When Jack was gone, Mrs. Shelley insisted on Fairy’s going to bed, for
the child was worn out with fatigue and excitement, and she and John
watched by Charlie’s couch in turns through the short summer night,
which, short as it was, seemed all too long when spent in anxiously
watching for a change which did not come. Once, and once only during
the night, did Charlie open his eyes and murmur, “Where am I?” but
before the shepherd, who was sitting by him, had time to answer, he
had again relapsed into unconsciousness.
From the first John Shelley had taken a hopeful view, and even this
momentary return to consciousness filled him with hope; the next
interval might be longer perhaps; at any rate, it was a favourable sign
in the shepherd’s opinion. At four o’clock Mrs. Shelley came to take
her husband’s place, and then, to her surprise, he told her he was
going to walk to the nearest point where the London coach passed and
give Jack the latest bulletin before he started.
And so, to Jack’s joy and amazement, the first time the coach paused
to take up the Lewes letters, there stood his father by the inn door,
waiting to speak to him. In a moment Jack, who, with Mr. Leslie, was
occupying the boxseat, was down on the ground grasping his father’s
hand and eagerly asking what news.
“No worse, Jack; if anything, a trifle better; he was conscious for a
few moments last night; just opened his eyes and said ‘Where am I?’
but I knew you would like to hear the latest news, as you can’t have a
letter till you get to New York, and I don’t know how long that will be
after you arrive there.”
“Oh, I’ll let you know all about the mails, shepherd, when I come back.
Come, Jack,” called out Mr. Leslie, from the box.
“God bless you, my boy, and grant we may meet again someday,” said the
shepherd, wringing Jack’s hand, and then the lad, with tears in his
eyes, jumped back to his place, the coachman cracked his whip, and in
a few minutes nothing remained but a cloud of dust, through which John
Shelley was straining his eyes to catch a last glimpse of his eldest
son.
The next day or two were passed in such a whirl of excitement, what
with the exhilarating feeling of travelling on the top of a coach for
the first time in his life, and being whirled up to London by four
horses in a few hours, and then the wonderful things which, even in his
brief visit, he saw there, and then the long journey to Liverpool, and
the sight of the docks and the ship he was to sail in, for in those
early days of the nineteenth century no steamer had as yet crossed the
Atlantic. All this so occupied Jack’s time and thoughts that though
that vision of Charlie stretched pale and insensible at home haunted
him from time to time, still he had no leisure to dwell on it. But when
on Monday Mr. Leslie, having seen him on board, took leave of him,
and Jack was left alone among a crowd of strangers, with nothing to
do for five or six weeks but watch the sea and sky, then the thought
of Charlie would not be banished, and his anxiety to know how he was
became intense. Luckily Jack turned out at first a bad sailor, and the
physical tortures of sea-sickness counteracted the mental suffering
he was enduring, which, with so little to divert his mind, might have
ended in an attack of brain fever. When he was well enough to leave
his berth, he made friends with the captain and one or two of the
passengers, who took a fancy to this fine, good-looking young man, who
certainly looked exceedingly unlike a shepherd in the suit Mr. Leslie
had bought him at a London tailor’s. His new friends lent him books,
and he derived both pleasure and benefit from conversing with them,
but yet, though he read and studied hard during the voyage, it was a
terrible time to him, and no landsman ever rejoiced more at the sight
of land than Jack did when they sighted the American coast. He always
looked back on that voyage as a dreadful nightmare, for all through he
had been haunted by the terrible fear, almost too terrible to put into
words, lest he should be guilty of the sin of Cain.
His first act on landing was to inquire when he could have a letter
from England, and finding three weeks hence was the earliest time he
could hope to receive one, for the ship he had come by had just brought
a mail, he made up his mind to dismiss the subject as much as possible,
and wait as patiently as he could for the letter which would colour
his whole life.
His new occupation, upon which he entered at once, was far more
congenial than sheep-washing or shearing, and the entirely new life he
led and the new country he was living in, with its strange customs and
foreign people, all helped to give a fresh stimulus to Jack’s mind,
and if it had not been for the shadow cast over his life by the memory
of the events which had been the immediate cause of his coming hither,
his first few weeks in New York would have ranked among some of the
happiest in his life. As it was, they slipped by far more quickly than
he had thought possible, and at last he heard the news that the English
mail had arrived, and he bent his steps to the post-office to ask if
there were any letters for him.
How Jack’s heart thumped as he stood watching the clerk diving into
some pigeon-holes in search of his letters; he fancied the people in
the office must have heard its wild beatings.
Yes, there were two letters; the first Jack saw at a glance was from
Mr. Leslie, the other was directed by Fairy. The paper on which the
letter was written—there were no envelopes in those days—was not
black-edged, and that, though he dare not lay much stress upon it, was,
perhaps, a hopeful sign, but yet, as he broke the wafer, he was still
in such fear and trembling lest its contents should be unfavourable,
that he dared not open it until he was safe in his own lodgings, where
no curious eyes could watch his behaviour as he read his fate.
It was indeed well no curious eyes were able to pry into Jack’s humble
room, his castle as he liked to call it, for, poor as it was, it was
his own, paid for out of his earnings, for when he came to the end of
the long crossed sheet he buried his face in his hands, and his great
strong frame shook with his sobs.
The letter, though directed by Fairy, was from Mrs. Shelley, and ran as
follows:—
“MY DEAREST JACK,—Thank God, I have good news for you. Charlie
is quite well again, and is following the sheep to-day for the
first time, or he would have written to you himself, but since
he went off this morning, Mr. Leslie has been to tell me this
letter must be posted to-day.
“It is a month since you went away; it seems years to me, Jack,
but if you are happy in your new life I shall not complain.
Charlie began to get better very soon after you started; he
recovered consciousness that very morning, and though he was
very ill for a week or more, he was not in danger after the
Sunday. How I wished I could have let you know, but there was
no means of getting a letter to you before this one, and I am
afraid you must have suffered terribly from suspense, fearing
the worst, and not daring to hope for good news. Strange to
say, Charlie remembers nothing whatever about his accident; all
he knows is he wanted Fairy to dance with him, and that you
were angry; all the rest is a blank; he had not the least idea
of what really happened.
“Your father had to get an under-shepherd for a month, but he
has left to-day, and Charlie is to take your place, and is
very proud of his position. No one will ever take your place
at home, though, so if you hear people say no one is missed in
this world, their place is soon filled up, don’t believe it,
my son; your place in your mother’s heart will never be filled
except by yourself, and I miss you at every turn. Fairy misses
you too; she is more at the rectory now than ever, for there is
no one to help her with her lessons here. She sends her love
to you, and will write next month. And now, my boy, I must say
good-bye, for your father has come in on purpose to add a few
lines to this. God ever bless and keep you is the constant
prayer of your loving mother,
“POLLY SHELLEY.”
And then followed a few lines in the shepherd’s handwriting, written
with elaborate pains and much effort, as Jack knew, for John Shelley
was much more accustomed to wield his crook than his pen, which
was certainly not that of a ready writer. His preparations were as
elaborate as the writing itself. First he rolled up the sleeves of his
smock; then he ran his hands through his hair, and rubbed the back
of his head; then he wetted his fingers; finally he fixed the pen in
his right hand, after a fashion of his own; and Jack, as he read the
postscript of his mother’s letter, pictured to himself his father’s
attitude as he wrote it, leaning half across the kitchen table, and
moving his whole body, as if every stroke was the greatest exertion,
as it was to him. But if the manner of his writing was eccentric, the
matter was excellent, in spite of the spelling, which was original,
and Jack treasured up his father’s words carefully, and vowed never to
forget how gently and kindly the shepherd had dealt with him in his
trouble.
So the tears Jack shed over his letter were tears of joy and gratitude.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY.
BY TWO LONDON BACHELORS.
[Illustration: THE CERTOSA.]
On the Monday afternoon, while No. 1 was resting, the elder bachelor
sallied out by himself to see one or two of the important old churches.
By the aid of a map of the town, he found his way to the dirty old
church of St. Maurizio, where he saw some strangely beautiful paintings
of Aurelio and Bernardino Luini. He greatly wondered if the abject
poor, at their silent devotions—for there was no service at the
time—were as greatly influenced by art as were their predecessors in
the less enlightened days. But without wasting his time further in
worthless dreamings, which could better be done at another time, he
passed out of the stuffy and ugly little church into the glorious
sunlight, and proceeded to the more famous church of Santa Maria della
Grazie, to see the most popular picture ever painted—namely, “The Last
Supper,” by Leonardo da Vinci.
The church was entered first; and here again were groups of the
poorest at their private devotions. Rapture sublime seemed now and
then to illumine the face of a dirty beggar as he or she glanced at a
crucifix or a relic which was exposed to view over the altar of the
Lady Chapel. Could such worship be wrong if it softened, and so greatly
softened, hearts like these, in bodies ill-fed and ill-clothed, making
a repulsive exterior glorified by a countenance of secret joy? But
disappointment came by means of a surly sacristan, a veritable Judas
with a bag, who roughly attended the worshippers, and pocketed pence
in return for wiping their pocket handkerchiefs (for such we perforce
call their dirty rags) on the glass case on the altar containing the
relic before mentioned. To see the emotion of the deluded creatures,
who kissed their rags with ecstatic bliss on receiving them again, was
a strange sight, and struck us as widely different from that of the
woman who kissed the blue fringe on Christ’s garment as He passed
her—for what “virtue” could come out of the operation in the Church of
Santa Maria della Grazie? The act of devotion and lowly love in the
Gospel story was not done from force of habit, nor was the privilege
given in return for money—and, oh! how different the Object and the
intention!
[Illustration: THE LAST SUPPER.
_From the painting at Milan, showing its present condition._]
The greatest painting in the world (“The Last Supper”) is to be seen
in an old outhouse which was used by the reverend monks as a refectory
before the dissolution of the monastery, and which has since been used
as a stable by French dragoons.
The painting is in a sad state of dilapidation, caused by damp and
attempted restorations in 1770, and also by the bad treatment it has
had at the hands of tourists. But much of the genius of the painting is
still seen, and we bow in lowly reverence before a work which surely
has been productive of much religious elevation in many generations and
nations.
The Dominicans, in dining in this old refectory, must have been
wonderfully impressed at seeing Christ at the other end of the room
taking His Last Supper with them; for the accessories of table-cloth,
glasses, etc., in the painting resemble the identical articles used by
the monks, and all helped the great illusion. But again a disillusion!
for, as will be seen on a reference to the picture, the reverend
fathers committed the sacrilege of forming a doorway in a part of the
picture—actually cutting off the legs of the chief Figure—in their
desire to have their dinner warm!
The illness of the younger bachelor, which had threatened to ruin our
holiday, was not nearly so serious as the doctor had led us to expect.
On the second day the fever much abated, and we determined to resume
our journey after the third day. The doctor, however, advised us not to
go to either Cremona or Mantua, as these cities, especially the former,
are unhealthy, and might bring on a renewal of the fever. This was a
disappointment, as we were anxious to see Cremona, which, apart from
its cathedral and other buildings, has always been renowned for the
manufacture of violins and other stringed instruments. To see fiddles
of every shape and size hung out in the open air to dry like so many
clothes after washing, was too novel a sight to miss without a bitter
pang.
We determined to make up for our disappointment in not seeing Cremona
and Mantua, by visiting the town of Pavia and the magnificent monastery
or Certosa close to it.
So we arranged to make the excursion to the Certosa and Pavia, to
return to Milan for a visit to the Brera Gallery, to dine, and to get
our trunks, and finally depart for Verona, if possible, on the same
day. This was rather an extensive programme, especially as one of us
had just recovered from an illness; but we determined if possible to
abide by it.
The great Lombard plain is relieved from monotony by being cut-up with
canals and ditches, running between avenues of willows and poplars,
reminding one of the scenery in Dutch pictures.
Of course the Certosa is in many respects an exquisite building. The
magnificence of the materials of its altars, screens, pavements, &c.,
and the enormous wealth of sculpture lavished over every portion of
it, render this church one of the most remarkable structures in the
world. But when one comes to study it and to think it well over, the
question arises whether this immense amount of costly material, this
vast amount of labour and skill, ought not to have produced something
far more “striking” in general effect. In fact, it rather reminds one
of the so-called French dinners, which English people are in the habit
of giving, from which one comes away thoroughly unsatisfied, with only
a confused recollection of a great number of costly dishes. It almost
appears as if in the Certosa the sculptors had been set to do the
architecture and the painters to execute the sculpture; each has so
attempted to overdo and over-elaborate his portion of the work that he
has “strained” his art, until it has lost those wholesome restrictions
which the æsthetic principles, both of classic and mediæval times, had
placed upon it. Thus we find the architectural outlines broken up and
lost in a forest of detail, and the sculptured panels have elaborated
backgrounds more suited for pictorial works than for carving.
The façade, which our girls perfectly know by photograph, was designed
by Borgognone, far better known as a painter, and was commenced about
1473.
One really sees nothing of the church until entering the large gate,
covered on the outside with damaged frescoes; the wonderful façade
presents itself on the other side of the quadrangle.
As can well be imagined, the first sight of this wonderful front
nearly took our breath away, so vast is the amount of sculpture and so
elaborate the designs. The upper portion is far less elaborate than the
lower; indeed, we thought that they were by different architects.
The most richly decorated portion of the façade is that on the level
of the portico, the two windows on either side of the latter being
completely enclosed by a vast amount of sculpturesque ornament. This
elaboration is carried out to such an extent that the mullions of the
windows, instead of being simply moulded, are carved into imitations
of candelabra, with foliage, lizards, and little cupids in the act of
climbing, and ornamenting every portion.
The subjects which pleased us the most were the pictures of sculpture,
a little above the level of a man’s head, representing scenes in
religious history. These are very beautiful and perfect, though some of
the heads and attitudes of the figures are, to say the least, grotesque.
We may mention that a great number of the most eminent Italian masters
for nearly two centuries had a hand in the elaboration of the façade,
including the great Donatello.
Before entering the church, we visited the two cloisters, which are
very picturesque. The arches of the first one are full of terra-cotta
ornamentation. It is approached from the church by a magnificent white
marble doorway.
The great cloister is very large, and is surrounded by cells, which
remind one that the Certosa was once a monastery, and belonged to
the Carthusians. This curious order of men never see one another,
except in church. Each man has four rooms and a little garden entirely
to himself. He has his bedroom, his study, his workshop, and his
toolroom. These Carthusians were extremely fond of gardening, and we
have received many benefits from their knowledge of horticulture. They
also invented the well-known liqueur, Chartreuse. Hence their name.
This was invented as a medicine, and is most wholesome and beneficial
for certain illnesses; but it is now, of course, more used for its
gastronomic than its medicinal qualities.
The church was commenced in the latter part of the fourteenth century;
it is in form a Latin cross, and in style a mixture of Romanesque and
Gothic. The whole of the interior is very richly decorated, all kinds
of material being used, and the altars are beautifully inlaid and
studded with precious stones, gold, etc. There are, however, scarcely
any fine pictures, the few good ones having been removed, and the great
number remaining scarcely add to the beauty of the interior.
There are seven chapels on either side of the nave, which are railed
off from the latter. These were shown to us by a guide, not by a monk,
as the guide-books say.
The Certosa is magnificently kept, and in order to make it even more
“smart,” the old pavement has been replaced by a very bright mosaic
one, which reflects the church like glass. But of all, the choir is
the most magnificent, the tabernacle and altar-screen being sumptuous
sixteenth century Renaissance work, and on either side of the altar the
walls are decorated with rich sculpture.
In the transepts are two monuments, viz., those of Gian-Galeazzo
Visconti, the founder of the church, and of Ludovico Moro and his wife,
Beatrice d’Este.
Gian-Galeazzo Visconti was the most celebrated of the great Lombard
family of Visconti, who practically ruled Milan for over a century
and a half. So great was the power of this family, that they at times
subjected nearly the whole of Northern Italy, and Gian-Galeazzo,
after completely defeating an army sent against him by the Emperor of
Germany, and after having captured by degrees the whole of Lombardy,
was about to declare himself King of Italy, when death put an end to
his ambition in the year 1402.
Gian-Galeazzo Visconti was the founder of Milan Cathedral and the
Certosa of Pavia, and, as before mentioned, a superb monument has been
erected to his memory in the latter church; but this monument was more
than half a century in construction, by which time the people had
forgotten where the prince had been buried; and thus the body of this
great man, who had defeated numberless armies and caused to be erected
two of the most sumptuous buildings in Europe, lies no one knows where.
The son of Gian-Galeazzo ruled in Milan upon his father’s death, after
which the Sforza family succeeded, and held power until the middle of
the sixteenth century, when the emperor, Charles V., who was practical
master of Italy, handed over the duchy of Milan to his son Philip.
After leaving the Certosa, the two bachelors hired one of the light
one-horse carriages, of which there are always a number outside the
church, and drove to Pavia. That drive was most pleasant. It was a
lovely spring day, with a brilliant sun, though not too hot, and the
country was all aglow with bright colour.
Pavia is a very curious old place. Of all the old garlic-smelling,
dirty, and badly-drained cities of North Italy, it is the most
garlic-smelling, the dirtiest, and the worst drained; but it is very
quaint withal. The old marketplaces, the projecting roofs, and the
curious outdoor shops give it a wonderfully “old-world” appearance, and
we enjoyed this ramble through the old city greatly, notwithstanding
the horrible smells and the difficulty we had to find our way about the
place. After wandering for some little time, we came to the Piazza del
Duomo, which is most picturesque, and the effect was much enhanced when
we were there, as it was market time. The vast quantity of old women,
dressed in the most quaint manner, selling the oddest of wares, added
no little to a scene which must always be paintable to a degree. The
cathedral, rising on one side of the piazza, with its huge campanile,
though picturesque, can scarcely be called beautiful. It has never
been finished, and when we were there it was in a terrible state of
dilapidation. Of the interior we could see nothing except a heap of
scaffold-poles, as it was in course of restoration, and even the shrine
of the great St. Augustine was concealed from view.
The most interesting church in Pavia is San Michele, and, though we
were rather pressed for time, we determined to see it.
San Michele is an early Romanesque church of the eleventh and twelfth
centuries, and is very beautiful, both externally and internally.
The façade is richly ornamented with bands of carving and small open
galleries, and the chancel internally is on a much higher level than
the nave, and is approached by a great flight of steps, giving it a
most dignified appearance.
After leaving San Michele we tried to find our way to the station; no
easy matter, as we found to our cost. We think we must have made the
circumference of the city three times before an Italian boy, rather
more intelligent than his fellows, at last pointed us out a place which
proved to be the station, from whence we returned to Milan.
The Brera Gallery contains a magnificent collection of pictures. In an
article like this it is impossible to give a detailed description of
these paintings, and a mere list of works of art is both uninteresting
and uninstructive; besides which no description of pictures is of any
value unless it is prefaced by an account of the various schools to
which the artists belong—a task which has been admirably done already
by Miss Emily Macirone in the pages of this magazine. However, we may
mention that the gallery is a complete history of Italian art.
To commence with, we find a good example of Giotto, who (as our girls
will see from the excellent chart of the chief painters of the various
schools of art, page 629 of our Annual for 1886) flourished in the
commencement of the fourteenth century. As on a future occasion we
shall have to speak of this painter, when describing the Arena Chapel
at Padua, all we shall say at present is that one should not attempt
to criticise him or the works of this early Italian school by mere
isolated pictures found in galleries. Of course in the days of Giotto
Italian art was more or less in its infancy, and the mechanical
knowledge possessed by these fourteenth century painters was meagre,
therefore we must not expect to find grand effects of chiaroscuro,
neither is the rich colour of the later school to be discovered.
Of the more perfected early Italian school we find works by Luca
Signorelli, Giovanni Bellini, whom we shall find far better represented
in Venice, and the excellent Francia, whose lovely picture of “Mater
Dolorosa” in our National Gallery is so well known to our girls. We
find, also, works of Raffaelle, Leonardo da Vinci and his pupil, Luini.
But the best represented painters in the Brera are the later Venetian
school, especially Titian, Tintoretto, and Paul Veronese. The great
glory of the collection is Raffaelle’s picture of the marriage of the
Virgin. The arrangement of this picture at first struck us as being
extremely formal. We find in the background a twelve-sided temple
crowned with a dome, standing directly in the middle of the picture.
The architecture of this temple has been severely criticised; but it by
no means follows that because Raffaelle thought the structure suitable
for his picture he would ever have built anything like it. In front
of the temple is a very formal pavement divided into large squares.
All the figures are grouped together immediately in the foreground.
The High Priest stands in the centre, holding the hands of Mary and
Joseph. Behind Joseph are many youths, and behind Mary are a number of
women—five in each group, thus keeping up the symmetrical arrangement
which runs throughout the whole picture. There is a charming grace
about the head of Mary and the two women standing immediately behind
her. May we call them the bridesmaids?
Joseph and the youths who accompany him are represented with rods, but
it will be noticed that Joseph’s rod is crowned with five blossoms,
probably of the almond. Several explanations have been given of this.
The most poetical supposes it refers to an ancient legend that Mary had
several suitors, as would be almost certain to be the case of a maiden
of the house of David, possessed, moreover, of great personal beauty.
The legend records that the various suitors each cut a rod, which they
laid in the temple, and that after a time Joseph’s rod was discovered
to have blossomed. Some writers suppose that the youths breaking the
rods refer to an ancient custom practised in Jewish marriages.
The picture is extremely beautiful in colour, brilliant and well
preserved. We venture to suggest that the very symmetrical and formal
arrangement of the picture may have resulted from its having been
intended as the centre portion of a group of compositions.
Titian is best represented by the frequently engraved picture of St.
Jerome—a work full of grand power and magnificent chiaroscuro. Leonardo
da Vinci’s work in the gallery is one of very great interest, as it is
a study for the head of the Saviour for his mighty work of the Last
Supper.
As the evening approaches, we dine at one of the perfect _ristoranti_
of Milan and proceed by rail to Verona. On our way we were captivated
by the charming manners of the peasantry; for we travelled third class,
and thus had a capital opportunity of judging. It was a _fête_ day
at some of the towns our train called at, and there were fireworks,
and every evidence of village festivity. But although there was great
demand for seats in the train, we saw nothing of drunkenness nor heard
coarse language, or anything resembling a vulgar cockney crowd—or, for
the matter of that, the vulgar, well-dressed competitors for best seats
who visit such civilising entertainments as the Monday or Saturday
Popular and other London concerts! No, the Italian peasantry could
teach wonderful lessons in kindness and self-respect to their betters
of England! We reached Verona at midnight, and put up at a delightfully
old world hotel and slept the sleep of—well, the tired, until the sun
next morning reminded us of another happy day in store for us.
And now there arises before us a scene which will never be absent
from the recollection of either bachelor. A broad and rapidly-flowing
river, spanned by a lofty bridge, pierced by a great circle between the
centremost arches, like the eye of some vast Cyclops. Banks covered
with ancient tiled-roofed houses, above which rise an indescribable
mass of domes, towers, spires, pinnacles, and lofty walls, crowned by
forked battlements; the whole backed up by undulating hills, clad with
the deep green of the cypress groves, amongst which arise the round
towers of a strange-looking castle. Is this the recollection of some
picture we have seen, some place we have dreamt of, or is it a reality?
The question seems further from being solved as we wander through
the streets and squares of the poetical city. Every step brings
us in the presence of some wondrous recollection of the past, and
there is nothing to fasten down our ideas to the present time. Fresh
dreams arise in every street. What is this vast oval structure, with
its countless arches, reminding one of the great Colosseum at Rome?
Ruinous, it is true; but as we enter it, strange to say, it seems to
have suddenly awakened from its dream of sixteen centuries. Alas! it
awakens us also, for what do we see but in the centre of this great
arena the hanky-panky tricks of modern horsemanship and hear the stale
jokes of a modern English clown! Let us, however, leave this singular
scene of anachronism and again wander and dream.
This time there rises before us a series of lofty sculptured
tombs, each crowned by a spire, surmounted by the figure of a man
on horseback, separated from the roadway by some delicate metal
work, wrought by the hand of a thirteenth-century blacksmith into a
bewildering combination of quatrefoils, and supported by graceful
marble columns, each bearing the image of a saint or angel. To complete
the picture, the whole is backed up by a venerable-looking church,
with a low, tile-covered steeple and roof, plain enough but for a
beautiful marble monument placed above the doorway. It is difficult
to imagine anything more enchanting in the way of architecture than
this extraordinary cemetery, filling up the centre of one of the small
squares of the city.
We wander on again, and find ourselves in front of a noble Gothic
church, with a façade shaded by two mighty arches, one over the other,
and beneath the lowermost a richly-carved doorway. We enter, and a
superb picture is presented to our view. A Gothic church of exquisite
proportion and rich detail, gleaming with coloured decoration, to
which the softening touch of time has lent harmony and mellow tints.
A pavement of variegated marble is beneath our feet. Two queer little
statues, supporting holy water basins, attract our attention, and a
voice seems to whisper in our ear, “I Gobbi.” Need we say that this is
the Church of St. Anastasia in Verona.
It would be impossible to give our girls anything like a description of
the very interesting objects in this beautiful city, or adequately to
express the feelings with which one wanders about its streets. It is
said that “Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” and the man
must indeed be a savage who would not feel the same soothing influence
in looking at Verona.
Everything, from its sweet-sounding name, seems to breathe poetry and
music into the mind.
One seems to exist in a realm of fancy, and little imagination is
required to people it again with Montagues and Capulets.
How strange it is that our great poet should have managed to have so
thoroughly embodied the ideas which Verona impresses upon the mind in
_Romeo and Juliet_, without having seen the place! When one reads the
play who has seen Verona, it seems almost impossible to believe that
Shakespeare did not draw his picture from the place itself.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
LITTLE KARIN.[1]
Translated from the Swedish by the Rev. LEWIS BORRETT WHITE, D.D.
Among the serving maidens
In the young king’s royal Hall,
None shone like little Karin,
A star among them all.
Just like a star she shone forth,
Among the serving folk,
And thus the young king, smiling,
To little Karin spoke.
“Oh, hear thou, little Karin,
Oh, say thou wilt be mine;
Grey horse and golden saddle
Shall surely then be thine.”
“Grey horse and golden saddle,
They are not meet for me;
To thy young queen oh, give them,
Leave me with honour free.”
“Oh, hear thou, little Karin,
Oh, say thou wilt be mine,
My crown all bright and golden
Shall surely then be thine.”
“Thy crown so bright and golden,
It is not meet for me;
To thy young queen oh, give it,
Leave me with honour free.”
“Oh, hear thou, little Karin,
Oh, say thou wilt be mine;
The half my royal kingdom
Shall surely then be thine.”
“The half thy royal kingdom,
It is not meet for me;
On thy young queen bestow it,
Leave me with honour free.”
“Oh, hear thou, little Karin,
If thou wilt not be mine,
There is a spikéd barrel
I’ll have thee placed within.”
“Though there’s a spikéd barrel,
And I am placed within,
God’s angels will behold me,
That I am free from sin.”
So placed they little Karin,
In spikéd barrel bound,
And the king’s cruel horseboys,
They rolled it round and round.
Then two white doves from Heaven
Came down so peacefully,
They took up little Karin,
And then the doves were three.
[1] Translation of an old and very popular Swedish ballad supposed
to date from the days of the first introduction of Christianity, and
to record the constancy of a Christian girl—proof against both the
allurements and the threats of her heathen master.
[Illustration]
THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.
BY LOUISA MENZIES.