In our last interview you saw me firmly and proudly established in my
new home in Threadneedle[1]-street.
By this move I became a parishioner of St. Christopher le Stocks, whose
church and burial-ground were quite close to my new house.
It was but a small parish of ninety-two houses at the time of my
entering it.
The church was old, for mention is made of it as early as 1368. I
cannot give you many particulars about it except that it was rebuilt or
renovated in 1462, and that it was slightly injured by the Great Fire
in 1666.
It had a certain sort of melancholy interest for me, for it was the
burial-place of many who had been my early friends, among others, the
Houblon family.
The living, which was in the gift of the bishops of London, was worth
only £120 per annum; not a very rich one, you will say.
To save returning to the subject of this parish again, I will tell you
now how it is that at the present moment you see neither church nor
churchyard, neither parish nor parishioner of St. Christopher le Stocks.
The increase in my duties and the variety of work put upon me, rendered
the size of my house wholly insufficient for the purpose, therefore,
from time to time, as opportunity offered, I purchased houses in the
parish, power to do so being granted me by Acts of Parliament, and so
rapidly were my purchases made that in fifty years from the time of
my settling in Threadneedle-street, I owned the whole parish of St.
Christopher le Stocks, save and except seven houses on the west side of
Princes-street and the church and burial ground. And of the rates and
taxes of the parish I paid five-sixths of the whole.
Even with this extension of room I could not get on, and an Act was
passed vesting the glebe land and parsonage belonging to the rector of
the parish in the governor and directors of the Bank of England.
Nor was this all; I wish it were. The riot of 1780, which I will
tell you about a little later, suggested that the church might prove
a dangerous fortress for rioters in case of any attack made on my
cellars, and after long consultations I and my directors entered
into an agreement with the patrons and rector, with the sanction of
Government of course, that the church and churchyard should be ours.
On this site, therefore, the west wing of my residence is built, upon a
plan designed by Sir Robert Taylor.
I am glad to get over this point in my story, for the demolition of the
church caused such pain to those who had friends and relatives buried
there, that I would not witness it again for any consideration.
Even at this distance of time, when I look out from my parlour on to
the churchyard, which is now full of flowers, and is, in fact, my
garden, my conscience is troubled, and I should have been happier if a
building devoted to God’s service had not been destroyed to increase my
domain.
It is a painful subject with me, and so I am sure you will excuse my
referring to it when the years come under review in which they took
place.
Should any of you wish to see memorials of the Church of St.
Christopher, you will find one or two in St. Margaret’s, Lothbury, with
which parish that of St. Christopher’s was united. They consist of two
flat figures placed in niches on either side of the altar, and a metal
bust inscribed to Petrus le Maire, 1631, which stands at the west end
of the church.
And now to go on with my story.
You may not be aware of it, but I have several children of various
ages, each with distinct characteristics and purposes, and if you are
ever to gain any advantage through your introduction to me it must be
by means of one or more of these.
They differ from other people’s children in many respects, and yet I
would not have them other than they are.
They bear a high character throughout the world, and are, I may say,
blindly trusted, for those who place implicit confidence in them know
little or nothing of their daily life and character, which are known
thoroughly only by their own circle, and would, I think, be puzzled to
give a reason for their trust.
They speak a language peculiarly their own, a language which not one in
a thousand of their admirers can understand, yet it is one which, with
a little attention, might be taught in our public schools with as much
ease as French or Latin, and would richly repay the trouble of learning.
The remark of a man known as Captain Cuttle illustrates the want of
education I refer to. He says, “I feel bound to read quotations of the
funds every day, though I am unable to make out on any principle of
navigation what the figures mean, and could very well dispense with the
fractions.”
An equal ignorance is observable in reference to their servants or
bodyguard. A comparatively small number of people know anything of
their office and its duties, and it has become the fashion to speak of
them with contempt, but I think most unreasonably.
I am no friend to ignorance, and will endeavour, while telling you my
story, to throw some light upon these points. If I remember rightly,
this will be in accordance with your wish conveyed to me in your
introduction.
I do not think it would be easy to find a family whose health is such a
matter of public solicitation and anxiety as mine. At rapid intervals
during the day their pulse is felt, their temperature tested, the
figures registered and posted up to public gaze. No sooner do they meet
the eye of the anxious crowd than telegraphs and telephones are set
to work to carry the announcement far and wide, and according to the
knowledge possessed of these figures fortunes are made and fortunes are
lost.
They are, as a rule, healthy children, but unfortunately they are
dreadfully sensitive, rushing up madly to high spirits on the slightest
of good news, and sinking into a state of depression at the very
suggestion of a war or even a change of government. I have known even
after-dinner speeches at the Mansion House and Guildhall affect them.
Unless the state of their feelings were registered you would almost
doubt the possibility of trusted creatures being so uncertain in their
disposition.
I know that this morbid sensibility is as bad for my children as for
those of any other parent, for do I not see advantage taken of it every
day?
When their pulses run up to fever height in the morning there is no
knowing how low their purses may be before night, for everyone who has
studied their language and understands the state of their health by its
means takes the opportunity of coming to them for money. The livelong
day the plea is for money, which is never refused while my children
have a penny.
Of course I am bound to acknowledge that there is another side to the
picture, viz., that whenever through bad news they become so low and
depressed that you think it impossible they can rally, help comes, and
in a way you would not expect.
People no sooner read the bulletin, “Very low to-day,” than they empty
their purses, collect their savings, write cheques for their balance at
the bankers, and come and lay all at the feet of my children. It is a
strange world, and I have a strange family, but so it is.
You might suppose they were my step-children, as they do not bear
the family name of Bank or Banks, but you would be wrong in your
supposition. They are my very own, their name of Stocks or Funds having
been assumed to denote the exact part they play in the world.
You will please to bear in mind that Stocks or Funds are nothing more
nor less than debts which the nation owes to the people whose names
stand in my books. By doing this much will be clear to you which
otherwise would be difficult of comprehension.
We have all experienced that a personal introduction is much more
effective than writing, and therefore, without loss of time, permit me
to introduce you to my eldest born, Three per Cents. Consols.
Three per Cents. was born in Grocers’ Hall in 1731, and was a baby in
arms when I moved into Threadneedle-street.
The circumstances attending her birth were simple. The king, as usual,
wanted money, and I managed to obtain it for him by means of a lottery.
The money so obtained and lent received the name of Three per Cent.
Stocks, by which name it was called until 1752, when, by consent of
Parliament, my child was united to a balance of annuities granted by
George I., or rather, I should say, consolidated with the annuities,
and henceforth was known to the world as Three per Cent. Consols.
Of this child I could say much. She has never given me uneasiness;
on the contrary, she is one of the steadiest and most reliable of my
children. She is less liable to high flights and deep depression, and
it is in her favour I think that old people, widows and orphans, prefer
her to the rest of my family.
The next Stock, or, as she is called, Government Stock, to whom I would
introduce you, is Three per Cent. Reduced, a curious name, and one
which might lead you to think of her as poorer than her sisters—as,
in fact, reduced in circumstances. She derived her name in this
wise. Originally she was a fund or stock lent to the Government upon
condition that those who contributed to it should receive four per
cent. for their money, and up to the year 1750 was known as Four per
Cent. Government Stock; but circumstances which I need not go into here
reduced the interest to three and a half per cent. in that year, at
which it remained until 1757, when it was again reduced to three per
cent., and henceforth known in society as Three per Cent. Reduced.
A thorough acquaintance with these two members of my family, the way to
approach them, to deal with them, and to profit by them, will enable
you to understand the whole family of Stocks, and this will save me
time and protect you from an old woman’s prosing about her children.
All this I hope to do when next we meet. Till then adieu.
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] More probably _Three_needle-street, from the fact of the Merchant
Taylors’ Hall being situated in it.
OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY.
BY TWO LONDON BACHELORS.
[Illustration: RAPHAEL]
It will be remembered that on arriving at Verona the two bachelors
wandered about the city, merely glancing at its many beauties, in order
to get a general impression, reserving for the next day the task of
examining its buildings.
Our hotel at Verona was most picturesque; it had a courtyard in the
middle, on to which all the principal rooms looked. There was a
fountain in this courtyard, surrounded by dark green shrubs, which had
a very cooling and refreshing appearance. The few English and Americans
at the hotel were as usual the most pleasant of the guests; in fact,
we have always liked those of our countrymen whom we have met abroad,
and we venture to think that John Bull on the Continent has been
maligned and abused far more than he deserves. We found the English at
the places we visited quiet, companionable, and always well-behaved at
table. Our satirists a generation back were never tired of depicting
the narrowminded prejudices of the English abroad, but we cannot help
thinking that many of these prejudices have disappeared, and this seems
to be borne out by the undoubted increase of friendly feeling shown to
our countrymen when travelling on the Continent, notwithstanding that
in many cases we have not so much money to spend as our travelling
forefathers had.
We rose early on the day after our arrival at Verona, as we were
anxious to see as much as possible of the city before going on to Padua
and Venice. As early as nine o’clock we had finished our breakfast and
were starting out to see if, on second sight, Verona would delight us
as much as its first impression had.
After about five minutes’ walk from our hotel we found ourselves in the
Piazza delle Erbe, the fruit-market of Verona. This fine open square
was completely filled with stalls, with funny old white umbrellas
covering them. On one side of these stalls were little stools about
six or seven inches high, on which were seated the oldest of old
women, generally knitting. How very ancient these women looked,
how wrinkled and furrowed were their countenances! Indeed, we could
almost have imagined that these crones were in existence when the
palaces and tower of the piazza were being built, and that they have
been perched on their stools selling their wares during the centuries
that have crumbled the buildings, and reduced the fortunes of Verona,
formerly one of the most brilliant cities of Italy, the abode of Dante,
Sammicheli the architect, and Paul Cagliari, or Veronese, the last
great genius of the North Italian school of painting.
We were anxious to see how these women conducted business, and going
up to a particularly old one we asked the price of some oranges. As we
could not understand her patois (of which there are over a hundred in
Italy—the country of a confusion of tongues!) the older bachelor took
up a franc, in exchange for which she was about to present him with
two oranges! Fancy this old creature, who had probably lived all her
life amidst the beautiful buildings of Verona, and who was at least
eighty years of age, attempting to swindle two (as she thought) unwary
foreigners. We were walking away disgusted when the woman shouted after
us, offering three oranges for the franc; and seeing we were still
discontented, she offered four, then five, then six oranges, which last
we took, much to the delight of the woman, who even then had probably
got double the value of her wares.
Strolling out of the Piazza delle Erbe, we entered the Piazza dei
Signori, where there was much to interest us. On one side is the
Palazzo del Consiglio, the grandest in Verona. It is built in the early
Renaissance style of the fifteenth-century, and is covered with rich
and exquisite detail. Near to this palace is the fine marble statue of
Dante, erected in 1865. The poet is standing, with his head resting on
his right hand. The features are extremely intellectual, but rather
stern, such as one would expect in the writer of the “Divina Commedia.”
After the Piazza dei Signori we visited for the second time the tombs
of the Scaligers.
Our girls will remember from our last article what a very important
part the families of the Visconti and Sforza took in the history of
Milan. Now, an almost equally important position was occupied for
nearly a century and a half by the Scaligers, or della Scalas, in
Verona.
It was about the year 1260 that Mastino della Scala, their first
historical character, was elected “captain of the people.” To him
succeeded others of the family, like him distinguished as wise rulers,
patrons of art, and in every way excellent princes. As time went on the
Scaliger family added several other important North Italian towns to
their rule, including Lucca, Parma, Brescia, Vicenza, and others. But a
little after the middle of the fourteenth century the family began to
lose all those excellent qualities which had raised them to fame and
power, and from the years 1359 to 1405 the history of the Scaligers is
a record of barbarous murder and unprincipled corruption. With their
leaders so degraded, it was certain that the Veronese would sooner or
later be conquered, either by the Dukes of Milan or the Republic of
Venice, and, to put an end to the difficulty, they threw over the rule
of the Scaligers, and gave themselves up to the Doge of Venice in 1405.
Repeatedly in Verona one comes across delicately-carved little ladders.
These are the arms of the Scaligers (della Scala means “of the
ladder”), and they serve to show how great an influence this family
exercised for a number of years.
Continuing our walk, we went again to see St. Anastasia, noticing
near the entrance the beautiful tomb of Count Castelbarco. This is
very like the monument to the Scaligers, and, with the façade of the
church, makes a very picturesque subject. The church of St. Anastasia
has always been considered as an ideal of Italian Gothic architecture.
Street and other experts are never tired of describing its beautiful
colour and wonderful symmetry. To the left of the choir is the huge
tomb to General Sarego, which has given rise to some controversy. Of
the magnificence of the monument there can be no doubt; but it may be
questioned whether its gigantic scale does really injure the effect of
this fine interior.
From St. Anastasia we went straight across the city to the church of
St. Zeno. Our object in doing so was to see, in as short a time as
possible from one another, the finest example of Italian Gothic (St.
Anastasia), and the church of Zeno, probably the most magnificent
Lombardic-Romanesque work in existence.
St. Zeno stands at the far west of the city, almost alone; its
magnificent brick and marble campanile standing quite apart from the
church. The nave is twelfth-century work, and the choir thirteenth
century; internally the latter is raised up upon a crypt which is
visible from the nave. The church is supported by alternate piers and
columns, shafts of the former being carried up to the roof, thereby
breaking the monotony of the vast amount of blank wall between the
semicircular arches and the roof. The general effect of the interior is
one of extraordinary solidity, but the proportions being so fine, there
is no “heaviness” of effect. In the choir is a very curious statue
of St. Zeno, sitting most uncomfortably in a chair. He is painted a
rich brown colour, holding his episcopal staff, from which is hanging
a fish. There are several opinions about this; some describe it as a
symbol of baptism, others to the bishop being a famous fisherman. St.
Zeno, Bishop of Verona, was an African martyred by Julian the Apostate
in the fourth century.
[Illustration: GIOTTO
1266-1334]
We bachelors, humbly be it said, were not carried away into violent
admiration about either St. Anastasia or St. Zeno. To our mind the
lofty, clustered columns of Westminster Abbey are far more beautiful
than the heavy, round pillars of St. Anastasia; and the magnificent
Norman naves of Durham or Norwich Cathedral, with their open triforia
and superb vaulting, seem infinitely more splendid than the nave of St.
Zeno with the blank wall-spaces over its arches and its heavy timber
roof.
[Illustration: THE SPOSALIZIO, OR MARRIAGE OF THE VIRGIN.
RAPHAEL. [_See p. 235._]
After leaving St. Zeno we visited the cathedral, a fine Gothic church
not very unlike St. Anastasia, but much larger; St. Fermo Maggiore, a
very interesting church containing a monument of the last branches of
the Dante family; and Santa Maria in Organo, remarkable amongst other
things for its choir stalls and the intarsia work in its sacristy.
It was getting towards evening when we found ourselves again at the old
Roman Arena; and we mounted the steps of the latter in order to take
one last look at the ancient city. The sun was setting behind the St.
Gothard Alps, which glittered like silver, while nearer were the lesser
mountains, spurs of the Alps, telling out dark blue; and gathered under
our feet were the numberless red brick buildings, churches, towers,
and old walls of Verona. It was a beautiful sight, and rendered doubly
romantic by the solemn stillness. In these old Italian cities there is
often a quiet and absolute silence, which is almost startling to our
bustling ears—partly accounted for by the Italians, or North Italians,
at any rate never descending to that vulgar rowdyism which the lower
classes in our cities take so much delight in.
We got back to our hotel quite late in the evening, after one of the
most pleasant days of the whole tour. Notwithstanding our fatigue,
however, we could scarcely sleep, so great was our excitement at the
idea that to-morrow we should be in Venice—that wonderful city which
the older bachelor, at all events, was more anxious to see than any
place in the world.
We were, however, to see Padua first, and as the train started early
in the morning for that city, we had scarcely had enough sleep, when
we were awakened by the _femme de chambre_, who informed us that the
breakfast was ready.
The day on which we left Verona was broiling hot, and the two
bachelors, being still tired, went soundly to sleep in the railway
carriage. Now, this was a mistake, for Padua is not very far from
Verona, and we had only just time to get into a comfortable sleep
when we were awakened by the train stopping, and had to rush about
the station to look after our luggage, which, after a great deal of
trouble, we were able to leave with a porter for the few hours we had
to see the city.
Immediately on leaving the station we were much worried by a tout,
whom we found almost impossible to get rid of. This and our being
awakened from our sleep threw us into a very bad temper, and caused
us to express very qualified views as to each other’s intellects and
characters. One of the bachelors declares that the other threw mud at
him—but this must be only taken in a figurative sense; and one of them
(we won’t say which) began to express views respecting the ancient
buildings and monuments of Padua something in the style of Mark Twain.
As before stated, it was a broiling day, and we scarcely remember
anything more delightful than the delicious coolness of the church of
the Eremitani, the first we visited in Padua. This huge church would
not be particularly remarkable if it were not for its fine frescoes
adjoining the right transept. The best of these are by Andrea Mantegna,
a great Paduan master of the end of the fifteenth century, celebrated
for his “lifelike” work. But the interest attached to these frescoes
sinks into insignificance when compared with those by Giotto in the
Arena chapel close to the church of the Eremitani, the importance of
which can scarcely be overrated.
Our girls may remember that, when speaking about the Brera Gallery,
we mentioned the name of Giotto, and as this painter exercised such
a great influence over art, it may not be out of place to take this
opportunity of saying a few words about him.
Giotto di Bondoni, born in 1276, has been called the father of modern
Italian art, a title given to him on account of the vast progress his
pictures show over those of any of his predecessors or contemporaries.
Let anyone compare the pictures of Giotto with those of Cimabue, his
master, and the most famous representative of the earlier school, and
they will see this. Note the bright colour and infinitely greater
expression in the former; also the movement, and the less conventional
attitudes of the figures. Giotto was also the first to introduce
anything approaching to dramatic effect in the art of painting, for
which and other reasons he made a reputation far greater than had yet
been made in painting—so great, in fact, that it was not surpassed
until the age of Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, and Michel Angelo, the
great trio of Italian artists, who may be said to have perfected that
style of painting of which Giotto was the first representative.
The little Arena chapel at Padua is completely covered by frescoes of
Giotto, which are amongst the finest examples of his work to be found
out of Florence. The subjects represent the history of Christ and of
the Virgin, the former being much more admirable; indeed, some of the
subjects, especially the Crucifixion and the Pietá, will compare with
any of the master’s work. The two bachelors were a long time looking at
and admiring these frescoes, and that they were allowed to do so alone
added not a little to their enjoyment. One pays a fee for seeing the
Arena chapel, and is given a plan and description of the paintings.
This is a great advantage, for it renders the attendance of a guide
superfluous, and one is excused the attendance of a dirty little
garlic-smelling man, who keeps up an incessant chattering in bad French
or execrable English, half of which one does not understand, and the
other half Bædeker tells far better.
Having but a short time to see Padua, we tried to find our way at
once to the famous church of St. Antonio, known as “Il Santo”; we,
however, took about three hours to do so, during which time we saw many
interesting churches, some containing frescoes.
The two great painters of this city were the before-mentioned
Mantegna, and Squarcione, the founder of the Paduan school. The work
of both these painters is remarkable for its scholarly character, to
be accounted for from the fact of Padua being the seat of a great
university (founded as early as 1238), which attracted learned men from
all parts of Europe; and naturally the school of art was influenced
by the conflux of scholars and scientific men, which made Padua so
important a city in the Middle Ages.
Nearly all the streets in Padua are flanked with arcades, which add
much to the picturesqueness of its thoroughfares. We, of course, sought
out Il Salone, the palace celebrated for its huge hall, said to be the
largest unsupported by columns in the world. The walls of this hall are
completely covered with frescoes, nearly 400 in number, more remarkable
for their strange subjects than their value as works of art. At one end
of the hall is a huge wooden horse; very ugly, the bachelors thought,
though it was designed by the great Florentine, Donatello.
After seeing Il Salone the bachelors wandered about for an hour or
so, and at last came in sight of the monstrous church of St. Antonio.
As this is the work of the greatest architect of the Gothic period in
Italy, Nicolo Pisano, we suppose that we ought to have been much struck
by it; but we confess that we were not, at any rate by its exterior.
The domes, seven in number, bear a most unfortunate resemblance to so
many dish-covers, and the kind of circular drums or towers on which
they are placed have a kind of truncated look, as if they have been cut
short, and were intended to have been much higher.
The west front, though adorned with Gothic arcades, has a bald,
sprawling look about it, and does not seem to “fit” the church
properly. The sides of the building, moreover, are positively ugly, and
there is only one point from which it really looks well, and that is
a garden near the east end, where the domes are seen rising up over a
group of trees.
The first impression of the interior is rather one of baldness, but
when one arrives halfway up the church, and the exquisite chapel of St.
Antonio in one of the transepts, a most lovely work by Sansovino, and
the very beautiful Gothic altar and screen in the opposite transept are
opened out to the view, the first impression is at once corrected.
Perhaps in the whole of Italy there is not to be found a more
perfect example of the Renaissance than the exquisite chapel of St.
Antonio. It opens from the transept by five arches, the detail and
proportion of which are simply perfect. On the opposite wall are five
similarly-treated blank arches, filled in with extremely elaborate
bas-reliefs, beneath the centre of which is the altar. A semicircular
barrelled vault, adorned with detail, perfectly bewildering from its
intricacy and delicacy, covers the space between the two arcades. It
is certainly a matter for regret that the Renaissance architecture
of Italy did not stand still at this beautiful epoch, instead of
developing into the wildness and eccentricity of the later school.
On emerging from St. Antonio the bachelors were astonished to find
the sky overcast, and to notice the suspicious gusts of wind which
generally precede a storm. The latter, however, did not approach
Padua, but contented itself by grumbling about in the distant Alps. We
were only too glad to be spared its visitation, especially as we were
anxious to have a moonlight night by which to form our first impression
of Venice.
Scarcely any Englishman ever visits Italy without bothering his friends
about his first impression of Venice. But in all probability these
first impressions are not formed from the place itself, but from
photographs purchased in Oxford-street.
It has always been a question whether the enjoyment which one
experiences in seeing a place of great interest about which one knows
nothing from pictorial representations, or that experienced upon
arriving at one of which every street—nay, almost every stone—has
been made familiar by representations, is the greater. Some people
have asserted that it is almost impossible not to feel a kind of
disappointment upon seeing any place about which one has read very much
and has seen very frequently represented. If this be the case, Venice
ought to be a disappointment, because no city has been more described,
painted, engraved, and photographed. Yet, does it disappoint? Our
grandfathers were perhaps in one way fortunate in the fact that Venice
must have appeared to them more strange, more wonderful, and more
poetical than it can ever appear to us. It is true they must often
in fancy have stood upon the Bridge of Sighs—“A palace and a prison
on each hand.” They must in fancy have wandered over the Rialto, and
have dreamed of marble palaces, their steps washed by the Adriatic.
But with them it must have been a mere dream, without form or shape.
With us, however, Venice is a thorough reality before we see it. The
Campanile of St. Mark, the Doge’s Palace, the white domes of the Salute
are almost as well known to those who have never been to Venice as to
those who have lived in the place. Consequently, the great element of
surprise must to a great extent be wanting to all those who now visit
this city.
There are no two places in the world the approach to which excites
one so much as Rome and Venice. Rome, according to all account, and
notwithstanding the stupendous remains of its ancient monuments and the
wonders of its churches, seems always to disappoint. Even a man who
approached it with the feelings of Cardinal Newman does not disguise
the fact that, pictorially, at any rate, it in no way realises his
preconceived notions; and Charles Dickens compares the first appearance
of it to London, and seems almost to hesitate whether he would not give
the palm to the latter city. But with Venice who shall say? The mind
of man can call up palaces which are more beautiful than hands have
ever raised. The imagination can raise up air-built structures which
no architect, however able, or builder, however skilful, can execute:
and, therefore, every city about which one has thought much must be to
a certain extent disappointing at first, and it requires a touch of
reality to restore the mind to its proper equilibrium; and it is after
this has been done that one must judge of the true impression made
upon it by any place, scene, or building. Perhaps the old-fashioned
saying that “second thoughts are best” may convey our meaning, and one
must not judge from one’s first impression of such a city as Venice,
or be astonished that one’s first feeling is one of disappointment.
Though when the mind has become sobered sufficiently to take in all the
various beauties of this matchless place, then one should ask oneself
the question, “Is it disappointing?” Whether it proved so to the two
bachelors our readers will see in our next chapter.
(_To be continued._)
“SILENCE IS GOLDEN,” BUT “A SOFT ANSWER TURNETH AWAY WRATH.”
“Cissy Weller never answers back. You may say the spitefullest things
to her, and they disappear like a wave on the sand.”
It was a lovely May afternoon, and Mabel Bruce was returning home
between two of her schoolfellows. The three girls had been sauntering
leisurely along in the shades of some tall trees, but as Mabel said
these words they turned aside to take a nearer cut across some fields,
and, the weather being unusually warm for the time of year, they
stopped to rest for a few minutes before striking through the broad
sunlight, perching themselves in various attitudes upon the stile.
“No; Cissy never answers back,” repeated Mabel, poking in the
hawthorn-bush with her sunshade and then bending over her books to
readjust the strap in which she was carrying them; “she would be
easier to deal with if she did. She’s a splendid sample of Christian
patience,” she added, with a sneer.
“‘Patience on a monument, smiling at grief,’” jeered Merry. “She wears
a sour enough face over it. For my own part, I hate dumb people. One
might as well have to do with posts!”
“Perhaps it is a virtue to be a ‘post,’ sometimes,” suggested the other
girl—Eva Daventry, by name. “You wouldn’t care to have a post start up
and strike you on the head if you chanced to run into it. That’s what
smart-tongued people do. ‘Speech is silvern,’ sometimes; but ‘Silence
is golden.’”
Eva Daventry was a more gentle-faced girl than the others, and was
often ridiculed for her sentimental, poetic way of viewing things.
Even as she said this, she was looking out towards the distant hills,
as though her thoughts were far beyond the level of her companions’
comprehension—as indeed they were; for Eva had begun to enter upon a
higher life, of which, as yet, neither Mabel nor Merry knew anything.
“Just like one of Eva’s sayings,” cried the latter, with a careless
laugh. “I wonder what dried-up old sage invented that absurd axiom! One
might as well talk about a cypher being of more value than a unit. Why
weren’t we all born dumb?”
“I know who _wasn’t_!” exclaimed a voice that seemed for the moment to
come out of the sky itself; and almost before the girls could turn,
Hubert Daventry had swung himself down from one of the larger boughs,
and was descending the trunk.
Mabel and Merry sprang to the ground with a startled air, but Eva kept
her seat, looking up into her brother’s face with an admiring glance.
They were “only” brother and sister, and thought a great deal of each
other.
“Now, I’ve got something worth looking at in my pocket,” said Hubert,
eyeing the girls with an expression of amusement as he reached _terra
firma_, “and I’ll vouchsafe the first peep to the one who knows how
to give ‘the smartest answer.’ Girls have all got tongues, you know.
That’s a settled question, so there’s no crying off; it’s simply a
matter of competition. Come, now!”
But neither Mabel nor Merry responded to the challenge. It was evident
that Hubert had overheard their remarks about Cissy, and it is a
speaking fact that, however much girls may indulge in backbiting when
by themselves, they inevitably “feel small” if they chance to be caught
at it by their boy friends. They know that it is small, and they are
ashamed of it. Mabel glanced at Merry, and Merry at Mabel, and both
looked down and were silent. Hubert occupied the interval in brushing
the green from his clothes.
“Come, now!” repeated he, “the prize is to be fairly won! I can’t in
honesty include Eva in the competition after her last remark. When
people affect contempt for any particular gift, you may make pretty
sure they don’t possess it. It lies between you two.”
“I, for one, don’t want to examine the lining of your pockets!”
exclaimed Mabel, saucily.
“I assure you, I didn’t contemplate turning them inside out for
inspection,” returned Hubert, mischievously. “What’s in will come out
without such strong measures.”
“Of course!” exclaimed Merry. “He has been robbing a nest. I wouldn’t
see the poor little creatures for the world. They must be nearly
suffocated. It’s cruel, horrible, inhuman, to tear them from their
mother just for the sake of torturing them to death!”
“How sharp some people’s ears are!” laughed Hubert, provokingly. “When
little birds do take to singing for their supper they make a good deal
of noise; but perhaps I’m a trifle deaf. Do you hear them, ’Va?”
“Oh, you are a teaze!” exclaimed Eva, jumping down. “I don’t believe
it’s anything alive at all. But it’s high time we pursued our ‘winding
way.’ Which direction are you going to take, Hu?”
“I propose doing myself the honour to constitute myself your
protector,” returned Hubert, with mock ceremony, “in case you should
have rough work with any ‘animated posts’ by the way.”
Mabel and Merry inwardly objected to this arrangement, fearful of
Hubert’s sarcastic mood. They could see that he despised their
littleness, and they were both dreadfully uncomfortable. But it was too
late to go round by the road after delaying so long, so there was no
help, and the four went up the field together, Hubert teasing rather
unmercifully all the way, until their path divided, when he drew from
his pocket and exhibited two insignificant-looking eggs, which he had
secured for his collection.
“What’s the matter with Cissy Weller?” he asked, as he walked on with
Eva, after calling a parting injunction to the other girls to fight shy
of “animated posts.”
“Oh. Cissy is always getting into hot water with the girls,” explained
Eva; “through sheer blundering, you know, for she’s a good creature
at heart; only she has always had a governess at home, and doesn’t
understand the ways of school life, some of which are decidedly
_un_christian, to my thinking,” added Eva, confidentially. “Then the
girls get regularly mad, and do all they can to lash her into a fury.
But it is of no use, as they said just now; Cissy never answers back,
and it generally ends in her getting sent to Coventry. Poor Cissy!
that hurts her more than anything, I believe; she looks so miserable
over it. And the strange part of the whole thing is, that if she were
to ‘show spirit,’ one or two battles would settle the matter, and they
would learn to ‘respect’ her. Hubert, if hot words can do so much, why
is silence ‘golden?’”
“Because, in scriptural phrase, angry words ‘stir up strife,’” replied
Hubert.
“Why weren’t we all ‘born dumb,’ then?” quoted Eva. “Oh, Hubert, I do
wish I could answer them when they say things like that! You could
silence them in a minute; but my thoughts travel so slowly. I know
it is more Christian not to retort; but I ought to be able to give a
reason for what I believe, when other people say such odd things. After
all, what use is there in having tongues, if we mayn’t use them in
self-defence?”
“In order that we may use them for a better purpose,” answered Hubert,
after a few minutes’ reflection. “I thought you had floored me, but
I see it now. ‘Speech is silvern,’ and ‘silence is golden;’ but ‘a
soft answer turneth away wrath.’ Although Cissy might gain apparent
victories by retorting, she would in reality only draw upon herself
greater antagonism, whilst, on the other hand, her silence both
irritates them and makes them think her craven-spirited. If she were
great enough to show her superiority by explaining, or apologising for
her blunders, she would very soon put to rout all their hostility and
win their hearts: that is, unless girls are made of very different
stuff from boys. But this sort of greatness is only to be arrived at in
one way,” he added, gravely. “Perhaps you could help her to find out
how.”
Eva understood her brother’s meaning, for they often had these
confidential talks on serious subjects.
“‘Take my yoke upon you and learn of me,’” she repeated, softly. “I had
not thought of trying to help her.”
Hubert was right. An angry retort often provokes the bitterest enmity
and does irreparable harm, and silence irritates by its likeness to
contempt, but a gentle word is like oil on troubled waters. It is the
coin by means of which we may purchase that which neither silver nor
gold can buy—the love of an enemy; and more, by thus driving the demon
from a human heart we may be the means, in God’s hands, of converting
a sinner from the error of his ways. “And if,” said Christ, “he hear
thee, thou hast gained thy brother.”
F. E. BURCH.
HOW TO TAKE CARE OF A VIOLIN.
[Illustration]
The first lady performer on the violin that I ever heard, which was
some forty years ago, was Madame Philipowics, a Polish lady, neither
young nor beautiful. And it so happened that she was engaged to perform
at an oratorio in Bradford, where I also was engaged to sing the bass
solos. So between the acts of the oratorio she was advertised to play
an air with variations on the violin, the novelty of the performance
of which created a perfect _furore_, and the applause far exceeded
all that was given to the singers of the oratorio. But her execution,
although considered wonderful, was not equal to that which Theresa
Millanollo produced some time afterwards in the metropolis. “The most
dangerous things for our piano-playing scholars to hear,” says Gustave
Schilling, in his work on teaching, “are the more productive stringed
instruments. One of my scholars,” he continues—“a young lady with whom
I had taken special pains, and who was really clever, and had made
much progress towards perfection as a pianist—after hearing Theresa
Millanollo play the violin, declared that she would give up the piano,
and take to that instrument, even though she should be able to play
the violin but a little. And I had the greatest difficulty to get her
to relinquish her intention, and to excite anew her interest and her
former enthusiasm for the continued practice of the piano. But I at
last succeeded in convincing her of the folly of her desire to change
instruments, and she became, as I predicted, an extraordinary pianist.”
Most students manifest a peculiar liking for some particular
instrument at the outset of their career, and if they persevere in
their determination to practise it, they often become eminent in its
performance.
Good teachers will not fail to take every means in their power to
induce their pupils to take pains to arrive at a perfect knowledge of
their art. I knew an old country professor, some fifty years ago, who
was excessively fond of Haydn’s Symphonies, arranged as quintets for
two violins, viola, violoncello, and flute; but he could not often get
together the performers where he resided; so, having four grown-up
daughters, he taught them to play these instruments in first-rate
style, and thereby found no difficulty in indulging his hobby. And they
were very particular in keeping their instruments in good order.
In the preservation of a good violin it is requisite that it should be
kept, when not in use, in a wooden case, lined with cloth or flannel;
and as it is subject to damage from the sudden changes of the weather,
the greatest care should be taken to keep it from damp. Too great heat,
however, will often render the wood brittle, and make it difficult
to produce the tone with the best effect, as the strings are apt to
become dry, so that it is not easy to bring out that delicacy of tone
which is one of the charms of the instrument. To carry the violin to
any distance from home in cold weather, it should always be put into
its case, or else it is apt to condense moisture when brought into a
warm room, and to cause dust to accumulate both inside and outside of
it. And it should never be left out of its case in the summer, as the
flies are almost certain to get into the _f_ holes, and leave their
filth in it, much to the detriment of its tone. It is also absolutely
necessary to keep the violin perfectly clean; and the resin-dust should
be carefully wiped off with a soft linen cloth before and after using
it. It is a good plan to insert a handful of warm barley into the
interior, through the _f_ holes, and by shaking it well the dust will
attach itself to the seed, and will be brought out with the barley
through the _f_ holes. This process should be performed twice a year,
and the instrument will be better preserved for it. To keep the strings
on the instrument in good order for any length of time, take a small
piece of taffeta and moisten it with almond oil, and rub it lightly
over the strings, from the bridge to the nut, after using the violin,
and before putting it into its case. And when you want to use it again,
wipe off the oil with a piece of fine linen. This plan is especially
beneficial to the fourth or G string, which, however much it may be
stretched before being covered with wire, is apt to shrink in summer,
when the wire gets loose if the string is not subjected to the oiling.
The advantage of adhering to this plan will be that the strings will
not become dry, and will retain a smoothness of tone, and keep the
moisture from the fingers from being detrimental to the strings, and
prevent their producing a false tone, or that grating or whistling
so common in the use of the resin from the bow. This treatment of the
instrument was communicated to Ernst by Otto, and Ernst mentioned it
frequently to the professors and amateurs, who readily adopted it and
found considerable advantage therefrom. The proper means of preserving
strings not in immediate use is stated to be the moistening them with
the best almond oil, putting them into a piece of calves’ or pig’s
bladder, and enclosing them in a tin box. Most violin players know
where to procure the best strings. Another important thing connected
with the violin is its having a paper bridge fitted for it, which
should be specially adapted to the instrument. If the performer has a
good violin, there will be no difficulty in procuring a good and proper
bridge for it when it is required. And the next thing to having a good
bridge is that of having a good set of pegs for tuning the violin.
In Germany girls are taught to play the cornet, the French horn, and
various other wind instruments; but whether it would be decorous for
our females to imitate such examples is rather doubtful. It is by
constant use, and not by age only, that a violin becomes mellow in
tone; but a great deal depends on the maker. It is true that Cremonas
and other violins which have been in constant use for many years have
acquired a character for superiority beyond most others, consequently
they often fetch a larger price—more, perhaps, from having been in the
possession of first-rate performers than from any intrinsic value in
the instruments themselves. It is not our intention, however, to give
any account of the manufacture of the violin—those who are curious in
such matters may consult a thousand other works on the subject, which
are to be obtained of the music publishers, both foreign and English.
C. H. P.
[Illustration]
THE SHEPHERD’S FAIRY.
A PASTORALE.
BY DARLEY DALE, Author of “Fair Katherine,” etc.