind +so, that I have fears on her account which +would not distress me about any one else. It +seems inexcusably silly to think such a thing, +much more to write it down; but I have a +kind of nervous dread upon me that some +accident—</p> + +<p>What does that loud knocking at the street +door mean? And those voices and heavy +footsteps outside? Some lodger who has lost +his key, I suppose, And yet, my heart——What +a coward I have become all of a +sudden!</p> + +<p>More knocking and louder voices. I must +run to the door and see what it is. O, Mary! +Mary! I hope I am not going to have +another fright about you; but I feel sadly +like it.</p> + +<p>March 8th.</p> + +<p>March 9th.</p> + +<p>March 10th.</p> + +<p>March 11th. O, me! all the troubles I +have ever had in my life are as nothing to +the trouble I am in now. For three days I +have not been able to write a single line in +this journal, which I have kept so regularly, +ever since I was a girl. For three days I +have not once thought of Robert—I, who am +always thinking of him at other times. My +poor, dear, unhappy Mary, the worst I feared +for you on that night when I sat up alone +was far below the dreadful calamity that has +really happened. How can I write about it, +with my eyes full of tears and my hand all +of a tremble? I don’t even know why I am +sitting down at my desk now, unless it is +habit that keeps me to my old everyday task, +in spite of all the grief and fear which seem +to unfit me entirely for performing it.</p> + +<p>The people of the house were asleep and +lazy on that dreadful night, and I was the +first to open the door. Never, never, could I +describe in writing, or even say in plain talk, +though it is so much easier, what I felt when +I saw two policemen come in, carrying<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> +between them what seemed to me to be a dead +girl, and that girl Mary! I caught hold of +her and gave a scream that must have +alarmed the whole house; for, frightened +people came crowding down-stairs in their +night-dresses. There was a dreadful confusion +and noise of loud talking, but I heard +nothing, and saw nothing, till I had got her +into my room, and laid on my bed. I stooped +down, frantic-like, to kiss her, and saw an +awful mark of a blow on her left temple, and +felt, at the same time, a feeble flutter of her +breath on my cheek. The discovery that she +was not dead seemed to give me back my +senses again. I told one of the policemen +where the nearest doctor was to be found, +and sat down by the bedside while he was +gone, and bathed her poor head with cold +water. She never opened her eyes, or moved, +or spoke; but she breathed, and that was +enough for me, because it was enough for +life.</p> + +<p>The policeman left in the room was a big, +thick-voiced, pompous man, with a horrible +unfeeling pleasure in hearing himself talk +before an assembly of frightened, silent +people. He told us how he had found her, +as if he had been telling a story in a taproom, +and began with saying, “I don’t think +the young woman was drunk.” Drunk! My +Mary, who might have been a born lady for +all the spirits she ever touched—drunk! I +could have struck the man for uttering the +word, with her lying, poor suffering angel, so +white and still and helpless before him. As +it was, I gave him a look; but he was too +stupid to understand it, and went droning +on, saying the same thing over and over +again in the same words. And yet the story +of how they found her was, like all the sad +stories I have ever heard told in real life, so +very, very short. They had just seen her +lying along on the kerb-stone, a few streets +off, and had taken her to the station-house. +There she had been searched, and one of my +cards, that I give to ladies who promise me +employment, had been found in her pocket, +and so they had brought her to our house. +This was all the man really had to tell. +There was nobody near her when she was +found, and no evidence to show how the +blow on her temple had been inflicted.</p> + +<p>What a time it was before the doctor came, +and how dreadful to hear him say, after he +had looked at her, that he was afraid all the +medical men in the world could be of no use +here! He could not get her to swallow anything; +and the more he tried to bring her +back to her senses, the less chance there +seemed of his succeeding. He examined the +blow on her temple, and said he thought she +must have fallen down in a fit of some sort, +and struck her head against the pavement, +and so have given her brain what he was +afraid was a fatal shake. I asked what was +to be done if she showed any return to sense +in the night. He said, “Send for me +directly;” and stopped for a little while afterwards +stroking her head gently with his +hand, and whispering to himself, “Poor +girl, so young and so pretty!” I had felt, +some minutes before, as if I could have +struck the policeman; and I felt now as if I +could have thrown my arms round the +doctor’s neck and kissed him. I did put out +my hand, when he took up his hat, and he +shook it in the friendliest way. “Don’t hope, +my dear,” he said, and went out.</p> + +<p>The rest of the lodgers followed him, all +silent and shocked, except the inhuman +wretch who owns the house, and lives in +idleness on the high rents <a id="Change4"></a>he wrings from +poor people like us. “She’s three weeks in +my debt,” says he, with a frown and an oath. +“Where the devil is my money to come from +now?” Brute! brute!</p> + +<p>I had a long cry alone with her that seemed +to ease my heart a little. She was not the +least changed for the better when I had +wiped away the tears, and could see her +clearly again. I took up her right hand, +which lay nearest to me. It was tight +clenched. I tried to unclasp the fingers, and +succeeded after a little time. Something +dark fell out of the palm of her hand as I +straightened it. I picked the thing up, and +smoothed it out, and saw that it was an end +of a man’s cravat.</p> + +<p>A very old, rotten, dingy strip of black +silk, with thin lilac lines, all blurred and +deadened with dirt, running across and across +the stuff in a sort of trellis-work pattern. +The small end of the cravat was hemmed in the +usual way, but the other end was all jagged, as if +the morsel then in my hands had been torn off +violently from the rest of the stuff. A chill +ran all over me as I looked at it; for that +poor, stained, crumpled end of a cravat +seemed to be saying to me, as though it had +been in plain words, “If she dies, she has +come to her death by foul means, and I am +the witness of it.”</p> + +<p>I had been frightened enough before, lest +she should die suddenly and quietly without +my knowing it, while we were alone together; +but I got into a perfect agony now for fear +this last worst affliction should take me by +surprise. I don’t suppose five minutes passed +all that woeful night through, without my +getting up and putting my cheek close to her +mouth, to feel if the faint breaths still fluttered +out of it. They came and went just +the same as at first, though the fright I was +in often made me fancy they were stilled for +ever. Just as the church clocks were striking +four, I was startled by seeing the room door +open. It was only Dusty Sal (as they call +her in the house) the maid-of-all-work. She +was wrapped up in the blanket off her bed; +her hair was all tumbled over her face; and +her eyes were heavy with sleep, as she came +up to the bedside where I was sitting.</p> + +<p>“I’ve two hours good before I begin to +work,” says she, in her hoarse, drowsy voice,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> +“and I’ve come to sit up and take my turn +at watching her. You lay down and get +some sleep on the rug. Here’s my blanket +for you—I don’t mind the cold—it will keep +me awake.”</p> + +<p>“You are very kind—very, very kind and +thoughtful, Sally,” says I, “but I am too +wretched in my mind to want sleep, or rest, +or to do anything but wait where I am, and +try and hope for the best.”</p> + +<p>“Then I’ll wait, too,” says Sally. “I must +do something; if there’s nothing to do but +waiting, I’ll wait.”</p> + +<p>And she sat down opposite me at the foot +of the bed, and drew the blanket close round +her with a shiver.</p> + +<p>“After working so hard as you do, I’m +sure you must want all the little rest you +can get,” says I.</p> + +<p>“Excepting only you,” says Sally, putting +her heavy arm very clumsily, but very gently +at the same time, round Mary’s feet, and +looking hard at the pale, still face on the +pillow. “Excepting you, she’s the only soul +in this house as never swore at me, or give +me a hard word that I can remember. When +you made puddings on Sundays, and give her +half, she always give me a bit. The rest of +’em calls me Dusty Sal. Excepting only +you, again, she always called me Sally, as if +she knowed me in a friendly way. I ain’t no +good here, but I ain’t no harm neither; and I +shall take my turn at the sitting up—that’s +what I shall do!”</p> + +<p>She nestled her head down close at Mary’s +feet as she spoke those words, and said no +more. I once or twice thought she had fallen +asleep, but whenever I looked at her, her +heavy eyes were always wide open. She never +changed her position an inch till the church +clocks struck six; then she gave one little +squeeze to Mary’s feet with her arm, and +shuffled out of the room without a word. A +minute or two after, I heard her down below, +lighting the kitchen fire just as usual.</p> + +<p>A little later, the doctor stepped over +before his breakfast time, to see if there had +been any change in the night. He only +shook his head when he looked at her, as if +there was no hope. Having nobody else to +consult that I could put trust in, I showed +him the end of the cravat, and told him of +the dreadful suspicion that had arisen in my +mind, when I found it in her hand.</p> + +<p>“You must keep it carefully, and produce +it at the inquest,” he said. “I don’t know +though, that it is likely to lead to anything. +The bit of stuff may have been lying on the +pavement near her, and her hand may have +unconsciously clutched it when she fell. Was +she subject to fainting fits?”</p> + +<p>“Not more so, sir, than other young girls +who are hard-worked and anxious, and +weakly from poor living,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“I can’t say that she may not have got +that blow from a fall,” the doctor went on, +looking at her temple again. “I can’t say +that it presents any positive appearance of +having been inflicted by another person. It +will be important, however, to ascertain what +state of health she was in last night. Have +you any idea where she was yesterday +evening?”</p> + +<p>I told him where she was employed at +work, and said I imagined she must have +been kept there later than usual.</p> + +<p>“I shall pass the place this morning,” said +the doctor, “in going my rounds among my +patients, and I’ll just step in and make some +inquiries.”</p> + +<p>I thanked him, and we parted. Just as he +was closing the door, he looked in again.</p> + +<p>“Was she your sister?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“No, sir, only my dear friend.”</p> + +<p>He said nothing more; but I heard him +sigh, as he shut the door softly. Perhaps he +once had a sister of his own, and lost her? +Perhaps she was like Mary in the face?</p> + +<p>The doctor was hours gone away. I began +to feel unspeakably forlorn and helpless. So +much so, as even to wish selfishly that Robert +might really have sailed from America, and +might get to London in time to assist and +console me. No living creature came into +the room but Sally. The first time she +brought me some tea; the second and third +times she only looked in to see if there was +any change, and glanced her eye towards the +bed. I had never known her so silent before; +it seemed almost as if this dreadful accident +had struck her dumb. I ought to have +spoken to her, perhaps, but there was something +in her face that daunted me; and, +besides, the fever of anxiety I was in began +to dry up my lips as if they would never be +able to shape any words again. I was still +tormented by that frightful apprehension of +the past night, that she would die without +my knowing it—die without saying one word +to clear up the awful mystery of this blow, +and set the suspicions at rest for ever which +I still felt whenever my eyes fell on the end +of the old cravat.</p> + +<p>At last the doctor came back.</p> + +<p>“I think you may safely clear your mind +of any doubts to which that bit of stuff may +have given rise,” he said. “She was, as you +supposed, detained late by her employers, +and she fainted in the work-room. They +most unwisely and unkindly let her go home +alone, without giving her any stimulant, as +soon as she came to her senses again. Nothing +is more probable, under these circumstances, +than that she should faint a second time on +her way here. A fall on the pavement, +without any friendly arm to break it, might +have produced even a worse injury than the +injury we see. I believe that the only ill-usage +to which the poor girl was exposed +was the neglect she met with in the work-room.”</p> + +<p>“You speak very reasonably, I own, sir,” +said I, not yet quite convinced. “Still, +perhaps she may——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span></p> + +<p>“My poor girl, I told you not to hope,” +said the doctor, interrupting me. He went +to Mary, and lifted up her eyelids, and looked +at her eyes while he spoke, then added: “If +you still doubt how she came by that blow, +do not encourage the idea that any words of +hers will ever enlighten you. She will never +speak again.”</p> + +<p>“Not dead! O, sir, don’t say she’s +dead!”</p> + +<p>“She is dead to pain and sorrow—dead to +speech and recognition. There is more animation +in the life of the feeblest insect that +flies, than in the life that is left in her. +When you look at her now, try to think that +she is in Heaven. That is the best comfort I +can give you, after telling the hard truth.”</p> + +<p>I did not believe him. I could not believe +him. So long as she breathed at all, so long +I was resolved to hope. Soon after the +doctor was gone, Sally came in again, and +found me listening (if I may call it so) at +Mary’s lips. She went to where my little +hand-glass hangs against the wall, took it +down, and gave it to me.</p> + +<p>“See if the breath marks it,” she said.</p> + +<p>Yes; her breath did mark it, but very +faintly. Sally cleaned the glass with her +apron, and gave it back to me. As she did +so, she half stretched out her hand to Mary’s +face, but drew it in again suddenly, as if she +was afraid of soiling Mary’s delicate skin +with her hard, horny fingers. Going out, +she stopped at the foot of the bed, and +scraped away a little patch of mud that was +on one of Mary’s shoes.</p> + +<p>“I always used to clean ’em for her,” said +Sally, “to save her hands from getting +blacked. May I take ’em off now, and clean +’em again?”</p> + +<p>I nodded my head, for my heart was too +heavy to speak. Sally took the shoes off +with a slow, awkward tenderness, and went +out.</p> + +<p>An hour or more must have passed, when, +putting the glass over her lips again, I saw +no mark on it. I held it closer and closer. +I dulled it accidentally with my own breath, +and cleaned it. I held it over her again. +O, Mary, Mary, the doctor was right! I +ought to have only thought of you in +Heaven!</p> + +<p>Dead, without a word, without a sign,—without +even a look to tell the true story of the +blow that killed her! I could not call to +anybody, I could not cry, I could not so much +as put the glass down and give her a kiss for +the last time. I don’t know how long I had +sat there with my eyes burning, and my +hands deadly cold, when Sally came in with +the shoes cleaned, and carried carefully in her +apron for fear of a soil touching them. At +the sight of that——</p> + +<p>I can write no more. My tears drop so +fast on the paper that I can see nothing.</p> + +<p>March 12th. She died on the afternoon of +the eighth. On the morning of the ninth, I +wrote, as in duty bound, to her stepmother, +at Hammersmith. There was no answer. +I wrote again: my letter was returned to me +this morning, unopened. For all that woman +cares, Mary might be buried with a pauper’s +funeral. But this shall never be, if I pawn +everything about me, down to the very gown +that is on my back. The bare thought of +Mary being buried by the workhouse gave +me the spirit to dry my eyes, and go to the +undertaker’s, and tell him how I was placed. +I said, if he would get me an estimate of all +that would have to be paid, from first to last, +for the cheapest decent funeral that could be +had, I would undertake to raise the money. +He gave me the estimate, written in this +way, like a common bill:</p> + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">A walking funeral complete</td> +<td class="tdr">1</td> +<td class="tdr">13</td> +<td class="tdr">8</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Vestry</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +<td class="tdr">4</td> +<td class="tdr">4</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Rector</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +<td class="tdr">4</td> +<td class="tdr">4</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Clerk</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +<td class="tdr">1</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Sexton</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +<td class="tdr">1</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Beadle</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +<td class="tdr">1</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Bell</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +<td class="tdr">1</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Six feet of ground</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +<td class="tdr">2</td> +<td class="tdr">0</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td></td> +<td>---</td> +<td>---</td> +<td>---</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span style="margin-left: 10em;">Total</span></td> +<td class="tdr">£2</td> +<td class="tdr">8</td> +<td class="tdr">4</td> +</tr> +</table> + +<p>If I had the heart to give any thought to +it, I should be inclined to wish that the +Church could afford to do without so many +small charges for burying poor people, to +whose friends even shillings are of consequence. +But it is useless to complain; the +money must be raised at once. The charitable +doctor—a poor man himself, or he would not +be living in our neighbourhood—has subscribed +ten shillings towards the expenses; +and the coroner, when the inquest was over, +added five more. Perhaps others may assist +me. If not, I have fortunately clothes and +furniture of my own to pawn. And I must +set about parting with them without delay; +for the funeral is to be to-morrow, the +thirteenth. The funeral—Mary’s funeral! +It is well that the straits and difficulties I +am in, keep my mind on the stretch. If I +had leisure to grieve, where should I find the +courage to face to-morrow?</p> + +<p>Thank God, they did not want me at the +inquest. The verdict given—with the doctor, +the policeman, and two persons from the +place where she worked, for witnesses—was +Accidental Death. The end of the cravat +was produced, and the coroner said that it +was certainly enough to suggest suspicion; +but the jury, in the absence of any positive +evidence, held to the doctor’s notion that she +had fainted and fallen down, and so got the +blow on her temple. They reproved the +people where Mary worked for letting her go +home alone, without so much as a drop of +brandy to support her, after she had fallen +into a swoon from exhaustion before their +eyes. The coroner added, on his own +account, that he thought the reproof was +thoroughly deserved. After that, the cravat-end +was given back to me, by my own<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> +desire; the police saying that they could make +no investigations with such a slight clue to +guide them. They may think so, and the +coroner, and doctor, and jury may think so; +but, in spite of all that has passed, I am now +more firmly persuaded than ever that there +is some dreadful mystery in connection with +that blow on my poor lost Mary’s temple +which has yet to be revealed, and which may +come to be discovered through this very +fragment of a cravat that I found in her +hand. I cannot give any good reason for +why I think so; but I know that if I had +been one of the jury at the inquest, nothing +should have induced me to consent to such a +verdict as Accidental Death.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="BIRD_HISTORY">BIRD HISTORY.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>A certain learned physician, named Peter +Belon, a native of the town of Le Mans, the +capital of what was then the province of +Maine, but is now the department of the +river Sarthe, in France, bethought him that +very little was known in his native country +at the time he lived—the middle of the sixteenth +century—of Natural History; and, +being moved by the example of Aristotle (at +the trifling distance of nearly nineteen hundred +years) he resolved, having been a great +traveller and eke a great observer (two +persons not always united) to give his fellow-citizens +and the world, the benefit of his +experience and opportunities, and take away +the reproach which lay like a shadow over +the land.</p> + +<p>Prepared by much study for the cultivation +of his favourite pursuits, he left France in the +year fifteen hundred and forty-seven, being at +that time twenty-nine years of age, and +travelled successively through Germany, +Bohemia, Italy, Greece, Egypt, Palestine, and +Asia Minor, returning to Paris after three +years absence with a large and valuable collection +of plants and specimens of natural +history, which he then occupied himself in +arranging, preparatory to the publication of +the knowledge he had acquired. The first +work which he produced was a history of +strange fishes and serpents, under the title +“De Aquatilibus;” but, tempting as the +subject is, I do not at present intend to +examine it, having another of his productions +before me, which (from the fact of its being a +borrowed book, and liable, therefore, to sudden +seizure by its owner, who otherwise +would never get it back), more immediately +claims my attention.</p> + +<p>This coveted volume is the celebrated +History of the Nature of Birds, with their +descriptions and lively portraits, taken from +Nature, and written in seven books, and is, +perhaps, the principal work on which is +founded Peter Belon’s claim to be considered +the father of modern natural history. In the +preface to it he promises—and he keeps his +word far better than might have been +expected—that nothing shall appear in these +books which is not perfectly true; there +shall be no false descriptions or portraits of +suppositious animals; nothing, in short, that +is not to be found in nature. Appropriate to +the publication of a work on ornithology, Peter +Belon caused this volume to be printed, in the +year fifteen hundred and fifty-five, by +William Cavellat, in front of the college of +Cambray, in Paris, at the sign of the Fat +Hen (a sure sign that Peter Belon came +from Le Mans, a city famous for its poultry); +and that there should be no doubt of the +latter fact, the title-page also bore the living +portraiture of a domestic fowl in very high +condition, enclosed within a circle, on the +outer rim of which was inscribed the legend +“Gallina in pingui,” an inscription that need +not again be translated. A portrait of Peter +Belon, as he appeared to the justly-admiring +world, at the age of thirty-six, also embellished +the volume. The learned physician +appears to have been a man with a good, sensible, +honest countenance, wearing a large +Crimean beard, and having a cap on his head, +the shape of which, fortunately, has not +yet been adopted for the British army.</p> + +<p>Like most other old authors, Peter Belon +takes some time before he can get fairly +under weigh. There are, first, the dedication +to the most Christian king—Henry the +Second of the name—whose humble scholar +the author declares himself to be. Then follows +a homily addressed to the reader, chiefly +for the purpose of assuring him that, in the +lively portraits of the birds which he presents +(Ah, could we but reproduce some of them!), +he is not practising on his credulity, but that, +such as he represents them, the fowls are +themselves, and that, where he cannot get an +authentic likeness he has refused to invent +one.</p> + +<p>The royal privilege to publish, sealed with +yellow wax—like a bottle of good old wine—comes +next, and finally appear several copies +of verses in praise of the author, by certain of +his friends, which latter had better be +skipped, that Peter Belon’s volume, which +has in it a great deal that is worth reading, +may unfold its pages for our gratification. It +is not, however, a resumé of the work, or anything +like it, that I intend to make, but simply +a dip into it—here and there—extending +some of the quaint fancies, curious digressions, +and sound opinions with which it is interspersed, +always desiring our reader to bear in +mind that the author was a physician as well +as a naturalist.</p> + +<p>A word or two, before he fairly enters on +his theme, may be allowed him to describe +the pains he was in the habit of taking to +obtain correct information. “It was my +custom,” he says, “during my sojourn in +Padua, to go down the Brenta every Thursday +evening, voyaging all night in order to reach +Venice on Friday morning, and to remain +there on Saturday and Sunday, as much for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span> +the convenience of seeing birds as well as +fishes; and after having conferred with +fowlers and fishermen, to return from thence +on Sunday evening, thus losing no time by +taking the night-boat, and being ready to +continue my studies on Monday morning. +During which time, on the aforesaid days of +Friday and Saturday, there was not a single +fowler or fisherman who did not bring to +show me every rare creature he had been +able to procure.”</p> + +<p>Commencing, then, “ab ovo,” Peter Belon +discusses the properties of eggs; but into +the processes of fecundation and hatching +which he describes, I do not propose to +enter, the gastronomic view of the question +presenting more novelty. After apologising +for the puerility of the subject, he tells us +that in his time the French way of eating +eggs (they have six hundred and eighty-five +ways now, if the Almanach des Gourmands +speaks sooth) was by breaking them at the +small end and carefully replacing the shell +when emptied into the platter; while the +Germans, on the other hand—reminding us of +Blefuscu and Lilliput—opened their eggs at +the side and finished by smashing the shell; +in which latter practice, says Belon, they followed +the example of the ancients, who held +it a thing of evil augury to leave the shells +unbroken. Belon then proceeds to discourse +on the numerous varieties of eggs, considering +those of pigeons, ostriches, pea-hens, geese, and +swans are ill-flavoured and indigestible,—not +objecting to the eggs of the tortoise or turtle,—but +giving the preference, like a person of +taste, to those of the domestic fowl, which, he +says, “are supposed by many in France to +assist greatly in prolonging life;” and he +instances the case of Pope Paul the Third, +who used, with that end in view, to eat two +new-laid eggs for breakfast every morning. +As to their shape, he remarks that long eggs +are supposed to be much better eating than +round ones; but without insisting on this +point, he has no hesitation in declaring that +all are highly invigorating, as truffles are, +and artichokes, and raw oysters. Artichokes, +indeed, were so much esteemed in Belon’s +time, that “no great nobleman feeling himself +unwell would finish his dinner without +them,”—eating them by way of dessert. +Belon objects to hard boiled eggs, or such as +are too much fried, “on account of their engendering +bad humours,” but upon poached +eggs (œufs pochéz) he looks with considerable +favour. In all cases he prefers plain boiled +eggs (time—three minutes and a quarter) to +those which are roasted; notwithstanding the +well-known proverb: “There’s wisdom in +the roasting of eggs.” The best way of preserving +eggs, he says, is to keep them in a +cool place, bury them in salt, or dip them in +brine.</p> + +<p>As the chicken issues naturally from the +egg, so dining upon the one is the regular +sequence to breakfasting on the other. The +younger your pullet, says Belon, the easier it +is of digestion, though he allows you occasionally +to eat an elderly male bird, when +prescribed medicinally (hormis le coq, qui est +souvêt pris pour medicine). “Roasted or +grilled fowls are generally the most savoury; +those which are boiled furnish more humid +nourishment to the body. The first are eaten +hot, the last cold.” This rule, however, does +not, he tells us, always hold good: “Because, +if any one writing on the quality of the flesh +of birds, happened to be in a country where +the people fed on a particular kind not eaten +elsewhere, and a male bird already old and +tough were offered him (avenait qu’on luy +presentast de quelque oyseau des-ia viel et +endurcy), he ought not to conclude that its +flesh is necessarily fibrous and hard.” With +all respect for the opinion of honest Peter +Belon, I should be inclined to think that a +tough old cock, whatever his nation, was +somewhat difficult of digestion. I have a +very vivid recollection of a fowl of this sort +at a certain hotel in Abbeville, where nothing +else was to be had for dinner, which the +waiter assured me was not to be surpassed in +tenderness; a quality he might have displayed +towards his family when alive, but +which certainly did not belong to him after +he was roasted. It is, perhaps, on the tolerant +principle of respecting other people’s prejudices +(I can account for Belon’s conclusion no +other way), that he does not exclude even +birds of prey from good men’s feasts. “We +know by experience,” he observes (not his +own experience, I hope), “what has taken +place in Crete, where the young ones of the +vulture which have fallen from their rocky +nests near Voulèsmeni, have been proved at +least as good eating as a fine capon. And +although some of the inhabitants (the greater +part, I should imagine) think that the old +birds are not good to eat, because they feed +on carrion, the fact is otherwise; for good +falconers say that the hawk, vulture, and +falcon are excellent meat, and being roasted +or boiled, like poultry, are found to be well-tasted +and tender. (Fancy a tender vulture!) +We constantly see, if any of these birds kill +themselves, or break a limb in hunting game, +that the falconers do not hesitate to dress +them for the table.” In Auvergne, he adds, +the peasants of the Limagne, and in the +mountains, too, eat the flesh of the goivan, a +species of eagle; so that it may be concluded +that birds of prey, whether old or young, are +tender,—an inference which I presume to +doubt. One saving clause Peter Belon has, +which has at all times done good service. If +people generally are not in the habit of +eating kites, owls, and so forth, there are +some who do: “tastes merely differ”—(les +appetits des hommes ne se ressemblent en aucune +manière).</p> + +<p>The transition is easy from these delicacies +to other less questionable birds, and the +manner of preparing them for the pot or spit;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> +and brings Peter Belon to what he evidently +likes—a good dinner in a general way. “You +may talk,” he says, “of Spaniards, Portuguese, +English, Flemings, Italians, Hungarians, +or Germans, but none of them, in +dinner-giving, come up to the French. The +latter begin with meats disguised a thousand +ways (mille petits desguisements de chair); +and this first entry, as it is called, consists of +what is soft and liquid, and ought to be sent +in hot, such as soups, fricassees, hashes, and +salads”! (Hot salads are a rarity now-a-days). +The second course is roast and boiled, +of different kinds of meat, as well of birds as +of terrestrial animals, “it being well understood +that no fish is eaten except on fast-days.” +The dinner ends with “cold things, +such as fruits, preparations of milk and +sweets.” This is the outline of a dinner +only; but when Peter Belon enters into a +detailed bill of fare, the newspaper report of +a Lord Mayor’s dinner pales beside it. A +few of the names of these dishes—as well as +they can be translated—are worth preserving. +What do you think of pilgrim capons—lions—made +of the white meat of pullets; wild +boar venison with chestnuts; diamond-pointed +jelly; goslings dressed with malvoisie; feet +(whose feet?) with infernal sauce (pieds à +la saulce d’enfer); counterfeit sea-hog; +laurelled quails; partridges with capers; +veal sausages; hop salad; chestnut butterflies; +golden-backed woodcock pasties; ox-heel +pasties; plumed peacocks; tipsy cake +(gasteaux joyeux); little cabbages all hot +(petits chouy tous chaulds); and, amongst +other varieties, pomegranate salad?</p> + +<p>In treating of the uses to which birds have +been applied, Peter Belon does not omit divination. +It is pretty clear, however, that he +has no faith in the auruspices, though he +lets them down gently. “These soothsayers +exercised their mystery in the contemplation +of the inward parts as well of birds as of +other animals, when offered up for sacrifice. +The question must then be asked, whether, +by this inspection, they really could foretell +the things that were to come, and if there +were any probability, what they promised +turning out true? There can be little doubt +that this system of divination had a very +simple origin, beginning by cajoling private +persons, and promising them what they +desired (which is the greatest pleasure men +can receive), and afterwards, by investing it +with a religious character, and turning the +same to their own profit.” The French soldiers, +in Belon’s time, imitated the Romans +so far as to carry the sacred cock with their +baggage when they took the field; but it was +for a very intelligible species of augury,—to +know, by his crowing, when the day was +about to break. Belon had much too good +sense to credit either the superstitions of the +Romans or those of his own day, and was +probably only restrained by his fear of the +Church, from expressing his opinions too +plainly. Passing from divination to sorcery, +he says: “Every contemplative man must +have had reason to despise the ignorant +people who believe that sorcerers have the +power attributed to them. We have seen +many condemned to death; but all have been +either poor idiots or madmen. Now, of two +things, one must happen: that if they do +mischief, it must either be by the employment +of some venomous drug put into the mouth, +or otherwise applied, or by invocations. It +is not often that one hears of people of quality +being accused of sorcery—only the poorer +sort; and to tell the truth, no man of judgment +would apply his mind to such absurdities. +To prevent the common people from +doing so, it is the custom once a-week to prohibit +them formally. It may easily happen +that one of this sort, troubled in his wits, +should fancy incredible things, and even +acknowledge to having committed them; but +we must set this down to the nature of their +disease.” In this way sensible Peter Belon +disposes of the lycanthropists and other self-created +wizards. On the subject of antipathies, +however, he entertains a belief that it +is reasonable; as in the case of the fox and +the stork, which are sworn foes, ever since +the practical jokes, I suppose, which we all +know they played on each other.</p> + +<p>Being himself a physician, Peter Belon +enlarges upon the maladies of birds; but he +tells us that, with the exception of falcons, +which are more especially under the +care of man, they are their own doctors. +“The pelican, which builds its nest on the +ground, finding its young stung by a serpent, +weeps bitterly, and piercing its own breast, +gives its own blood to cure them.” (This is +a new reading of the old story). “Quails, +when they are indisposed, swallow the seeds +of hellebore; and starlings take hemlock. +The herb chélidoine (celandine, from the +Greek kelidon, a swallow) derives its name +from the fact that the swallow administers +the juice of the plant to her young. The +stork physics himself with marjoram. Wood +pigeons, ravens, blackbirds, jays and partridges +take laurel; while turtle-doves, pigeons, +and cocks prescribe bird-weed. Ducks and +geese eat sage.” (Sage enters largely into the +affair, in combination with onions, when +ducks and geese are eaten). “Cranes and +herons employ marsh rushes. Thrushes and +many smaller birds swallow the seeds of the +ivy—which would be hurtful diet for man +(qui seroit viande mauvaise à l’homme).” +Not much worse, however, than hellebore or +hemlock! But it would seem that the eagle +family are exempt from the ordinary ailments +of birds; for, in speaking of the Chrysaëtos, +or great royal eagle, Belon tells us: +“Eagles never change their place of abode, +but always return to the same nest. It has +thus been observed that they are long-lived. +But becoming old, the beak grows so long +that it becomes bent, and prevents the bird<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> +from eating, so that it dies, not of any +malady, or extreme old age, but simply +because it cannot make use of its beak.” I +fear this is not one of the facts derived from +Belon’s own observation.</p> + +<p>Our fashionable ladies have passion for +eider-down; but did they ever hear that the +vulture can supply them with an article +quite as soft? “Their skin,” says our +author, “is almost as thick as that of a kid, +and under the throat is a spot about the +breadth of a palm, where the feathers are +reddish, like the hair of a calf; and these +feathers have no quills, any more than those +on both sides of the neck and under the +wings, where the down is so white that it +shines like silk. The furriers, after removing +the large feathers, leave the down, and curry +the skins for mantles, which are worth a +sum of money. In France they use +them chiefly to place on the stomach (what +we call bosom-friends). It would scarcely +be believed that the vulture’s skin is so +stout, if one had not seen it. Being in Egypt +and on the plains of Arabia Deserta, we have +noticed that the vultures are large and +numerous, and the down from a couple of +dozen of these would quite suffice for a large +robe. At Cairo, on the Bezestein, where +merchandise is exposed for sale, the traveller +may obtain silken dresses lined with the +skins of vultures, both black and white.”</p> + +<p>Belon was a great observer of all the birds +of prey, and appears to have taken many +notes of their habits while living near the +Monts d’Or, in Auvergne, under the protection +of M. Duprat, the Bishop of Clermont. +It was there he learnt the fact about +the peasantry eating the goivan, called also +the boudrée, which he thus describes: +“There is not a peasant in the Limagne (a +great plain) of Auvergne who does not know +the goivan, and how to capture him with +traps baited with frogs, or with lime, but +more commonly with snares. He is taken +principally in the winter, when he is very +good to eat, for he is so fat that no other bird +comes near him in that respect. The peasants +lard or boil him, and find his flesh quite +as good as that of a hen. This eagle eats +rats, mice, frogs, lizards, snails, caterpillars, +and sometimes serpents.”</p> + +<p>That there may be no doubt about the +last-named viand being food for eagles, one +of Peter Belon’s lively portraitures follows the +statement, in which a goivan is depicted in +the act of dining on a serpent, twisted into a +figure of eight (as, well he might be), and a +number of astonished frogs and fishes scurrying +away for dear life,—all save one philosophical +member of the tadpole family, who, +sitting on the tumultuous waves of an adjacent +ditch, calmly contemplates the scene. +It is observable throughout the plates in +Belon’s work that the smaller quadrupeds +endure the infliction of being devoured alive +with far greater resignation than the Reptilia. +I have before me at this moment the portrait +of a rabbit, on whose back a buzzard is +standing as if in the act of going to sing, +while the long-eared animal on which he +has pounced seems to apprehend his fate no +more than if he were a music-stand. A +mouse in the claws of a speckled magpie, +puts on, in another plate, an air of equal +indifference.</p> + +<p>Amongst the birds of prey known to the +French villagers—and to their cost—is one +called by the singular name of White John +(Jan le Blanc), or The <a id="Change5"></a> +Bird of St. Martin,—but +why the latter name was bestowed on it, +Belon is at a loss to discover. The first is +obvious enough, for its belly and part of its +tail are of spotless white. This fellow is +very daring, and carries off fowls and +rabbits from under the eyes of the owners; +he feeds largely, too, upon partridges and all +the smaller birds, so that he is not a Cheap +John, at all events. But Belon has one comfort: +White John has a natural antagonist in +the Hobby-hawk, and the way they fight in +the air till they tumble entangled to the +ground and are taken, is quite a pleasant +thing to see (moult plaisant à voir). This +combat is not depicted; but on the next +page there is a striking delineation of the +manner in which a falconer lures a bird of +prey. He does it in this wise: a hawk having +caught a partridge, stands on its back in +the air, quietly devouring it, and the cunning +fowler takes this opportunity of approaching +with the leg of another bird in his hand, +which he offers on his knees to the hawk, in +the expectation, apparently, that the greedy +bird of prey will give up the whole for a +part. Of the share which the falconer’s dog +has in the transaction, I say nothing; because, +though in the foreground of the +picture, he is not a quarter the size of the +victim partridge. It must be confessed that +Belon’s descriptions are more satisfactory +than the artist’s illustrations. This remark, +however, does not apply to the actual portraits +of the birds, which are in most instances +very accurate. Nothing, for instance, can be +better done than the Royal Kite, which some +in France call Huo, and others Escoufle. +This bird, being a lover of carrion, is protected; +so much so, that “in England a fine +is imposed on those who kill him.” Belon +records a pleasant piece of pastime which this +kite affords the infidels:</p> + +<p>“The Turks who live at Constantinople +take pleasure in throwing lumps of raw meat +into the air, which the kites pounce upon so +rapidly that they seize and carry it off before +it can fall to the ground.”</p> + +<p>The Venetian nobles amuse themselves +differently—not with kites, but cormorants. +When the weather is calm, they go out on +the lagoons in light boots, two or three dozen +in company, each boat being rowed by six +men, and pulled very swiftly. Having surrounded +the cormorant (like French huntsmen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> +with a fox, to prevent him from getting +away and giving them a run), he cannot rise +in the air (why not?), but dives under the +water, and every time he shows his head +above the surface, the noblemen let fly at +him with their cross-bows, till at last he is +thoroughly done up, is half-suffocated, and +gives in. “It is a fine sight to behold this +sport (c’est un beau spectacle de voir un tel +deduit), and also is to see a cormorant having +caught a tolerably-sized eel, which he tries to +swallow, but has to fight a long time with it +before he can get it down.” The cormorants +themselves are, oddly enough, not thought +good eating by the common people, who say +of them that they are “a dish for the devil” +(qui voudroit jestoyer le diable, il luy faudroit +doñer de tels oyseaux); but Belon does +not think them so bad as they say (toute fois +ne sont si mauvais qu’on crië).</p> + +<p>The stork, unfortunately, did not, when +Belon flourished, enjoy the same immunity; +for though he admits that the Romans +despised them at table, he says, “now they +are looked upon as a royal dish.” He moreover +tells us that the gizzard of a stork is an +antidote to poison, and a remedy against +squinting (le gesier de la cigogne est bon +contre les venins et qui en aura mangé ne +sera lousche en sa vie)! It appears also +that even the ostrich, which can digest iron, +is itself digested by Libyan gastronomers, +who eat the flesh and sell the feathers.</p> + +<p>This tendency to discover what birds are +most eatable, is manifested throughout the +volume of Peter Belon. Arriving at the noble +Alectrion or Rooster of the United States, he +cites the following recipe, from Dioscorides, +for the concoction of cock-broth. “Take a +fine strong old bird, and having properly +trussed him, stuff him well with roots of fern, +the seed of chartamus (whatever that may +be), salt of mercury, and soldanella (a purgative +sea-weed), and, having sewn him up, boil +him well down.” A potage this, which bears +some resemblance to “the sillakickaby of the +ancients,” described in Peregrine Pickle, and, +I should think, nearly as agreeable.</p> + +<p>The majority of the birds in Belon’s book +are accurately described and too well-known +to afford much opportunity for quoting from +what he says of their forms and habits, but +now and then we meet with a rara avis. Such, +for instance is the “Gellinote de bois” (Gelinotte) +which, though still found in the +Ardennes, and occasionally a visitor to +Monsieurs Chevet’s shop in the Palais Royal, +is rare enough to merit description at second-hand. +What their price may be I know not, +but three hundred years ago they cost two +crowns a-piece, and were only seen at the +banquets of princes and the wedding-feasts of +great lords. “The feathers on the back are +like those of the woodcock; the breast and +belly white, spotted with black; the neck is +like that of a pheasant; the head and beak +resemble a partridge; the tail feathers are +black with white tips, the large wing-feathers +variegated like the owl; down to the +feet the legs are feathered like the grouse.” +If the gelinotte combines the flavour as well +as the plumage of the birds just mentioned +(omitting the owl) I should say it is worth +the price which Monsieur Chevet puts upon +it before he stuffs it with the truffles.</p> + +<p>The Vanneau is another bird which, common +enough in the marshy districts of France +(particularly in Bourbon Vendée) is, I believe, +unknown in England. It is a wading-bird, +and bears some resemblance to the peacock: +hence, its name, corrupted from paonneau to +vanneau; but the peasants call it dinhuit, on +account of its cry. It is crested with five or +six long black feathers, and is of changeable +hue: in size it is not much larger than a +plover, and is perched on very high red +legs. There is no question about the estimation +as a delicacy in which the vanneau is +still held.</p> + +<p>Belon has a good deal to say about quails, and +the various modes of catching them. One way +is by means of an instrument made of +leather and bone, which, set in motion, +utters a sound like the voice of the female +bird, and is called courcaillet, on hearing +which the males run rapidly and are caught +in the fowler’s net; but this device is only +effectual during the season of courting. Every +one has noticed how low the quail’s cages are +made. Belon says, it is because they are so +given to jumping and excitement that they +would destroy themselves were the cages +higher. Of the crested lark (in French, cochevis), +he tells us, on the authority of several +writers of antiquity, that when made into a +broth or roasted—like punch—they cure the +colic; we all know what capital pâtés are +made of the lark uncrested. We learn that +the woodcock—how admirable is he, too, in a +pâté—though called bécasse, in French, on +account of the length of his bill, ought to be +designated “vvitcoc,” that being an English +word, which signifies “cock of the wood,” and +corresponds with the Greek term, “xilomita.” +Some people, Belon says, call him Avis cœca +(blind bird), because he suffers himself to be +so easily caught, and he gives a sufficiently +lively description of one mode of effecting his +capture. It is as follows:—“He who desires +to take the woodcock must put on a cloak +and gloves, the colour of the dead leaves, and +conceal his head and shoulders beneath a +(brown) hat, leaving only two small holes to +see through. He must carry in his hands +two sticks covered with cloth of the same +colour, about an inch of the ends of which +must be of red cloth, and leaning upon +crutches (rather a lame way of proceeding) +must advance leisurely towards the woodcock, +stopping when the bird becomes aware of his +approach. When the woodcock moves on he +must follow until the bird stops again without +raising its head. The fowler must then +strike the sticks together very quickly (moult<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> +bellement) which will so amuse and absorb +the woodcock that its pursuer may take from +his girdle a rod, to which a horsehair noose is +attached, and throw the latter round its neck, +for it is one of the stupidest and most foolish +birds that are known.” I should think so, if +it allowed itself to be caught by this tom-foolery.</p> + +<p>Of birds which are not stupid, but knavish +rather, even to much theft, Belon relates that +the magpie is called Margot (the diminutive +of Margaret, as Charles the First called his +beautiful sister, the wife of Henry of +Navarre); and the jay (Richard), each on +account of their cry. Being somewhat skinny, +the jay is thought rather a tough morsel by +those who desire to dine upon him; but he +himself eats everything that comes in his way, +and is particularly fond of peas—green peas +perhaps—at a guinea a pound. The common +people think that the jay is subject to the +falling sickness, nevertheless they eat him +when they find him on the ground. It is, +perhaps, a weakness in human nature which +cannot be remedied, the tendency to make a +meal of everything that has animal life. But +for this, how severely might we not animadvert +on the gluttony of those who, not remembering +their song in spring, devour thrushes +in the autumn: yet, that is the best time to +eat them, for they are then perfectly delicious +as you would say, with me, if you had made +a diligence supper on thrushes travelling +through the Ardennes.</p> + +<p>But, I fear, if I read any more of Peter +Belon’s volume, I shall write an article on +Gastronomy, a thing I had no notion of when I +began. Let me conclude with something more +serious than eating—if anything be more +serious: let me lament, with all the world, that +so useful a man as Peter Belon should have +been cut off sadly in the prime of his life and +full vigour of his intellect. He was only +forty-five years of age when he was murdered +one night as he traversed the Bois de Boulogne +on his way to Paris; whether for the +sake of plunder or revenge is not known.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="RHINE-LAND">RHINE-LAND.</h2> +</div> + + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">We lean’d beneath the purple vine,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In Andernach, the hoary;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And at our elbows ran the Rhine</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In rosy twilight glory.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Athwart the Seven-hills far seen</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The sun had fail’d to broaden;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Above us stream’d in fading sheen</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The highway he had trodden.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">His farewell crimson kiss he left</div> + <div class="verse indent2">On clouds suffused with blushes:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">One star beam’d down the dewberry-cleft</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Across the mirror’d flashes.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">From cliffs of slate the vintage call’d</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In muffled leafage dusky:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And down the river grandly wall’d,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The grape reel’d ripe and husky.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">We reach’d entwining hands to seize</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The clusters round us glowing:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Our locks were fondled by the breeze</div> + <div class="verse indent2">From southern sandhills blowing.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The long-neck’d flask was not unbent,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The globed green glass unemptied;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The god of honest pleasure lent</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Young Love his powers, untempted.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Home-friends we pledged; our bridal-maids;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Sweet wishes gaily squander’d:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We wander’d far in faëry glades,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Up golden heights we wander’d.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Like King and Queen in royal bliss,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">We paced a realm enchanted,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A realm rose-vista’d, rich from this,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Tho’ not from this transplanted.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">For this Rome’s frontier foot endear’d,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Her armèd heel made holy;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And Ages grey as Time’s own beard,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Wreathed it with melancholy.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Old days it has that live in gleams</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of suns for ever setting:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A moth-wing’d splendour, faint as dreams,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That keeps the fancy fretting.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A gorgeous tracing dash’d with gloom,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And delicately dusted:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To grasp it is to spoil its bloom;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">’Twas ours because we trusted.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">No longer severing our embrace</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Was Night a sword between us;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But richest mystery robed in grace</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To lock us close, and screen us.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She droopt in stars; she whisper’d fair;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The wooded crags grew dimmer;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The arrow in the lassie’s hair</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Glanced by a silver glimmer.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The ruin-rock renew’d its frown,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">With terror less transparent,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Tho’ all its ghosts are hunted down,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And all its knights are errant.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The island in the gray expanse,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">We watch’d with colour’d longing:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The mighty river’s old romance</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Thro’ many channels thronging.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah, then, what voice was that which shed</div> + <div class="verse indent2">A breathless scene before us:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We heard it, knowing not we heard;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">It rose around and o’er us.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It rose around, it thrill’d with life,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And did infuse a spirit</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To misty shapes of ancient strife:</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Again I seem to hear it!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The voice is clear, the song is wild,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And has a quaint transition;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The voice is of a careless child</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Who sings an old tradition.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">He sings it witless of his power;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Beside the rushing eddies,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His singing plants the tall white tower</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Mid shades of knights and ladies.</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Against the glooming of the west</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The grey hawk-ruins darken,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And hand in hand, half breast to breast,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Two lovers gaze and hearken.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="MILVERSTON_WORTHIES">MILVERSTON WORTHIES.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>From his sixth year, my brother Davie +manifested undeniable symptoms of the +divine afflatus, but it was not until fifteen +that he commenced his immortal poem, “The +Vengeance of Bernardo Caspiato.” He was +a delicate, pretty, fair boy, with a spiritual +countenance, a noble brow, and abundance of +silky brown hair; quite the poet to look at, +and very like my dear mother, as we all +daily observed. It was expected that he +would cover the name of Cleverboots with a +halo of glory: unlike some families, we were +the first to believe in our hero, and the most +constant in our faith in his splendid future. +At the epoch referred to, Davie began to tie +his collar with a black ribbon, to wear his +white throat exposed, and his beautiful hair +very long; his appetite did not fail him in +private, but at our little réunions he always +partook of dry toast and strong green tea; +was very silent, abstracted, and averse to +men’s society: the women petted him, and +called him “all soul.” He was very kind-hearted +and sweet-tempered, and rather vain, +which was nothing more than natural, considering +how he was flattered.</p> + +<p>He had a little room at the top of the +house which looked over the town to Milverston +mere, where the immortal poem was +commenced. I remember he began it on a +wet evening, and it opened dismally, with a +storm; he had me up there with my plain +sewing to listen to the first stanzas; and he +consulted me about one or two difficult +rhymes: he was not sure whether “horror” +and “morrow” were correct. I thought not; +and, his birthday falling three days after, I +presented him with a rhyming dictionary. +Subsequently, the poem made rapid progress.</p> + +<p>Cousin John had just gone up to London +to study law, and my father wished Davie to +be articled to Mr. Briggs, the solicitor at +Milverston. This did not chime in with his +taste at all; he stated that it was his wish to +follow the profession of letters. We did not +quite understand this at the time. Cousin +Jack said it meant that he wanted to be the +idle gentleman. I had my doubts on the +matter. Davie brought my mother over to +his way of thinking. “I shall be very poor, +but very happy, mother,” he used to say; +“if you put me to anything else, I shall be +miserable and do no good.” So Davie got +his own way; and, as a preparation for his +profession of letters, he stayed at home and +finished “Bernardo Caspiato.” It was a +splendid work. I have wept over it often. +The heroine having been executed for witchcraft, +her lover, Bernardo, devotes his life to +avenge her; and, after committing a catalogue +of murders, ends by disappearing mysteriously +in a flash of blue lightning to rejoin +her in heaven. My mother objected to the +morality of the conclusion; but she acknowledged +herself, at the same time, ignorant of +the laws and licence of poetry.</p> + +<p>With this great work, and some minor +pieces of equal if not superior merit, my +brother Davie went up to London on foot, +with ten pounds in his pocket, and seventeen +years of experience on his head. Cousin Jack +had taken comfortable lodgings for him at a +small baker’s shop, kept by a widow woman +with a daughter named Lucy. The dear lad +wrote us word that he was quite suited, and +that, after a few days to look about him, he +should carry his immortal poem to a publisher. +His hopes were sanguine; his visions +of fame magnificent.</p> + +<p>To our surprise and grief, Bernardo +Caspiato was declined with thanks. Nobody +was inclined to publish it unless the +author would bear all the expenses. +Davie would not suffer my father to do +this—he would earn money for himself. +We wondered how he could do it; but Cousin +Jack lent him a hand, and somebody who +had something to do with a newspaper bought +his minor pieces. He lived, at all events, by +his own exertions. At this time, Lucy began +to figure in letters to me marked “private.” +It would be impossible to give the whole +story as therein developed, but I will epitomise +it as afterwards heard from his own lips.</p> + +<p>He fell enthusiastically in love with Lucy, +whose beauty he raved about as ethereal, +heavenly, unsophisticated: before I heard of +her at all he was evidently far gone in the +tender passion; and Lucy had listened so +often, and with such a graceful interest, to +his literary struggles, that he fancied he had +every reason to believe that his affection was +returned. One morning, however, all these +sunny hopes were rudely dispelled. He had +seen once or twice a young man of rustic +appearance in the shop, he had also known +him to take tea in the back parlour with +Mrs. Lawley and her daughter, without attaching +any significance to his visits. As +Davie sat at breakfast on this particular day, +this individual drove to the door in a gig, and +was pleasantly received by the landlady. He +wore quite a festal appearance, and for the +first time a suspicion entered Davie’s mind +which changed quickly to a certainty. After +speaking to Mrs. Lawley for a minute or +two, the young man ran out to stop the +driver of a waggon loaded with sacks of +grain, and, while holding him in talk, the +poor poet from the up-stairs window took an +inventory, as it were, of his rival’s personal +graces. He was of a very tall, straight, and +robust figure, with a broad, comely face, +ruddy complexion, and curly brown hair. +His voice was like the roll of an organ, and +his laugh the very heartiest of guffaws—altogether, +a very proper man, as Davie, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> +for his jealousy, must have acknowledged. +The stranger’s rollicking air of gaiety added +present insult to previous injury; and to get +out of the hearing of his rich “ha ha,” which +seemed to pervade the whole neighbourhood, +Davie snatched up his hat, intending to walk +off his spleen: he pushed halfway down the +stairs, but there paused—just below, in the +passage by the back-parlour door, was the +obnoxious rustic, with his arm round bonny +Lucy’s waist, and his lips seeking a kiss; +while the damsel’s hand was put up to shield +her cheek, and her tongue was saying, in +that pretty accent which lovers never take as +truth, “Don’t, Tom; please don’t!” Tom +caught the uplifted fingers, and held them +fast till he had taken a dozen kisses to indemnify +himself for the delay. Davie, greatly +discomfited, retreated to his room, and made +cautious surveys before venturing to leave it +again. He quite hated Tom, who was a fine, +single-minded young fellow, guilty of no +greater sin against him than having won +blue-eyed Lucy’s heart.</p> + +<p>When Mrs. Lawley came up-stairs to remove +her lodger’s breakfast-things, she looked +glowing with importance, and, after a short +hesitation, confided to him the great family +secret—Mr. Tom Burton, of Ravenscroft +Farm, had offered for Lucy, and they were to +be married that day week. “You’ll have +seen him, sir, maybe?” said the proud +mother; “he’s been here as often as twice +a-week; and, when I told him it behoved him +to stop at home and attend to his farm, he’d +tell me that corn would grow without watching; +and I soon saw what he meant. So, as +Lucy was noways unwilling, I bade ’em have +done with all this courting and courting, and +get wed out of hand. Perhaps, Mr. David, +you’ll be so good as go out for the day, and +let us have your room for breakfast—or we +should be proud of your company, sir.”</p> + +<p>The poor poet almost choked over his congratulations, +but he got them out in a way. +Soon after, he saw the lovers cross the +street, arm-in-arm, spruced up for the occasion, +and looking as stiff as Sunday clothes +worn on a week-day always make rustic +lovers look—everybody who met them might +know what they were. Tom had a rather +bashful and surprised expression; as if he +were astonished to find himself part owner +of such a fresh, modest, little daisy of a +sweetheart, and were not quite sure that it +was her cottage bonnet just below his great +shoulder, for so long as Davie had them in +sight he kept looking down into it to make +sure Lucy was there. Davie’s feelings were +almost too much for him, but he made a +magnanimous resolve that as Lucy had been +so good and attentive to him, he would make +her a present, and, that he might endure the +deepest pangs, that present should be the +wedding dress and bonnet. He went off +accordingly, post haste, to a great millinery +establishment, and purchased a dove-coloured +silk dress, and the most sweetly pretty white +bonnet, with orange blossoms, that could be +had for money. When Lucy and Tom returned +from their walk, he called her up-stairs +and presented them to her. She +contemplated them with surprised delight, +blushing and clasping her hands over them: +never was there anything so beautiful.</p> + +<p>Davie bade her try the bonnet on, to see +how it would fit, and, without an atom of +coquetry, she put it on, tied the strings under +her chin, and rose on tip-toe to peep at herself +in the glass over the chimney-piece.</p> + +<p>“I must let” (Lucy was going to say “Tom,” +but she substituted “mother” instead); “I +must let mother see it!” and she ran out of +the room, leaving the door open, with that +intent. But somebody met her on the stairs, +and stopped her for examination. Davie +tried to shut his ears, but he could not help +hearing that ominous “Don’t, Tom; please +don’t;” though, as balm to his wounded +feelings, he also caught the echo of a—what +shall I say?—a slap? a box?—what do you +call it when a pretty maiden brings her hand +sharply in contact with her lover’s cheek? +Well, no matter—it is a something which +always is or ought to be avenged by six +kisses on the spot; it was condignly punished +in this instance, for Tom lacked modesty even +more than French polish. Davie instantly +slammed the door, and sat down to compose +his feelings by inditing a sonnet on “Disappointed +Love.” When it was finished—the +lines being flowing and the rhymes musical—he +felt more placid and easy in his mind; +but, before the wedding, he withdrew himself +from the house, and went into country +lodgings to hide his griefs. In process of +time he rhymed himself into a belief that +he was the victim of a disappointed passion, +the prey of a devouring sorrow; that his +heart was a wreck, a ruin, dust, ashes, a +stone, dwelling alone; that life was stale, an +unfinished tale, a hopeless, joyless pageant: +all because blue-eyed Lucy had married Tom +Burton of Ravenscroft.</p> + +<p>This was the early love-romance which +furnished my brother Davie with his cynicism, +his similes of darts, flames, and wounds +that are scattered everywhere through his +verses. Some of the productions of his +troubled muse, after he fled to Highgate, shall +be quoted. What would have been Lucy’s +astonishment could she have heard herself +apostrophised in such burning numbers! her +orbs of sunny blue would have dilated until +she would have looked, indeed, a round-eyed +Juno. Here is one of Davie’s effusions +from a little manuscript-book, bound in +white vellum, the confidante of his poetical +woes at this mournful era:—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Thou hast come like a mist o’er my glorious dreaming,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Thy image stands up ’twixt my soul and the sun!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh! why, when youth’s noontide of gladness was beaming,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Hast thou darken’d all that it shone upon?</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To see thee, to love thee, ay, love thee to madness,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To know that thou ne’er couldst be aught to me!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To leave thee! and read in my spirit’s lone sadness,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That the love was all hopeless I centred in thee!</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>The muse appears at this junction to have +been quite troublesome with her declarations. +The following was written one evening instead +of going to dinner like a Christian gentleman +to Uncle Sampson’s on Christmas +Day. It stands entitled, I Love Thee! and +is written with a neatness that says little for +its spontaneity:—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I love thee! O, never did summer sea</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Greet sunshine more gladly than I greet thee!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like dew to spring flowers, like stars to dusk night</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Art thou with thy glances of liquid light!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I love thee, as only those hearts can love</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whose burning devotion is hard to move!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Life, beauty, and hope, thou art all to me,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A voice and an echo of <a id="Change6"></a>melody!</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>It seems rather as if sense were made subordinate +to sound in some of these lucubrations, +but they are not so bad for seventeen. Davie +came back to Milverston for a little while at +this season, and cultivated his grief, to the +great disorder of our regular household. One +night he stayed out so late that my father +went in search of him and found him by the +mere, seeking inspiration from the stars. On +this occasion he produced eight more lines, +which seem to have been the utmost his +muse could bring for that one time. It +is called, in the vellum book into which it +is carefully transcribed, Tell me, my +Heart:—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Tell me, my heart, the reason of thy sadness,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Why peoplest thou thy solitude with dreams?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Why dost thou shun the scenes of mirth and gladness</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To find thy echo in the lonely streams?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Alas! my heart, that thy poor love should wander,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Where it can meet with nought but cold disdain!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sad that its treasures thus my soul should squander</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Where it can reap but tears and griefs <a id="Change7"></a> + again!</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>Good little Lucy would have been sorry, +indeed, if she could have known into what +a limbo of anguish Davie was thrown by her +marriage; but let us hope, as she might have +done, that the best half of the tortures were +only fancy. I know he had at the worst an +excellent appetite for lamb and asparagus, to +which he was very partial. Dear Davie, to +read these effusions, tender imaginations may +think of him as fine porcelain fractured with +the world’s hard usage, whereas he is stout +and bald, and wears green spectacles. The +law does not undertake to deal with poetry +composed under false pretences, or many +would be the sighing Strephons and doleful +Delias brought up for judgment.</p> + +<p>Last summer we had Davie at home for a +month, and during that time occurred the +grand incremation of Bernardo Caspiato. I +shall ever regard it as a most cruel sacrifice, and +Cousin Jack, who instigated it, as an illiterate +character. Davie brought it forth one evening +when we three were together, and read +parts of it aloud: Jack unfeelingly remarked +that it was not like good wine, it did not improve +with keeping; that, like fruit plucked +immaturely, it was green and tasteless; it had +not acquired mellowness and flavor, and if +stored up for another twenty years it would +not taste better. Davie half coincided with +him; but I did not; so grandly majestic as +was the march of the lines, so delicate and +true the rhymes, so thrilling the noble +catastrophe. It exasperated me to see Jack, +first yawn to the full extent of his jaws, then +snatch the manuscript from Davie, and toss +it up to the ceiling, retreating afterwards in +feigned fear lest he should be crushed by its +leaden fall. An ignoble fate was thine,—immortal +Bernardo! Convicted of the +respectable sin of dulness—which none pardon—thou +wert condemned to be burnt! +Davie did not act with undue precipitation; +Jack urged an immediate execution, but the +poet took a week to consider of it, and many +a pang it cost him. Those who have written +immortal poems and destroyed them will +appreciate his feelings; none else can. Let +anybody of experience call to mind the last +time he has read through the letters from his +first love, just before she was married to +somebody else; or the letters from that particular +old friend, which it is of no use to +keep because he is dead, or you have +quarrelled beyond hope of reconciliation, and +then some faint idea will be conceived of the +poet’s sensations at this immolation of his +first love, his particular friend, and his pet +child—all in one.</p> + +<p>It was the summer-season, and warm,—I +found it very warm; there was no fire in the +grate, and the match-box on the writing-table +was empty. Jack supplied the want eagerly +from his smoking apparatus, and Bernardo +Caspiato shrank into a pinch of tinder. I wept.</p> + +<p>“There!” said poor Davie, with a profound +sigh, “it took two years to write and +two seconds to destroy—just like an eternal +friendship, an undying affection, or anything +of that kind which half a dozen indiscreet +words are at any time enough to annihilate!”</p> + +<p>“Have a cigar, old boy; never mind +moralising,” said Jack, to whom a cigar +would be consolation for the death of his +grandmother; “have a cigar; the business +can’t be helped.”</p> + +<p>“Poor Bernardo!” said Davie, as feelingly +as if he spoke of a brother, “poor Bernardo! +He gave me many an hour’s delightful occupation. +I feel as if I had lost a friend to +whom I had been in the habit of confiding my +sentimental vagaries. I’m not sure that it +was right to burn him.”</p> + +<p>“Have a cigar,” reiterated Cousin Jack. +Davie accepted the offer with a pensive sigh, +put on his green spectacles, and went out for a +walk in mournful mood. It is a serious thing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> +burning immortal poems. Nobody can tell +what losses the world has had in that way—nobody!</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="SCOTCH_COAST_FOLK">SCOTCH COAST FOLK.</h2> +</div> + +<p class="center">FOOTDEE IN THE LAST CENTURY.</p> + + +<p>The aged lady whose recollections I condense, +and combine with my own observations, +says:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Remote, but still distinct, the view appears,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thro’ the long vista of departed years;</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>although, towards the conclusion of the +American War, the fish town of Footdee was +not one of those “green spots on which +memory delights to dwell.” The town consisted +of several rows of low-thatched cottages +running from east to west, between the +high-road and the harbour, or, as it is called, +the tide. During the high spring-tides, the +furthest waves came up to the bank of sand +on which the ends of the houses were built. +Exteriorly, these cottages appeared comfortless +enough, as each dwelling fronted the +back of its opposite neighbour, and, as in the +narrow space between there was a line of +dunghills crossed over with spars, upon +which were hung lines, bladders, and buoys, +intermixed with dried dog-fish and skate. +Their interior was not more alluring to a +stranger. The earthen-floor was uneven, +and sometimes dirty, although generally +sanded over of an evening, or at least every +Saturday, in preparation for the Sabbath. +Upon the wood or rafters which stretched +across horizontally from the tops of the walls, +was a ceiling of old oars and bits of drift-wood. +The bare rough walls were not whitewashed. +Roof, walls, and rafters were all +blackened by smoke from a fire at one end of +the cottage, placed upon the floor, and made +of turf and sea-weed. Soot-drops—curious +black glossy accumulations, formed by a +similar process, doubtless, to that which produces +stalactites and stalagmites—hung here +and there upon the walls, rafters, and roof. +These collections of pendulous carbon might +have been deemed ornaments, if they had not +been signs of defective cleanliness. There +was a small window at each side of the door. +Under each window was a clumsy black +bedstead. There was but one small deal +table. There were only two or three chairs, +and as many sunkies, or low fixed seats resting +upon stakes driven into the floor, to sit +upon. Beside the wall opposite the door +were seen the requisites of the fishing occupation—lines, +creels, murlains, &c. Such +were the principal property and furniture +visible. There was no press or cupboard; +and the only depository for keeping things in +was a chest or locker, in which lay the +precious stores and the Sunday clothes. The +salt-backet, or box, was suspended in the +chimney.</p> + +<p>Such were the cottages in the eighteenth +century. In the first quarter of the nineteenth, +the cottages were arranged upon the +four sides of squares, with a large open space +in the centre; and outside every cottage, +upon the walls, hung fish-hakes or wooden +triangles for drying haddock. Inside the +cottages the walls were occasionally whitewashed; +and there was fixed against the wall +a series of wooden shelves for the preservation +and display of delft and earthenware crockery. +There were tea-cups in the cupboard in the +corner. The little round table was of pine-deal, +but scrubbed into a whiteness by a truly +Dutch cleanliness, which made it rival tables +covered with a fair white linen cloth. The +cruisie, an iron lamp of simple structure, consisting +of one cup or ladle, with a narrow lip +for the whale-oil and wick, and another cup +of broader and larger dimensions, to receive +the droppings, hangs in the nineteenth, as in +many centuries previously, near the chimney, +and produces, Rembrandt-like, lights and +shades well worthy of the study of an artist +who should wish to rival the Dutch painters +of the present day, in the pictures they paint +to show the effects of a lamp.</p> + +<p>The costumes of the fishers were, and continue +to be, peculiar. The elderly men wore +broad blue woollen bonnets, coarse blue +jackets, and canvass kilts or short trousers. +The younger men were rather good-looking, +had good-humoured faces, and were smarter +in their dress. The women wore caps, the +original patterns of which still abound upon +the Continent, which did not prevent their +features being injured by the weather, and +their skins being tanned by the sun. The +middle-aged women wore stuff gowns, with +large flowered calico wrappers or short +gowns, over them. The young girls wore +stuff wrappers and petticoats, with their hair +either drawn back with a large comb, which +reached from ear to ear, or fastened up in a +very slovenly and unbecoming manner with +a head-dress of red worsted tape. The boys +under fifteen were the worst clad. They ran +about in tattered old garments of their +fathers’, a world too wide, and remained in +this condition until they were able to earn a +more decent covering for themselves. The +little children of both sexes were comfortably +clad in a simple dress of white plaiding, +called a walliecoat, which, with their fair +curly heads and rosy cheeks, made them look +very pretty, as they paddled in the pools of +water, and played with their tiny boats.</p> + +<p>In the last century, the fishermen were +mostly ignorant of everything unconnected +with their own business. Few of them could +read, and none of the grown-up people could +write. Some of the lads could read and write +a little; but as they went to sea in the night, +and took their repose in the day, they were +not placed in favourable circumstances for +the development of the social faculties. No +instance of intellectual talent—no single +person displaying a tendency towards any +art or science—occurred among them. Music<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> +and song, no doubt, contributed to the enjoyment +of their merry meetings; but the music +was confined to a fiddle, and their collection +of songs scarcely extended beyond The Praise +of Paul Jones, The Waefu’ Ballad of Captain +Glen, and the Christmas carol of By Southend. +As for the women—toiling, as they +were, incessantly—they had no time for +mental improvement. But as they grew old +they gained practical knowledge and experience. +Many of them had a knowledge of +simple remedies for curing diseases, which +obtained for their prescriptions a preference +to those of medical men. Some of them were +supposed to be invested with supernatural +powers, which made it dangerous to offend +them.</p> + +<p>I may interpose here a general remark. +The superstitions which were sweepingly condemned +by the philosophy of the eighteenth +century as falsehood and imposture, the philosophy +of the nineteenth finds to be true in +a sense. Instead of rejecting it in a heap, +the student of the present day shakes and +washes the rubbish, and separates the grains +of truth from it. What, I may be asked, +was it true that old fish-crones possessed +the powers of witchcraft? I have not a +doubt of it. The word witchcraft comes +from wiccian, whence witchery, wickedness. +It means evil influence. Gifted with the +power of reading characters and actions, of +seeing consequences and calculating results, +and capable of imparting a bias, laying a +snare, adapting a temptation, planning a vengeance, +or instilling a physical or moral +poison; and years give all these powers to +malignant intelligence.</p> + +<p>Anything may be twisted into stupid +or incredible shapes. When affairs did not +prosper among the Footdee folk, it was attributed +to an evil foot, an “ill fit.” Prior to +setting out upon any expedition or enterprise, +they were careful and particular about +the first “fit” they met in the morning. The +Scum of the Well was an object of rivalry +every New Year’s Day morning, Old Style. +As the midnight hour approached, and the +last moments of the year came on, the women +assembled in a solemn group, around the +large old draw-well, and scolded and scuffled +to decide whose pan or bucket should carry +off the first fraught (or first freight). The +superstition of the first foot may afford some +explanation of the phrase Putting his foot +into it. Prior to commencing anything, is it +not well to note carefully who may be taking +the initiative for evil in it? Is not the first +evil foot astir in it a serious thing for any +enterprise? As for the scum of the well, +is not the energetic housewife who obtains +the first supply of the first necessary of +life,—water—likely to surpass all rivals +in providing for her household? I opine +it is only a sort of piety due to our forefathers +to guess they were shrewder fellows +than we might suppose from our +views of their superstition, witchcraft, and +sorcery.</p> + +<p>Indeed there is something small in the +minds which study superstitions only to find +in them occasions for indulging the sudden +elation of self-glory which Hobbes says is +the cause of laughter. Our forefathers inherited +a spirit-world of personifications; and +we have inherited a mass of philosophical +abstractions. Our forefathers inherited a +poetical and popular nomenclature, and we +express our scientific generalisations in crack-jaw +words of Greek and Latin derivation. +Ghosts, wraiths, witches, fairies, mermaids +and water-kelpies, are personifications which +have been covered with ridicule, and undoubtedly +there have been an abundance +of ridiculous stories told respecting them; +but I suspect there is philosophy in them +after all. The minds of Coast Folk are +peopled from early childhood with spectres +belonging to the land, sea, and sky; and no +wonder, since, during long centuries, catastrophes +have desolated the homes of Coast +Folk which have issued mysteriously and +terribly from land, sea, and sky. Seven miles +from Aberdeen there is a fishing-village which +was buried in a sand-storm in one night. +Almost every soul of the inhabitants was +smothered in the sand-drift, and for many +years the spire of the village church alone +marked the spot in the hollow treacherous +sand-hills. When a boy I was warned by +words and looks of horror from approaching +the fatal locality where it was thought the +wrath of the Almighty had displayed itself +so awfully. Several instances have occurred +in which all the men of a village have gone +to sea, and perished in one night. A boat or +a corpse heard of as having been cast ashore +on a distant beach, was sometimes the only +tidings ever heard of them. Mermaids have +frightened many a brave man; and, in several +of the monthly magazines published in the +last century their existence was as seriously +discussed as apparitions of sea-serpents have +been in our own day. Andrew Brands saw +one. “I recollect Andrew perfectly well. He +was a stout man, with a broad good-humoured +face, and dark hair, who wore his bonnet +upon the back of his head.” Occasionally +employed as a boatman or pilot, he looked +more like a jolly sailor than a sleepy fisherman. +One summer day Andrew was found +lying insensible on the hill of Torry which +faces the sea upon the side of the river Dee, +opposite to Footdee. When roused, he spoke +confusedly and incoherently. He was thought +to be deranged. He was carried to the ferry +and rowed home. After several weeks of +delirious fever he became low and melancholy, +and declined to give any account of his +illness. Under medical treatment he recovered, +although reduced to a skeleton. The +fearful belief spread through the village that +Andrew Brands had seen something. When +questioned after his recovery, he said in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> +substance: “I was upon the outlook lying upon +my breast, and looking over the top of the +rocks, when I saw a creature like a woman +sitting upon a stone. She seemed to have +something like a white sheet, or grave-clothes +wrapped around her. Sometimes she combed +her hair, and sometimes she tossed her arms +in the air. All her ways were fearsome, and +at last she rushed into the sea, and vanished +beneath the waves. My heart lap (leapt), I +grew blind, and I remember nothing more +until I awoke with all my bones sore, and the +men lifting me up.” The medical theory of +his illness, as expounded by his doctor, was, +that he had gone out with incipient fever +upon him, had fallen asleep in an exposed +situation, and the hallucinations of delirium +had done all the rest. My informant who +remembered him well, maintained he had +been unwittingly the Actæon of a bathing +Diana at a time when ladies rarely bathed in +Scotland, and had been punished by the +vengeance of the goddess. Probably, however, +an accumulation of foam among the +stones of the beach had taken the flickering +form of a woman. The white scum would +seem to rise up amidst the black stones, and +Andrew Brands was frightened by a mermaid +because he had never been taught the effects +of perspective. Was it in some such way as +this that Cytherea herself was seen by the +poetic eyes of a fisherman of Cyprus, issuing +from the froth of the sea until she +was wafted in a shell to the shore by +Zephyrus, where the Graces received and +adorned her for presentation to the celestials +of Olympus?</p> + +<p>Extraordinary physical phenomena generally +precede extraordinary catastrophes. +Everybody has heard of the warning blue +lights. During the night which preceded a +storm, in which seven men of a seaside village +were lost, an aged man, I have been +assured, saw seven blue lights passing in +solemn procession from the roofs of their +cottages towards their grave-yard. He entreated +the men to stay at home, and not to +go to sea. But they were obstinate, and +went. He told some old and some young +people, who would listen to him, what he +had seen, and had scarcely finished his vaticination +when the lightning leaped high into +the sky, the thunder pealed, and a hurricane +lashed the sea into furious madness. The +boats were not far from the shore, but before +they could reach it a boat capsized, and seven +men were lost within sight of their families. +A week afterwards, at the very hour of the +day corresponding to the hour of the night of +the procession of the blue lights, the funeral +procession of the seven fishermen was seen +going from their cottages by the very way the +lights had gone; and beneath the very spots +where the lights stood in the churchyard the +corpses rested for evermore. The law of the +elders in these villages is, that no boats ought +to go to sea when the old men say they have +seen the blue lights. The blue lights are +possibly electrical facts. The traditions +respecting their direction are as variable as +the winds. The guess is not a very hazardous +one, that science would agree with the old +men in warning the fishers against going to +sea when the air was charged with electricity +after midnight, in the coldest hours of the +twenty-four.</p> + +<p>When the Footdee fishers were found in +the last century to be no more scrupulous +than other people respecting custom-house +oaths, an oath was framed for them, founded +upon their superstitious fears, which proved +to be far more effectual than the ordinary +one. It concluded with these words: “If I +do not speak the truth, the whole truth, and +nothing but the truth, may my boat be a +bonnet to me.”</p> + +<p>Of course the fishers leaned to the side of +the smugglers against the excise and customs +officers. Almost everybody did, in the last +century except the lawyers, something of a +legal education being necessary to see the +propriety of establishing what Adam Smith, +while himself a Commissioner of the Board +of Customs, denounced as the outposts of +Pandemonium. When examined before the +courts in smuggling cases, the fishermen +contrived occasionally, under an appearance +of simplicity, to baffle with considerable cunning +the cross-examinations of the counsel +for the Crown. Public sympathy was, in +those days on the side of the smugglers, who +called themselves free-traders, a designation +which has since attained universal honour. +The principle of obedience to law, the sine +quâ non of civilisation, is less easily enthroned +upon uneducated consciences than the principle +of buying cheap and selling dear. +Lairds, merchants, and workmen, therefore, +all admired the cool duplicity with which +the fishers sometimes evaded the truth when +under cross-examinations. Some of them +were once witnesses in a case of deforcement. +The counsel for the prosecution asked a +fisherman,—“While the men were struggling +in the water, did you not hear the prisoner +call out, ‘Drown the dogs?’”</p> + +<p>“We saw nae dogs there, sir,” was the +demure and composed reply.</p> + +<p>“I do not ask you what you saw; but, on +your oath, did you not hear him call out, +‘Drown the dogs?’”</p> + +<p>“There was nae ony dogs there, sir,” was +again the obstinate answer.</p> + +<p>Although no man of distinction in science +or letters has ever arisen in any of these +villages, it cannot be doubted they have produced +many men whom Poodle or Doodle +might have safely trusted upon his legs on +the floor of the House of Commons to answer +the questions of honourable and independent +members.</p> + +<p>A century ago the fishers, who were hardy, +industrious, decorous, and honest, were nevertheless +inveterate swearers—a fault which I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> +did not observe among them in an offensive +degree in the nineteenth century. Indeed, +I have heard more swearing from two +admirals in a London club than I ever +heard in fishing villages. In the last century, +however, the fishers would use the +most tremendous oaths upon the most trivial +occasions. Anger was not necessary to provoke +them; the oaths seeming to be as +necessary to the hauling up of a lugger, or +the pushing out of a boat, as the cries of +“Yo-hee O!” Persons unaccustomed to +hear the strong phrases of swearing, feel +their minds shocked by the ideas conveyed +by them, being ignorant that they have +ceased to convey ideas to the persons who use +them. When a lady rebuked one of them +for using the word deil (devil), he said,</p> + +<p>“Eh! mem, I didna think it meant ony ill. +Does it mean ony ill? I thocht it was just a +word to dad” (knock) “aboot.”</p> + +<p>The wrath of these good-natured and +kind-hearted people was notoriously harmless. +Stabs were unknown, and blows +rare among them, but the language of their +vituperation was expressive and opprobrious. +My informant has seen a woman in a passion +take up a handful of burning coals, and lay +them down without seeming to feel pain. +Ladies drilled in the control of their gestures, +if not of their feelings, in boarding-schools, +witnessed, with great astonishment, +the violence with which the women expressed +grief and lamentation. The boats +were frequently in great danger in crossing +the bar, and on these occasions the women +assembled upon the beach would tear their +hair, clap their hands, and utter piercing +cries and shrieks. The simple and natural +principles upon which their marriages were +formed, the chastity and honour in which the +married fishers lived, and the connubial and +family happiness of their homes, may explain, +in part, the violence of the emotions and +the exuberance of the gestures of the wives +when their husbands were in danger. A +fashionable dame of London related sarcastically +that she had known a fisherwoman of +the Scotch east coast who required four men to +keep her from throwing herself over the rocks +when her drowned husband was carried into +her cottage, become calm in a fortnight, +recommence work in a month, and marry +again in a twelvemonth. The poor child of +nature had no sentiment!</p> + +<p>The marriages of the fishers were as natural +and simple as the unions of Isaac with +Rebekah and Boaz with Ruth. Perversions +about dowries, pin-money, establishments, +and settlements, did not interfere with the +natural action of mutual interest and honest +preference. They married young. The +young man and young woman had probably +played together in childhood. Running, +leaping, tumbling, paddling, laughing, the +children of the fishers are as joyous as their +fathers are serious; and if their mothers +could not match them against the children of +the Tuileries’ Gardens, or of St. James’s +Park, in point of pretty costumes, they could +challenge the world for them in regard to +the healthiness of their respiratory organs +and the glee of their animal spirits. The +boys and girls soon become useful, the elder +children being early employed to nurse the +younger. Both boys and girls thus grow up +in systematic training for the performance of +the duties of their lives.</p> + +<p>The boy or lad went out to sea with +the men, and worked at the oar until he +got enough of money to buy a share of a +boat—and a boat with its nets costs from +a hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds. +When he had a share of a boat, he +required some one to bait his lines and +sell his fish. Among the girls he knew, +and whose tempers he had tested in play, he +naturally selected the girl he liked best, and +asked her first; and then, perhaps, like +Kepler, the great astronomer, he had a list in +his mind, and asked one girl after another +until he was accepted. On the other hand, +it is probable the principles of affinity may +sometimes have been in operation for years, +and the boat may have been a greater difficulty +than the wife. As soon as they were +betrothed by the consent and blessings of the +old folks, the young woman went to live with +her future father and mother-in-law for a +week or two, and in the house with the young +man. No doubt she had been taught by her +own mother to search for bait, to tip and bait +the lines, and do all manner of household +work; but the fisher-people judged wisely +she would be all the better for knowing all +her mother-in-law could teach her; and her +husband would be likely to think all the +more of her for being as clever as his own +mother could make her. A few days prior +to the marriage, she returned to her father’s +roof, and the ceremony took place in the +house of her childhood. After the ceremony, +the young couple went to a house of their +own. They went in procession from the paternal +to the connubial home. A fiddler +playing merry strains, headed the procession, +and he was followed by a boat-mate of the +bridegroom, carrying the flag of the boat. +When the bride arrived before the door of +the home of her husband, his boat-mates +rolled their flag around her. The spectators +witnessed the ceremony in silence until she +was enveloped in the folds, and then they +applauded the actors in it with loud and long +cheers. The ceremony seemed to be a public +intimation that the young wife was henceforth +placed within the sanctuary of the +honour of the crew, who engaged themselves +solemnly to protect her from insult and injury, +as brave men defend their flag.</p> + +<p>When a young couple had not money +enough to pay for the share of the boat, the +furnishing of the house, and the expenses of +the wedding, they had what was called a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> +penny-wedding. There was nothing royal or +aristocratic in a penny-wedding, to which +any one might come who chose to pay a shilling. +The significance and rationale of the +penny-wedding was this: “We are a couple +of young people who think it better to marry +than to do worse, and we deem it foolish and +wicked to begin the world with debt. We +therefore invite you, good neighbours, to +amuse yourselves by dancing at our marriage, +and, by paying as generously as may be convenient +for the amusement, help us to begin +the world with a fair chance of making +both ends meet.” A common argument in +favour of the penny-wedding was: the +young man wants ten pounds of his share +of the boat, and many persons gave their +money who never went to the dances. The +canvas for the penny-wedding took place +among the carpenters, coopers, and sailors +of the port; and employers, shopkeepers, +ship-owners, and captains had generally a +half-crown to spare for the young couple. +The dinner at a penny-wedding consisted of +abundance of meat and Scotch broth, served +in broad pewter dishes. After dinner, the +party adjourned to the links or downs, to +dance “the shame dance;” and then they +danced until they were tired. Known bad +characters were inexorably excluded, decorum +rigorously maintained, and “liberties” +would have been indeed dangerous in a community +in which every woman lived under +the protection of a flag and at least half-a-score +of hard fists. A severe critic of propriety +would not probably have approved the +amount of public kissing at a penny-wedding. +Indeed, in this respect, Footdee resembled +more the Court of the Neva than the +Courts of the Thames or of the Seine; but +in regard to the moral essentials of the +problem of life, if there be a word of truth +in court chronicles, the courtiers and +courted of all the three royal rivers might +have learned lessons from the Coast Folk of +Footdee.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHIP">CHIP.</h2> +</div> + +<p class="center">THE CONGRESSIONAL PRIZE-RING.</p> + + +<p>The forcible mode in which debates are +conducted in the parliament of the United +States, and the personal encounters which +sometimes follow them, are believed by the +present generation, to be novelties and +only recently brought to a culminating +point by the Honourable Preston S. Brooks’s +life-preserver, upon the head, face, eyes, and +body of Senator Charles Sumner. This is a +mistake. Fifty years ago, exciting debates +often ended in a regular stand-up fight in +the lobby of the House of Representatives. +The combatants stripped, a ring was formed, +bottle-holders appointed, and the battle +fought and reported quite in the style of +Moulsey Hurst and Bell’s Life in London.</p> + +<p>In corroboration of this statement we present +to our readers the following paragraph +copied from the New York Evening Post of +December the thirteenth, eighteen hundred +and five, into the Annual Register for eighteen +hundred and six:—</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>On Friday last, the well-known Leib, one of the +representatives of Pennsylvania, and the leader of the +Duane party, and Joseph H. Nicholson, one of the +representatives of Maryland, met in the Congress +lobby about one o’clock, when Leib immediately called +Nicholson a liar; and, thereupon, commenced one of +the best fought battles recorded in the annals of congressional +pugilism. The fight continued till the sixty-fourth +round, when Leib had received such blows as +deterred him from again facing his man. He protracted +the fight; falling after making a feeble hit. +In the round which ended the fight, those who backed +him advised him to resign; which he did after a +combat of one hour and seventeen minutes. The +combatants were both very much beaten.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHARLES_THE_FIFTHS_GLOVE">CHARLES THE FIFTH’S GLOVE.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>There are few foreign trips, for English +holiday-makers, that answer better than a +run into Belgium. Belgium is easily got at, +and easily left. Its features are varied and +not vast. You can explore its interior, +inspect its circumference, and take the whole +of it in, without being tired. It is a pocket +kingdom. Instead of wearing your patience, +as France does, when you are in a hurry to +get from one end of it to the other, you can +dart across it with the ease of a swallow +skimming over the Isle of Wight. Moreover, +Belgium is rich in matters of interest considerably +beyond the proportions of its size. +It gives you the idea of an originally extensive +country, which has been subjected, like +an ungainly truss of hay, to hydraulic pressure. +For its area, it feeds a very large +population. The district of St. Nicholas, +near Ghent, carries five thousand two hundred +and ten souls per square league—the +space required, in savage life, for the maintenance +of a single individual. The large +towns lie so close together, that, as soon as +you have done with one, by entering a railway +carriage you are landed in another in +two, three, four, or five quarters of an +hour.</p> + +<p>A lovely May morning blesses, with its +lucky omen, our approach to the frontier. +All nature smiles as we glide along. The +orchards are bedecked in white, pink, and +green. Get ready your tubs, O cyder-drinkers, +the apple-trees promise you a plentiful +supply! Remember, however, that there’s +many a slip between the apple-blossom and +the lip. The sower strides over the well-powdered +earth with measured step, and +with white apron heavily laden. “Take +that, old lady,” he mentally exclaims, as +each handful is scattered, “and give me +fifty-fold back again.” The cows in the +meadows lie basking in the sun, with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> +their feet doubled under them. They are +chewing the cud, to give the grass a short +respite, and to allow it a little time to grow +in peace. The homesteads are overtopped by +clumps of poplars, whose young and maidenly +leaves blush ruddy pink at the touch of the +sunbeam. On the skirts of the forest are +prudent oaks, who are waiting till the blackthorn +winter is over, before they put on their +summer fashions. Along the road which +crosses our railway come Flemish wagons, +like triumphal cars in the processions of +Ceres, and not of Bacchus, but of the twin +gods Baccy and Beer. And so we rush over +a flat fertile land, till we pass Roubaix, a +wilderness of bricks and mortar. Tourcoing +also, and ditto; both very rural in their +aspect for manufacturing towns, and with +atmospheres that Bradford and Leeds might +envy. At Mouscron, we are safely over the +border. The custom-house officers, I suppose, +are ordered to ascertain whether new arrivals +are personally cleanly in their habits; for, as +soon as they have inspected my oiled-silk +sponge-bag, my comb, and my bit of soap +(which latter they don’t supply you with at +inns), they tell me I may lock up our baggage +again. It is too bad that they should rumple +Mademoiselle’s muslin-dress, with which she +intends to make a sensation, into a wisp, and +should further annoy her by calling her +Madame; but they are not a bad set of +fellows on the whole, nor wanting in a certain +cordiality of manner. They look at my passport, +enter it in their book, and then bid me +good morning by name, as if they had known +me for the last ten years. They are Flemings, +no doubt. You may know a Flemish man or +woman by the friendly vocatives with which +they interlard their conversation. Mon ami +or mon cher ami is ever on their lips, while +addressing you. “What are you looking for, +my friend?” asked a market-woman, whom +I had never in my life seen before—unless, +perhaps, twenty years ago, when she must +have been a little girl. “I want half a hundred +cauliflower plants,” I replied.—“Ah, my +dear friend, you won’t find that for another +fortnight. But you’ll come and see me again +in another fortnight; you’ll come to me for +them, won’t you, my dear friend?”</p> + +<p>Returned once more to our railway carriage, +a change has come over the spirit of +our journey. We lose the red-legged soldiery +of France, exchanging them for others +with grey and pepper-and-salt continuations. +The military, too, are men of taller stature, +with more flesh upon their bones. Generally, +the Belgians feed better than the natives of +the north of France, and show it in their +personal appearance. Piebald or rusty-brown +monks and nuns flutter about and read their +breviaries in greater profusion. Belgium is +still a monastic stronghold of brotherhoods +and sisterhoods; and the clergy are struggling +hard for an increase of power.</p> + +<p>The aspect of the country from Mouscron +to Ghent is ever rich and highly cultivated. +The crops are mostly grown in ridges, with +deep furrows between them, indicative of a +strong clayey loam, but wet. Of wood, as in +France, little is to be seen compared with +England, except where congregated into +forests. Here and there are a few plantations +of Scotch firs, set very thick, to spindle +them up for poles and railings.</p> + +<p>Railway travelling is cheaper (by something +like a third), than in France, and, consequently +much cheaper than in England; +children under eight years of age pay half-price; +under three, and in arms, nothing; +but certainly the article you get for your +money is inferior in quality to that furnished +by the first-named country. In France +every traveller is allowed sixty pounds +(French) of luggage gratis, independent of +his small personalities; in Belgium none at +all. Whatever you do not take into the +carriage with you, such as a carpet-bag or +basket of moderate weight, has to be paid +for in addition to your ticket. The first-class +carriages are handsome and comfortable, but +small. The <a id="Change8"></a> +third-class chars-à-bancs are +open at the sides, exposed to the wind, the +rain, and the snow, which sometimes rake +them fore and aft; in inclement weather, they +are not fit to carry sheep and cattle, much +less human beings. Dogs in Belgium pay +third-class fare, but are snugly stowed away +in a baggage-wagon. In one of these locomotive +pens for men, women, and tender +children, a fat hog might have his health +seriously injured as the consequence of a +long day’s journey.</p> + +<p>The State is the sole proprietor of nearly +all the Belgian railways; and while it +paternally confers on its subjects the benefit +of cheap circulation and traffic, it might +also modify an arrangement which is no +other than unfeeling, and is deficient in +that humanity which a government ought to +exercise towards all under its protecting +sway, without reference to wealth or rank. +The second-class carriages are tolerable, with +stuffed seats and a little horizontal stripe of +stuffing to ease the back, and ladies may +travel in them; but they are of scant dimensions, +very naked inside, and unprovided +with any hooks for hats or caps, or with +receptacles for sticks and umbrellas. The +seats are fancifully arranged with a sort of +passage left between them, to give the means +of stepping from one to the other, as if you +were occupying a little parlour; but the +result is no addition to comfort. The signal +for starting is given, not by the whistle of +the engine, but by a little musical flourish, +a tir-ely, consisting of three notes, blown on +his bugle by the conductor of the train. Of +the officials, general civility and obliging +behaviour is the rule. The passengers’ luggage +department would be improved by +assimilation with the system adopted in +France. But nations are often like wilful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> +children; they are determined to have a way +of their own, for the sake of having it. They +refuse to attend to good advice, because it is +counsel given by another; and they persist +in some evidently inconvenient mode of doing +things, merely to show that they are independent +agents, and that they can and will +follow their own devices.</p> + +<p>Ghent, with its hundred thousand inhabitants +and its considerable trade, has still +the air of a town half-asleep, as if you had +caught it yawning and stretching at half-past +three on a summer’s morning. Its extent is +much exaggerated in the current printed +descriptions. Charles the Fifth’s time-honoured +pun—“I could put Paris into my +Gand” (that is, my glove)—is apocryphal +and highly improbable. If you doubt it, +mount the tower of the beffroi. People who +lose their way in a labyrinth of lanes, always +fancy they have travelled over an enormous +area. Now, the map of Ghent puts you in +mind of a Medusa’s head, or of the clustered +worms that are taken out into the country, on +a sultry day, to participate in the pleasures +of a fishing party. Buy a map of Ghent, +colour the streets blue, the river Escaut +yellow, the river Lys red, and you will have +a faithful representation of the famous +Gordian knot, if you happen never to have +seen one before. I long wandered about the +streets of Ghent, trying to find the city, and +could not. It is a town made up of bits of +west-ends, Faubourg St. Germains, and +fashionable suburbs, with no heart or kernel +to it—no Cheapside, no Ludgate Hill, no +Rue de Rivoli, no Rue St. Honoré. There is +a slight recovery of suspended animation in +the Marché-aux-Grains and the Rue des +Champs; but the pulse, even there, beats +very feebly. The market tries (when it is +not market-day) to manifest its vitality in an +unhealthy, spasmodic way, by book-stalls of +amatory literature, over which a little censorship +would be no great tyranny. In the +street, to enter a fashionable lace and embroidery +shop, we had to ring at the glass-door, +as if it had been a private house. After +waiting, while the lady up-stairs gave a touch +of arrangement to her cap and her hair, we +were duly admitted to make our purchase, +much in the style of a morning call. Elsewhere, +in the modern quarters, you see unbroken +lines of large, handsome, well-painted +houses, hybrids between a palace and a ladies’ +boarding-school. Business may be transacted +therein, but it is done in the quietest possible +way. You see dentelles (lace), or calicots +(calicos), engraved on a neat brass-plate on a +house-door, as if some private individual,—Monsieur +Dentelles, or Madame Veuve Calicots,—were +living there on their property, in +great state and dignified retirement. The +older portions of the town are decorated with +houses built before the window-tax was born +or thought of,—with quaint, pointed gable +ends, as if a child had been trying to cut +fancy conic sections out of a red brick wall. +But in whatever direction you wend your +way, you can’t go twenty steps without +crossing a bridge. For the convenience at +once of the land-carriage and the canal navigation, +these are swing bridges; often you +have to wait while a barge, laden perhaps +with vegetable mould for the pot-plants in +training by one of the Vans,—Van Houtte, +Van Schaffelt, or Van Geert,—intercepts the +passage. The time is not exactly lost, because +it allows you to stare about you without +rudeness. But soon, the bridge-swinger +takes his toll from the barge, which he collects +by means of a wooden shoe at the end +of a string fastened to a fishing-rod; the +isthmus of planks is then replaced, and resounds +with the pattering of gros sabots. +Certainly, the popular costume is droll, in +its extremes. At top, the women wear a +close-worked cottage hat of straw, with three +dabs of blue ribbon stuck on behind; at foot, +they are garnished with masses of hollow +timber, which must be a serious drain on the +Belgian forests. But hats worn by women +at the same time with sabots, are, in French +eyes, or in eyes accustomed to France, as +utterly anomalous a combination as a fish-tailed +mermaid, or a man-headed centaur are +considered, on cool reflection, by Professor +Owen. Conspicuous in the air rise the portly +towers of St. Nicholas, St. Michel, and St. +Bavon, around which, and the lofty houses, +multitudinous swifts, whirl and scream, in +delight at the abundance of their insect +game. The canals are propitious to the +propagation of gnats. Where is the carcase, +there are the vultures; and where are the +gnats, there flock the swifts.</p> + +<p>That the quietude of the town is more +apparent than real, and that busy life is +going on within, is plain from the Belgian +fashion of sticking looking-glasses outside the +houses, at angles (sometimes they glance in +three directions) which allow the inmates to +catch a glimpse of passers-by, without being +seen themselves. “Au Nouveau Miroir,” (the +new looking-glass) is occasionally used as the +sign of an inn. The mirrors are generally +on a level with the first-floor; and a smaller +one receives the rays it reflects straight from +the entrance door; so that Not at home is +easily responded to the inquiries of a dun, or +worse, a bore. It is not one city alone which +adopts the system of quicksilvered peepers; +nor is the custom new, but was probably first +introduced by peculiarities of historical and +political situation. In Belgium, it has not +always been convenient to open the door to +every new-comer.</p> + +<p>“If you please, monsieur,” we politely ask, +“have the goodness to tell us which is the +way to the Botanic Garden?”</p> + +<p>“N’entends Français,” is the reply, accompanied +by a disclamatory shake of the head. +It is a reminder that the Flemish tongue is +master here, in actual fact, if not by legal right.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> +Even the government is obliged to come to a +compromise, and affix the names of the +streets to their corners both in Flemish and +in French. The railway porter, who handed +us our luggage, was deaf and dumb as far as +we were concerned, and signed us over to a +brother medium. The coachman who drove +us to our inn just comprehended the words +“Hôtel de Flandre”—and a capital and +recommendable hotel it is—but he comprehended +no more of the further clever remarks +addressed to him. Many of the Gantois who +do speak French manage it so badly, and are +so decidedly not at home in it, that you feel +quite delighted at your own superiority to +them, born Belgians though they be. But +Flemish has so close a relationship to our +own vernacular, that the names of trades +over the shops, the bills, and the public +notices, are as amusing to read as it is to hear +a foreigner speak broken English. Drap +Straet is Cloth, or Draper’s Street. One +man sells alle soorte of wares; another offers +you cart-grease under the name of wagen +smeer; kelder te huren is cellar to hire; +kamer te huren is chamber to hire. A +koperslager is a coppersmith. Professions +which require no interpreter are the bakker, +the matte-maeker, the timmerman, the +apotheker en drogiste, and the boekhandlaer. +The three grand literary elements are announced +for sale as pennen, inkt, en papier. +If your family is small, you may be content +with securing Een Huis to let; but should +you be expecting a large and sudden increase, +you had better engage Twee Huyzen, if adjacent. +In the Apelmerkt, you could hardly +mistake the fruit that is sold there. When +thirsty, you may go and drink a glass of +dobbel-bier at the hospitable sign of De +Roose; or you may prefer to patronise the +Oliphant (without a castle), or the Bruyn +Visch,—that is to say, the Red Herring. +Good little boys and girls punctually attend +a zondagschool. Booksellers’ windows +invite you to the perusal of Flemish novels; +such as Een Zwanenzang (a swan’s song), +by Jan Van Beers, and De Zending der +Vrow (Woman’s Mission), by Hendrik Conscience.</p> + +<p>“How triste, how sad it is for you not to +be able to speak Flemish!” ejaculated a +dame who sold goeden drank, but who could +not, though she would, converse with me. +In such cases, it rarely strikes the tongue-tied +Flemings belonging to the portion of +society below the middle-class, that they are +like the fox who was minus a tail. They are +content with, and would have other people +learn, a language which confines them, as +tightly as a tether fastens a cow, to a few +score square leagues of the earth’s vast +superficies. But a striking point in Flemish +popular manners, is the forming themselves +into bands and societies. These little close +corporations are perhaps, in some degree, the +result of their narrowly-diffused tongue. +And so the blue-bloused archers of one town +go and shoot against the black-capped long-bows +of another, distant a quarter-of-a-day’s +pedestrian journey; the chorus-club of +Schoutenhoul will pay a fraternal visit to the +orpheonists of Raspenscraep. In the French +army, the French Flemings hang together +like bees at swarming-time. Here at Ghent, +the workmen, even at leisure hours and meal-times, +form themselves into companies. +Young people, both girls and boys, run +together in distinct and closely-grouped +herds, like flocks of young lambs at the +same age. One would think that babies in +Flanders came all at once, in falls, in imitation +of the lambing season with Southdowns +and Leicesters.</p> + +<p>But the Botanic garden—where is it? Let +us first look at our map, and then at the +corner of the street, and endeavour to pilot +our way thither. In Belgian towns, generally, +if you use your eyes with the slightest +expression of inquiring curiosity, up starts a +phantom before you, like a most impertinent +Jack-in-the-box, calling himself a commissionaire, +but who must not be confounded +with a superior being, the French commissionaire. +Where these creatures come from, +I cannot tell. They suddenly appear before +you, as if the air had curdled itself into +human form. Peep into a shop window, and +you have one at your elbow; gaze up at a +steeple, and, when you look down, you will +find a commissionaire between your legs; +turn the angle of a street, on a walk of discovery, +and round the corner you knock your +nose against a commissionaire. They start +from behind doors, down staircases, out of +cellars, from the dark mouths of narrow +lanes; and I believe that, upon inquiry, they +would be found now and then to drop from +the roofs. They follow you about with the +hungry look of a beast of prey, regarding you +as the game on their preserve, and themselves +as very forbearing to spare you a little +while. I do not say that no respectable man +exercises the calling of commissionaire; but, +whenever such jewels are found, they ought +to be set in sterling gold. In age, they vary +from sixteen to sixty. They deal in cigars, +and have often a select female acquaintance. +They are mostly seedy in garment, cloudy in +complexion, uncleanly in person, offensive in +breath, jargonic in speech, forward in manner, +and given to drink. Commissionaires attach +themselves to every hotel, as leeches hang to +the side of their vessel, ready to fix on anything +that has blood or money to yield; and +these consider themselves the head of their +profession. But there are wandering commissionaires +who prowl about the streets, +willing to make themselves useful in any +way—too useful, at times, many people might +think.</p> + +<p>One fellow, who pleaded his large family +at home, and whom I took for an hour or +two to get over the ground more quickly,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> +disappeared every time we came to anything +that required more than a minute to examine. +Each disappearance had for its object the +injection of a dram into his weakly stomach, +which relieved me from listening to his +account of the lions. But, after a little unsteadiness, +he tripped and tumbled on the +ground, and concluded by running into an +iron post with a violence that must have +done serious damage to the post. I confess +to a prejudice against Belgian commissionaires, +and never employ them when I can +help it. They attack you in the very churches. +“You won’t leave the cathedral without +paying the concièrge,” was the parting remark +of a young commissionaire whose services +I persisted in declining; and, while +hunting for the Botanic garden, I can’t proceed +without interruption, but am obliged to +say to a person who continually crosses my +path, “I have already told you three times I +do not want you. Cannot you take an answer, +and leave me to myself?”</p> + +<p>The garden, when found at last, is a painful +instead of a pleasurable sight, and must be +far from gratifying to the citizens of Ghent. +It is a warning to avoid, and not an example +to follow, as all botanic gardens ought to be. +The hardy perennials are the only plants in +good condition; among these is a remarkable +Andromeda arborea. The enormous carp, +rising and sinking in their pond, are a lingering +remnant of former prosperity. In the +houses, dirt, dust, thrips, scale, red spider, +and aphis, threaten to get the upper hand, +and to establish their dynasty on a permanent +footing. A fine Doum palm, in a handsome +but filthy cage of glass, excites pity by its +wretched want of comfort. Other unhappy +captives, lank and lean, bald and mangy, beg +hard for some one to have compassion on +them. There are many noble specimens in a +deplorable way.</p> + +<p>Two small-leaved standard myrtles, in +boxes, cannot be less than a hundred and fifty +or two hundred years old. Their trunks +measure thirteen or fourteen inches in circumference; +it would be difficult to find +many such in Europe. A leading English +nurseryman has endeavoured to get them +across the water; it is a pity he cannot, for +they would be properly cared for here. There +are many other far-from-every-day myrtles, +which the head of the establishment seems trying +hard to kill. He is the Celestine Doudet +of greenhouse evergreens; his pupils do not +thrive; his oleanders are in the last stage of +suffering. The alleged excuse is want of sufficient +accommodation and hands; but when +a thing is to be done, it is not a bad plan to +do it yourself. Had I such handsome orange +trees, so neglected, so begrimed with soot, I +would get up at three in the morning, and, +in my shirt-sleeves, with an apron on, with a +bucket of soapsuds and a sponge in hand, +would mount an A ladder and work away, +day after day, till the task was done. But +are there no such things as garden engines in +Ghent? A Victoria, in a tank, contrives to +wash itself partially, though tattered and +torn about the leaves; but it is not clear +what business a pit of pine-apples has in a +place for study, where scantiness of room is +complained of. One plant, or two, are all +right and proper, but a botanical lecturer +does not want a crop of anything.</p> + +<p>Near the entrance of the garden stands a +vase, conspicuously mounted on a pedestal, +in which grows what the official who did the +honours was pleased to point out as a rose-bush +grafted on an oak-tree. I shook my +head in disgust at the falsehood. “Look,” +he insisted, “the stem is an oak-stem, the +side branches are covered with oak-leaves, +and the central twig is the rose which has +been grafted in the middle. You can see +that its leaves are rose-leaves, can’t you?—and +it is full of buds coming into flower.”</p> + +<p>“No, no; it is only a trick,” I answered, +without apologising for flatly contradicting +him. “You have perforated the stem of the +oak from the root to the top; through the +tube thus made you have inserted the stem +of a rooted rose-bush; but there is no union +between the two, like the junction of a scion +with the stock. It grows independently in +the earth, as the oak-plant does, although +encased within it; and you call that grafting +a rose on an oak, which I am gardener enough +to know to be impossible.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! you know that. You have found it +out. And yet, many people, when they see +this specimen, go away persuaded that we +have succeeded in grafting a rose on an +oak.”</p> + +<p>I made no further remark than my looks +expressed; but I thought that botanic gardens +were instituted for the teaching of accurate +information and useful facts, and not to +mislead ignorant persons and to propagate +error. An educational establishment, subsidised +partly by the government and partly +by the town, forgets its duties when it blazons +forth a charlatanism which would upset the +principles of vegetable physiology and stultify +the hard-earned acquirements of science.</p> + +<hr class="full"> + + +<p class="center">On the 18th of July was published, price Five +Shillings and Sixpence, neatly bound in cloth,</p> + +<h2>THE THIRTEENTH VOLUME</h2> +<p class="center">OF</p> +<p class="center"><b>HOUSEHOLD WORDS</b>,</p> + +<p class="center">Containing the Numbers issued between the Nineteenth +of January and the Twelfth of July, Eighteen Hundred +and Fifty-six.</p> + + +<p class="center">Complete sets of Household Words may always be had.</p> + + +<hr class="full"> +<p class="center"><i>The Right of Translating Articles from</i> <span class="smcap">Household Words</span> <i>is reserved by the Authors</i>.</p> + +<p class="center">Published at the Office, No. 16, Wellington Street North, Strand. Printed by <span class="smcap">Bradbury & Evans</span>, Whitefriars, London. +</p> + +<div class="transnote"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="TRANSCRIBERS_NOTES">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</h2> + +<p>This is from Volume XIV of the series.</p> + +<p>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p> + +<p>Transcriber has generated a Table of Contents.</p> + +<p>Itemized changes from the original text:</p> + <ul> + <li><a href="#Change1">On page 1</a>, changed “for” to “for.”, near “morsel of luck to be thankful” + </li> + <li><a href="#Change2">On page 1</a>, changed “bed-side” to “bedside”, near “the chair by her” + </li> + <li><a href="#Change3">On page 4</a>, changed “sweet-heart” to “sweetheart”, near “with a farthing. My” + </li> + <li><a href="#Change4">On page 8</a>, changed “be” to “he”, near “wrings from poor people” + </li> + <li><a href="#Change5">On page 20</a>, changed “bird” to “Bird”, near “or The Bird of St. Martin” + </li> + <li><a href="#Change6">On page 29</a>, changed “melody!"” to “melody!”, near “and an echo of” + </li> + <li><a href="#Change7">On page 29</a>, changed “again!"” to “again!”, near “reap but tears and griefs” + </li> + <li><a href="#Change8">On page 42</a>, changed “third class” to “third-class”, near “chars-à-bancs are open at the side” + </li> + </ul> +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77354 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/77354-h/images/cover.jpg b/77354-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..dfcaafc --- /dev/null +++ b/77354-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c72794 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4f10606 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #77354 +(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77354) |
