His conferences are well adapted both to instruct the minds and

to charm the imaginations of those who desire to find the solid

substance of sound doctrine under the most graceful, brilliant, and

attractive form. We recommend them especially to young men, and hope

they will have a wide circulation.

The translation, however, we regret to say, though expressing the

ideas of the author, is very defective in a literary point of view.

* * * * *

A NOBLE LADY. By Mrs. Augustus Craven. Translated, at the

author's request, by Emily Bowles. London: Burns, Oates & Co.

1869. Pp. 148. For sale by the Catholic Publication Society, 9

Warren Street, New York.

Both the author and translator of this volume are favorably known to

our readers. Their reputation will be much increased by this pleasing

biography. Our "Noble Lady" is Adelaide Capece Minutolo, an Italian

of rank. Accomplished, refined, and devout, she is a perfect picture

of the Christian lady. Her life presents nothing extraordinary. She

did not become a nun. She never married. Yet she was very beautiful,

and could have married suitably to her station. She preferred the

love and companionship of a younger sister to the uncertainty of

marriage and the keener joys and splendors of the world. Early in

life these sisters mutually resolved to seek nothing further than

to live together; nor did either ever feel a regret, or doubt the

wisdom of their choice, till, at the end of eight and twenty years,

death dissolved their union. It is only in Italy that religion,

art, and literary pursuits have met together, inspired, as it were,

by the most glorious scenery, and where man's soul and heart, the

understanding and the eye, are completely satisfied. Perhaps it is

only the daughters of Italy who unite great simplicity, wonderful

sweetness, and charming tenderness to heroic courage and capacity for

such studies as usually are interesting only to men. Such was the

character of the Noble Lady. No person of refinement can read this

book, without repeating the touching exclamation of a poor Neapolitan

woman, who, while she was praying by her coffin, was heard to

exclaim, "_Go, then, go to thy home, thou beautiful bit of Paradise!_"

* * * * *

PILGRIMAGES IN THE PYRENEES AND LANDES. By Denys Shyne Lawlor,

Esq. London: Longmans, Green & Co. 1870.

It is indeed seldom than one will meet with a more charming and

interesting book than this. It contains accounts of visits made by

the author to various sanctuaries of the Blessed Virgin in that

favored region in the south of France which she seems to love so

much; the most recent proof of this being her apparition at the

Grotto of Lourdes, to the description of which a considerable part

of the work is devoted. The account is hardly if at all inferior,

except in its necessary brevity, to that of M. Henri Lasserre on

the same subject, and contains some additional events which have

recently occurred, such as the cure of the celebrated Father Hermann.

Besides the description and history of the sanctuaries, the lives

of several of the saints which this region has produced are given,

and an account of their shrines; among these is one of St. Vincent

of Paul. The book would be well worth reading for the pictures which

are given of the magnificent scenery of the Pyrenean valleys; and

its appearance and type are so beautiful that they would make even

indifferent matter attractive.

* * * * *

FELTER'S ARITHMETICS--NATURAL SERIES: FIRST LESSONS IN NUMBERS;

PRIMARY ARITHMETIC; INTELLECTUAL ARITHMETIC; INTERMEDIATE

ARITHMETIC; GRAMMAR-SCHOOL ARITHMETIC. By S. A. Felter, A.M.

New York: Charles Scribner & Co.

A sketch of the science of numbers through its various progressive

stages to its present almost perfect development would be of much

interest, but our limited space forbids us entering upon it. Of

the many series now before the public, much can be said by way of

commendation; we think, however, that Felter's, while in nowise

inferior to the best, has some peculiar features which give it

a decided superiority. Of these may be mentioned the very large

number of examples given under each rule, and the test questions

for examination which are found at the close of each section. These

cannot fail to secure to the pupil a thorough understanding of his

subject before he leaves it. We also note with pleasure the _entire_

absence of answers from the text-books intended for use by the

pupils. A high-school arithmetic now in course of preparation will

soon be added to the series, and will then form a curriculum of

arithmetical instruction at once gradually progressive, and hence

simple, thoroughly practical, and complete. The author has evidently

a full knowledge of the needs of both pupil and teacher, and has

admirably succeeded in supplying their respective deficiencies.

* * * * *

THE LIFE OF ST. STANISLAS KOSTKA. Edited by Edward Healy

Thompson. Philadelphia: P. F. Cunningham. 1870.

Mr. Thompson's lives of various saints are well written, both

as regards their completeness and accuracy of detail and their

literary style. This is much the best life of the lovely, angelic

patron of novices we have ever read. Is it necessary to inform any

Catholic reader of the exquisite beauty of the character and life

of this noble Polish youth? We hope not. This volume presents a

life-like portrait of it, which must rekindle the devotion already so

widely-spread and fervent toward one who seems like a reproduction of

the type of youthful sanctity which would have been seen in the sons

of Adam, if their father had never sinned. Every father and mother

ought to make it a point to have this book read by their children,

that they may fall in love with virtue and piety, embodied in the

winning, lovely form of Stanislas Kostka.

* * * * *

ALBUM OF THE FOURTEEN STATIONS OF THE CROSS IN ST. FRANCIS

XAVIER'S CHURCH. New York: P. O'Shea, 27 Barclay street.

These photographs of the stations are very well executed. They are

gotten up, as we imagine, for private chapels and oratories. Indeed,

they would be suitable for any room which is set apart for quiet

reading or devout exercises. These pictures are somewhat larger than

a _carte-de-visite_, and they are printed in such a way that they may

be readily hung upon the wall.

* * * * *

FASCICULUS RERUM, etc. Auctore Henricus Formby. Londini: Burns,

Oates, Socii Bibliopolæ.

This is an ably-written pamphlet, containing what appears to us a

singularly happy and valuable suggestion. The author's intention is

concisely expressed on his title-page, namely, that "the best arts of

our modern civilization" be called into the service of God for once,

(as they are daily done into that of Satan,) to furnish a "life of

our Lord Jesus Christ" for all the nations of Christendom, a work

which shall be for three chief ends: "first, as a symbol of the true

unity of all peoples in the church; secondly, as a beautiful memorial

of the Œcumenical Council of the Vatican; and thirdly, as a very

sweet solace and ornament for the daily life of all Christians."

The arts in question are typography, engraving, and photography; the

last to be used for furnishing views of the various spots and regions

throughout Palestine hallowed by the steps of Jesus Christ; and this

would necessitate a committee of competent men being sent to explore

the Holy Land.

The expense of the entire undertaking is to be defrayed by public

subscription and the patronage of the rich, and, of course, it is for

the holy father to inaugurate and supervise the matter. Wherefore the

author humbly submits his pamphlet to the consideration of the holy

see and the council.

For ourselves, we repeat our belief that such a work as this

projected life of Christ would indeed be an inestimable boon to

Christendom. Father Formby's hopes appear to us not at all too

sanguine; and he has our cordial wish that the holy see may be

pleased to take up the work he so ably advocates.

* * * * *

MR. P. O'SHEA, New York, has in press the following books:

_Attributes of Christ_, by Father Gasparini; _Lacordaire's

Conferences on Jesus Christ_; _The Malediction_, a tale, by Madame A.

K. De La Grange.

* * * * *

BOOKS RECEIVED.

MESSRS. J. MURPHY & CO., Baltimore: The Paradise of the Earth.

18mo, pp. 528. Devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. By Rev.

S. Franco, S.J. Pp. 305.

P. F. CUNNINGHAM, Philadelphia: Hetty Homer. By Fannie Warner.

Pp. 142. The Beverly Family. By Joseph R. Chandler. Pp. 166.

Beech Bluff. By Fannie Warner. 12mo, pp. 332.

P. O'SHEA, New York: Knowledge and Love of Jesus Christ. Vol.

iii. pp. 632.

KELLY, PIET & CO., Baltimore: History of the Foundation of the

Order of the Visitation; and the Lives of Mlle. de la Fayette

and several other members of the Order. 12mo, pp. 271.

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XI., No. 65.--AUGUST, 1870.

MR. FROUDE'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND.[177]

SECOND ARTICLE.

In our first article[178] we referred in general terms to the fact

that Mr. Froude had plunged into a great historical subject without

the requisite knowledge or the necessary preparation. This judgment

was presumed to be so well established by the concurrent testimony

of the most opposite schools of criticism, both English and French,

that it was not thought necessary to cite examples from his pages.

In that notice we merely undertook to state the general results of

criticism as to Mr. Froude's first six volumes, reserving particular

examination for the latter half of the work, with special reference

to his treatment of Mary Stuart.

Since, however, it has been said that we charge the historian with

shortcomings, and give no instances in support, we will, before

proceeding further, satisfy this objection. This could be most easily

and profusely done by going into his treatment of questions of the

contemporary history of foreign countries, or of general history

preceding the sixteenth century, in both of which Mr. Froude is

deplorably weak. But we prefer a more decisive test, one that leaves

the historian without excuse, and will, therefore, not only confine

it to English history, but to English history of the period of

Elizabeth, with which, according to his late plaintive appeal to the

_Pall Mall Gazette_, Mr. Froude has labored so diligently and is so

entirely familiar.

And the test proposed illustrates not only his imperfect mastery

of his own selected period of English history, but his total

unconsciousness of the existence of one of the most peculiar laws

of England in force for centuries before and after that period.

A clever British reviewer, in expressing his surprise at our

historian's multifarious ignorance concerning the civil and criminal

jurisprudence of his country, says that it is difficult to believe

that Mr. Froude has ever seen the face of an English justice; and

the reproach is well merited. Nevertheless we do not look for the

accuracy of a Lingard or a Macaulay in an imaginative writer like

Mr. Froude, and might excuse numerous slips and blunders as to law

pleadings and the forms of criminal trials--nay, even as to musty old

statutes and conflicting legislative enactments, (as, for instance,

when he puts on an air of critical severity (vol. ix. p. 38) as

to the allowance of a delay of fifteen days in Bothwell's trial,

claiming, in his defective knowledge of the Scotch law, that it

should have been forty days;) but when we find his mind a total blank

as to the very existence of one of the most peculiar and salient

features of English law, we must insist that such ignorance in one

who sets up for an English historian is far from creditable.

Here is the case. During the reign of Elizabeth, one Thomas Cobham,

like unto many other good English Protestants, was "roving the seas,

half-pirate, half knight-errant of the Reformation, doing battle on

his own account with the enemies of the truth, wherever the service

of God was likely to be repaid with plunder." (Froude, vol. viii. p.

459.) He took a Spanish vessel, (England and Spain being at peace,)

with a cargo valued at eighty thousand ducats, killing many on board.

After all resistance had ceased, he "sewed up the captain and the

survivors of the crew in their own sails, and flung them overboard."

Even in England this performance of Cobham was looked upon as

somewhat irregular, and at the indignant requisition of Spain, he

was tried in London for piracy. De Silva, the Spanish ambassador at

the court of Elizabeth, wrote home an account of the trial. We now

quote Mr. Froude, who being--as a learned English historian should

be--perfectly familiar with the legal institutions of his country,

and knowing full well that the punishment described by De Silva was

never inflicted in England, is naturally shocked at the ignorance of

this foreigner, and thus presents and comments upon his letter.

"Thomas Cobham," wrote De Silva, "being asked at the trial,

according to the usual form in England, if he had any thing to

say in arrest of judgment, and answering nothing, was condemned

to be taken to the Tower, to be stripped naked to the skin, and

then to be placed with his shoulders resting on a sharp stone,

his legs and arms extended and on his stomach a gun, too heavy

for him to bear, yet not large enough immediately to crush him.

There he is to be left till he die. They will give him a few

grains of corn to eat, and for drink the foulest water in the

Tower." (Froude, vol. viii. p. 449, London ed. of 1863.)

It would not be easy to state the case in fewer words and more

accurately than De Silva here puts it. Cobham was called upon to

answer in the usual form, and "answering nothing" or "standing mute,"

"was condemned," etc. A definition of the offence and a description

of its punishment by the well-known _peine forte et dure_ were thus

clearly presented; but even then Mr. Froude fails to recognize an

offence and its penalty, perfectly familiar to any student who has

ever read Blackstone or Bailey's Law Dictionary, and makes this

astounding comment on De Silva's letter:

"_Had any such sentence been pronounced, it would not have

been left to be discovered in the letter of a stranger_; the

ambassador may perhaps, in this instance, have been purposely

deceived, and his demand for justice satisfied by a fiction of

imaginary horror." (Froude, vol. viii. p. 449, London ed. 1863.)

This unfortunate performance of Mr. Froude was received by critics

with mirthful surprise, and, as a consequence, although the passages

we have cited may be found, as we have indicated, in the London

edition of 1863, they need not be looked for in later editions.

On the contrary, we now learn from Mr. Froude (Scribner edition

of 1870, vol viii. p. 461) that "Cobham refused to plead to his

indictment, and the dreadful sentence was passed upon him of the

_peine forte et dure_;" and thereto is appended an erudite note for

the instruction of persons supposed to be unacquainted with English

law, explaining the matter, and citing Blackstone, "book iv. chap.

25."

Ah! learning is a beautiful thing!

But, possibly it may be suggested, this dreadful punishment was

rarely inflicted, and that fact may serve to excuse Mr. Froude? Not

at all. Other instances of the _peine forte et dure_ occurred in this

very reign of Elizabeth, with whose history Mr. Froude is so very

familiar. Here is one which inspires us with a feeling of compassion

for the much-abused Spanish Inquisition, and proportionately

increases our admiration of the "glorious Reformation."

Margaret Middleton, the wife of one Clitheroe, a rich citizen of

York, was prosecuted for having harbored a priest in quality of a

schoolmaster. At the bar (March 25th, 1586) she refused to plead

guilty, because she knew that no sufficient proof could be brought

against her; and she would not plead "not guilty," because she

considered such a plea equivalent to a falsehood. The _peine forte et

dure_ was immediately ordered.

"After she had prayed, Fawcet, the sheriff, commanded them to

put off her apparel; when she, with the four women, requested

him on their knees, that, for the honor of womanhood, this

might be dispensed with. But they would not grant it. Then she

requested them that the women might unapparel her, and that

they would turn their faces from her during that time.

"The women took off her clothes, and put upon her the long

linen habit. Then very quickly she laid her down upon the

ground, her face covered with a handkerchief, and most part

of her body with the habit. The _dure_ (door) was laid upon

her; her hands she joined toward her face. Then the sheriff

said, 'Naie, ye must have your hands bound.' Then two sergeants

parted her hands, and bound them to two posts. After this they

laid weight upon her, which, when she first felt she said,

'Jesu, Jesu, Jesu, have mercye upon mee,' which were the last

words she was heard to speake. She was in dying about one

quarter of an hour. A sharp stone, as much as a man's fist had

been put under her back; upon her was laied to the quantitie

of seven or eight hundred weight, which, breaking her ribbs,

caused them to burst forth of the skinne."

This question of the _peine forte et dure_ naturally brings us to the

consideration of a kindred subject most singularly treated in Mr.

Froude's pages. If the constant use of

TORTURE AND THE RACK

had been a feature of Mary Stuart's reign, and not, as it was, the

daily expedient of Elizabeth and Cecil, what bursts of indignant

eloquence should we not have been favored with by our historian, and

what admirable illustrations would it not have furnished him as to

the brutalizing tendencies of Catholicity and the superior humanity

and enlightenment of Protestantism? Nothing so clearly shows the

government of Elizabeth to have been a despotism as her constant

employment of torture. Every time she or Cecil sent a prisoner to

the rack--and they sent hundreds--they trampled the laws of England

under foot. These laws, it is true, sometimes authorized painful

ordeals and severe punishments, but the rack never. Torture was never

legally authorized in England. But the trickling blood, the agonized

cries, the crackling bones, the "strained limbs and quivering

muscles" (Froude vol. vi. p. 294) of martyred Catholics make these

Tudor practices lovely in Mr. Froude's eyes, and he philosophically

remarks, "The method of inquiry, however inconsonant with modern

conceptions of justice, was adapted excellently for the outrooting

of the truth." (Vol. vii. p. 293)

We can hardly believe that any other man of modern enlightenment

could possibly entertain such opinions. They are simply amazing

in their cold-blooded and crude ignorance. Torture is not only

"inconsonant" with modern conceptions of justice, but also with

ancient; for it is condemned even by the sages of the law which

authorized it. If Mr. Froude had any knowledge of the civil law,

he might have learned something of this matter from the Digests,

(_Liber_ xviii. tit. 18.) The passage is too long to cite, but one

sentence alone tells us in a few words of the fallacy, danger,

and decaption of the use of torture: "Etenim res est fragilis et

periculosa, et quæ veritatem fallat."

So much for ancient opinion. And modern justice has rejected the

horrible thing, not only on the ground of morality, but because it

has been demonstrated to be a promoter of perjury and the worst

possible means of "outrooting" the truth.

To return: the case of Cobham is not the only one in which Mr.

Froude has prudently profited by criticism, and hastened, in a new

edition of his work, to repair his blunder. Even a slight comparison

of his first with his last edition will show him to be under deep

obligations to his critics, and it would be wise in him to seek to

increase his debt of gratitude by fresh corrections.

THE CHATELAR STORY

is told by Mr. Froude in his characteristic way, and, while

acquitting Mary Stuart of blame, "she had probably nothing worse

to accuse herself of than thoughtlessness," (vol. vii. p. 506,)

manages to leave a stain upon her character. He prefaces the story

with the statement that "she was selfish in her politics and sensual

in her passions." Serious historians generally use language with

some reference to its value; but one epithet costs Mr. Froude no

more effort than another, although there is not a shadow of pretext

thus far in his own version of Mary's history to justify so foul an

outrage as the use here of this word "sensual." We pass on. Chatelar

was a young Huguenot gentleman, a nephew of the noble Bayard, gifted

and highly accomplished. He had accompanied his patron D'Amville to

Scotland, and returned with him to France. D'Amville was a suitor for

Mary's hand, and, after some time, dispatched Chatelar to Scotland

with missives for the queen. Randolph was present when Chatelar

arrived, and describes D'Amville's letter as of "three whole sheets

of paper." Yet Mr. Froude, perfectly aware of all this, writes,

"He went back to France, but he could not remain there. The

moth was _recalled_ to the flame whose warmth was life and

death to it."

The remainder is of a piece with this. Supernaturally penetrating

in reading Mary Stuart's most hidden thoughts, Mr. Froude is blind

to the vulgar envy of the parvenu Randolph, who, writing to Cecil,

(Froude, vol. vii. p. 505, note,) has the mendacious impudence to

speak of Chatelar as "so unworthy a creature and abject a varlet."

Of the rules that govern the admission of evidence in ordinary

courts of law, Mr. Froude does not appear to have any knowledge,

and at every page he manifests a total unconsciousness of the most

rudimentary test to be applied to the testimony of a witness in or

out of court. It is to see whether the witness has not some powerful

motive to praise or to blame. Thus, when he desires to establish a

high character for "the stainless Murray," he gives us the testimony

of--his employers Elizabeth and Cecil! In telling us what Mary

Stuart was, he most freely uses the hired pamphleteer Buchanan,

although ashamed--as well he may be--to name his authority.[179]

So also in the case before us, although the mean envy excited in

Randolph by the accomplished and nobly-born young Frenchman is

perfectly clear, Mr. Froude gives us the English envoy's dispatches

as testimony not to be questioned.

MARY STUART AND JOHN KNOX.

An interview between the queen and Knox in December, 1562, in which

Mr. Froude describes Knox's rudeness as "sound northern courtesy,"

(vol. vii. p. 543,) is passed over by him with commendable rapidity.

And of yet another interview he says not a word.

Under the statute of 1560 proceedings were taken in 1563 against Mary

in the west of Scotland for celebrating mass.

The wilds of Ayrshire, in later years the resort of persecuted

Presbyterians, were the resort of persecuted Catholics. "On the

bleak moorlands or beneath the shelter of some friendly roof,"

says Mr. Hosack,[180] "they worshipped in secret according to the

faith of their fathers." Zealous reformers waited not for form of

law to attack and disperse the "idolaters," when they found them

thus engaged. Mary remonstrated with Knox against these lawless

proceedings, and argued for freedom of worship, or, as Knox himself

states it, "no to pitt haunds to punish ony man for using himsel in

his religion as he pleases." But the Scotch reformer applauded the

outrage, and even asserted that private individuals might even "slay

with their own hands idolaters and enemies of the true religion,"

quoting Scripture to prove his assertions.[181] Shortly afterward

forty-eight Catholics were arraigned before the high court of

justiciary for celebrating mass, and punished by imprisonment.

At page 384 (vol. vii.) we are told by Mr. Froude that the Protestant

mob drove the priest from the altar, (royal chapel,) "with broken

head and bloody ears," and at page 418 that "the measure of virtue in

the Scotch ministers was the audacity with which they would reproach

the queen." "Maitland protested that theirs was not language for

subjects to use to their sovereign," and there really appears to be

something in the suggestion; but Mr. Froude is of the opinion that

"essentially, after all, Knox was right," clinching it, with--"He

suspected that Mary Stuart meant mischief to the reformation, and she

did mean mischief." And this is the key to Mr. Froude's main argument

throughout this history. Whoever and whatever favors the reformation

is essentially good, whoever and whatever opposes it is essentially

vile. And the end, (the reformation) justifies the means.

Far be it from us to gainsay the perfect propriety of an occasional

supply of sacerdotal broken heads and bloody ears, if a Protestant

mob sees fit to fancy such an amusement; or to question the measure

of virtue in the Scotch ministers; or to approve of the absurd

protest of Maitland; or, least of all, not swiftly to recognize that

"essentially" Knox was right. Not we indeed! But then we really

must be excused for venturing to suggest--merely to suggest, that,

in the first place, if we assume such a line of argument, we deprive

ourselves of weapons wherewith to assail the cruelties of such men as

Alva and Philip of Spain. Surely, the right does not essentially go

with the power to persecute! And in the second place--that this was

rather rough treatment for a young and inexperienced girl, against

whom thus far nothing has been shown. But here Mr. Froude meets us

with "Harlot of Babylon," and we are again silenced.

Maitland absurdly hinted to Knox that if he had a grievance he should

complain of it modestly, and was very properly hooted at by Knox in

reply. And thereupon comes a fine passage from Mr. Froude, admirably

exemplifying his psychological treatment of history. (Vol. vii. p.

419.)

"Could she but secure first the object on which her heart was

fixed, she could indemnify herself afterward at her leisure.

The preachers might rail, the fierce lords might conspire; a

little danger gave piquancy to life, and the air-drawn crowns

which floated before her imagination would pay for it all."

We do not know how this may affect other people, but "air-drawn

crowns" did the business for us, and we proceed to make it the text

for A LESSON IN HISTORICAL WRITING.

Mr. Froude may or may not have transferred the contempt and hatred

of France of the sixteenth century, which throughout his book he

loses no opportunity of manifesting, to France of the nineteenth

century; but we venture to suggest to him that he may find in France

models and principles of historical treatment which he might study

with signal profit. Specially would we commend to his lection and

serious perpension the following pithy passage from the very latest

published volume of French history. We refer to Lanfrey's _Histoire

de Napoleon I_. The author describes the meeting of Napoleon and

Alexander at Tilsit, and, referring to the absurd attempt made by

some writers to explain the motives which actuated the French and

Russian emperors at their private interview on the Niemen, makes this

sensible reflection:

"Il est toujours dangereux et souvent puéril de vouloir interpréter

les sentiments secrets des personnages historiques."[182] (Lanfrey,

vol. iv. p. 403. Paris, 1870.) Mr. Froude's attention to this

teaching would rapidly suppress "air-drawn crowns" and such like

stage properties, so freely used by him for dramatic effect.

SOME OMISSIONS.

Mr. Froude appears to have no knowledge of the important proceedings

at Mary's first Parliament, May, 1563, when the corpse of the late

Earl of Huntly, kept for the purpose since the previous October,

was brought in for attainder. Forfeiture was declared mainly for

Murray's benefit, and at the same time the forfeitures of the Earl

of Sutherland (the evidence against him being forgeries) and eleven

barons of the house of Gordon were passed. In vain the Countesses of

Huntly and Sutherland endeavored to petition the queen; they were, by

Murray's intervention, denied access to her. Nor does our historian

appear to have heard of the circumstances attending Murray's

surreptitious procuring of the queen's signature to the death-warrant

of young Huntly. It is a most interesting episode, but we have not

room for it. Some three weeks later, we find a curious letter of

Randolph to Cecil, which need not be sought for in Froude. It is

important as showing the peculiar esteem in which Murray was held at

the court of ---- Elizabeth. A packet addressed to Queen Mary had

been stopped and opened by the English officials at Newcastle. Mary,

not recognizing her position as the vassal of Elizabeth, complained

of it to Randolph. Whereupon Randolph writes to Cecil, (June, 1563,)

advising, "If any suspected letters be taken, not to open them, but

to send them to my Lord of Moray, of whose services the Queen of

England is _sure_." And good reason there was to be _sure_; for all

the world, except Mr. Froude, knows that the "stainless," from first

to last, was the bribed and pensioned agent of Elizabeth.

KNOX AND THE COUNCIL.

"The Queen of Scots," says Mr. Froude, "had quarrelled again

with Knox, whom she attempted to provide with lodgings in the

castle; the lords had interfered, and anger and disappointment

had made her ill." (Vol. vii. p. 549.)

Here again Mary seems to fall away from the high standard of

"consummate actress;" but, on the other hand, Mr. Froude is fully

up to his own standard of consummate historian; for the passage

is clever, even for him. Here is what it all means: Cranston and

Armstrong, two members of Knox's congregation who were afterward

among the murderers of Riccio, had been arrested and thrown into

prison for raising a riot in the chapel royal at Holyrood, to prevent

service there. And why should they not? A Catholic queen had no

rights which her Protestant subjects were bound to respect. Knox

thereupon sent a circular throughout Scotland convening his brethren

to meet in Edinburgh on a certain day--in other words, to excite

tumult and inaugurate civil war. Let Randolph, Mr. Froude's favorite

authority, tell the rest.

Randolph to Cecil, Dec. 21, 1563:

"The lords had assembled to take order with John Knox and his

faction, who intended, by a mutinous assembly made by his

letter before, to have rescued two of their brethren from

course of law for using an outrage," etc.

Murray and Maitland sent for Knox and remonstrated with him. But Knox

showed no respect for either of them. Nothing came of the interview,

and they had him summoned before the queen and her privy council.

Seriously ill as she was, she attended. Now compare these facts

with Mr. Froude's statement above, (vol. vii. p. 549,) and see if

it is possible to crowd into three lines more misrepresentation and

malevolence. Note _quarrelled_. Mary knew nothing of the affair until

after the action of the lords and the attempt of Murray and Maitland

to persuade Knox. Mr. Froude says Mary attempted to imprison him, and

the lords interfered. "Anger and disappointment made her ill." Now,

this Knox affair occurred while Randolph was waiting to have audience

of Mary, but was delayed on account of her illness. To return to the

council. Knox's seditious letter was produced. He boldly avowed it,

and significantly observed, referring to certain reported practices

of Murray and Maitland, that "no forgeries had been interpolated in

the spaces he had left blank." A week after this event, Randolph

describes Mary as still sick, although compelled to confer with her

council.

MARY'S MARRIAGE.

All this time Mary has been waiting Elizabeth's good pleasure as to

whom she shall marry. Elizabeth finally decided to bestow upon her

Scottish sister her own lover Leicester, who "was, perhaps, the most

worthless of her subjects; but in the loving eyes of his mistress

he was the knight _sans peur et sans reproche_; and she took a

melancholy pride in offering her sister her choicest jewel." (Vol.

viii. p. 74.) But Mr. Froude spoils the "melancholy pride" at the

next page by telling us that Elizabeth "was so capable of falsehood

that her own expressions would have been an insufficient guarantee

for her sincerity."

Murray's opposition to Mary's marriage with Darnley was bitter. His

ascendency in her councils had culminated in his proposition to have

himself legitimated, and that the queen should lease the crown to him

and Argyll. Mary's marriage to any one would end all such hopes, and

Darnley, moreover, was personally obnoxious to Murray because he had

been heard to say, looking at a map of Scotland, that Murray had "too

much for a subject." Elizabeth's instructions precisely tallied with

Murray's inclinations and interest. He withdrew from court, and would

not attend the convention at Perth.

PLOT TO IMPRISON MARY.

And now comes the plot of Murray and his friends to seize Darnley and

his father, (Lennox,) deliver them to Elizabeth's agents or slay them

if they made resistance, and imprison the queen at Lochleven. In a

note at page 178, vol. viii., Mr. Froude, with a sweet and touching

melancholy, says, "A sad and singular horoscope had already been cast

for Darnley." The magician of this horoscope was Randolph, who fears

that "Darnley can have no long life amongst this people." Certainly

not, if Mr. Randolph understands himself; for his letters of that

period are full of the details of a plot to stir up an insurrection

in Scotland, place Murray at the head of it, kill Darnley and his

father, and imprison the queen at Lochleven. Elizabeth sent Murray

£7000 for the nerve of the insurrection, and her letters to Bedford

instructing him to furnish Murray with money and soldiers are in

existence. The programme was at last carried out eighteen months

later, when Darnley was killed and Mary a prisoner.

On the 30th of June, 1565, at ten in the morning, the queen, with

a small retinue, was to ride from Perth to Callendar house, to be

present at the baptism of a child of her friends Lord and Lady

Livingstone. Murray's party were to take her prisoner at this time.

The Earls of Rothes and Argyll, and the Duke of Chatelherault were

to be stationed at three different points on her route with an

overpowering force. Murray was to wait at Lochleven, which he had

just provisioned and provided with artillery. As usual, he managed to

have the overt act done by others.

All these arrangements were made in concert with Randolph and Cecil,

and were so apparently perfect that success was considered certain.

So sure was Cecil of it that an entry in his private diary of July

7th, runs, "that there was a rumor that the Scottish Queen should

have been taken."

During the night of the 29th, a warning was conveyed to Mary of the

plot. Instead of waiting until ten, the hour fixed for her departure,

she was in the saddle at five in the morning, and safe at Callendar

by eleven. It is very singular, but Mr. Froude seems never to have

heard of this exciting ride, while the "stainless" Murray was keeping

bootless watch and ward at Lochleven. We regret it exceedingly, if

for no other reason than the loss of an animated picture in Mr.

Froude's best style, running somewhat thus:

"Bright shone the sun. The queen, with incredible animosity,

was mounted on a swift courser galloping by the side of young

Darnley, and then away--away--past the Parenwell, past

Lochleven, through Kinross, past Castle Campbell, across the

north Ferry and over the Firth, fast as their horses could

speed; seven in all--Mary, her three ladies, Darnley, Lennox,

Atholl, and Ruthven. In five hours the hospitable gates of

Livingstone had closed behind them, and Mary Stuart was safe."

(See vol. viii. p. 270.)

Of this plot of Murray, here is the clever record made by Mr. Froude:

"A hint was given him that Darnley and Riccio had formed

a plan to kill him. He withdrew to his mother's castle at

Lochleven, and published the occasion of his disobedience. Mary

Stuart replied with a counter-charge that the Earl of Murray

had proposed to take her prisoner and carry Darnley off to

England." (Vol. viii. p. 180.)

Upon this, Mr. Froude's cool comment is, "Both stories were probably

true"! Yes, with the difference that the proof against Murray was

overwhelming; for Mr. Froude admits that "Murray's offer to Randolph

was sufficient evidence against himself," whereas there was none

against Darnley. At page 182, Mr. Froude makes Mary "return from

Perth to Edinburgh." This renders it quite clear that he has never

heard of her hurried ride to Callendar.

QUESTION OF TOLERATION.

Randolph strangely finds fault with Mary for her toleration in

religious matters. "Her will to continue papistry, and _her desire

to have all men live as they list_, so offendeth the godly men's

consciences, that it is continually feared that these matters will

break out to some great mischief." And lo! the mischief did break

out. The Assembly of the Kirk presented, under the singular garb of a

"supplication," a remonstrance to the queen, in which they declared

that "the practice of idolatry" could not be tolerated in the

sovereign any more than in the subject, and that the "papistical and

blasphemous mass" should be wholly abolished. To whom the queen:

"Where it was desired that the mass should be suppressed and

abolished, as well in her majesty's own person and family as

amongst her subjects, her highness did answer for herself,

that she was noways persuaded that there was any impiety in

the mass, and trusted her subjects would not press her to

act against her conscience; for, not to dissemble, but to

deal plainly with them, she neither might nor would forsake

the religion wherein she had been educated and brought up,

believing the same to be the true religion, and grounded on the

word of God. Her loving subjects should know that she, neither

in times past, nor yet in time coming, did intend to force the

conscience of any person, but to permit every one to serve God

in such manner as they are persuaded to be the best, that they

likewise would not urge her to any thing that stood not with

the quietness of her mind."

"Nothing," remarks Mr. Hosack, "could exceed the savage rudeness

of the language of the assembly; nothing could exceed the dignity

and moderation of the queen's reply." _Of all this, in Mr. Froude's

pages, not one word!_ Indeed he at all times religiously keeps out

of sight all Mary says or writes, admitting rarely a few words under

prudent censorship and liberal expurgation. Sweetly comparing the

assembly to "the children of Israel on their entrance into Canaan,"

he dissimulates their savage rudeness, and adds, almost pensively,

that Murray, though he was present, "no longer raised his voice in

opposition." Randolph fully confirms what Throckmorton reported four

years before--that she neither desired to change her own religion

nor to interfere with that of her subjects. Mary told Knox the

same thing when she routed him, by his own admission, in profane

history, and his own citations from the Old Testament. Where she

obtained her familiarity with the Scriptures we cannot imagine, if

Mr. Froude tells the truth about her "French education." "A Catholic

sovereign sincerely pleading to a Protestant assembly for liberty

of conscience, might have been a lesson to the bigotry of mankind,"

(vol. viii. p. 182;) "but," adds Mr. Froude, "Mary Stuart was not

sincere." When Mr. Froude says Mary Stuart is intolerant, we show

him, by a standard universally recognized, her words and actions, all

always consistent with each other and with themselves, that she was

eminently tolerant and liberal. But when he gives us his personal and

unsupported opinion that "she was not sincere," he passes beyond the

bounds of historical argument into a realm where we cannot follow him.

Still greater than Mr. Froude's difficulty of quoting Mary at all, is

his difficulty of quoting her correctly when he pretends to. Randolph

comes to Mary with a dictatorial message from Elizabeth, that she

shall not take up arms against the lords in insurrection. Mr. Froude

calls it a request that she would do no injury to the Protestant

lords, who were her good subjects. Mary replied, according to Froude,

(vol. viii. p. 188,) "that Elizabeth might call them 'good subjects;'

she had found them bad subjects, and as such she meant to treat

them." Mary really said,

"For those whom your mistress calls 'my _best_ subjects,' I

cannot esteem them so, nor so do they deserve to be accounted

of that that they will not obey my commands; and therefore my

good sister ought not to be offended if I do that against them

as they deserve."

The truth is, Mary's unvarying, queenly dignity and womanly

gentleness in all she speaks and writes is a source of profound

unhappiness to Mr. Froude, refuting as it does his theory of her

character. Consequently it is his aim to vulgarize it down to a

standard in vogue elsewhere.

Mr. Froude is most felicitous when he disguises Mary, as he

frequently does, with Elizabeth's tortuous drapery. Thus:

"Open and straightforward conduct did not suit the complexion

of Mary Stuart's genius; she breathed more freely, and she used

her abilities with better effect, in the uncertain twilight of

conspiracy."

"Uncertain twilight" is pretty. But where were Mary's conspiracies?

Had she Randolphs at Elizabeth's court, and Drurys on the border,

plotting, intriguing, and bribing English noblemen? Had she two

thirds of Elizabeth's council of state pensioned as paid spies?

Had she salaried officials to pick up or invent English court

scandal for her amusement? Truly it is refreshing to turn from

Mary's twilight conspiracies to the honest and noble transactions

of Elizabeth, Cecil, and Randolph. But of the malicious gossip of

Elizabeth's spies one might not so much complain, if Mr. Froude

had the fairness to give their reports without his embroidery of

rhetoric and imagination. Thus, when Randolph writes, "There is a

_silly story_ afloat that the queen _sometimes_ carries a pistol,"

Mr. Froude considers himself authorized by Randolph to say, "She

carried pistols in hand and pistols at her saddle-bow;" and, as

usual, reading her thoughts, goes on to tell us that "her one

peculiar hope was to destroy her brother, against whom she bore an

especial and unexplained animosity." The personal intimacy between

Randolph and Murray more than sufficiently explains the source of

the information given in Randolph's letter of Oct. 13th. (Vol. viii.

p. 196.) Mr. Froude has a moment of weakness when he says that the

intimacy between the queen and Riccio was so confidential as to

provoke calumny. That any thing said of Mary Stuart could possibly be

calumny is an admission for Mr. Froude only less amazing than that

"she was warm and true in her friendships." The queen's indignation

against Murray is sufficiently accounted for by the existence of

the calumnies, and the fact that Murray's treasons sent him at this

time a fugitive to his mistress Elizabeth. A few pages further on,

we have Mary riding "in steel bonnet and corselet, with a dagg at

her saddle-bow," (vol. viii. p. 213,) for which Mr. Froude quotes

Randolph. But Randolph wrote, "_If what I have heard be true_, she

rode," etc., questionable hearsay where Mary Stuart is concerned,

answering Mr. Froude's purpose somewhat better than fact.

Through Randolph, Elizabeth announced to Mary that one of the

conditions on which she would consent to the Darnley marriage was,

that "she must conform to the religion established by law." Upon

this, the singular comment is, "It is interesting to observe how the

current of the reformation had swept Elizabeth forward in spite of

herself." (Vol. viii. p. 187.) Mary's answer was, she "would make no

merchandise of her conscience."

MURRAY'S INSURRECTION.

At page 198, vol. viii., after the armed rebellion of Murray and his

friends, popularly known in Scotland as "The Runabout Raid," we have

Mary

"breathing nothing but anger and defiance. The affection of

a sister for a brother was curdled into a hatred the more

malignant because it was more unnatural. Her whole passion was

concentrated on Murray."

It must be clear to every one how reprehensible Mary was for showing

any feeling at all in defence of her crown, her liberty, and her

life, and with Mr. Froude's premises and logic, Murray gave a signal

proof of affection for his sister in arraying himself against her

legitimate authority as the head of an insurrection. Mr. Froude can

see, in the just indignation of the queen against domestic traitors

in league, with a foreign power, nothing but the violence of a

vengeful fury. His anxiety to possess his readers of the same view

has brought him into a serious difficulty, which has been exposed by

M. Wiesener in his _Marie Stuart_. At p. 211, vol. viii., Mr. Froude

quotes a letter of Randolph to Cecil of Oct. 5th, "in Rolls House,"

by which he means Record Office, to show that Mary "was deaf to

advice as she had been to menace," and "she said _she would have no

peace till she had Murray's or Chatelherault's head_." This letter

appears to be visible to nobody but Mr. Froude; and we have the

authority of Mr. Joseph Stevenson, who is more at home among the MSS.

of the Record Office than Mr. Froude, and who, when he uses them, has

the merit of citing them in their integrity, for stating that this

letter of the 5th October, referred to by Mr. Froude, _is not in the

Record Office_.[183] But there is a letter there from Randolph to

Cecil of the 4th October, in which Randolph represents Mary

"not only uncertain as to what she should do, but inclined to

clement measures, and so undecided as to hope that matters

could be arranged"!

This does not sound like "deaf to advice," and Mr. Froude can arrange

this little difficulty with the dates and Mr. Stevenson at his

leisure. Meantime, we all anxiously wait to hear from Mr. Froude

where he found his authority for stating that Mary said she would

have no peace till she had Murray's or Chatelherault's head.

At page 205, vol. viii. the account given by Mauvissière of his

interview with Mary is travestied by Mr. Froude. Mauvissière

counselled her to make peace with the insurgents. Mary saw through

the device; for it was the counsel of Catherine de' Medici, whose

enmity to Mary was only surpassed by that of Elizabeth; and, although

without advisers--for Murray was in rebellion, Morton had withdrawn

himself, and Maitland was suspected--she rejected it instantly.

It is amusing to observe how the loyal attachment of the citizens

and merchants of Edinburgh to Mary annoys Mr. Froude. During

Mary's absence, the rebels swept into the city with a large force;

but, notwithstanding the appeal of the kirk, the "_Calvinist

shop-keepers_," as Mr. Froude witheringly styles them, would not

lift a finger to aid them. We call it amusing, because Mr. Froude

everywhere so undisguisedly manifests his strong personal sympathy

that, as an historian, he becomes simply absurd.

Mary marched against the rebels with eighteen thousand men. As she

approached, they fled into England, and the rebellion was over.

"The Queen of Scots, following in hot pursuit, glared across the

frontier at her escaping prey." (Vol. viii. p. 214.) The amount of

precise information in Mr. Froude's exclusive possession concerning

the expression of Mary Stuart's eyes as something wonderful. Here

her eyes "glare;" elsewhere, (vol. viii. p. 365,) there is an "odd

glitter in her eyes," while at p. 161, they are "flashing pride and

defiance."

It is this imaginative power and talent for pictorial embellishment

which lend to Mr. Froude's work such peculiar attraction for the

general reader. And to give expression to this natural appreciation,

such testimonials as the following are seriously produced as

evidences of the merit of the work.

"What a wonderful history it is!" says Mrs. Mulock Craik; "and

wonderful indeed is it, with its vivid pictures of scenes and persons

long passed away; its broad charity, its tender human sympathy, its

ever present dignity, its outbursts of truest pathos."

All this is in keeping with the eternal fitness of things. This

excellent lady, a somewhat successful writer of novels, really means

what she says, and expresses herself in all sincerity. Her admiration

is genuine. It is that of a pupil for her master, and she ingenuously

admires one who has attained excellence in his art. We have not

the slightest doubt that many will say with her, "What a wonderful

history it is!"

FOOTNOTES:

[177] _History of England from the Fall of Wolsey to the Death of

Elizabeth._ By James Anthony Froude, late Fellow of Exeter College,

Oxford. 12 vols. New York: Charles Scribner & Co.

[178] See CATHOLIC WORLD for June, 1870.

[179] In all his volumes Mr. Froude cites Buchanan by name but once.

[180] _Mary Queen of Scots and her Accusers._ By John Hosack,

Barrister at Law. Edinburgh. 1869.

[181] He had previously denounced his sovereign from the pulpit as an

incorrigible idolatress and an enemy whose death would be a public

blessing. Randolph writes to Cecil February, 1564, "They pray that

God will either turn her heart or send her a short life;" adding,

"of what charity or spirit this proceedeth, I leave to be discussed

by the great divines." And yet we must not hastily condemn Knox,

although a man fifty-eight years of age, of indiscriminate sourness

and severity to all young women. He was at that very time paying his

addresses to a girl of sixteen.

[182] "The attempt to make one's self the interpreter of the

secret sentiments of historical personages is always dangerous and

frequently ridiculous."

[183] See "Calendar of the State Papers relating to Scotland,

preserved in the State Paper Department of Her Majesty's Public

Record Office. 2 vols. quarto. London, 1858."

Copy in Astor Library. This calendar gives the date and abstract of

the contents of each document. There is no record of any letter of

Randolph to Cecil of Oct. 5th, 1565, but there is one of Oct. 4th.

IN THE GREENWOOD.

"Then the wyld thorowe the woodes went

On every syde shear;

Grea-hondes thorowe the greves glent

For to kyll thear dear."

I.

For three consecutive mornings of a certain month of May not far

distant, Blanch and I had opened our diaries to write, "Wind E. N. E."

Every body knows what that means in Boston. It means chill and

grayness and drizzle; it means melancholy-shining sidewalks and

puddles _à surprise_ just where the foot is most confidingly

planted; it means water dripping over gutters, flowing frothily from

spouts, and squishing from shoes of poor folks at every step they

take; it means draggled skirts, and cross looks, and influenza, and

bronchitis, and a disposition to believe in the total depravity of

inanimate things.

Yes; but also it means an effervescence of spirit in those rare

souls, like incarnate sunshine, kindred in some sort of "Epictetus,

a slave, maimed in body, an Irus in poverty, and favored by the

immortals."

But--three whole days of drizzle!

On the first day, Blanch and I glanced approvingly skyward, and

said, "A fine rain!" then went about that inevitable clearing out of

drawers and closets and reading of old letters, which a rainy day

suggests to the feminine mind.

On the second morning, we donned water-proofs and over-shoes, and

boldly sallied forth, coming in later breathless, glowing, drenched,

and with our hair curled up into kinks. Then, subsiding a little, we

drew down the crimson curtains, lighted a fire, lighted the gas,

and, shutting ourselves into that rosy cloister, read till we were

sleepy.

But sometimes water looks a great deal wetter than it does at other

times; and on the third morning it looked very wet indeed. The damp,

easterly gloom entered between our eyelids and penetrated to our

souls. We struck our colors. Like the Sybarite who got a pain in

his back from seeing some men at work in the field, we shivered in

sympathy with every passing wretch.

That prince of blunderers, Sir Boyle Roche, used to say that the best

way to avoid danger is to meet it plumb. Acting on that principle,

Blanch and I took each a chair and a window, and, seating ourselves,

stared silently in the face of the enemy.

After an hour or so, I began to feel the benefit of the baronet's

prescription.

"Blanch," said I, brightening, "let's go on a lark down to Maine, to

the northern part of Hancock County, to a place I know."

Blanch turned her small, white face toward me, gave me a reproachful

glance out of her pale-blue eyes, then drew her shawl closer about

her throat, and resumed her gaze in the face of out-doors.

I waited a moment, then pursued, "Rain in town and rain in the

country are two reigns, as the histories say. Lilies shrugging up

their white shoulders, and roses shaking their pink faces to get rid

of the drops; trees lucent green jewels in every leaf; birds laughing

and scolding at the same time, casting bright little jokes from

leafy covert to covert; brooks foaming through their channels like

champagne out of bottles--"

"Never compare a greater thing to a less," interrupted Blanch, severe

and rhetorical.

"So you think rain-water is better than champagne?" I asked.

"No matter. Go on with your poetics."

"At this time the apple-trees are pink clouds of incense, and the

cherry-trees are white clouds of incense, the maples are on fire;

there are fresh light-green sprouts on the dark-green spruces;

the flaky boughs of the cedars have put forth pale, spicy buds;

and the silver birches glimmer under hovering mists of green.

Deer are stealing out of the woods to browse in the openings, and

gray rabbits hop across the long, still road, (there is but one

road.) The May-flowers are about gone; but dandelions, "spring's

largess," are everywhere. Here and there is a clearing, over which

the surrounding wildness has thrown a gentle savagery, like lichen

over rocks. The people (there are two) live in a log house. They

never get a newspaper till it is weeks old, perhaps not so soon, and

they know nothing of fashion. If we should appear to them now with

our skirts slinking in at the ankles, and puffing out at the waist,

with chignons on our heads and hats on our noses, they would run

into the house and button the doors. Every thing there is peaceful.

Rumors of oppression, fraud, and war reach them not. I should not be

surprised if that were one of the places where they still vote for

General Jackson. Their most frequent visitors are bears, and wolves,

and snappish little yellow foxes. In short, you have no idea how

delightful the place is."

"I am not like the Queen of Sheba," says Blanch. "Though the half

had not been told me, my imagination would have out-built and

out-hung and out-shone Solomon in all his glory. Who are these

people?"

"Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Sally Smith. Sally lived with my mother as help

when I was a little girl. On my tenth birthday, she gave me my first

smelling-bottle, purple glass with a silver-washed screw-top. The

season was July, and the day very warm. After holding my precious

present in my hand awhile, I opened it, and, in the innocence of

my heart, took a deliberate snuff. The result beggars description.

When I became capable of thought, I believed that the top of my head

had been blown off. You remember in the _Arabian Nights_ the bottle

out of which, when it was unstopped, a demon escaped? Well, that

was the same bottle. Sally used to boil molasses candy for me; and

she has braided my hair and boxed my ears many a time. But mother

didn't allow her to box my ears. Thomas lived in our town, and tried

to support himself and make a fortune by keeping a market, but with

slight success. He was always behindhand, and never got the dinner

home till the cook was at the point of distraction. They called him

the late Mr. Smith. By and by he and Sally got married, after a

courtship something like that of Barkis and Pegotty, and went into

the woods to live. My mother made and gave Sally her wedding-cake,

one large loaf and four smaller ones. The large one would have been

larger if my brother Dick and I hadn't got at it before it was baked

and ate ever so much. Did you ever eat raw cake? It is real good. I

paid Sally a visit long ago, and she made me promise to come again."

"I dare say it is all moon-shine," said Blanch, rising. "But, here

goes."

"Where to?" I exclaimed.

"To pack my trunks for a visit to Sally Smith," answered Blanch from

the doorway.

"But I was in fun."

"And I am in earnest."

"And perhaps the facts are not so fair as the fancies."

"So much the worse for the facts."

With which quotation the young woman disappeared.

Resistance was useless. Blanch is one of those gentle, yielding

creatures who always have their own way. And I love to be tyrannized

over. I followed her up-stairs, repeating ruefully,

"Since then I never dared to be

As funny as I can."

Catch me being poetic again!

That very evening a letter was mailed to Sally Smith, announcing

our coming; and in less than a week we started, lingering over the

first part of our journey, that due preparation might be made for our

entertainment. The last day and a half were to be an allegro movement.

The drive from Bucksport to Ellsworth was delightful; not the

beginning of it, where twelve persons were crowded into a

nine-passenger coach; where Blanch, looking like a wilted flower, sat

wedged between two large, determined women; where my neighbor was a

restless man who was constantly trying to get something out of the

coat-pocket next me; and an aesthetic man, who insisted on looking

past my nose at the prospect; and a tobacco-chewing man, as his

breath in my face fully testified: all this was not delightful. But

after we had entreated the driver, and been assisted to a perch on

the coach-roof, then it was glorious.

Then we got airy tosses instead of dislocating jolts; saw the road

unwind, turn by turn, from the woods; saw how the grating brake was

put to the wheel while we crept over the brow of a steep pitch, then

let go while we spun down the lower part and flew over the level.

The afternoon sun was behind us, and gilded the hills; but the

hollows were full of transparent dusk with the crowding, overhanging

woods. As we came up out of them, our horses strained forward

to trample on a giant shadow-coach, with four shadow-horses, a

shadow-driver, and two fly-away shadow-women in advance of every

thing else.

Presently the boughs ceased to catch at our veils, the woods thinned

and withdrew, houses appeared and multiplied, and we came out on to

a long steep hill dipping to a river, whence another long steep hill

rose at the other side. And built up and down, and to right and left,

was a pretty town with all its white houses rose-red in the sunset.

Well might it blush under our faithful eyes!

"Blanch," I said, "behold a town where, sixteen years ago, a Catholic

priest almost won the crown of martyrdom. On the hill opposite,

toward the south, stood the Catholic church that was burned, and the

Catholic school-house that was blown up with gunpowder. There is the

cottage where the priest lived. One August evening, when the sky was

like a topaz with sunset, and the new moon was out, he baptized me

there, and a little while after they broke his windows with stones.

Further up the hill is the house from which, one rainy Saturday

night, a mob of masked men dragged him. Ah well! that story is yet to

be told."

II.

HE AND SHE.

The next morning early, we started on our last day's journey, and

were driven through a rough country, the road dwindling till it

seemed likely to imitate that avenue which narrowed till it turned

into a squirrel-track and ran up a tree. At five o'clock, we stopped

at a farm-house, which was also post-office; and there we got a man

to take us to our journey's end.

"May be you'll take this letter with you," the postmaster said. "It's

for Miss Smith."

_Mrs._ is never heard in that region.

I took that letter, and gazed at it a moment in wrathful silence.

There was my annunciatory epistle written to Sally Smith more than a

fortnight before!

"Allah il Allah!" sighed Blanch resignedly when I held up the letter

to her view.

The road over which we now drove was streaked with grass that

tempted the lowered nose of our Rozinante, and graceful clusters

of buttercups brushed the slow spokes of our wheels. The forest

primeval shut down, solid and precipitous, at our left, and at our

right the scrubby spruces clambered and straggled over the ledges

with the appearance of having just stopped to look at us; and in a

little while we saw through their tops a log house that stood at the

head of a rocky lane. A thin wreath of smoke curled from the stone

chimney, curtains of spotless whiteness showed inside the tiny hinged

windows, and a luxuriant hopvine draped all the wall next us. Not a

rod back from the house, and drawn darkly against the sunset sky,

was a picture very like Doré's bringing of the ark to Bethsames. A

group of cattle stood there motionless, two low-bending spruce-trees

unfurled their plumy branches over a square rock, and, as motionless

as either, stood a tall, gaunt woman staring fixedly at us.

"Goodness gracious!" cried Blanch sharply, "the child will shoot us!"

Following her glance, I espied a tow-headed urchin of ten, may be,

whom our coming had petrified in the act of getting through the bars

at the foot of the lane. Against the lower bar rested his rifle, the

muzzle looking us directly in the eye.

I seized upon him and changed his aim.

"Your name is Larkin," I said accusingly.

"Yes, ma'am!" he answered in a trembling voice.

"What are you here for?"

"Ma'am sent me to borrow Miss Smith's darn'-needle," he whimpered.

"You have come four miles through the woods to borrow a

darning-needle?" I demanded.

"Yes, ma'am!" he answered, eagerly pointing to a huge needle with a

blue yarn which was sewed into his blue drilling shirt-front.

"Is Mrs. Sally Smith alive?" I asked solemnly.

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Does she live in this house?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Does any one else live here?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Who?"

"Mr. Smith."

"Well, set your rifle down here in the corner of the fence, and

look out how you aim it another time. There! now take this letter

and carry it up to Mrs. Smith, and give her my compliments, and say

that we would like a reply at her earliest convenience. We may be

addressed at the foot of the lane, sitting on our trunks."

As I released his arm, he shot wildly up the lane, and tumbled

headlong in at the weather-porch that guarded the northern door.

In a few minutes, a woman's head appeared and took an observation,

while her two hands were visible smoothing her hair and rapidly

adjusting an apron. Then the whole long figure emerged. At first

she walked warily, stopping once or twice as though about to turn

back; then she gave a long look, and hurried down the lane, a broad

smile breaking out, token of recognition. Her voice reached me first,

"Well, I do declare, I'm tickled most to death to see you!"

With the last words came a mighty grip of the hands, and Sally looked

at me with eyes overflowing with tears and gladness.

Most exquisite and dignified reader, didst thou ever think, when

raising to thy lips the cut-glass goblet of iced water, poured from

a silver pitcher filled at a faucet supplied through a leaden pipe

that in its turn is fed by miles of underground aqueduct, that thou

wouldst like rather to slake thy thirst at some natural spring

bubbling over mossy stones and prostrate grasses? For once or twice,

may be? If so, all hail! for thou art not quite a mummy. Underneath

thy social swathings still beats a faint echo of the bounding

pulse of some free-born ancestor, a sheik of the desert, a dusky

forest-chief, a patriarch of the tents. Trampled on, thou wilt not

turn to dust, but to fire; and the papyrus is unfinished on which

shall be written the story of thy life.

There have been times, too, in which thou hast thought that not

only thy drink was far-fetched and no sweeter for the fetching, but

that the smiles, the welcomes, the fare-wells, the friendships were

all stale and unrefreshing. Thou hast longed for the generous love,

which, while it will bear nothing from thee, will bear all things for

thee; for the honest hate that carries its blade in sight, and lurks

not in sly and sanctimonious speech and downcast eyes; for the noble

tongue that knows not how to tell the spirit of a lie and save the

letter.

Here now before me were all these. Refreshing, _n'est ce pas?_ and

very delightful--for a time.

Blanch and I were whirled into the house in the midst of a tornado of

welcomes, apologies, regrets, wonderings, and questions innumerable.

But as we were whisked through the kitchen, I had time to see all the

old landmarks; the great stone fire-place, with a mantel-piece nearly

out of reach, the bed, with its bright patch-work quilt, the broom

of cedar-boughs behind the door, the strip-bottom chairs, the large

blocks to eke out with when more seats were needed, the rough walls,

the immaculate neatness.

There were two rooms in the house, and we were suffered to sit only

when we had reached the second. This was glorious with pictorial

newspapers pasted over the log walls, with a Job's patience quilt on

the bed, with two painted wooden chairs, and a chintz-covered divan,

a rag mat on the floor, two brass candlesticks on the mantel-piece, a

looking-glass six inches long, and a gay picture of a yellow-haired,

praying Samuel, dressed in a blue night-gown, and kneeling on a red

cushion.

Sally was so delightedly flustered by our coming that, as she said,

she did not know whether she was on her head or her heels, a doubt

which so sensibly affected her movements that she was every moment

making little inconsequent rushes where she had no need to go, and

repeating the same things over and over.

Presently she sat still with a start, and listened to a heavy step

that came through the porch and into the kitchen.

"Sh-h-h! There he comes!" she whispered.

In fact, I had already caught a glimpse through the chimney-back of a

man in his shirt-sleeves, who hung up a tattered straw hat, and took

down from its nail a tin washbasin with a long handle, like a skillet.

"Sally!" he called out, splashing a dipperful of water into the basin.

"Whot?" returned Sally, with a facetious nod at me.

"Who's been here this afternoon? I see wagon-tracks down in the road."

"Boarders!" says Sally, with another nod and wink.

"Boarders? What for?" came in a tone of amazement; and through a

chink in the rock chimney I could see his wet face turned, listening

for her answer, and his dripping hands suspended.

"To get boarded," replied Sally succinctly.

Such an astounding announcement required immediate explanation, and

Mr. Smith was coming in a dripping state to demand one, when his wife

jumped up to intercept him.

"Guess who's come!" she said, stopping him in the entry.

"Who?" he asked in a stentorian whisper.

"Mary!" says dear Sally, with a little burst of gladness that brought

tears to my eyes.

"Mary who?"--with the same preposterous feint of secrecy.

"Why, bobolink Mary, you great goose!"

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mr. Smith, and as he spoke, his face,

with wide-open eyes and mouth, appeared over Sally's shoulder,

then disappeared instantly at sight of Blanch. Nor would our host

permit me to come to him, nor make himself visible again till he had

gone through a tremendous scrubbing and brushing, all of which was

perfectly audible to us. Then he came in, sleek and shining, and gave

us a hearty though embarrassed welcome, bowing before Blanch with a

movement like the shutting up of a pocket-knife, and greatly confused

on finding himself obliged to take her small hand.

I am bound to say that Blanch behaved exquisitely. She could not help

being dainty and delicate; but she showed herself so unaffectedly

delighted with every thing and every body that her daintiness was not

remembered against her. Besides, she had the good taste not to try to

imitate their rough ways, but remained simply herself.

Sally disappeared presently, and in a surprisingly short space of

time returned to tell us, with a very red face, that supper was ready.

There was a momentary cloud of doubt over Blanch's face; but I went

unfearing, and the event justified my confidence. The coarsest of

delf, to be sure, and a cotton cloth, and steel forks, and a tin

coffee-pot. But whatever could be polished shone like the sun, and

whatever could be white was like snow. As to the supper, it was

worthy of the pen of Mr. Secretary Pepys. The traditional delicacies

of a country table are taken for granted; but the coffee was a

glorious work of supererogation, and delicious enough to be handed

about in the paradise of Mohammedans. Besides this, Sally, with a

recollection of one of my mother's pretty ways, had laid a sprig

of fragrant sweet-brier beside each plate, and with mine a drowsy

dandelion just shutting its golden rays.

"You must excuse me for giving you deer meat," said our hostess

with great humility; "I haven't any other kind on hand to-day; but

to-morrow--"

She stopped short in the act of setting the dish on the table,

unspeakably mortified by the incredulous stare with which Blanch

regarded her.

"If you don't like it--" she began stammering.

We immediately explained that Blanch was simply astonished at an

apology being offered with venison, whereat Sally grew radiant.

Mr. Smith did not appear at the table. He insisted that he had been

to supper, but abstained from mentioning the day on which he last

partook of that meal. Indeed, during all the time Blanch and I were

in that house we never saw the master of it eat one mouthful.

"He never will sit down with folks," Sally whispered privately to me

as we left the table.

When Sally said "he," pure and simple, she always meant her husband.

She had a dim consciousness that there were other, nebulous

masculines in the world; but to her mind Mr. Thomas Smith was the

bright particular HE.

At eight o'clock we went to bed by the pure, pale twilight of June,

and sank up to our eyes in feathers.

"Oh!" cried Blanch, "I'm going through to China!"

"Never mind!" I said encouragingly, "to-morrow we will put this

absurd puff-ball underneath, and promote the straw-bed."

"Straw!" exclaimed a voice from the depths.

"Yes! pretty, yellow, shining straws, such as you suck mint-juleps

through. Well, don't get excited! Straws such as your brother Tom

sucks mint-juleps through. Good-night, honey!"

I heard her whisper a prayer. Then we dropped asleep peacefully;

while with steadfast eyes of holy fire our angels kept watch and ward.

III.

BIPEDS WITH FEATHERS.

The next morning the unaccustomed stillness woke us early; and there

was a long, golden beam of sunlight stretched across the bare floor.

The hop-leaves hanging over the eastern window were translucent, and

more gold than green, and all round their edges hung radiant drops of

dew, slowly gathering and falling.

Blanch smiled, but said nothing, scarcely spoke a word to God, even,

I think, but knelt and let her prayer exhale from her, like dew from

the morning earth.

The kitchen was all in order when we went out. It was shaded,

exquisitely clean, swept through by a soft draught, and finely

perfumed by the new cedar broom which Thomas had made that morning.

In the fire-place lay a heap of hard-wood coals in a solid glow, but

the heat of them all went up chimney. The table was set for two, and

breakfast ready all but cooking the eggs. Sally held a bowl of these

in her hand, while, outside, the hens were making loud affidavit to

their freshness.

After breakfast, Blanch put on a little scarlet sack, took her

parasol, and went out to reconnoitre. Sally and I staid in the house

and talked over old times, while she washed the dishes and I wiped

them. Old times, even the happiest, are sad to recall, and we soon

fell into silence. In that pause, Sally wrung out her dish-cloth,

gave it a scientific shake that made it snap like a whip-lash, and

hung it up on two nails to dry. Then she wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

"Land sakes!" she exclaimed, "what's that?" and rushed out doors,

catching the broom on her way. I followed with the shovel, for "that"

was a scream which unmistakably came from Blanch.

There was neither savage nor wild beast in sight, nor was Blanch

visible; but there was a great commotion in the poultry-yard, and a

large turkey-gobbler of a military appearance was strutting about in

full feather and declaiming in some foreign language. It sounded like

low Dutch. What he said seemed to make a great impression on the hens

and geese, for they looked awe-struck.

Presently we espied Blanch at the very top of one of the highest

board fences that ever was built, clinging for dear life.

"I don't know how I ever got here," she said piteously. "The last

recollection I have is of that horrid creature ruffling himself all

up and coming at me. Then I came right up. And that's all I know. But

I can't get down again."

I got a little ladder and helped Blanch down from her dangerous

perch, while Sally kept the turkey-gobbler at bay, standing, broom in

hand, in that position called in heraldry rampant-regardant.

"He doesn't like scarlet very well," she remarked. "It isn't his

favorite color."

Then we went to see Mrs. Partington, a large gray hen, which was that

morning taking her first airing with a new brood. She had been set on

goose-eggs, which had, naturally, hatched out goslings; but she did

not know it.

"Now," said Sally, "if you want to see an astonished hen, come along."

There was a duck-pond near, and some instinct in the goslings led

them that way. Mrs. Partington yielded, like a fond, indulgent

mother, and clucked along full of _naïve_ consequence and

good-nature. But at a little distance from the margin she paused,

called her brood about her, and began to talk to them in a gray,

comfortable, complacent voice. I suppose she was telling them how

dangerous water is. They listened first with one side of their

heads, then with the other, and two of them winked at each other,

and made little irresistible shies toward the pond. They looked like

green eggs on two sticks. The hen left off her lecture, clucked

loudly, spread her wings, and ran after them. But the next instant a

shriek broke from her bill; for, as every body knows, of course, the

goslings all plunged headlong into the pond.

Poor Mrs. Partington was, indeed, an astonished hen. She was more:

she was a transfixed hen. She stood gazing at them in horror,

evidently expecting to see every one of them keel over and go to the

bottom. But no; the little voyagers floated about quite at their

ease, striking out with their tiny paddles, their downy backs and

absurd little heads shedding the water beautifully.

"She must know now that they are goslings," said Blanch.

"Goslings? Not she!" answered Sally. "Ten to one she thinks that she

is a goose. No, that hen will go down to the platter without finding

out that she has been cheated."

We had a busy day. We went to see the frame-house that Mr. Smith had

begun to raise, and Sally's dairy in the cellar of it; we promoted

our straw-bed, filled our fireplace with pine boughs, thus cutting

off the view through the chimney-back; unpacked our trunks and set up

our graven images; and, when sunset was near, went out into the woods

at the foot of Spruce Mountain to get a pail of water from a little

Johannisberger of a spring there. The mountain was between us and the

sunset, and the woods were in shadow; but up over the lofty tree-tops

the red and golden lights floated past, and every little pool, among

its treasures of reflected foliage, airy nest of bird, and bending

flower, held warmly its bit of azure sky, and crimson or golden

cloud. Presently we came to where, at the foot of a spruce-tree,

our spring lay like a fire-opal, with that one spark down among

its haunting shadows. A cool green darkness fell into it from the

overhanging boughs, velvet mosses growing close rimmed it with a

brighter emerald, gray of trunk, branch, and twig melted into it,

milky little flowers nodded over at their milky little twins below,

and in the midst burned that live coal of the sunset. When we plunged

our tin pail into this spring, it was as though we were going to dip

up jewels. But instantly we touched the water, it whitened all over

with a silvery-rippled mail, the colors disappeared, and we brought

up only crystal clearness. The next moment, though, the throbbing

waters subsided, and the many-tinted enchantment stole tremulously

back again.

When we went to bed that night, a shower was prowling about the

horizon, and over on Spruce Mountain the wolves were howling back

defiance to the thunders.

What a lovely, savage week it was that followed! Somewhere in it was

dissolved a Sunday; but we were scarcely aware of it, there was so

little to mark the day.

In that week we learned one fact that was new to us, and that was the

profound melancholy that reigns in the woods. Looking back, we could

recollect that the impression had always, though unconsciously, been

the same. Is it that in the forest Pan alone is the chosen god? and

that there is still mourned that day when

"The parting genius was with sighing rent."

Or is the sadness because He who once came down to walk among the

trees, and call through the dews, comes no more?

Whatever may be the reason, melancholy is enthroned in the forest.

IV.

A DIAMOND-WASHING.

On one of those days, Blanch and I, after a severe dispute on the

subject with Sally, did a washing. Sally said we shouldn't; but wash

we would, and wash we did.

We rose at early white dawn, kilted up our wrappers, shouldered

our clothes-bag, took soap, matches, and kindlings, and started. A

path led us past the new frame-house and a grove beyond it to the

wash-room. This was a noble apartment about forty rods long by thirty

wide, and was walled in by cedar and pine columns with the branches

and foliage left on, a great improvement on Solomon's building. The

cornice was delicately traced against a pale-blue ceiling frescoed

with silver, the most beautiful ceiling I have ever seen. The carpet

was a green velvet pile, thickly diapered with small gold-colored

and white flowers in an irregular pattern, and beaded all over with

crystals. Near the door by which we entered was one of the most

charming imitations of rustic scenery to be found at home or abroad.

A huge granite boulder, broken and hollowed roughly, had a thread of

sparkling water bubbling up through a rift in it, and overflowing its

basin in a rivulet. Near this stood two forked poles with a large

copper kettle suspended from a cross-pole. Underneath the kettle were

the ashes of more than one fire. Countless birds flew about, singing

as well as if they had been sent to Paris. On the whole, it was a

picture which would have drawn a crowd at any exhibition.

Wood was there, covered from the dew with green boughs. We placed

our kindlings, lighted them with a match scraped inside Blanch's

slipper, and soon a blue column of smoke was rising straight into

the morning air, and the flames were growing. Then we filled the

great kettle with water from the fountain of Arethusa, and, as soon

as it was warm, began to wash. For one hour there was nothing but

silence and scrubbing; then a loud war-whoop through Sally's hands

announced that breakfast was ready. By that time our clothes were all

washed and bubbling in the boiler. Looking about then, we saw that

every cedar pillar had a golden capital; cloth of gold was spread

here and there in long stretches, and the frescoes had changed their

shape, and, instead of silver, were rosy and golden.

Poor Sally, looking at us ruefully when we went in, asked to see

our hands. They were worth looking at, all the skin being off the

backs of them, and the insides puckered up into the most curious

and complex wrinkles. We ate with glorious appetites, though, had

another engagement with Sally, who wanted us to lie down to rest, and

have our hands bandaged, and went back to find our clothes wabbling

clumsily, but quite to our satisfaction. We upset our tubs and rinsed

them, then set them up and filled with cold water again. Next we took

each a clothes-stick, fished something from the kettle with it, ran

with it boiling hot at the stick's end, and soused it into one of

the tubs. We had to run a good many times, probably a mile in all.

We squeezed the clothes out of this pickle, called by the initiated

"boiled suds;" refilled our tubs, and performed that last operation

"of rinsing," which took the puckered insides quite out of our hands,

leaving them almost innocent of cuticle.

"My dear," said Blanch, as we spread our washing out on the green,

"every woman on earth ought to do one washing. It would do their

souls good, though it should temporarily damage their bodies. My

laundress is a new being to me from this day. I mean to double her

wages."

"Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly, and held up the bleeding forefinger of

her left hand. "My ring! I have lost it; it is washed away."

The poor child looked distressed, and no wonder; for the missing

cluster was a _souvenir_.

We set ourselves to search, but in vain. On each side of our grassy

bench, three tubs of water had been spilt, and had wandered in

devious ways, and to some distance. We sawed our sore fingers on the

notched edges of the grass-blades, to no purpose.

"It was careless of you, Blanch," I said austerely. "You should have

recollected that the ring was loose--"

A twinkle appeared in Blanch's eyes, if not on her finger. I followed

the direction of her significant glance, and behold! where the

lambent _solitaire_ had burned on my hand, was an aching void!

"My angel," said Blanch sweetly, "did you ever hear of

diamond-washings?"

V.

A MISS IS AS GOOD AS A MILE.

When Sunday came round a second time, we were aware of it. Every day

had been to us like a crystal brimming cup overflowing to quench the

day's thirst; but looking out into this Sunday, we saw only a golden

emptiness.

Tears hung on Blanch's long eyelashes. "Think of all the blessed

open church-doors," she said. "It makes me homesick. I want to go to

mass. Even a fiddling, frescoed, full-dress mass would be better than

none."

I quoted my friend, Sir Boyle Roche, "'Can a man be like a bird, in

two places at once?' Besides, little one, if you were in town, it is

not unlikely that you might stay at home all day because your new hat

was not becoming, or because of the hot sun, or the east wind, or the

mud, or the dust."

The dear child blushed. "But then one likes to know that one can go,"

she said meekly.

Sally and her husband were going five miles to meeting that day.

They started early; and we watched them go soberly off in single

file till the trees hid first the large brim of Sally's preposterous

bonnet, then the crown of Mr. Smith's antique hat. Then we went

in and prepared a little altar, with a statuette of the Virgin,

a crucifix, candles and flowers, and, lifting up our hearts in

that wild solitude, assisted at some far-away mass. There was no

interruption, only a group of deer stood without, at the distance of

a stone's throw, as motionless as gray marble statues, and watched

us with soft, intent eyes. After we had got through and were sitting

silently, the candles still burning, some Roman Catholic hummingbirds

dashed in and sucked the honey out of the wild roses we had given

our Lady, but left a sweet thought instead. When the buzz of their

wings was gone, we heard robins and a bobolink outside, and a chorus

of little twitterers singing a Laudate. "Amen!" said Blanch. The

unclouded sunlight steeped the surrounding forest in sultry splendor,

and clouds of perfume rose, like incense, from pine, and fir, and

hemlock, from thousands of little blossoms, from plots of red and

white clover, heavy with honey, from censers of anemones, and,

threading all these sweets of sound, perfume, and sight together, was

the bubbling voice of a brook murmuring Paters and Aves over its

pebbles.

Blanch smiled, and repeated softly:

"The waters all over the earth rejoice

In many a hushed and silvery voice;

'In Jordan we covered Him, foot and crown,

While the dove of the Spirit came fluttering down.

"'We steadied his keel at the crowded beach,

When the multitude gathered to hear him teach;

The feet of our Master we smoothly bore,

And he walked the sea as a paven floor.

"'When the tempest lashed each foamy crest,

At his 'Peace, be still!' we sank to rest.

And we laughed into wine, when he came to see

The marriage in Cana of Galilee.'

"The stars that fade in the growing day

Have each a tremulous word to say;

'We sang, we sang, as we hung above

The lowly cradle of Infinite Love.'

"The low winds whisper, 'We fanned in his hair

The flame of an unseen aureole there.'

And the lily, pallid with rapture, cries,

'I blanched in the light of his fervent eyes!'

"Voices of earth and air unite,

Voices of day and voices of night,

Flinging their memories into the way

Of the coming in of the dear Lord's day.

"O Christ! we join with them to bless

Thy name in love and thankfulness;

And cry as we kneel before thy throne,

We are all thine own! we are all thine own!"

When Sally and Mr. Smith came home that afternoon, they were

accompanied by a tall, stiff, severe man in black, at the first sight

of whom Blanch and I got our hats for a walk. It was Elder Samson,

come up to convert the idolaters. We knew well what hydra-headed

discourse he had prepared to devour our patience, our charity, our

civility even. Discretion was the better part of valor, we concluded,

and fled, leaving, alas! the statuette of our Lady, with the candles

burning beside her, and the wild roses clinging about and kissing

her feet. If we had but known! But we did not then, nor till long

afterward. When we came back, every thing was, apparently, as we had

left it. But, when Sally came to town in the fall, she told how, the

moment the elder saw our graven image, he flew into a holy rage,

flung it, roses and all, out the window, and would have flung the

candles after it, if she had not rescued them by main force. The

result was an illustration of the church militant, in which rather

high words passed between Sally and the elder. Mr. Smith, feebly

interposing to take the part of his clerical visitor, was routed

utterly.

But meantime, in happy unconsciousness, Blanch and I walked down

the road, and down and down the road, a mile, and another mile, and

again a mile, through the green and flowery solitude, flecked and

flickering with sunlight and shadow, the silence only softly stirred

by a multitudinous rustling of leaves. Now and then we saw a deer by

the road-side; and far away in the woods the foxes snarled and barked.

Our walk ended on a long log that bridged a brook, and there we stood

and looked up to see the waters come down to us. Presently, instead

of their flowing down, we seemed to float up. We were going up to

the cradle of this dancing stream, to some enchanted land where the

baby rivulet first saw the sun. We were going back, also, to our own

childhood, floating up and up to careless days, leaving the heavy

years behind.

When we came back from that far-away country, a little sea-sick

with our journey, I turned to see Blanch looking at me with great

attention.

"My dear," she said, "you are the most absurd figure I recollect to

have seen in the whole course of my life. If it were not deplorable

that human taste should be so perverted, I should find you ludicrous."

"So you have found it out," I replied, highly edified. "I have been

thinking the same of you this week past. Of course any one with eyes

can see that Sally in her straight gown and big apron, with her hair

in a pug, is better dressed than we."

Blanch had brought Mr. Smith's pistol with her. She always took it

when we went into the woods; for she considered herself a pretty good

shot. She had at home a pasteboard target full of little holes, the

best one about six inches from the centre, all made by shots fired by

her at a distance of twenty feet.

She felt safer to take the pistol, she said; for if any animal were

to attack us, she could be sure to wound if not to kill it. "No

animal," she argued very sensibly, "could be dangerous at a distance

of twenty feet or more. And if he should come within that, I could

not fail hitting pretty near his head or heart. You see, I missed

only six inches in the shooting-gallery, and a bear or a wolf would

be much larger than my target."

When you want to convince others, always speak as though your

proposition is unquestionable. Every body knows that the majority

of persons in the majority of cases find it troublesome to think

for themselves, and that if you are positive enough, you can make

them believe any thing. If Blanch had been a shade less logical and

decided, I might have submitted that a pasteboard target does not

pounce upon you and hug you to death, or tear you into inch pieces

while you are taking aim, and that with a wild live creature to glare

back with two great threatening eyes into her one blue eye looking

at him, like a murderous violet, over the pistol-barrel, her nerves

might be shaken to the extent of another six inches from the mark.

But her air was one of such perfect conviction that my subjunctive

case expired without a sigh.

The tree-tops were still full of sunshine when we started to go home,

but the road was shaded. Blanch seemed a little uneasy.

"I believe we'd be awful good to eat," she said apprehensively. Even

in speaking, she stopped short, I stopped, we stopped all two, as the

French say. Directly in front of us and not far away, sitting with an

air of deliberation in the middle of the road, was a large, clumsy,

shaggy beast that looked at us with an inexplicable expression. I

had never had the pleasure of an introduction to this animal, but

none was needed. I had seen his portrait on the outside of hair-oil

bottles. The resemblance was striking.

Blanch turned very red, and raised her pistol.

"Shall I fire?" asked the little heroine in a stage-whisper.

"Fire!"

Her hand was trembling like a leaf in the wind; but she took

beautiful aim, and I am bound to confess that her pasteboard target

could not have received the attention with more unmoved tranquillity.

The pistol went hard, though, and the pull she had to give the

trigger brought the muzzle down, so that instead of the shot striking

within six inches of the bear's heart or brain, it struck up a little

puff of dust, and took off the devoted head of a buttercup about five

feet from us.

"Have I hit him?" she asked breathlessly, opening her eyes. She had

shut them very tight on firing.

She had not hit him; but he took the hint, and got himself clumsily

out of the way. I thought he acted as though his feelings were hurt.

I have forgotten whether we ran. I am inclined to think that we did

not. But we were not long in getting home, and then the elder was

gone.

VI.

HOMESICK.

A pathetic little incident happened that week, which suggested

many thoughts to us. Passing by a cleared space in the woods one

afternoon, Mr. Smith saw a deer family quietly grazing there.

Plentiful as these creatures were in that region, they never suffered

a near approach; but this group looked at the intruder peacefully and

showed no sign of alarm.

Is there on earth an animal more fierce and cruel than man in deed if

not in intention? This man did not deliberately mean to perpetrate a

fiendish act; but no otherwise could what he did be characterized.

He did not want the venison, the skins, the graceful antlers; but he

fancied it rather a fine thing to have that bounding target still for

a moment. His rifle was over his shoulder; he lowered it, and took

aim at the stag's stately front. There was a report; the creature

gave one leap into the air, then fell, shot through the forehead.

Not even then did the others fly. While he loaded his rifle again,

they bent over their prostrate companion, touching him, moved by what

mute, incredulous grief, who can say? The marksman gleefully took aim

again, and the doe fell with a bullet through her heart, and sobbed

her life away. When Mr. Smith saw the young one put its head down to

the mother's, for the first time some compunction touched his coarse,

unsympathetic soul. But he had gone too far to retreat, and in a few

minutes the fawn lay dead beside its mother.

Sally reproached her husband passionately when he told her the story

of his wonderful feat.

"If dumb creatures were like men," she said, "the wild beasts would

get up a mob to-night, and come here and lynch us; and not be to

blame either!"

Blanch and I left Mr. Smith meekly taking his castigation, and went

out to see his victims.

They lay where they had fallen, on the greensward, poor creatures! a

sad blot upon the peaceful scene, their innocent, happy lives quite

ebbed away. We stood by them a little while in the sunny silence,

and it seemed as though every thing living shrank from us. We had

never before been out without seeing some form of that wild animal

life with which the woods were teeming. But now there was no sound of

skittish steps evading us, no glimpse of shadowy figures among the

trees. All was silent and dead.

We went to the road-side, and, seating ourselves on the moss under an

aspen-tree, mourned silently. And thinking of the slaughtered deer, I

thought of the first death in Eden; and from that, of the first sin

in the world; and from that, of all the sin and sorrow that is in the

world; and from that, of Him who came to restore us to the true Eden,

the city of real peace, and how he stays here unseen, and watches

lest we kill or are killed; and then I thought, "The nearer one keeps

to the place where he is, the better."

Blanch half reclined, leaning on her elbow, and her face looked

like a pale flame in the flickering shadow of the tree above us.

She stretched her hand and touched tenderly a lovely spray of

partridge-berry that trailed over the moss, but did not break it.

Then she looked up.

"Minnie," she said, "I'm homesick."

"So am I."

"When will we start?"

"To-morrow."

THE "ADAM" OF ANDREINI.

Voltaire, in his life of Milton, mentioned the fact that in his youth

the poet witnessed at Milan the representation of a drama entitled,

_Adam; or, Original Sin_, written by "a certain Gio. Battista

Andreini," a Florentine, and dedicated to Marie de' Medici, Queen

of France. The French writer stated that Milton must have taken

with him to England a copy of the work. His account was repeated by

other biographers of the great English poet, some of whom alluded to

the Italian poem as "a farce." In consequence of their unfavorable

judgment, the impression has prevailed that Milton was not indebted

to Andreini for the conception of his _Paradise Lost_, but that

the grandeur and sublimity of the invention belong solely to him.

Andreini's work fell into oblivion soon after its production, and has

remained unappreciated even by the author's countrymen; so that it is

not surprising that the honors due the Catholic poet have not been

rendered by English or American critics or readers.

The mystery, tragedy, or sacred drama of _Adam_, composed by

Andreini, was represented at Milan early in the seventeenth century,

and was received with such enthusiasm that the author was invited to

the French court by Queen Mary, and was there loaded with honors. A

splendid edition of his work, dedicated to the queen, illustrated

with plates and a portrait of the author, was issued at Milan in

1617. Such a reception shows the estimation in which his production

was held at the time. Defects which did not interfere with the

grandeur of the original design impaired its popularity afterward.

The author was numbered among the _Seicentisti_, and belonged to a

school noted for its departure from simplicity; for false refinements

and extravagant conceits. Under the influence of such writers as

Marini, Lappi, Redi, etc., in an age of pedantry, poetry was removed

from nature, and dragged from her proper sphere. But though Andreini

lived amidst the prevalence of a corrupt taste, and his _style_ was

in some degree tainted, it could not have been expected that any

succeeding school, however correct, should trample under foot the

_substance_ of his work, and slight its sublimity of conception, to

which a more enlightened age should have done justice. Such justice,

nevertheless, has been denied him.

After it had been forgotten more than two hundred years, a tardy

acknowledgment of Andreini's merit was paid by a few Italian critics,

and a small, unadorned edition of his work was again published at

Lucano; but in such an unattractive form that it seems to have

awakened little attention. A few copies of the first edition were

sold as a great literary curiosity. One, purchased at a large price,

affords us an opportunity of examining the claim so long buried in

obscurity, and to see how much the author of _Paradise Lost_ has

really borrowed.

It is well known that Milton's first idea, in treating the subject,

was to write a tragedy; and that he had actually composed some scenes

before he finally resolved to transfer his pencil to a vaster canvas.

The difference between the epic and dramatic form gave a great

advantage to the English poet. All the ornaments of description, in

which _Paradise Lost_ is so rich, were denied to Andreini, since they

could not be admitted into dialogue. That Milton saw and profited by

Andreini's tragedy, can be proved not only by external testimony,

but by evidence contained in almost every page of his work. We must

look to the conception and to the expression of thought, in drawing

the comparison between the two, which will conclusively show Andreini

to be in truth the precursor of Milton, the original author of the

design elaborated in _Paradise Lost_. We will give an analysis of the

drama, with extracts faithfully translated, rendering the literal

sense of the original.[184]

The scene of the tragedy is in the terrestrial paradise. The

interlocutors are the Eternal Father, Michael and a chorus of angels,

Adam and Eve, Lucifer, the Prince of Hell, Satan, Beelzebub, the

Seven Deadly Sins, besides various allegorical personages, such

as the World and the Flesh, Hunger, Fatigue, Despair, Death, and

Vainglory, with a chorus of infernal messengers and spirits of the

elements. The author's own summary will give the most accurate idea

of the piece. A chorus of angels in the prologue sing the glory of

the eternal God, calling upon the new creation to praise him. The

future advent of the Incarnate Word is dimly predicted. The Almighty

is completing his vast work by the formation of man; the new being

is welcomed in strains of jubilee and rejoicing by the shining choir

about him, and the scene proceeds with solemnity and magnificence, in

language elevated and sublime. The ecstasy of the newly created at

the glory revealed to his senses by the celestial train who "cleave

heaven with their wings of gold," and his devout aspirations of love

and homage toward his Creator, are admirably expressed. Adam adores

the ineffable mysteries of the Trinity and the coming Incarnation.

The verse throughout this scene is in lyrical measures adapted to the

subject, and to the emotions uttered.

Adam falls into sleep, and Eve is created and named "woman" by the

eternal Father. A resemblance may be discovered by the curious

between the ascent of the heavenly train from Eden, after the

blessing is pronounced and the work completed, and a similar

description in the seventh book of _Paradise Lost_. Adam then points

out to Eve the wonders of the new world, rehearses the divine command

and prohibition, and inspires her with love for the beneficent Being

who gave them all:

"_Adam._ Lo! the deep azure of yon heaven, where oft

That bright and wandering star,

Herald of radiance yet afar,

Shall dart its welcome ray

To ope the richer glories of the day.

Then the majestic sun,

To fill the earth with joy,

O'er her glad face shall fling his golden light;

Till weary of his reign,

The pure and silvery moon,

With all her starry train,

Shall come to grace the festal pomp of night

Lo! where above all other elements

The subtle flame ascends, outshining all:

Lo! where the soft transparent air uplifts

Bright-plumaged birds, with notes of melody

Measuring the happy hours!

Lo! the vast bosom of propitious earth,

With opening flowers, with glowing fruit adorned,

And her green tresses that the crown sustain

Upon her mountain summits, and her sceptre

Of towering trees. Behold! the azure field

Of ocean's empire! where 'mid humid sands,

And his deep valleys, and the myriad hosts

Of his mute tribes, and treasures of fair pearls,

And purple gems, his billows roll and plough.

Bearing to heaven his proud and stormy head,

Crowned with the garlands rifled from the deep--

Glory and wonder all! Of One they speak.

Their great Creator!"

In the second scene, Lucifer rises from the abyss; and at the first

glance we recognize the conception which is one of the chief glories

of _Paradise Lost_. The apostate of this piece, like Milton's Satan,

is a majestic being, stem, defying, and dreadless, even in despair.

Pride, indomitable pride, is still his master passion; in the midst

of his blood-chilling irony and impiety, we lose not the awe inspired

by a mighty nature, still mighty and commanding, though perverted to

evil; nor forget that his "faded splendor wan" is but

"the excess

Of glory obscured."

In a bold and haughty strain, well befitting the "lost archangel,"

"vaunting aloud, though racked with deep despair," he gives vent to

the envy and hatred of his rebellious spirit:

"From mine abode of gloom

Who calls me to behold this hateful light?

What wonders, strange and new,

Hast thou prepared, O God! to blast my sight?

Art thou, Creator, weary of thy heaven,

That thou hast made on earth

A paradise so fair?

Or why hast thou placed here

Beings of flesh that God's own semblance wear?

Say, condescending Architect! who fram'dst

Such work from clay, what destiny awaits

This naked, helpless man, lone habitant

Of caves and woods?

Perchance he hopes one day to tread the stars!

Heaven is impoverished:[185] I alone the cause.

The exulting cause of that vast ruin! Add

Yet star to star; let suns and moons increase;

Toil yet, Creator, to adorn thy skies;

To make them bright and glorious as of old;

To prove at length how vain and scorned thy toil!

I--I alone--supplied that light which sent

A thousand splendors to the farthest heaven,

To which these lights are shadows, or reflect

With faint and feeble gleam my greater glory.

Yet reck I not, whate'er these things may be,

Or this new being: stern, unyielding still,

My aim, my purpose, is hostility

Implacable 'gainst man, and heaven, and God!"

Act i. sc. 2.

The partners of his guilt and punishment, who join him in the garden,

now surround him; and we have a vivid picture of hell in the midst of

Paradise:

"_Beelzebub._ Fierce is the torturing flame,

And deep the flood of venom in my soul.

Madness rules all within,

And my forced sighs like peals of thunder roll,

Each glance is scorching lightning, and my tears

Red drops of fire! From my seared front I would

Shake back the serpent locks that shroud my face,

To look upon this boasted work of heaven--

On these new demigods!...

Spirits! the lustre of eternal day

For ever quenched for you, and every sun

That fires the empyrean! A lost, sorrowing race

Heaven deems you now. Ye who were wont to tread

The radiant pathways of the skies, now press

The fields of endless night. For golden locks

And mien celestial, slimy serpents twine

Around your brows, hiding the vengeful glance;

Your haggard lips are parted to receive

A hideous air--while on them blasphemies

Hang thick, and ever with the damning words

Escape foul fumes of hell."

The remainder of the picture, in its minuteness of horror, partakes

too much of the prevailing want of taste which disfigured the best

productions of the Italians of the seventeenth century. We select, of

course, some of the striking passages of the poem, though we by no

means include all its beauties in our extracts.

Then Satan says:

"In deep abodes

Of gloom, and horror, and profound despair,

Still are we angels! Still do we excel

All else, even as the haughty lord excels

The humble, grovelling slave. If we unfold

Our wings so far from heaven, yet, yet remember

That we are lords, while others wear the yoke;

That, losing in yon heaven a lowly seat,

We raise instead, stupendous and sublime,

A regal throne, whereon our chosen chief,

Exalted by high deeds, mocks at his fate!

As some vast mountain, bounded by the skies,

Murmurs its kindling wrath against high heaven,

Threatens the stars, and wields a mighty sceptre

Of lurid flame, consuming while it shines,

More deadly than the sun's intensest ray,

Even when his beams are brightest!"

Can we not discover in the above passage the same spirit that

animates Milton's lines?