[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 713. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
A STRANGE FAMILY HISTORY.
For the following curious episode of family history we are indebted to
a descendant of one of the chief personages involved; his story runs as
follows.
Somewhat less than one hundred years ago, a large schooner, laden with
oranges from Spain, and bound for Liverpool, was driven by stress of
weather into the Solway Firth, and after beating about for some time,
ran at last into the small port of Workington, on the Cumberland
coast. For several previous days some of the crew had felt themselves
strangely 'out of sorts,' as they termed it; were depressed and
languid, and greatly inclined to sleep; but the excitement of the
storm and the instinct of self-preservation had kept them to their
duties on deck. No sooner, however, had the vessel been safely moored
in the harbour than a reaction set in; the disease which had lurked
within them proclaimed its power, and three of them betook themselves
to their hammocks more dead than alive. The working-power of the ship
being thus reduced and the storm continuing, the master determined to
discharge and sell his cargo on the spot. This was done. But his men
did not recover; he too was seized with the same disease; and before
many days were past most of them were in the grave. Ere long several of
the inhabitants of the village were similarly affected, and some died;
by-and-by others were smitten down; and in less than three weeks after
the arrival of the schooner it became evident that a fatal fever or
plague had broken out amongst the inhabitants of the village.
The authorities of the township took alarm; and under the guidance of
Squire Curwen of Workington Hall, all likely measures were taken to
arrest or mitigate the fatal malady. Among other arrangements, a band
of men was formed whose duties were to wait upon the sick, to visit
such houses as were reported or supposed to contain victims of the
malady, and to carry the dead to their last home.
Among the first who fell under this visitation was a man named John
Pearson, who, with his wife and a daughter, lived in a cottage in
the outskirts of the village. He was employed as a labourer in an
iron foundry close by. For some weeks his widow and child escaped the
contagion; but ere long it was observed that their cottage window was
not opened; and a passer-by stopping to look at the house, thought
he heard a feeble moan as from a young girl. He at once made known
his fears to the proper parties, who sent two of the 'plague-band'
to examine the case. On entering the abode it was seen that poor Mrs
Pearson was a corpse; and her little girl, about ten years old, was
lying on her bosom dreadfully ill, but able to cry: 'Mammy, mammy!' The
poor child was removed to the fever hospital, and the mother to where
her husband had been recently taken. How long the plague continued
to ravage the village, I am not able to say; but as it is about the
Pearson family, and not about the plague I am going to write, such
information may be dispensed with.
The child, Isabella Pearson, did not die; she conquered the foe, and
was left to pass through a more eventful life than that which generally
falls to the lot of a poor girl. Although an orphan, she was not
without friends; an only and elder sister was with relatives in Dublin,
and her father's friends were well-to-do farmers in Westmoreland.
Nor was she without powerful interest in the village of her birth:
Lady Curwen, of the Hall, paid her marked attention, as she had done
her mother, because that mother was of noble descent, as I shall now
proceed to shew.
Isabella Pearson (mother of the child we have just spoken of), whose
maiden name was Day, was a daughter of the Honourable Elkanah Day
and of his wife Lady Letitia, daughter of the Earl of Annesley. How
she came to marry John Pearson forms one of the many chapters in
human history which come under the head of Romance in Real Life,
or Scandal in High Life, in the newspaper literature of the day.
Isabella's parents were among those parents who believe they are at
liberty to dispose of their daughters in marriage just as they think
fit, even when the man to whom the girl is to be given is an object
of detestation to her. Heedless of their daughter's feelings in the
matter, they had bargained with a man of their acquaintance, to whom
they resolved that Isabella should give her hand--be her heart never
so unwilling. The person in question was a distant relative of their
noble house, had a considerable amount of property in Ireland, and was
regarded, by the scheming mother especially, as a most desirable match
for her daughter. But what if the young lady herself should be of a
contrary opinion? In the instance before us the reader will be enabled
to see.
Captain Bernard O'Neil, the bridegroom elect, was nearly twice the
age of Isabella Day; and although not an ill-looking man, was yet one
whom no virtuous or noble-minded girl could look upon with respect,
for he was known to be addicted to the vice of gambling, to be able to
consume daily an enormous quantity of wine, and to be the slave of all
sorts of debauchery. So habituated had O'Neil become to these degrading
vices, that no sensible girl could hope to reclaim and reform him. The
gratification of his propensities had been spread over so long a time
that his entailed estate had become heavily burdened with debt, whilst
his creditors, even his dependents, were clamorous for the money which
he owed them.
Such being the man to whom the Honourable Elkanah Day and his noble
wife had agreed to give their daughter, can it be wondered at that
that daughter should not only be indisposed to comply with their wish,
but should also be so disgusted and indignant at its expression as to
give way to her feelings in words and acts which in themselves are
incapable of justification? One day the captain had called at the house
by appointment to arrange for the marriage, being anxious to have it
consummated, that he might be helped out of a pressing embarrassment
through the portion which he knew would be given to his bride. Isabella
had been present at the interview. Her father and mother knew full well
that she was far from being pleased with the match, but of this they
took little heed, believing that once married, their daughter would
reconcile herself to her lot, even if she did not derive much felicity
from the union. The girl herself knew that no language of hers, whether
of anger, sorrow, or entreaty, would avail, especially with her mother,
who was one of the most hot-headed and stubborn of women; so from the
first her mind was made up rather to circumvent than to oppose them; to
cheat them in the game they were playing, if she could not by fair-play
win the right to give herself where she could love and be loved.
On the occasion referred to, it had been arranged that the marriage
should take place in a fortnight; and when she was urged to make the
necessary arrangements, instead of yielding a hearty compliance, as
in a different case she would naturally have done, she gave a feeble
assent and left the room. No sooner had she put the door between
herself and the other parties, than the emotions which she had managed
to keep under while in their presence began to rage within her, and
with the hope of finding sympathy below-stairs which was denied her
in her proper domain, she sought the company of the maids. Wrath is
seldom discreet, and grief at times is not over-nice in selecting those
before whom it vents itself. So without waiting to consider the rank
of those whose company she had sought, or taking into consideration
the consequences which might ensue on making known to them the
circumstances in which she was involved, she gave expression to the
feelings which were agitating her at that moment by exclaiming: 'So I
am to be married in a fortnight, am I? And to that horrible O'Neil?
Never, my honourable father; never, my lady mother! Never, no never! By
God's aid, _never_! Rather than do so, I'll marry the first man who can
be found willing to take me, and go with him to the ends of the earth!'
Saying which, she fled from the kitchen into the garden at the rear of
the house, and in the summer-house found relief in a flood of tears.
All this occurred in Dublin.
Now the cook was one of those who heard the poor girl utter these
passionate words. She was an old and esteemed servant of the family,
and as such had more liberty and could use more freedom than servants
in general. She had been in the family when Isabella, twenty years
before, was born, had been her nurse, and was therefore greatly
attached to her; and she felt more keenly the fate which the poor
girl dreaded, than any others who were present. Indeed so afflicted
was she on her account, that she sought her in the summer-house, and
poured into her ear all the soothing and encouraging words she could
think of. The girl's rage had abated, but she was in a condition
of affliction and misery which was truly pitiable to behold. She
was, however, still determined not to link her life to one whom she
utterly detested, and besought her old and devoted friend to aid her
in seeking in flight what she could not otherwise avoid. Whether the
cook promised to do so, or what exact reply she made, I am not able
to relate; but that very night an event took place which decided her
fate, and gave to her after-life its direction and character. The cook
was a native of Westmoreland, had been brought up in the neighbourhood
of Farmer Pearson, whose son John was at that time a private in the
Royal Guards stationed in Dublin. He and the cook were therefore old
acquaintances, and when John had an hour to spare, he often spent it in
her company. That very night he happened to pay her a visit. In course
of conversation she told him about her grief arising out of the trouble
of her young mistress, and added thereto the wild expression to which
she had that day given utterance. This was done by the simple-minded
woman without the least design either of aiding or injuring the young
lady, nor had she at that moment the slenderest suspicion that her
act would have any practical effect on the young soldier. But it was
otherwise. He knew the girl by sight, and she knew him. Though they
had not exchanged a word, nor been for even a moment in each other's
company, yet they had on several occasions seen each other when he had
been visiting his friend the cook. He was a fine open-hearted generous
fellow, in the heyday of youth, fearless and brave. All his sympathies
were aroused and drawn to the side of the suffering girl; and believing
that he would be doing a truly manly act in rescuing her from what he
regarded as worse than a thousand deaths, he told the cook that he was
prepared to go with her to the ends of the earth, should she be willing
to trust herself to his care and fidelity; and he got his friend to
promise that she would make his readiness known to her young mistress.
Though the promise was made, it is but fair to say that in giving it
the cook had not the smallest idea that the poor girl would do aught
else than laugh at the proposal as a good joke. But herein she was
deceived. Isabella Day caught at the offer of John Pearson the Life
Guardsman, with an eagerness and a joy beyond description; she begged
of the cook to arrange a meeting; it was done; and the result was an
elopement and a clandestine marriage!
The day which ended the residence of Miss Day with her parents, ended
her life of luxury and ease. They renounced her for ever. Her name was
erased from the family register, and she was as completely severed
from those she had left behind as if she had been buried in the family
vault. The rage of her mother was fearful for a time; but Isabella
was beyond its reach, and happy. Her husband was a fine-looking young
fellow, tall, well-made, and handsome in feature and in form. He was
also kind and gentle towards her; and whatever discrepancy existed
between them before marriage, none was allowed to exist afterwards; for
although he could not rise to her standard of refinement and elegance,
nor give her the means of gratifying those tastes which her breeding
and habits had fostered within her, yet they both had sense enough to
know how to adapt themselves to each other; so their life, if not a
luxurious one, was one of resignation and contentment. She followed
him to those places to which his regiment was occasionally ordered;
and when, in a year or two, he was invalided and discharged from the
army, she retired with him to his native village of Burton-in-Kendal,
and thence to Workington, where he found employment in the foundry at
Beerpot. Two children were born to them, both girls; the elder of whom,
as I have said, was on a visit to her relatives in Dublin; while the
other daughter, Isabella, narrowly escaped death from the plague, at
the time of her mother's decease, as I have narrated. I now resume my
story at the period when she was left an orphan.
Lady Curwen, as has been intimated, undertook the necessary and, to
her, pleasant task of befriending the desolate girl. She had been kind
to her mother; indeed she thought it an honour rather than otherwise to
be on friendly terms with her. She was a frequent visitor at the Hall,
where she was received rather as a friend and equal than as a poor
woman; for although she was in straitened circumstances, she was free
from that cringing dependence which poverty is calculated to engender
in those who are reared therein.
Her paternal relatives in Westmoreland also interested themselves in
the orphan; so the bereaved child knew neither want nor scant. In a
while she went to her uncle's homestead in Burton, where for a year
or two she resided and throve amain. But the sea and its surroundings
had more charms for an ardent girl than the more sober associations
of an inland life; she would rather scamper among the rocks and
sea-weed of her native shore than ramble among the heather of her
moorland home; and so, as time passed on, she began to yearn after
the earlier associations of her life. And inheriting the recklessness
and determination of her parents, she, unmindful of obligation and of
self-interest, carried out a long-cherished project: she ran away!
While her uncle and his family were at church one Sunday morning, she
went to the stable, and taking thence a cart-horse with which she had
become familiar, she got astride upon his back, and bidding adieu to
the farm and all its belongings, she set off to the place of her birth,
which she reached safe and sound, but not without having attracted
considerable attention from the onlookers on the way. Taking the horse
to the inn, at which her uncle happened to be known, and requesting
that it might be cared for until it was called for, she bent her steps
to the well-remembered homes of her old neighbours, by whom she was
cordially received.
She was at this time a fine blooming girl of twelve or thirteen years
of age, tall, stately, handsome, with a natural aristocratic bearing,
but remarkably unsophisticated and simple. Her return, and the way in
which it had been effected, soon reached the ears of her late mother's
friend, Lady Curwen, by whose influence she soon secured a good place
as housemaid; in which position I shall leave her while I recount a
fragment of the history of her elder sister Letitia.
I have said that her family renounced for ever their runaway relative.
But in course of time an elder sister of the offender, who was married
to a gentleman named Weeks, and living in London, relented of her
animosity by occasionally corresponding with her, and sending her now
and again what enabled her to keep a few marks of her former life about
her. The children, however, were not visited with the same hostility as
was their mother; they were inquired about, and, through a cousin who
was known to the girls as Councillor Lennon, an occasional letter of
recognition was sent them. This courtesy led to Letitia being sent for
to Dublin, where she resided under the care of Lord Annesley for a few
years. But what is bred in the bone is certain sooner or later to make
itself visible; it was so in the case of Letitia: a disposition for
frolic and adventure was in her; she found it difficult to conform to
the rules of life which now held her in, and in spite of all restraint
and watchfulness, she went into forbidden paths, and became at last a
self-made outcast from her high-bred friends. The way was this: falling
in with the steward of an American ship lying in one of the docks, and
taken with his charms as he with hers, she agreed to a marriage and a
flight with him like those of her mother. The chief difficulty which
presented itself was how to get to America with her intended husband;
but where there is a will there is mostly a way; both existed in this
case, and proved successful. She adopted male attire, applied for and
obtained a position which had become open on board of her husband's
ship, that of assistant steward or cook, in which capacity she served
in company with her husband during the voyage to Charleston. There she
arrived in safety; her husband left off going to sea; and the last
time her sister Isabella heard of her, she was mistress of a large and
flourishing inn in the above city.
Some time after Letitia's abscondment, Lord Annesley, yielding to Lady
Curwen's entreaty, and perhaps to the voice of his own conscience
as well, sent for Isabella, promising to give her the education and
position of a lady, provided she would in all things conform to his
wishes. The offer was a good and kind one, and presented temptation
sufficient to induce an enthusiastic girl to yield thereto a ready
compliance. The only means which Cumbrians had of reaching Ireland
at that time was by the coal-vessels which regularly sailed from
Workington to Dublin. In one of these Isabella Pearson set sail with
visions of grandeur and greatness before her. But the winds and waves
had well-nigh extinguished the lamp of hope which was burning so bright
within her, for she had not been long on her voyage before a terrific
storm broke upon the deeply-laden brig; it was impossible to make
progress; it was hazardous to put back, for Redness Point, where many
a noble ship had been wrecked and many a precious life lost, stood
threateningly behind them. At last, however, the master of the brig
made for the Scotch coast, and happily succeeded in gaining the port
of Kirkcudbright. Here our heroine remained with the vessel nearly a
week, when the weather permitting, the voyage was again attempted, and
without further mishap accomplished.
Isabella Pearson was received into the mansion of her noble relative
with becoming friendliness. I have heard her, in her old age, describe
his lordship as being a fine-looking venerable man, with a head white
through age, an eye beaming with kindness, and a heart brimful of love.
He had had the misfortune to lose a leg, and like many of his lowlier
brethren, had to be content with a wooden one. With him she spent a few
happy months; and at length became as familiar with the ways of those
in high rank as she had been with those of her own class. I cannot say
how long this new life lasted; but it is certain that as time passed
she began to feel her lot irksome, and to long for the less elegant,
but to her more pleasurable life she had previously led. The fact is
that, as in the case of her sister and her mother, Cupid, small and
child-like though he seems, was far more powerful than wealth and
fashion, and all other attractions of aristocratic life. While living
as a domestic servant in Cumberland, she had fallen in with a young
sailor, who had run away with her heart. When she set sail for Dublin
she had a hope that nothing would happen to prevent her from yielding
to her wishes to become his wife; but she had not been long her
relative's guest before she was forced to come to another conclusion;
for she saw plainly that her worthy kinsman had set his heart upon
fitting her to become something better than a common sailor's wife.
A lady had been engaged as her governess and a time fixed for her
arrival; but before the time came the inbred spirit of freedom had
again asserted itself, and Isabella had bidden adieu for ever to Lord
Annesley and all the good things which his kindness had gathered around
her! A collier brig took her back to her native village, and soon after
she became the wife of John Ruddock, able seaman.
No one can justify, though all may extenuate, the conduct of Isabella
Pearson; nor can any one be pronounced harsh and unfeeling who may
say: 'The suffering that might fall to her lot in after-life was the
result of her folly and recklessness. On the other hand, it may be
pleaded that her heart was her own, to give to whom she pleased; and as
it had been sought for and gained by the young sailor, her happiness
could only be secured by living with him; therefore she did right in
preferring his lot to the wishes of her noble uncle. Be this as it
may, she grievously erred in quitting him in so heartless a way after
the tender care she had received at his hands. And this she afterwards
acknowledged. After her marriage, her husband left the sea, and
taking his young wife with him to Durham, he there found employment
as a sail-maker, in which art he was proficient. A letter, professing
repentance, was written to her uncle; but before it was posted the
death of Lord Annesley was announced; which event put an end for ever
to all hope for help or favour in that quarter. Soon after, a pressgang
laid relentless hands upon poor Ruddock, and dragged him on board a
ship of war; so once more our heroine was forced to seek her living in
domestic servitude. But herein she was not able long to abide, for the
birth of a daughter made such life for a while impracticable. Sad as
was her lot, it soon became worse; for her poor husband was killed in
an engagement off the coast of Spain, and with many other brave hearts
found an early grave in the ocean's bed.
Isabella was now left with a young child to fight the world alone.
Health and vigour, however, were her portion; and hearing that plenty
of work for women was to be had at Cleator near Whitehaven, she
repaired thither, and found a settlement and a living. While there,
she was one day agreeably surprised by a visit from her kind friend
Lady Curwen, who had driven from Workington Hall expressly to tell her
that an advertisement applying for the heirs of John Pearson who worked
in Beerpot Foundry, had that week appeared in the columns of a London
newspaper, and urged her to attend to it. But she was illiterate, was
unused to business habits, and being alone and helpless, put off the
matter day by day, until at last she gave it up altogether. What might
have come out of this, is of course unknown to the writer; but Isabella
herself believed--I do not know why--that her aunt, Mrs Weeks, had
died, and had bequeathed to her sister's children a considerable sum of
money.
Time passed on, and her child grew, developing among other things
a love of mischief; for one day, while her mother was at the mill
where she wrought, she got to the box in which were kept her mother's
cherished family documents and letters, and amused herself by setting
them ablaze one by one at a lighted candle got for the purpose! Thus,
in one half-hour, every document necessary to prove her mother's
pedigree was destroyed, and with it all hope of bettering her position
was thrown to the winds; so, when some years afterwards, Lady Curwen
sent a messenger to tell her that the advertisement I have named had
once more appeared in the public prints, she paid no attention to the
information, satisfying herself simply with an expression of thanks to
her kind benefactor!
She was, however, content with her lot. Her child was her chief comfort
and joy. For her she toiled in the mill by day, and in her humble home
at night; and as she grew in stature and in beauty, the mother's heart
throbbed its gratitude and her eye beamed with admiration. But on one
occasion she had nearly lost her. Playing one fine afternoon on the
bank of the stream which drove the wheel belonging to the mill, her
feet slipped, and she fell in. A man who happened to be a little in
advance, had his eye drawn to an object on the water, which he at first
took to be a quantity of loose hair; but another glance revealed to
him the head of a little girl beneath the surface of the rapid stream.
He ran and was just in time to lay hold of the hair as its possessor
was falling over on to the wheel. Another moment, and Jane Ruddock
(the drowning girl) would have been no more; in which case he who
now pens these fragments of a strange history would not have been in
existence--for that little girl became his mother.
I have little more to add. Isabella Pearson, who, as I have shewn,
became Isabella Ruddock, wife of a common sailor, once more entered the
matrimonial lists; but she neither improved her position nor increased
her happiness by so doing. Indeed her life, while her second husband
lived, was imbittered by his love of strong drink. But she survived
him. She was a widow the second time when she became familiar to my
youthful eye. Many a merry hour have I spent in her company. Often I
have heard her relate the incidents which make up this story. She was
a fine, tall, handsome woman while health remained with her; she had
also a large womanly heart, a hot impetuous temper, and a remarkable
simplicity and honesty of character. She died in 1849, weighed down
with years and infirmities; but she ended her eventful life in much
patience and peace.
A LADY'S ASCENT OF THE BREITHORN.
Fancy the following tableau. Scene--Switzerland; time--August 1875,
at a desolate rocky part of the Surenen Pass. A group--Youthful grace
and vigour; manly strength and endurance, &c. Foreground--Four heads
eagerly bent over a huge bowl of _café_ placed on a board, which is
extended over four laps. Hands belonging to said heads ladling the
mixture into their mouths with large wooden ladles with little curved
handles, between convulsions of mirth. Background--The châlet of the
Waldnacht Alp, from which the realistic artist should cause hideous
odours to ascend in the form of dense vapour. At the door of it,
the unwashed and scantily clad figure of a Swiss herdsman, fearful
to behold, owner of châlet, and like Caliban himself, chattering
an ominous jargon, and grinning at the English feeders. Right of
background--Attendant guide, cheerful and pleased that he has at last
secured some sustenance for his 'leddies,' who have been walking from
eight A.M. to four P.M., and will yet have to go on till three-quarters
of an hour after midnight. These tableaux, with minor variations, were
frequent in our tour.
After many adventures and many jokes, after being lost in a pass from
eight o'clock to ten, when the sun had set, and having to wander about
for those two hours on the edge of a precipice guiltless of path, being
finally rescued by a heaven-sent and most unexpected peasant with
a lamp--after these things and their results, which were blackened
complexions, dried skins, and dilapidated costumes, we arrived at
Zermatt, where we settled down for a time. The object of the settling
down was in one word--ascents.
Nothing much, according to the men, had yet been done, though we in our
secret hearts hugged the proud thought that Pilatus had not defeated
us, and that the Twelfth-cake-like snows of Titlis had been pressed
by our tread; that the Aeggischhorn, though it had witnessed (N.B. at
the end of a long day) the heat and perspiration which dimmed our few
remaining charms, and had heard our smothered groans, had had in the
end to feel our light weight upon its summit, and to bear us as we
gazed with awe at its mighty circle of peaks. But what do these avail?
In the eye of man they were mere preparation for mightier things.
After some debate, mingled with faint remonstrance on our part, when
Monte Rosa was mentioned, the _Breithorn_ was decided upon; and the
manly spirits, which had become depressed by a few days' lounge, arose.
Such is the enigma Man! The day was fixed, an extra guide (one Franz
Biener--known as Weisshorn Biener) engaged on the night before we went
up to the Riffel. After a few hours' disturbed sleep we were awoke at
two; and dragging our weary and daily emaciating bodies from the beds
where they had not been too comfortable, we dressed by the flickering
light of a candle; and as we dressed, my friend and I cast fearful
looks out at the Matterhorn, which fiercely pierced the dark sky, and
seemed to say to me in the words of the poet:
Beware the pine-tree's withered branch;
Beware the awful avalanche!
As I put the last finishing touches to my collar at the glass, my
feminine pulses slightly quickened to the tune of--'This was the
peasant's last good-night;' and though no voice far up the height
replied 'Excelsior!' yet a voice came from outside which meant in
downright English very much the same thing; and my reflections were
quenched in the carousal down-stairs, which I hastened to join. An
unfortunate and sleepy maid was ministering to the wants of my friends
in the dimly lighted salon of the Riffel-haus. Outside, the guides
were impatiently stamping about in the frosty night, and complaining
of the length of our delay, insinuating that the sun would soon be up.
The fact is the preparations of toilet on our part were complicated.
The uninitiated may not know that the feminine clothing of the present
time, elegant though some may think it, is not conducive to comfort
in mountain climbing. A well-tied back _tablier_ has a restrictive
influence upon the free movement of the lower limbs, and only admits of
a step of a certain length. In rock-work it is felt to be peculiarly
irksome, and in soft snow it is trying to the temper.
Let the imaginative reader then, if he be able, picture two young
women devoid of tabliers, and so at once removed from the pale of
polite society. I tremble as I write with the fear that this avowal
may remove from me and my companion that feminine sympathy so dear
to our hearts. But I must descend a step lower. Freedom from tablier
was not sufficiently radical. Our skirts must be carefully pinned up
round our waists à la washerwoman, so that our progress be perfectly
unimpeded; and armed with masks and spectacles we sallied forth into
the darkness--a party of six. I shall not easily forget the delicious
exhilaration we felt as we hastened along towards the Gorner glacier.
The dark cold air touched our faces crisply, and feelingly persuaded us
of the advantage of the sun's absence.
The searching sensation of being about to commit a crime, attendant
on nocturnal adventures, clung to us, and we were filled with a vague
remorse, in which we felt at one with Eugene Aram. At the same time the
ridiculousness of our position soon wrought upon us to such a degree
that we profaned that wonderful silence with unholy bursts of laughter.
Our festivity ceased when we reached the glacier, for there we broke
up into line, we ladies being tenderly taken possession of each by
a guide, who soon got us over a rough moraine. The glacier we found
unpleasantly slippery; and it was exciting work, as at the point where
we crossed it was very much crevassed, and steps had often to be cut.
The nails on our marvellous boots answered admirably, and we sprang
about with great sure-footedness and with exquisite enjoyment.
The leader of our party was in a rather dangerous plight, for he
had had no nails put into his boots, and we felt quite anxious as
through the dim light we noticed his uncertain movements. How he
got across with the ice in so bad a condition, is a marvel! We had
been on the glacier about an hour when the light began to creep up
over the mountains, and we were in the midst of a scene of wonderful
beauty. The Monte Rosa, the Lyekamm, Castor and Pollux, the Breithorn,
the Matterhorn, and many another shrouded in their utter whiteness
stood round us in awful calm, closing us in upon a lake of tossed
and heaving ice. The moonlight which streamed down upon us on one
side, and the pale yellow light of the dawn on the other, lit up the
scene with a weirdness which seemed not of our world. We saw each
other's phantom-like figures gliding about, and felt that we were too
real to be there--a place where only ghosts had any right to be. The
feeling that pressed upon me was that I had suddenly intruded into
nature's holiest of holies. It seemed as if some secret of a higher
life than this was being sighed through the air, and that I, with
all my earth-stains on me, could not rise to the understanding of
that secret. Yet on that early morning in August, in the same world
far away, the same London was going on in the same old way we knew
so well. Cats were even then stealing along suburban walls; cocks
were beginning to practise their crescendos, tired-out citizens were
tossing in oppressive four-posters, dreaming tantalising dreams of cool
sea-breezes not for them; while round all must be clinging that heavy
breathed-out air, which of itself is a very _inferno_ in contrast with
the mountain ether.
By the time we had reached the upper plateau of the St Théodule
glacier, it was light, and we were all roped together. The process of
roping in this enlightened age I feel it to be unnecessary to describe.
Thus we marched along that profound and frozen solitude tied together
in a long line. The snow was as hard as a road, and the cold intense.
Biener is an excellent guide, but his pace is very slow, and thus we
got rather benumbed. We had, however, passed the Little Matterhorn
on our left, and the Théodulhorn on our right, with the little rude
_cabane_ erected on the rocks at its foot--more than eleven thousand
feet above the sea, and the highest habitation in Europe--and were
beginning to trail our snake-like length up the snow-slopes on the west
and south of the mountain, when my friend became so unmistakably ill
that we came at once to a halt and a consultation. She (to her honour)
much wished to go on, in spite of sickness, giddiness, faintness, and a
livid complexion; but as that was out of the question, she was untied
from the rope, and sent back with our ordinary guide (a first-rate
fellow, one Johann von Aa) to the hut already mentioned.
When we reached the actual snow-fields of the Breithorn, I had to
learn that the work of my day had scarcely begun. As the sun rose, the
snow began to get very soft, and instead of going in to my knees, as
I had expected, I literally waded in it up to my waist. With mighty
efforts I lifted up my already wearied legs and plunged them into ever
fresh pits of snow, where they frequently became so firmly imbedded
that, struggle as I might, I could not move; and presented to the
spectator the hapless object of half a woman masked and spectacled,
striving and panting. From an æsthetic point of view I cannot say I
felt myself a success; but from a moral point, I felt myself a very
finger-post through the ages. Truly I had given up my all in the shape
of appearance, and had offered myself up on that altar of adventure on
which so many braves of my country have been sacrificed. The mode of
rescue from the uncomfortable position indicated above was almost as
bad as the plight itself. I feebly kicked; you can't kick boldly with
your legs in tight pits; and the guide dragged at the rope which bound
my waist, and then out I came like the cork out of a bottle. Two hours
and a half of this sort of thing went on, varied by refreshments and
occasional rests for breath-taking, but still it appeared to me that
we were always at the same spot, and ever the glittering summit from
afar mocked my helpless gasps. At last (ah! what an at last!) the final
slope--really the final one--stretched right up before us. A party of
men who were engaged in scientific experiments peered over at us; and
with one last desperate effort I found myself landed amongst them at
the top of the Breithorn, and thirteen thousand seven hundred feet
above the sea. As we placed our feet upon the summit we groaned the
groan of triumph, and gazed with awe around us upon the inexpressibly
magnificent scene which spread itself out before us. A mighty circle of
mountains stood in awful calm around us. Every fantastic line, every
curious heaping, every wild wreck, every gleaming curve of glacier
possible to mountains, seemed gathered together before us. Each peak
had a proud originality of its own, which shewed through all the
sameness of the uniform whiteness. But the spirit of these places is
the most wonderful thing about them. The clamour, the struggle, the
unrest, which make up to most of us the atmosphere of this world,
seemed in these regions to have been left behind in a past state;
and this in a way was illustrated by the scene itself. The contorted
forms and tossed rocks spoke of struggle, gradual it may be, but still
struggle. But in the sereneness surrounding those unearthly peaks there
was a peace which seemed to have left struggle far behind--the repose
of a wide knowledge gained only through sore fight and aspiration.
A short time of peaceful dream was allowed me, and that was rather
marred by the intense glare of the light, and then we began the
descent. In an evil moment of rest some little way down, I left hold
of my alpenstock and leaned it against my shoulder. In a moment it was
gone--down, down, sliding skittishly away, till my heart was pained
by its final leap into a crevasse far away. As I looked, I imagined
what a crash my skull would have come at the bottom of that crevasse.
I afterwards found out that the alpenstock was not my own, as I then
thought, but that I had inadvertently changed with one of our guides.
Imagine my grief at the thought that I had lost the dear companion of
my travels, that staff which had guided my wavering feet and upheld my
tottering body through passes and up mountains, and which I intended to
preserve until my death! My situation without it was rather perilous,
and would have been more so had not the snow been very soft. But the
guide took me entirely in charge, and lent me his axe, which I was
certain I should recklessly lose after the same fashion. After a weary
time, Biener the guide decided to _glissade_ me. I was resigned. What
else could I be? By that time I was very resigned. He took off his
coat, and made me sit down upon it, then tied my skirts around me.
A rope was attached round my waist, one end of which was grasped by
Biener in front, and the other by my gentlemen friends behind. Then
ensued a process in which my limbs were nearly severed from the body,
and in which I suffered greatly. Biener rushed down the slope dragging
me behind him; while the gentlemen, unaccustomed to this sort of thing,
and not being able to go fast enough, hung a good part of their weight
on to the rope behind, and so almost bisected me. I never expected to
be an individual whole again; halves were my fate. Never was creature
in so miserable a plight. No Procrustean bed could have produced
greater tortures than those I suffered as I sped down that miserable
slope. I shouted all the French I could think of to Biener to stop
him, and rid me from the hideous rope, which cut me like a knife; but
the air would not carry my words, and on I skimmed and floundered. At
last he heard my cries, and released me from the fetters. The fact was
that the gentlemen were quite unable to keep up with Biener in the deep
snow, with the dismal result, as seen above, of almost cutting through
my waist. The lesson to be deduced from this is the simple maxim I
commend to all my feminine readers: _Never_, under the most favourable
circumstances, _glissade_.
When we reached the cabane where my friend was waiting for us, we were
met by Johann, who told us with a long-face that the 'leddy' would not
eat anything, and was very sick. We found, to our sorrow, that she had
been in a miserable condition all day, and had suffered dreadfully from
mountain sickness. She was so ill that it was impossible she could
walk, and we were a long time in deciding what was to be done. Now,
a helpless invalid, at a height of over eleven thousand feet above
the sea, is not a being easy to legislate for. At last a litter was
contrived. A chair was placed on some alpenstocks; and an American
gentleman whom we met at the cabane being kind enough to lend us his
porter, we found hands enough to carry her part of the way at least,
to Zermatt; the Riffel-haus, where we were staying, being out of the
question, on account of the Gorner glacier and its moraines and rocks,
which would have to be passed to get there. Our party, sad to say, had
then to separate, two of us going to Zermatt and two to the Riffel. The
melancholy _chaise-à-porteur_ procession wended its way to Zermatt; and
with considerably damped spirits we went on to the Riffel, which we
reached at about half-past six P.M. The ambulance party did not get to
their destination till eight o'clock.
All that remains now to be told of this our adventure is the sad
result. The next morning, on waking from sleep, I found that my ear
adhered to the pillow; and when, with much trembling I approached the
glass, a spectacle presented itself to me which I can never forget. As
I gazed at the grotesque reflection of myself, I inwardly vowed that
no mask of London make, elegantly worked as it might be, should ever
cover my face again. A large flapping cover-all mask 'of the country'
let me recommend to ladies who go up snow mountains. I was swollen;
I was black; I was hideous! Half of the skin of one ear was hanging
by a shred, and the ear itself was a blister; while all round my neck
from ear to ear was a chain of blisters. Their state was so bad that
the dressing of them by one of our party (a doctor) took half an hour,
and I could scarcely turn my head. It required a good deal of courage
to face _table-d'hôte_ and the young ladies who were indulging in
complexions and large portmanteaus. But I did! Would that I could say
I enjoyed it. I did _not_ enjoy it. The complexions of the scornful
and the scorn itself, embittered that meal, usually attended with such
joys. In my travelling afterwards, I became accustomed to the searching
glance at my poor tattered skin and to the remark: 'I see you have
been doing glacier-work.' And it was not until a month of English life
had to some extent repaired me that I could look back with delight and
triumph to the ascent of the Breithorn.
ECCENTRIC PEOPLE.
Mr Timbs, in his book upon _English Eccentrics and Eccentricities_,
introduces us to a collection of funny people, with whom it is
good company to pass an hour. To get away from the dull routine
of conventionality for a while is at all times a relief, more
especially when we fill the interval by watching some of our eccentric
fellow-creatures who are good enough to divert us by their antics. Some
are serious in their folly; some are mad; some we admire, while others
again awake our pity; but one and all they are gifted with a force of
will that merits attention.
A collection of dead-and-gone eccentrics now pass before us, recalling
a few living ones that we know of, whose collected vagaries, if
published, may in turn probably amuse our grandchildren. First, let us
look at Beckford, a name not much remembered now, although it belonged
to a man who was a marvel in his day. Gifted with extraordinary powers
of mind and will, he did everything by turns, and nothing long. He
wrote a book that created a sensation. No great marvel that, to
people of our day, when the difficulty is to find some one who has
not written a book; but Beckford wrote as no other author. _Vathek_
was written at one sitting! It took him three days and two nights of
hard labour, during which time he never undressed. We know of one
instance somewhat similar. A reigning lady novelist told us once that
she was pledged to her publisher to send him a three-volume novel by
a certain date. Two days previous to the expiration of her contract,
her novel had only reached the opening chapter of the third volume.
On the evening of the first day she went to a ball, danced all night,
returning home at the small-hours of morning, when, after taking off
her ball-dress, and drinking some strong tea, she sat down to finish
her task. All that day she wrote and on into the next night, never
leaving her desk until she had written _finis_; when with trembling
hands she despatched her manuscript in time to fulfil her engagement.
There are some natures that need the pressure of necessity, or
self-imposed necessity, to goad them into action; their resolution
once formed, no obstacle is suffered to come between them and its
fulfilment. Beckford was one of these. He determined to build a
house--the abbey at Fonthill, where he resided for twenty years--and
swore by his favourite St Anthony that his Christmas-dinner should be
cooked in the abbey kitchen. Christmas approached, and the kitchen was
in an unfinished condition. Every exertion that money could command was
brought to the task, and Christmas morning saw the kitchen finished and
the cooks installed. A splendid repast was prepared, and the dinner
actually cooked, when lo! and behold, as the servants were carrying in
the dishes through the long passages into the dining-room, a loud noise
was heard, and the kitchen fell through with a crash! But what cared
Beckford? He was rich; he could afford to build his kitchen over again;
meantime he had humoured his whim and kept his vow to St Anthony; and
we may add, made good his title to eccentricity, for which we applaud
him, and pass on to watch some others.
What sorry figure is this that comes next? A poor neglected imbecile,
living in squalid lodgings at Calais. It is scarcely possible to
recognise in this unhappy being the once gay and elegant Beau Brummel,
the glass of fashion and mould of form to the men and women of his
generation, whom he ruled with the despotism of an autocrat. Yet this
is the poor Beau and no other. He is holding a phantom reception.
Having desired his attendant to arrange his apartment, set out the
whist-tables, and light the candles--alas! only tallow--he is ready
at eight o'clock to receive the guests, which the servant, previously
instructed, now announces. First comes the Duchess of Devonshire. On
hearing her name the Beau leaves his chair, and with the courtliest
bow, the only reminiscence of his departed glory, he advances to the
door and greets the phantom Duchess with all the honour that he would
have given the beautiful Georgiana. He takes her hand and leads her
to a seat, saying as he does so: 'Ah, my dear Duchess, how rejoiced
I am to see you; so very amiable of you to come at this short notice.
Pray bury yourself in this arm-chair. Do you know it was the gift to
me of the Duchess of York, who was a very kind friend of mine; but
poor thing, you know, she is no more!' At this point tears of idiotcy
would fall from his eyes, and he would sink into the arm-chair himself,
awaiting the arrival of other guests, who, being duly announced, were
similarly greeted. With these ghosts of the past he would spend the
evening until ten o'clock, when the servant telling each guest that his
or her carriage was waiting, would carry his poor old master off to
bed. We cannot wish him good-night without the payment of a sigh for
the pantomime he has acted and the sad lesson it conveys.
And now we conjure up a droll figure, whose eccentricity borders
on madness, the spendthrift squire of Halston, John Mytton. He is
tormented with hiccup, and tries the novel cure of setting fire to
himself in order to frighten it away. Applying a candle to his garment,
being sparely clad at the time, he is soon in flames. His life is only
saved by the active exertions of some people who chance to be in the
way at the time. He invites some friends once, and when the company are
assembled in the drawing-room, he startles them all by riding into the
room on a bear! The guests are panic-stricken: one mounts on a table,
another on a chair; they all strive to make their escape from the
ungracious animal, and its still more savage master, who is enjoying
the misery of his guests with the laugh of a madman. Let us too leave
him.