"Sir," I answered, "their religion is made treason by unjust laws, and

then punished with the penalties of treason; and they die for no other

cause than their faith, by the same token that each of those which

have perished on the scaffold had his life offered to him if so he

would torn Protestant."

In the heat of this argument I had forgot prudence; and some unkindly

ears and eyes were attending to my speech, which this young stranger

perceiving, he changed the subject of discourse--I ween with a

charitable intent--and merrily exclaimed, "Now I have this day

transgressed a wise resolve."

"What resolve?" I said, glad also to retreat from dangerous subjects.

'"This," he answered: "that after my return I would sparingly, and not

without entreaty, relate my journeys and observations."

"Then, sir," I replied, "methinks you have contrariwise observed it,

for your observations have been short and pithy, and withal uttered at

mine entreaty."

"Nothing," he said, "I so much fear as to resemble men--and many such

I have myself known--who have scarce seen the lions of the Tower and

the bears of Parish Garden, but they must engross all a table in

talking of their adventures, as if they had passed the Pillars of

Hercules. Nothing could be asked which they could not resolve of their

own knowledge."

"Find you, sir," I said, "much variety in the manners of French people

and those you see in this country?"

He smiled, and answered, "We must not be too nice observers of men and

manners, and too easily praise foreign customs and despise our own

--not so much that we may not offend others, as that we may not be

ourselves offended by others. I will yield you an example. A

Frenchman, being a curious observer of ceremonious compliments, when

he hath saluted one, and began to entertain him with speech, if he

chance to espy another {643} man, with whom he hath very great

business, yet will he not leave the first man without a solemn excuse.

But an Englishman discoursing with any man--I mean in a house or

chamber of presence, not merely in the street--if he spy another man

with whom he hath occasion to speak, will suddenly, without any

excuse, turn from the first man and go and converse with the other,

and with like negligence will leave and take new men for discourse;

which a Frenchman would take in ill part, as an argument of

disrespect. This fashion, and many other like niceties and curiosities

in use in one country, we must forget when we do pass into another.

For lack of this prudence I have seen men on their return home tied to

these foreign manners themselves, and finding that others observe not

the like toward them, take everything for an injury, as if they were

disrespected, and so are often enraged."

"What think you of the dress our ladies do wear?" I inquired of this

young traveller.

He smiled, and answered:

"I like our young gentlewomen's gowns, and their aprons of fine linen,

and their little hats of beaver; but why have they left wearing the

French sleeves, borne out with hoops of whalebone, and the French hood

of velvet, set with a border of gold buttons and pearls? Methinks

English ladies are too fond of jewels and diamond rings. They scorn

plain gold rings, I find, and chains of gold."

"Yea," I said, "ladies of rank wear only rich chains of pearl, and all

their jewels must needs be oriental and precious. If any one doth

choose to use a simple chain or a plain-set brooch, she is marked for

wearing old-fashioned gear."

"This remindeth me," he said, "of a pleasant fable, that Jupiter sent

a shower, wherein whosoever was wet became a fool, and that all the

people were wet in this shower, excepting one philosopher, who kept

his study; but in the evening coming forth into the market-place, and

finding that all the people marked him as a fool, who was only wise,

he was forced to pray for another shower, that he might become a fool,

and so live quietly among fools rather than bear the envy of his

wisdom."

With this pleasant story our conversation ended, for supper was over,

and the young gentleman soon went away. I asked of many persons who he

should be, but none could tell me. Polly, the next day, said he was a

youth lately returned from France (which was only what I knew before),

and that Sir Nicholas Throckmorton had written a letter to Lady

Ingoldsby concerning him, but his name she had forgot. O what strange

haps, more strange than any in books, do at times form the thread of a

true history! what presentiments in some cases, what ignorance in

others, beset us touching coming events!

The next pages will show the ground of these reflections.

CHAPTER XXV.

One day that Mrs. Wells was somewhat disordered, and keeping her room,

and I was sitting with her, her husband came to fetch me into the

parlor to an old acquaintance, he said, who was very desirous for to

see me. "Who is it?" I asked; but he would not tell me, only smiled;

my foolish thinking supposed for one instant that it might be Basil he

spoke of, but the first glance showed me a slight figure and pale

countenance, very different to his whom my witless hopes had expected

for to see, albeit without the least shadow of reason. I stood looking

at this stranger in a hesitating manner, who perceiving I did not know

him, held out his hand, and said,

"Has Mistress Constance forgotten her old playfellow?"

"Edmund Genings!" I exclaimed, suddenly guessing it to be him.

{644}

"Yea," he said, "your old friend Edmund."

"Mr. Ironmonger is this reverend gentleman's name now-a-days," Mr.

Wells said; and then we all three sat down, and by degrees in Edmund's

present face I discerned the one I remembered in former years. The

same kind and reflective aspect, the pallid hue, the upward-raised

eye, now with less of searching in its gaze, but more, I ween, of

yearning for an unearthly home.

"O dear and reverend sir," I said, "strange it doth seem indeed thus

to address you, but God knoweth I thank him for the honor he hath done

my old playmate in the calling of him unto his service in these

perilous times."

"Yea," he answered, with emotion, "I do owe him much, which life

itself should not be sufficient to repay."

"My good father," I said, "some time before his death gave me a token

in a letter that you were in England. Where have you been all this

time?"

"Tell us the manner of your landing," quoth Mr. Wells; "for this is

the great ordeal which, once overpassed, lets you into the vineyard,

for to work for one hour only sometimes, or else to bear many years

the noontide heat and nipping frosts which laborers like unto yourself

have to endure."

"Well," said Edmund, "ten months ago we took shipping at Honfleur,

and, wind and weather being propitious, sailed along the coast of

England, meaning to have landed in Essex; but for our sakes the master

of the bark lingered, when we came in sight of land, until two hours

within night, and being come near unto Scarborough, what should happen

but that a boat with pirates or rovers in it comes out to surprise us,

and shoots at us divers times with muskets! But we came by no harm;

for the wind being then contrary, the master turned his ship and

sailed back into the main sea, where in very foul weather we remained

three days, and verily I thought to have then died of sea-sickness;

which ailment should teach a man humility, if anything in this world

can do it, stripping him as it does of all boastfulness of his own

courage and strength, so that he would cry mercy if any should offer

only to move him."

"Ah!" cried Mr. Wells, laughing, "Topcliffe should bethink himself of

this new torment for papists, for to leave a man in this plight until

he acknowledged the queen's supremacy should be an artful device of

the devil."

"At last," quoth Mr. Genings, "we landed, with great peril to our

lives, on the side of a high cliff near Whitby, in Yorkshire, and

reached that town in the evening. Going into an inn to refresh

ourselves, which I promise you we sorely needed, who should we meet

with there but one Radcliff?"

"Ah! a noted pursuivant," cried Mr. Wells, "albeit not so topping a

one as his chief."

"Ah!" I cried, "good Mr. Wells, that is but a poor pun, I promise you.

A better one you must frame before night, or you will lose your

reputation. The queen's last effort hath more merit in it than yours,

who, when she was angry with her envoy to Spain, said, 'If her royal

brother had sent her a goose-man, [Footnote 94] she had sent him in

return a man-goose.'"

[Footnote 94: Guzman.]

Mr. Genings smiled, and said:

"Well, this same Radcliff took an exact survey of us all, questioned

us about our arrival in that place, whence we came, and whither we

were going. We told him we were driven thither by the tempest, and at

last, by evasive answers, satisfied him. Then we all went to the house

of a Catholic gentleman in the neighborhood, which was within two or

three miles of Whitby, and by him were directed some to one place,

some to another, according to our own desires. Mr. Plasden and I kept

together; but, for fear of suspicion, we determined at last to

separate also, and singly to commit ourselves to the protection of God

and his good angels. Soon after we had thus {645} resolved, we came to

two fair beaten was, the one leading north-east, the other south-east,

and even then and there, it being in the night, we stopped and both

fell down on our knees and made a short prayer together that God of

his infinite mercy would vouchsafe to direct us, and send us both a

peaceable passage into the thickest of his vineyard."

Here Mr. Genings paused, a little moved by the remembrance of that

parting, but in a few minutes exclaimed:

"I have not seen that dear friend since, rising from our knees, we

embraced each other with tears trickling down our cheeks; but the

words he said to me then I shall never, methinks, forget. 'Seeing,'

quoth, he, 'we must now part through fear of our enemies, and for

greater security, farewell, sweet brother in Christ and most loving

companion. God grant that, as we have been friends in one college and

companions in one wearisome and dangerous journey, so we may have one

merry meeting once again in this world, to our great comfort, if it

shall please him, even amongst our greatest adversaries; and that as

we undertake, for his love and holy name's sake, this course of life

together, so he will of his infinite goodness and clemency make us

partakers of one hope, one sentence, one death, and one reward. And

also as we began, so may we end together in Christ Jesus.' So he; and

then not being able to speak one word more for grief and tears, we

departed in mutual silence; he directing his journey to London, where

he was born, and I northward."

"Then you have not been into Staffordshire?" I said.

"Yea," he answered, "later I went to Lichfield, in order to try if I

should peradventure find there any of mine old friends and kinsfolks."

"And did you succeed therein?" I inquired.

"The only friends I found," he answered, with a melancholy smile,

"were the gray cloisters, the old cathedral walls, the trees of the

close; the only familiar voices which did greet me were the chimes of

the tower, the cawing of the rooks over mine head as I sat in the

shade of the tall elms near unto the wall where our garden once

stood."

"Oh, doth that house and that garden no more exist?" I cried.

"No, it hath been pulled down, and the lawn thereof thrown into the

close."

"Then," I said, "the poor bees and butterflies must needs fare badly.

The bold rooks, I ween, are too exalted to suffer from these changes.

Of Sherwood Hall did you hear aught, Mr. Genings?"

"Mr. Ironmonger," Mr. Wells said, correcting me.

"Alas!" Edmund replied, "I dared not so much as to approach unto it,

albeit I passed along the high road not very far from the gate

thereof. But the present inhabitants are famed for their hatred unto

recusants, and like to deal rigorously with any which should come in

their way."

I sighed, and then asked him how long he had been in London.

"About one month," he replied. "As I have told you. Mistress

Constance, all my kinsfolk that I wot of are now dead, except my young

brother John, whom I doubt not you yet do bear in mind--that fair,

winsome, mischievous urchin, who was carried to La Rochelle about one

year before your sweet mother died."

"Yea," I said, "I can see him yet gallopping on a stick round the

parlor at Lichfield."

"'Tis to look for him," Edmund said, "I am come to London. Albeit I

fear much inquiry on my part touching this youth should breed

suspicion, I cannot refrain, brotherly love soliciting me thereunto,

from seeking him whom report saith careth but little for his soul, and

who hath no other relative in the world than myself. I have warrant

for to suppose he should be in London; but these four weeks, {646}

with useless diligence, I have made search for him, leaving no place

unsought where I could suspect him to abide; and as I see no hopes of

success, I am resolved to leave the city for a season."

Then Mr. Wells proposed to carry Edmund to Kate's house, where some

friends were awaiting him; and for some days I saw him not again. But

on the next Sunday evening he came to our house, and I noticed a

paleness in him I had not before perceived. I asked him if anything

had disordered him.

"Nothing," he answered; "only methinks my old shaking malady doth

again threaten me; for this morning, walking forth of mine inn to

visit a friend on the other side of the city, and passing by St.

Paul's church, when I was on the east side thereof, I felt suddenly a

strange sensation in my body, so much that my face glowed, and it

seemed to me as if mine hair stood on end; all my joints trembled, and

my whole body was bathed in a cold sweat. I feared some evil was

threatening me, or danger of being taken up, and I looked back to see

if I could perceive any one to be pursuing me; but I saw nobody near,

only a youth in a brown-colored cloak; and so, concluding that some

affection of my head or liver had seized me, I thought no more on it,

but went forward to my intended place to say mass."

A strange thinking came into mine head at that moment, and I doubted

if I should impart to him my sudden fancy.

"Mr. Edmund," I said, unable to refrain myself, "suppose that youth in

the brown cloak should have been your brother!"

He started, but shaking of his head said:

"Nay, nay, why should it have been him rather than a thousand others I

do see every day?"

"Might not that strange effect in yourself betoken the presence of a

kinsman?"

"Tut, tut, Mistress Constance," he cried, half kindly, half

reprovingly; "this should be a wild fancy lacking ground in reason."

Thus checked, I held my peace, but could not wholly discard this

thought. Not long after--on the very morning before Mr. Genings

proposed to depart out of town--I chanced to be walking homeward with

him and some others from a house whither we had gone to hear his mass.

As we were returning along Ludgate Hill, what should he feel but the

same sensations he had done before, and which were indeed visible in

him, for his limbs trembled and his face turned as white as ashes!

"You are sick," I said, for I was walking alongside of him.

"Only affected as that other day," he answered, leaning against a post

for to recover himself.

I had hastily looked back, and, lo and behold I a youth in a brown

cloak was walking some paces behind us. I whispered in Mr. Genings's

ear:

"Look, Edmund; is this the youth you saw before?"

"O my good Lord!" he cried, turning yet more pale, "this is strange

indeed! After all, it may be my brother. Go on," he said quickly; "I

must get speech with him alone to discover if it should be so."

We all walked on, and he tarried behind. Looking back, I saw him

accost the stranger in the brown cloak. And in the afternoon he came

to tell us that this was verily John Genings, as I had with so little

show of reason guessed.

"What passed between you?" I asked.

He said:

"I courteously saluted the young man, and inquired what countryman he

was; and hearing that he was a Staffordshireman, I began to conceive

hopes it should be my brother; so I civilly demanded his name.

Methought I should have betrayed myself at once when he answered

Genings; but as quietly as I could, I told him I was {647} his

kinsman, and was called Ironmonger, and asked him what had become of

his brother Edmund. He then, not suspecting aught, told me he had

heard that he was gone to Rome to the Pope, and was become a notable

papist and a traitor both to God and his country, and that if he did

return he should infallibly be hanged. I smiled, and told him I knew

his brother, and that he was an honest man, and loved both the queen

and his country, and God above all. 'But tell me,' I added, 'good

cousin John, should you not know him if you saw him?' He then looked

hard at me, and led the way into a tavern not far off, and when we

were seated at a table, with no one nigh enough to overhear us, he

said: 'I greatly fear I have a brother that is a priest, and that you

are the man,' and then began to swear that if it was so, I should

discredit myself and all my friends, and protested that in this he

would never follow me; albeit in other matters he might respect me. I

promise you that whilst these harsh words passed his lips I longed to

throw my arms round his neck. I saw my mother's face in his, and his

once childish loveliness only changed into manly beauty. His young

years and mine rose before me, and I could have wept over this

new-found brother as Joseph over his dear Benjamin. I could no longer

conceal myself, but told him truly I was his brother indeed, and for

his love had taken great pains to seek him, and begged of him to keep

secret the knowledge of my arrival; to which he answered: 'He would

not for the world disclose my return, but that he desired me to come

no more unto him, for that he feared greatly the danger of the law,

and to incur the penalty of the statute for concealing of it.' I saw

this was no place or time convenient to talk of religion; but we had

much conversation about divers things, by which I perceived him to be

far from any good affection toward Catholic religion, and persistent

in Protestantism, without any hope of a present recovery. Therefore I

declared unto him my intended departure out of town, and took my

leave, assuring him that within a month or little more I should return

and see him again, and confer with him more at large touching some

necessary affairs which concerned him very much. I inquired of him

where a letter should find him. He showed some reluctance for to give

me any address, but at last said if one was left for him at Lady

Ingoldsby's, in Queen street, Holborn, he should be like to get it."

After Mr. Genings had left, I considered of this direction his brother

had given him, which showed him to be acquainted with Polly's

mother-in-law, and then remembering the young gentleman I had met at

her house, I suspected him to be no other than John Genings. And

called back to mind all his speeches for to compare them with this

suspicion, wherein they did all tally; and some days afterward, when I

was walking on the Mall with Sir Ralph and Polly, who should accost

them but this youth, which they presently introduced to me, and Polly

added, she believed we had played at hide-and-seek together when we

were young. He looked somewhat surprised, and as if casting about for

to call to mind old recollections; then spoke of our meeting at Lady

Ingoldsby's; and she cried out,

"Oh, then, you do know one another?"

"By sight," I said, "not by name."

Some other company joining us, he came alongside of me, and began for

to pay me compliments in the French manner.

"Mr. John Genings," I said, "do you remember Lichfield and the close,

and a little; girl, Constance Sherwood, who used to play with you,

before you went to La Rochelle?"

"Like in a dream," he answered, his comely face lighting up with a

smile.

"But your brother," I said, "was my chiefest companion then; for at

that age we do always aspire to the notice of such as be older than

{648} condescend to such as be younger than ourselves."

When I named his brother a cloud darkened his face, and he abruptly

turned away. He talked to Polly and some other ladies in a gay,

jesting manner, but I could see that ever and anon he glanced toward

me, as if to scan my features, and, I ween, compare them with what

memory depicted; but he kept aloof from me, as if fearing I should

speak again of one he would fain forget.

On the 7th of November, Edmund returned to London, and came in the

evening to Kate's house. He had been laboring in the country,

exhorting, instructing, and exercising his priestly functions amongst

Catholics with all diligence. It so happened that his friend, Mr.

Plasden, a very virtuous priest, which had landed with him at Whitby,

and parted with him soon afterward, was there also; and several other

persons likewise which did usually meet at Mr. Wells's house; but,

owing to that gentleman's absence, who had gone into the country for

some business, and his wife's indisposition, had agreed for to spend

the evening at Mr. Lacy's. Before the company there assembled parted,

the two priests treated with him where they should say mass the

following day, which was the Octave of All Saints. They agreed to say

their matins together, and, by Bryan's advice, to celebrate it at the

house of Mr. Wells, notwithstanding his absence; for that Mistress

Wells, who could not conveniently go abroad, would be exceeding glad

for to hear mass in her own lodging. I told Edmund of my meeting with

his brother on the Mall, and the long talk ministered between us some

weeks ago, when neither did know the other's name. Methought in his

countenance and conversation that night there appeared an unwonted

consolation, a sober joy, which filled me almost with awe. When he

wished me good-night, he added, "I pray you, my dear child, to lift

up your soul to heaven ere yon sleep and when you wake, and recommend

to heaven our good purpose, and then come and attend at the holy

sacrifice with the crowd of angels and saints which do always assist

thereat." When the light faintly dawned in the dull sky, Muriel and I

stole from our beds, quietly dressed ourselves, and slipping out

unseen, repaired as fast as we could, for the ground was wet and

slippery, to Mr. Wells's house. We found assembled in one room Mr.

Genings, Mr. Plasden, another priest, Mr. White, Mr. Lacy, Mistress

Wells, Sydney Hodgson, Mr. Mason, and many others. Edmund Genings

proceeded to say mass. There was so great a stillness in the room a

pin should have been heard to drop. Albeit he said the prayers in a

very low voice, each word was audible. Mine ears, which are very quick

were stretched to the utmost. Each sound in the street caused me an

inward flutter. Methought, when he was reading the gospel I discerned

a sound as of the hall-door opening, and of steps. Then nothing more

for a little while; but just at the moment of the consecration there

was a loud rush up the stairs, and the door of the chamber burst open.

The gentlemen present rose from their knees. Mistress Wells and I

contrariwise sunk on the ground. I dared not for to look, or move, or

breathe, but kept inwardly calling on God, then present, for to save

us. I heard the words behind me: "Topcliffe! keep him back!" "Hurl him

down the stairs!" and then a sound of scuffling, falling, and rolling,

followed by a moment's silence.

The while the mass went forward, ever and anon noises rose without;

but the gentlemen held the door shut by main force all the time. They

kept the foe at bay, these brave men, each word uttered at the altar

resounding, I ween, in their breasts. O my God, what a store of

suffering was heaped into a brief space of time! What a viaticum was

that communion then received by thy doomed priest! {649} "_Domine, non

sum dignus_," he thrice said, and then his Lord rested in his soul.

"_Deo gratias_" None could now profane the sacred mysteries; none

could snatch his Lord from him. "_Ite missa est_." The mass was said,

the hour come, death at hand. All resistance then ceased. I saw

Topcliffe hastening in with a broken head, and threatening to raise

the whole street. Mr. Plasden told him that, now the mass was ended,

we would all yield ourselves prisoners, which we did; upon which he

took Mr. Genings as he was, in his vestments, and all of us, men and

women, in coaches he called for, to Newgate. Muriel and I kept close

together, and, with Mistress Wells, were thrust into one cell.

Methinks we should all have borne with courage this misfortune but for

the thinking of those without--Muriel of her aged and infirm father;

Mistress Wells of her husband's return that day to his sacked house,

robbed of all its church furniture, books, and her the partner of his

whole life. And I thought of Basil, and what he should feel if he knew

of me in this fearful Newgate, near to so many thieves and wicked

persons; and a trembling came over me lest I should be parted from my

companions. I had much to do to recall the courageous spirit I had

heretofore nurtured in foreseeing such a hap as this. If I had had to

die at once, I think I should have been more brave; but terrible

forebodings of examinations--perchance tortures, long solitary hours

in a loathsome place--caused me inward shudderings; and albeit I said

with my lips over and over again, "Thy will be done, my God," I

passionately prayed this chalice might pass from me which often before

in my presumption--I cry mercy for it--I had almost desired to drink.

Oh, often have I thought since of what is said in David's Psalms, "It

is good for me that thou hast humbled me." From my young years a hot

glowing feeling had inflamed my breast at the mention of suffering for

conscience' sake, and the words "to die" had been very familiar ones

to my lips; "rather to die," "gladly to die," "proudly to die;" alas,

how often had I uttered them! O my God, when the foul smells, the

faint light of that dreadful place, struck on my senses, I waxed very

weak. The coarse looks of the jailers, the disgusting food set before

us, the filthy pallets, awoke in me a loathing I could not repress.

And then a fear also, which the sense of my former presumption did

awaken. "Let he that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall,"

kept running in mine head. I had said, like St. Peter, that I was

ready for to go to prison and to death; and now, peradventure, I

should betray my Lord if too great pain overtook me. Muriel saw me

wringing mine hands; and, sitting down by my side on the rude

mattress, she tried for to comfort me. Then, in that hour of bitter

anguish, I learnt that creature's full worth. Who should have thought,

who did not then hear her, what stores of superhuman strength, of

heavenly knowledge, of divine comfort, should have flowed from her

lips? Then I perceived the value of a wholly detached heart,

surrendered to God alone. Young as she was, her soul was as calm in

this trial as that of the aged resigned woman which shared it with us.

Mine was tempest-tossed for a while. I could but lie mine head on

Muriel's knee and murmur, "Basil, O Basil!" or else, "If, after all, I

should prove an apostate, which hath so despised others for it!"

"'Tis good to fear," she whispered, "but withal to trust. Is it not

written, mine own Constance, 'My strength is sufficient for thee?' and

who saith this but the Author of all strength--he on whom the whole

world doth rest? He permitteth this fear in thee for humility's sake,

which lesson thou hast need to learn. When that of courage is needed,

be not affrighted; he will give it thee. He bestoweth not graces

before they be needed."

{650}

Then she minded me of little St. Agnes, and related passages of her

life; but mostly spoke of the cross and the passion of Christ, in such

piercing and moving tones, as if visibly beholding the scene on

Calvary, that the storm seemed to subside in my breast as she went on.

"Pray," she gently said, "that, if it be God's will, the extremity of

human suffering should fall on thee, so that thy love for him should

increase. Pray that no human joy may visit thee again, so that heaven

may open its gates to thee and thy loved ones. Pray for Hubert, for

the queen, for Topcliffe, for every human soul which thou hast ever

been tempted to hate; and I promise thee that a great peace shall

steal over thy soul, and a great strength shall lift thee up."

I did what she desired, and her words were prophetic. Peace came

before long, and joy too, of a strange unearthly sort. A brief

foretaste of heaven was showed forth in the consolations then poured

into mine heart. When since I have desired for to rekindle fervor and

awaken devotion, I recall the hours which followed that great anguish

in the cell at Newgate.

Late in the evening an order came for to release Muriel and me, but

not Mrs. Wells. When this dear friend understood what had occurred,

she raised her hands in fervent gratitude to God, and dismissed us

with many blessings.

The events which, followed I will briefly relate. When we reached home

Mr. Congleton was very sick; and then began the illness which ended

his life. Kate was almost wild with grief at her husband's danger, and

we fetched her and her children to her father's house for to watch

over them. On the next day all the prisoners which had been taken at

Mr. Wells's house (we only having been released by the dealings of

friends with the chief secretary) were examined by Justice Young, and

returned to prison to take their trials the next session. Mr. Wells,

at his return finding his house ransacked and his wife carried away to

prison, had been forthwith to Mr. Justice Young for to expostulate

with him, and to demand his wife and the key of his lodgings; but the

justice sent him to bear the rest company, with a pair of iron bolts

on his legs. The next day he examined him in Newgate; and upon Mr.

Wells saying he was not privy to the mass being said that day in his

house, but wished he had been present, thinking his name highly

honored by having so divine a sacrifice offered in it, the justice

told him "that though he was not at the feast, he should taste of the

same."

The evening I returned home from the prison a great lassitude overcame

me, and for a few days increased so much, joined with pains in the

head and in the limbs, that I could scarcely think, or so much as

stand. At last it was discerned that I was sickening with the

small-pox, caught, methinks, in the prison; and this was no small

increase to Muriel's trouble, who had to go to and fro from my chamber

to her father's, and was forced to send Kate and her children to the

country to Sir Ralph Ingoldsby's house; but methinks in the end this

proved for the best, for when Mr. Lacy was, with the other prisoners,

found guilty, and condemned to death on the 4th of December, some for

having said, and the others for having heard, mass at Mr. Wells's

house, Kate came to London but for a few hours, to take leave of him,

and Polly's care of her afterward cheered the one sister in her great

but not very lasting affliction, and sobered the other's spirits in a

beneficial manner, for since she hath been a stayer at home, and very

careful of her children and Kate's also, and, albeit very secretly,

doth I hear practise her religion. Mr. Congleton never heard of his

son-in-law and his friend Mr. Wells's danger, the palsy which affected

him having numbed his senses so that he slowly sunk in his grave

without suffering of body or mind. From Muriel I heard the course of

the trial. How many bitter words and scoffs were used by the {651}

judges and others upon the bench, particularly to Edmund Genings,

because of his youth, and that he angered them with his arguments! The

more to make him a scoff to the people, they vested him in a

ridiculous fool's coat which they had found in Mr. Wells's house, and

would have it to be a vestment. It was appointed they should all die

at Tyburn, except Mr. Genings and Mr. Wells, who were to be executed

before Mr. Wells's own door in Gray's Inn Fields, within three doors

of our own lodging. The judges, we were told, after pronouncing

sentence, began to persuade them to conform to the Protestant

religion, assuring them that by so doing they should obtain mercy, but

otherwise they must certainly expect to die. But they all answered

"that they would live and die in the true Roman and Catholic faith,

which they and all antiquity had ever professed, and that they would

by no means go to the Protestant churches, or for one moment think

that the queen could be head of the Church in spirituals." They dealt

most urgently with Edmund Genings in this matter of conformity, giving

him hopes not only of his life, but also of a good living, it he would

renounce his faith; but he remained, God be praised, constant and

resolute; upon which he was thrust into a dark hole within the prison,

where he remained in prayer, without food or sustenance, till the hour

of his death. Some letters we received from him and Mr. Wells, which

have become revered treasures and almost relics in our eyes. One did

write (this was Edmund): "The comforts which captivity bringeth are so

manifold that I have rather cause to thank God highly for his fatherly

dealings with me than to complain of any worldly misery whatsoever.

Custom hath caused that it is no grief to me to be debarred from

company, desiring nothing more than solitude. When I pray, I talk with

God--when I read, he talketh with me; so that I am never alone." And

much more in that strain. Mr. Wells ended his letter thus: "I am bound

with gyves, yet I am unbound toward God, and far better I account it

to have the body bound than the soul to be in bondage. I am threatened

hard with danger of death; but if it be no worse, I will not wish it

to be better. God send me his grace, and then I weigh not what flesh

and blood can do unto me. I have answered to many curious and

dangerous questions, but I trust with good advisements, not offending

my conscience. What will come of it God only knoweth. Through prison

and chains to glory. Thine till death." This letter was addressed to

Basil, with a desire expressed we should read it before it was sent to

him.

On the day before the one of the execution, Kate came to take leave of

her husband. She could not speak for her tears; but he, with his usual

composure, bade her be of good comfort, and that death was no more to

him than to drink off the caudle which stood there ready on his table.

And methinks this indifferency was a joint effect of nature and of

grace, for none had ever seen him hurried or agitated in his life with

any matter whatsoever. And when he rolled Topcliffe down the stairs

and fell with him--for it was he which did this desperate action--his

face was as composed when he rose up again, one of the servants who

had seen the scuffle said, as if he had never so much as stirred from

his study; and in his last speeches before his death it was noticed

that his utterance was as slow and deliberate, and his words as

carefully picked, as at any other time of his life. Ah me! what days

were those when, hardly recovered from my sickness, only enough for to

sit up in an armed-chair and be carried from one chamber to another,

all the talk ministered about me was of the danger and coming death of

these dear friends. I had a trouble of mine own, which I be truly

ashamed to speak of; but in this narrative I have resolved above all

things to be truthful; and if I have ever had {652} occasion, on the

one hand, to relate what should seem to be to mine own credit, on the

other also I desire to acknowledge my weaknesses and imperfections, of

which what I am about to relate is a notable instance. The small-pox

made me at that time the most deformed person that could be seen, even

after I was recovered; and the first time I beheld my face in a glass,

the horror which it gave me was so great that I resolved Basil should

never be the husband of one whom every person which saw her must needs

be affrighted to look on; but, forecasting he would never give me up

for this reason, howsoever his inclination should rebel against the

kindness of his heart and his true affection for me, I hastily sent

him a letter, in which I said I could give him no cause for the change

which had happened in me, but that I was resolved not to marry him,

acting in my old hasty manner, without thought or prudence. No sooner

had I done so than I grew very uneasy thereat, too late reflecting on

what his suspicions should be of my inconstancy, and what should to

him appear faithless breach of promise.

It grieved me, in the midst of such grave events and noble sufferings,

to be so concerned for mine own trouble; and on the day before the

execution I was sitting musing painfully on the tragedy which was to

be enacted at our own doors as it were, weeping for the dear friends

which were to suffer, and ever and anon chewing the cud of my wilful

undoing of mine own, and it might prove of Basil's, future peace by my

rash letter to him, and yet more rash concealment of my motives.

Whilst I was thus plunged in grief and uneasiness, the door of my

chamber of a sudden opened, and the servant announced Mr. Hubert

Rookwood. I hid my face hastily with a veil, which I now did generally

use, except when alone with Muriel. He came in, and methought a change

had happened in his appearance. He looked somewhat wild and

disordered, and his face flushed as one used to drinking.

"Constance," he said abruptly, "tidings have reached me which would

not suffer me to put off this visit. A man coming from France hath

brought me a letter from Basil, and one directed to you, which he

charged me to deliver into your hands. If it tallies with that which

he doth write to me--and I doubt not it must be so, for his dealings

are always open and honorable, albeit often rash--I must needs hope

for so much happiness from it as I can scarce credit to be possible

after so much suffering."

I stretched out mine hand for Basil's letter. Oh, how the tears gushed

from mine eyes on the reading of it! He had received mine, and having

heard some time before from a friend he did not name of his brother's

passion for me, he never misdoubted but that I had at last yielded to

his solicitations, and given him the love which I withdrew from him.

Never was the nobleness of his nature more evinced than in this

letter; never grief more heartfelt, combined with a more patient

endurance of the overthrow of his sole earthly happiness; never a

greater or more forgiving kindness toward a faithless creature, as he

deemed her, with a lingering care for her weal, whom he must needs

have thought so ill deserving of his love. So much sorrow without

repining, such strict charges not to marry Hubert if he was not a good

Catholic and truly reconciled to the Church. But if he was indeed

changed in this respect, an assent given to this marriage which had

cost him, he said, many tears and many prayers for to write, more than

if with his own heart's blood he had traced the words; but which,

nevertheless, he freely gave, and prayed God to bless us both, if with

a good conscience we could be wedded; and God forbid he should hinder

it, if I had ceased for to love him, and had given to Hubert--who had

already got his birthright--also a more precious treasure, the heart

once his own.

{653}

"What doth your brother write to you?" I coldly said; and then Hubert

gave me his letter to read.

Methinks he imagined I concealed my face from some sort of shame; and

God knoweth, had I acted the part he supposed, I might well have

blushed deeper than can be thought of.

This letter was like unto the other--the most touching proof of love

a man could give for a woman. Forgetting himself, my dearest Basil's

only care was my happiness; and firm remonstrances were blended with

touching injunctions to his brother to treasure every hair of the head

of one who was dearer to him than all the world beside, and to do his

duty to God and to her, which if he observed, he should, mindless of

all else, for ever bless him.

When I returned the missive to him, Hubert said, in a faltering voice,

"Now you are free--free to be mine--free before God and man."

"Yea," I answered; "free as the dead, for I am henceforward dead to

all earthly things."

"What!" he cried, startled; "your thinking is not, God shield it, to

be a nun abroad?"

"Nay," I answered; and then, laying my hand on Basil's letter, I said,

"If I had thought to marry you, Hubert; if at this hour I should say I

could love you, I ween you would leave the house affrighted, and never

return to it again."

"Is your brain turned?" he impatiently cried.

"No," I answered quietly, lifting my veil, "my face only is changed."

I had a sort of bitter pleasure in the sight of his surprise. He

turned as pale as any smock.

"Oh, fear not," I said; "my heart hath not changed with my face. I am

not in so merry a mood, God knoweth, as to torment you with any such

apprehensions. My love for Basil is the same; yea, rather at this

hour, after these noble proofs of his love, more great than ever. Now

you can discern why I should write to him I would never marry him."

Hiding his face in his hands, Hubert said, "Would I had not come here

to embitter your pain?"

"You have not added to my sorrow," I answered; "the chalice is indeed

full, but these letters have rather lightened than increased my

sufferings."

Then concealing again my face, I went on, "O Hubert, will you come

here to-morrow morning? Know you the sight which from that window

shall be seen? Hark to that noise! Look out, I pray you, and tell me

what it is."

He did as I bade him, and I marked the shudder he gave. His face, pale

before, had now turned of an ashy hue.

"Is it possible?" he said; "a scaffold in front of that house where we

were wont to meet those old friends! O Constance, are they there to

die?--that brave joyous old man, that kind pious soul his wife?"

"Yea," I answered; "and likewise the friend of my young years, good

holy Edmund Genings, who never did hurt a fly, much less a human

creature. And at Tyburn, Bryan Lacy, my cousin, once your friend, and

Sydney Hodgson, and good Mr. Mason, are to suffer."

Hubert clenched his hands, ground his teeth, and a terrible look shot

through his eyes. I felt affrighted at the passion my words had

awakened.

"Cursed," he cried, in a hoarse voice,--"cursed be the bloody queen

which reigneth in this land! Thrice accursed be the tyrants which hunt

us to death! Tenfold accursed such as lure us to damnation by the foul

baits they do offer to tempt a man to lie to God and to others, to

ruin those he loves, to become loathsome to himself by his mean

crimes! But if one hath been cheated of his soul, robbed of the hope

of heaven, debarred from his religion, thrust into the company of

devils, let them fear him, yea, let them fear him, I say. Revenge is

not impossible. What shall stay the {654} hand of such a man? What

shall guard those impious tempters if many such should one day league

for to sweep them from earth's face? If one be desperate of this

world's life, he becomes terrible. How should he be to be dreaded who

doth despair of heaven!"

With these wild words, he left me. He was gone ere I could speak.

TO BE CONTINUED.

------

From Chambers's Journal.

RESIGNED.

When my weary spinning's done,

And the shades of eve grow deep,

And by the bright hearthstone

The old folk sit asleep;

My heart and I in secret talk, when none can see me weep.

Ofttimes the driving rain,

And sometimes the silent snow,

Beat on the window-pane,

And mingle sad and low

With the hopes and fears, the smiles and tears, of a time long, long ago;

Till they act the tales they tell,

And a step is on the floor,

And a voice I once loved well

Says: "Open me the door."

Then I turn with a chill from the mocking wind, which whispers "Nevermore!"---

To the little whitewashed room

In which my days are spent;

And, journeying toward the tomb,

My companions gray and bent.

Who haply deem their grandchild's life not joyous, but content.

Ah me! for the suns not set,

For the years not yet begun,

For the days not numbered yet,

And the work that must be done,

Before the desert path is crossed, and the weary web is spun!

Like a beacon in the night,

I see my first grey hair;

And I scarce can tell aright

If it is from age or care,

For time glides silent o'er my life, and leaves no landmark there.

But perchance 'tis for the best.

And I must harder strive,

If life is little blest.

Then not for life to live.

For though a heart has nought to take, it may have much to give.

{655}

And they are old and poor.

And bread is hard to win.

And a guest is at the door

Who soon must enter in,

And to keep his shadow from their hearth, I daily toil and spin.

My sorrow is their gain,

And I show not by a tear

How my solitude and pain

Have bought their comfort dear.

For the storm which wrecked my life's best hope has left me stranded here.

But I hear the neighbors say,

That the hour-glass runs too fast,

And I know that in that glad day,

When toil and sorrow are past,

The false and true shall receive their due, and hearts cease aching at last.

------

From The Month.

SAINTS OF THE DESERT.

BY THE REV. J. H. NEWMAN. D.D.

1. A sportsman fell in with Abbot Antony, when pleasantly conversing

with his brethren, and was scandalized.

The old man said: "Put an arrow on the string, and bend your bow." He

did so.

Then Antony said: "Bend it more;" and he bent it more.

Antony said: "More still." He answered: "I shall break it."

Then said Antony: "This will befal the brethren, if their minds are

always on the stretch."

2. It is told of Abbot Arsenius, how he was used to remain all night

without sleep.

Then, when morning broke, and he needed rest, he used to say to sleep:

Come, you good-for-nothing.

Then he took a nap, as he sat; and soon woke up again.

3. A brother said to Abbot Theodore, "Say some good word to me, for I

am perishing."

He answered: I am in jeopardy myself, and what can I say to _thee?_

4. A brother said to Abbot Pastor: "I have done a great sin; give me a

three years' penance." The abbot answered; "It is too much."

The brother said, "Give me a year." The old man said again, "It is too

much."

The brothers round him asked, "Should it be forty days?" Still he

answered, "It is too much."

For, said he, whoso doth penance with his whole heart, and never does

the sin again, is received by God even on the penance of three days.

5. A brother had sinned, and the priest bade him leave the church.

Bessarion rose, and went out with him, saying: And I too am a sinner.

6. Abbott Macarius said: Never chide an erring brother angrily; for

you are not bid save another's soul at the loss of your own.

7. Abbot Nilus said: If you would pray as you ought, beware of

sadness; else you will run in vain.

------

{656}

From All The Year Round.

UP AND DOWN CANTON.

Canton is a genuine Chinese city, and one of the most extraordinary

places in the world. There are four American steamers which ply

between Hong-Kong and Canton. They are fast commodious vessels, in

fact floating hotels, such as ply on the large American rivers. The

voyage occupies about eight or nine hours. Of these, five or six are

on the open sea, sheltered mostly under the lee of precipitous bluffs

and lofty rocky islets; and the rest, from the "Bocca Tigris," up the

Canton river. The fog in the winter season lies so dense over the

flats and extensive swamps bordering the river that steamers have to

proceed with great caution, going "dead slow," and sounding the

steam-whistle, while the little fishing-junks, which are sure to be

scattered by dozens in the way, eagerly beat their gongs, to make

known their whereabout. As the steamer ascends the river, a noble

stream, some five or six miles broad near the mouth, she gets

gradually clear of the fog. The wide marshy flats, and the bold rocks

on the left bank, crowned with odd-looking Chinese stone batteries,

come into view, to be succeeded by paddy-fields, sugar-cane

cultivation, orchards, gardens, roads, and villages, that become, on

both banks, more and more numerous, until they blend with the vast

suburbs of Canton. Charming little pagodas, and fanciful buildings,

painted and carved, the residences of mandarins, peep from the shades

of groves, and every village is surmounted by two or more lofty square

towers, the nature of which puzzles a stranger, until he is told they

are pawnbrokers shops. These shops are so fashioned for the greater

security of the articles pledged, because the broker is made heavily

responsible for their safe-keeping. The security is meant to be not

only against thieves, but also against fire. Half-way to Canton, on

the right, or west bank, is a little English settlement at the town of

Whampo. It consists of some ship-chandlers' stores, warehouses, and a

dock for repairing vessels which discharge their cargoes here, being

unable to proceed higher up the stream. Whampo is, in fact, the

seaport of Canton, and was a flourishing place as such till Hong-Kong

diverted the trade. From Whampo upward, the river becomes more and

more crowded with junks and Chinese boats. Some of the junks,

men-of-war, differ from the rest only in being larger, and in having

several unwieldy guns on their decks, mounted on uncouth carriages: in

many instances with their muzzles not pointed through portholes, but

grinning over the bulwarks at an angle of forty-five degrees, like

huge empty bottles.

When the steamer has slowly and cautiously threaded her way among

these numerous vessels, and dropped anchor, the rush of "tanka-boats"

round her is astonishing. These are broad bluff crafts, something of

the size and shape of the sampans, but impelled chiefly by women; one

sweeping, the other sculling with a large steering oar. They close

round the ship in hundreds, yelling, screaming, struggling, and

fighting for the gangways, till every passenger or article of light

freight has left. The women are warmly and comfortably dressed in

dark-blue linen shirts and wide drawers, with red and yellow bandanas

round their heads and faces. They are often young and good-looking,

with bright laughing eyes, white {657} teeth, and jolly red cheeks.

They are, unlike the "flower-boat" girls, honest and well conducted.

Their boats are roofed over, with snug neat cabins nicely painted, and

bedizened with flowers, old-fashioned pictures, and looking-glasses. A

low cushioned bench runs round three sides, and the passenger sits

down pleasantly enough, looking through the entrance, and face to face

with the sturdy nymph, who, with a "stamp and go," is rowing him

along, while at the stern, behind his back, another lusty Naiad steers

him on his way.

The river divides the great city into two parts; that on the left

bank, which is by far the larger, being Canton, and the opposite

smaller town "Honan." On the Honan side, a few European gentlemen

still live and carry on business, as branches of several firms in

Hong-Kong; but the principal European quarter is a fine level plain on

the Canton side, presenting to the river a revetted wall. A pretty

church and some handsome houses, including the British consulate, have

been already completed within the land, which is called the "Shámeen."

It adjoins the portion formerly allotted for the Hongs, or warehouses

and offices of foreign (European) merchants, which were burnt down by

the Chinese mob before the last war.

At ten in the morning, one day in the month of February, I started

from the Honan side, under the guidance of a Chinese cicerone, who

spoke a language somewhat better than the gibberish known by the name

of "pigeon" (business) English, to explore the city of Canton. We

crossed the river in a tanka-boat, and after threading, jostling, and

pushing our way through swarms of small craft in every variety, landed

at the custom-house stairs, close to a small office in which presides

an English functionary, in the pay of the Chinese government. The

strand is crowded with mean dirty hovels, in which, and about the

muddy road, and on board innumerable boats, packed closely along the

bank, men, women, and children, filthy and ragged, were crowding in

swarms. We passed a short way up the strand, by some large shops,

crammed with clothing and ship chandlery, and, striking inland,

traversed an open space, scattered with the relics of the European

Hongs burnt before the last war (a space, by-the-by, which Europeans

have altogether deserted, preferring the "Shámeen" land, and which the

Chinese government appear unwilling to resume, so that it remains

altogether untenanted). We then entered the bazaar, or strictly

commercial portions of the town.

The day was unusually sultry for the time of year; the streets (so to

call passages of six or seven feet width), entirely paved with

flag-stones, were muddy and greasy from rain that had fallen the day

before. The air was stagnant from the confinement of closely packed

and overhanging houses, and heated by swarms of people hurrying to and

fro, while an insupportable stench from sewers, neglected drains, and

putrid fish and flesh, with a horrible odor of stale cabbage water,

pervaded the suffocating atmosphere. I became faint at times, fatigued

and heated beyond endurance, so that my estimate of the extent of this

enormous labyrinth through which I plodded for four hours before I

could get a sedan-chair, is one rather, of the feelings than of the

judgment I walked--stepping now and then into shops, to examine them

more closely--and rode in a sedan-chair up one street and down

another, from about half-past ten in the morning until four in the

afternoon, and had to leave unvisited about half the bazaar, to get a

hasty glimpse of a few temples, gardens, and mandarin-houses before

dusk.

The streets are flagged, and about six or seven feet broad. They

appear to be innumerable, crossing each other at right angles at every

two or three hundred yards. The houses {658} on each side are

narrow-fronted, but extending considerably to the rear. There are no

windows, for the centre of each front is, open, merely consisting of

carved and painted framework, like the proscenium of a theatre, and

displaying the contents of the shop on each hand, like side scenes.

The back is closed by a large panelling, in which figures of gods,

men, animals, and flowers are painted, with a vast deal of gilding and

finery. In short, each shop looks like a little theatre. A few houses

have upper stories, reached by pretty carved and balustraded stairs.

And as every article for which space can be found is hung up for

display, both inside the shop and around its front, the spectator, as

he enters the bazaar, feels as if he were diving into an ocean of

cloths, silks, flags, and flutters.

My guide was a sharp fellow, who thoroughly knew all the sights of

Canton. As he had been often employed as cicerone by the ship

captains, he immediately put me down as one of that jolly fraternity,

frequent intercourse with whom had given a slightly nautical twang to

his discourse. We had not gone far before he addressed me, "I say,

cappen: you come along o' me and see jewelers' shops. Here's

first-rate shop--number one jeweler this chap--cappen want to buy

anything? Heave along!" The jewelers' shops were numerous, and I saw

many very beautiful specimens of carving and filigree-work. Some of

the shops sold articles of European design, others ministered only to

the native beauty and fashion of Canton. These contained many articles

of considerable beauty and real taste. The most notable were the

"bird's feather ornaments," which consist of gold or gilt head combs,

brooches, ear-rings, and the like, on which are firmly fixed, with

glue, strips of the bright blue feathers of the kingfisher (Halcyon

Smyrnensis), cut into small patterns, through which the gold ground

appears; the whole effect being exactly like that of enamel work. The

kingfisher is not, I think, found in China, but is imported in great

numbers from Burmah and India. I asked the price of one skin lying on

the counter, and was told half a dollar (two shillings and

threepence). The bird was probably procured in India for

three-halfpence. Ivory shops are in great number, but the Chinese

ivory yields, in my opinion, to that of the Japanese. I went into

several porcelain shops, and saw in each ten or a dozen

languid-looking youths painting away, slowly and laboriously, at

leaves, flowers, insects, and so forth, on plates. Each lad had a

small bowl of one color, and when he had painted in all the parts of

the design intended to be of that color, he passed the plate on to his

neighbor, who added his color, and so on all round the room till the

pattern was completely colored. The result is stiff and mechanical.

There is no attempt at artistic effect, nothing like the beautiful

pictures painted in the factories at Worcester or Dresden. Dyers and

weavers are numerous. The silk shops are the finest in the bazaar, but

their contents are excessively dear, and are not very good. Indeed,

the Canton silks are considered by the Chinese themselves to be,

inferior to those made in the northern provinces of the empire. I have

seen silk dresses and pieces from Pekin brought into India via Nepaul,

of a quality which I was assured by a competent judge could not be

procured at Canton. This was five-and-twenty years ago, and it is

possible that our present widely different connection with China may

have introduced a better article into Shanghae, which is so near

Pekin. But the Chinese were very jealous formerly about exporting

their finest silks, and those I allude to were brought by the members

of a mission, sent every three years with a tribute from Kathmandoo to

the Emperor of China, as a friendly return present from the emperor to

the Rajah of Nepaul.

{659}

The Chinese shopkeepers are fat comfortable-looking fellows, with

pleasant, good-humored faces. They showed me their curiosities very

willingly, and none the less courteously exchanged a smiling

"chin-chin" with me if I left the shop without purchasing anything.

Tea-shops are numberless. They are piled up with chests such as we see

in England, and with open baskets of coarse and inferior tea for the

poor. The cheapest kind is made in thin round cakes or large wafers,

strung upon slips of bamboo. It partially dissolves in hot water, and

is flavored with salt by those who drink it. Of this form of brick tea

I have never seen any mention in the books published by travellers.

There are poulterers' shops, with fowls roasted and raw; and there are

vegetable sellers' stalls, and fish in baskets, dead and not

over-fresh, or alive in large tubs of water. They were all of the carp

family, including réhos, mïrgals, and kutlas, so familiarly known in

India, also several species of the siluroids, called vulgarly

"catfish." The fish brought from the sea are salted and sun-dried,

and, with strong aid from immense festoons of sharks' fins, set up a

stench that it is not easy to walk through.

After inspecting shops and elbowing and being elbowed in the crowd

till afternoon, when I was ready to drop with heat and fatigue, my

pilot steered me to a small square, flagged with stone, on which the

sun shone fiercely. He called it "Beggars' square," and told me that

all the destitute and abandoned sick in the city crawled, if they

could, to this spot, because those who died there received burial at

the expense of government. While he spoke, my eyes were fixed upon

some heaps of dirty tattered clothes on the ground, which presently

began to move, and I discovered to my horror three miserable

creatures, lean and covered with odious filth, lying in different

stages of their last agony on the bare stones, exposed to the burning

rays of the sun. They came here to die, and no one heeded them, or

gave them a drop of water, or a morsel of food, or even a little

shelter from the noontide glare. I had seen shocking things of this

sort in India, but nothing so horrible. To insure a climax of

disgusts, my guide led me straight to a dog butcher's shop, where

several of the nasty fat oily carcases of those animals were hanging

for sale. They had not been flayed, but dangled there with their

smooth shining skins, which had been scalded and scraped clean of

hair, so that at first I took them for sucking-pigs. There were joints

of dog, ready roasted, on the counter, and in the back of the shop

were several cages in which live dogs were quietly sitting, lolling

their tongues out, and appearing very unconcerned. I saw several cats

also, in cages, looking very demure; and moreover I saw customers,

decorous and substantial-looking householders, inspect and feel the

dogs and cats, and buy those which they deemed fittest for the table.

The cats did not like being handled, and mewed loudly. "What cappen

think o' that?" said my guide. "Cappen s'pose never eat dog?--dog very

good, very fat, very soft. Oh, number one dinner is dog!" "And are

cats as good?" I asked. "Oh, Chinaman chowchow everything. Chowchow

plenty cat. Chinaman nasty beast, I think, cappen, eh?" My cicerone

had been so long mixed up with European and American ship captains and

missionaries, that he had learnt to suit his ideas to his company, if

his ideas had not actually undergone great modification, as is the

case in India with those educated natives of the present day known to

us as specimens of "Young Bengal."

Before quitting the bazaar, I was ushered into two gambling-shops.

These are licensed by the Chinese government, the owners paying a

considerable tax. Both were tolerably full of players, and in both the

same kind of game was being played--a simple one enough, if I

understood it. {660} A player staked a pile of cash or dollars; the

croupier staked a similar one; and then another member of the

establishment dipped his hand into a bag and drew out a handful of

counters; if they were in even fours, the bank won; if they were

uneven, the player won, and the croupier's stake was duly handed over

to him--rather ruefully, it struck me, by the banker, who sat on the

counter raised above the rest. This game appears about as

intrinsically entertaining as pulling straws; but I may have

overlooked or misunderstood parts of it of a more intellectual nature.

In the first house I visited, the players were of the lower class, and

the stakes were copper cash. One man, quite a youth, left the room

evidently cleaned out; his look revealed it, and I suppose he went

away to the opium shop, the usual consolation of a Chinaman under the

circumstances. As we entered the second gambling-house, my guide

informed me, "This rich house. Number one fellow play here--mandarin

chap." And truly I saw in the room goodly piles of dollars heaped up

before a better-dressed assembly. The game appeared to be the same,

and money changed hands rapidly. I "chin-chinned" to the banker and to

the company, and was civilly allowed to look on. The room led through

a filigreed doorway to another apartment, where cakes, loaves, tea,

and pipes were spread out, and where long-tailed gentlemen were

lounging and discussing the news of the day.

Being in want of cash, and having only dollar notes with me, I asked

my guide what I should do? He straightway led me to a money-changer's,

where I was at once furnished with change for my notes at par. As this

was an unusual accommodation, I asked the reason of such generosity,

and was informed that the dollars given me were all light, and that

the changer would obtain full-weight dollars for the notes by-and-by.

I was assured, however, that in all the shops the dollars I had

received would be received at the full value; and this I found to be

the case. All the time I was in the money-changer's, I saw three or

four people telling, examining, and stamping dollars. So defaced and

mutilated does the coin become by bearing the "chop" or mark of every

banker or dealer into whose possession it passes, that it as nearly as

possible returns to that state of bullion which the Chinaman prefers

to minted coin. As it was, the only small change I could procure for a

dollar was in fragments of silver; in the weighing out of which I was

of course at the mercy of the shopman.

A chair having been with great difficulty procured for me, and another

for my guide, we were about emerging from the bazaar when I had the

honor of meeting a mandarin and suite. My bearers had just time to

squeeze into the entrance of a side-alley, when the cavalcade was down

upon us. Funny-looking soldiers with spears and muskets

indiscriminately, musicians and drummers or tom-tom beaters, and an

amazing figure in red and gold apparel of a loose flapping cut, with a

sword in his hand, mounted upon an inexcusable pony--a Chinese

Rosinante. In the centre of this cortege the mandarin was borne along,

a placid fat dignitary, in a richly embroidered purple velvet and

golden dress, seated in a gaudy sedan.

It was a great relief to emerge from the crowded bazaar, pass through

the gateway in the massive city wall, and proceed through

comparatively airy lanes to one or two Chinese gentlemen's houses and

gardens, which my guide most unceremoniously entered, marshalling me

in without a word of introduction or apology, and making me feel

rather ashamed of myself. These dwellings, as well as the joss-houses

or temples, have been so often described, that I will not inflict them

again on the reader. Not the slightest objection was raised by the

priests to my exploring every part of the temples, the vergers showing

the altars, the various images, the cloisters {661} and refectories,

with great alacrity, and extending their hands afterward for a fee.

The only undescribed fact connected with these worthies which I was

informed of is, that they sell their finger-nails to any foreigner

desirous of purchasing such curiosities. These nails are suffered to

grow uncut, and attain a length of three or four inches, looking

remarkably unlike finger-nails, and forming curiosities much coveted,

said my guide, by foreign gentlemen and "cappens." Among other

religious edifices I visited a Mohammedan temple, a singular jumble of

Islamism and Buddhism. Extracts from the Koran wore an odd appearance

emblazoned on Chinese architecture. There were no priests visible

here; only children and begging old women.

Want of time prevented my visiting the camp or barracks of the Chinese

soldiers, on the heights outside the eastern suburbs of the town. A

large garden, attached to a temple on the Honan side, was the only

other object I had time that day to inspect. The garden was

principally stocked with orange-trees, also loquats and lychees,

hundreds of which were on sale for the benefit of the good fathers,

who are supported by the produce of the garden and the contributions

of the piously disposed. On each side of the centre walk, beyond a

little dirty pond, was a shed, with shelves, on which were ranged pots

containing the ashes of the priests ("priests' bones," my guide

irreverently called them); their bodies, after decease, undergoing

incremation in an adjoining pit. Names, ages, and dates of decease are

duly preserved, cut into slabs of stone on the concave face of a

semicircular screen of masonry in the garden. Before leaving the

garden I was not a little surprised by the appearance of a veritable

magpie, identical, as it seemed to me, with our British bird, that I

had not seen for many years.

After guiding me safely to my quarters--for so labyrinthine is every

part of Canton and Honan that it would be hopeless to attempt to find

one's way alone--my pilot left me and departed to his own home, which

was, he told me, on the Canton side. The language he spoke is, as may

be gathered from the specimens here given, not the ordinary "pigeon

English" of Chinese servants; a style of gibberish which it is

lamentable to think has become the ordinary channel of communication

with all Chinamen. These sharp and intelligent people would soon learn

to speak and understand better English than such sentences has "You go

top-side and catchee one piecee book"--"You tell those two piecee

cooly go chow-chow, and come back chop-chop." (Go up-stairs and fetch

a book--Tell those two coolies to go to their dinner, and return

quickly.) The good effects of the tuition afforded by schoolmasters

and missionaries in China are much marred by the jargon used

conventionally, with irrational adherence to defect, in all ordinary

transactions of business, by masters and mistresses in intercourse

with their servants, and by commercial men with their native

assistants.

About seven hours' run, in one of the American steamers before

mentioned, carries the passenger from Canton to Macao. The mouth of

the river is cleared in four hours, and the rest of the voyage is over

an open sea, which, with a fresh southerly breeze, is rather rough for

a flat-bottomed steamer: the islands to eastward, though numerous,

being too remote to check the swell of the Chinese ocean. After

running for about an hour along the bold rocky peninsula at the point

of which Macao is built, the steamer rounds in, and, entering a

partially land-locked harbor between the town and some rocky islets to

its south, anchors in smooth water. The town has a quaint picturesque

look. Its old-fashioned houses extend to the water's edge. They are

all of stone or brick, covering the face of the bold coast: the

heights of which are crowned by castles, forts, batteries, and

convents, and from whose ancient walls the last rays of a setting sun

were fading as we entered the harbor. The {662} inhabitants are

entirely Portuguese, Chinese, and a breed between the two. The

jealousy of the Portuguese government effectually excludes foreigners

from settling; a miserable policy, by which trade is almost extinct,

the revenue being derived chiefly from licensing of gambling-houses.

In front of the house of the governor I saw a guard of soldiers. They

wore able-bodied, smart-looking young fellows in neat blue uniforms,

detailed from a regiment in the fort. These soldiers, and a few

half-castes, looking like our office keranies in India, together with

some strangely dressed females, in appearance half aya, half sister of

charity, were all that I saw of the Portuguese community. The

non-military Portuguese looked jaded and lazy, almost every man with a

cheroot in his mouth. The town, indeed, struck me as a very "Castle of

Indolence."

------

Abridged from The Dublin University Magazine.

GLASTONBURY ABBEY, PAST AND PRESENT.

One of the most subtle operations of time is the tendency it has to

transform the facts of one age into the phantasies of another, and to

cause the dreams of the past to become the realities of the present.

Far away in the remote distance of history, when a lonely monk in his

cell mused of vessels going without sails and carriages without

horses, it was a dream--a mere dream, produced probably by a brain

disordered by over study, long vigils, and frequent fasts, but that

dream of the thirteenth century has become the most incontrovertible

fact of the nineteenth, a fact to whose influence all other hitherto

immovable facts are giving way, even the great one, the impregnability

of the Englishman's castle; for we find that before the obstinate

march of one of these railway facts a thousand Englishmen's castles

fall prostrate, and a thousand Englishmen are evicted, their

avocations broken up, and themselves turned out upon the world as a

new order of beings--outcasts with compensation.

The monastic life, so commonly regarded in these later times as a

phantasy, was once a fact, a great universal fact; it was a fact for

twelve or thirteen centuries; and when we remember that it extended

its influence from the sunny heights of Palestine, across Europe, to

the wild, bleak shores of western Ireland; that it did more in the

world for the formation and embellishment of modern civilization than

all the governments and systems of life the accompanied it in its

course; that the best portions of ancient literature, the materials of

history, the secrets of art, are the pearls torn from its

treasure-house, we may form some idea of what a fact the monastic life

must have been at one time, and may venture to assert that the history

of that phase of existence, as in frock and cowl it prayed, and

watched, and fasted; as in its quiet cloisters it studied, and copied,

and labored; as outside its walls it mingled its influence with the

web of human destiny, and as in process of time, becoming wealthy and

powerful, it degenerated, and went the way of all human things--we say

that the history of the development of this extinct world, however

defective the execution of that history may be, will include in its

review some of the most interesting portions of our national career,

will furnish a clue to many of the mazes of historical speculation, or

at least may be suggestive {663} to some more able intellect of a

course of investigation which has been very little followed, and a

mine of truth which to a great extent still remains intact.

At a time when laws were badly administered, and the country often

torn by internal contentions, and always subject to the violence of

marauders, it was absolutely necessary that there should be some

asylum for those thoughtful, retiring spirits who, unable or unwilling

to take part in the turmoil of the times, were exposed to all its

dangerous vicissitudes. In an age, too, when the country possessed no

literature, the contemplative and the learned had no other means of

existence than by retiring to the cloister, safe out of the reach of

the jealous superstition of ignorance and the wanton barbarity of

uncouth violence. The monastery then was the natural home of these

beings--the deserted, the oppressed, the meek spirit who had been

beaten in the world's conflict, the untimely born son of genius, the

scholar, the devotee, all found a safe shelter and a genial abode

behind the friendly walls of these cities of refuge. There, too, lay

garnered up, as a priceless hoarding for future ages, the sacred

oracles of Christianity, and the rescued treasures of ancient lore;

there science labored at her mystic problems; and there poetry,

painting, and music were developed and perpetuated; in fine, all that

the world holds as most excellent, all that goes toward the foundation

and adornment of modern society, treasured up in the monastery as in

an ark, rode in safety over the dark flood of that mediaeval deluge

until the waters subsided, and a new world appearing from its depths,

violent hands were laid upon those costly treasures, which were torn

from their hiding-places and freely scattered abroad, whilst the

representatives of those men who, in silence and with prayer, had

amassed and cherished them, were branded as useless idlers, their

homes broken up, and themselves dispersed, with no mercy for their

errors and no gratitude for their labors, to seek the scanty charities

of a hostile world. Beside being the cradle of art and science, the

monastery was a great and most efficient engine for the dispensation

of public charity. At its refectory kitchen the poor were always

cheerfully welcomed, generously treated, and periodically relieved; in

fine, the care of the poor was not only regarded as a solemn duty, but

was undertaken with the most cheerful devotion and the most

unremitting zeal. They were not treated like an unsightly social

disease, which was to be cured if possible, but at any rate kept out

of sight; they were not handed over to the tender sympathies of paid

relieving officers, nor dealt with by the merciless laws of

statistics, but they were treated gently and kindly in the spirit of

the Great Master, who when on earth bestowed upon them the larger

share of his sympathy, who, in the tenderness of his pity, dignified

poverty and sanctified charity when he declared that "inasmuch as ye

have done it unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto

me." Whatever may have been the vices of the monastic system or the

errors of its ritual, its untiring charity was its great redeeming

virtue.

It will not perhaps be an unfitting introduction to our investigation

into the rise and influence of this system upon our national life if

we resuscitate from the grave of the past one of these great

monasteries, the oldest and most powerful which sprang up in our

country, and which, compared with others at the time when they fell

before the great religious convulsion of the sixteenth century, had,

in the midst of general corruption, maintained its purity, and

suffered less from its own vices than from the degeneracy of the

system to which it belonged, and of which it was the most

distinguished ornament. We shall endeavor to portray the monastery as

it was in all its glory, to pass through its portals, to enter

reverently {664} into its magnificent church, to listen to its

gorgeous music, to watch its processions, to wander through its

cloisters, to visit its domestic domains, to penetrate into the

mysteries of its refectory, the ascetic simplicity of its dormitory,

the industry of its schoolhouse and fratery, the stores of its

treasury, the still richer stores of its library, the immortal labors

of its Scriptorium, where they worked for so many centuries, uncheered

and unrewarded, for a thankless posterity, who shrink even now from

doing them justice; we shall visit the gloomy splendors of its crypt,

wander through its grounds, and marvel at its strange magnificence.

After having thus gazed, as it were, upon the machine itself in

motion, we shall perhaps be the better enabled subsequently to

comprehend the nature and value of its work.

In the early part of the sixteenth century the ancient abbey of

Glastonbury was in the plenitude of its magnificence and power. It had

been the cynosure for the devotees of all nations, who, for nearly

eleven centuries, flocked in crowds to its fane--to worship at its

altars, to venerate its relics, to drink in health at its sacred well,

and to gaze in rapt wonder at its holy thorn. And even now, in these

later days, though time has wasted it, though fierce fanaticism has

played its cannon upon it, though ruthless vandalism in blind

ignorance has despoiled many of its beauties, it still stands proud in

its ruined grandeur, defiant alike of the ravages of decay, the

devastation of the iconoclast, and the wantonness of the ignorant.

Although not a single picture, but only an inventorial description, is

extant of this largest abbey in the kingdom, yet, standing amidst its

silent ruins, the imagination can form some faint idea of what it must

have been when its aisles were vocal with the chant of its many-voiced

choir, when gorgeous processions moved grandly through its cloisters,

and when its altars, its chapels, its windows, its pillars, were all

decorated with the myriad splendors of monastic art. Passing in at the

great western entrance, through a lodge kept by a grave lay-brother,

we find ourselves in a little world, shut up by a high wall which

swept round its domains, inclosing an area of more than sixty acres.

The eye is arrested at once by a majestic pile of building, stretching

itself out in the shape of an immense cross, from the centre of whose

transept there rises a high tower. The exterior of this building is

profusely decorated with all the weird embellishments of medieval art.

There, in sculptured niche, stands the devout monarch, sceptred and

crowned; the templar knight, who had fallen under an oriental sun

fighting for the cross; the mitred abbot, with his crosier; the saint

with his emblem; the martyr with his palm; scenes from Sacred Writ;

the apostles, the evangelists; petrified allegories and sculptured

story; and then, clustering around and intertwining itself with all

these scenes and representations of the world of man, were ornamental

devices culled from the world of nature. A splendid monument of the

genius of those mediaeval times whose mighty cathedrals stand before

us now like massive poems or graven history, where men may read, as it

were from a sculptured page, the chivalrous doings of departed heroes,

the long tale of the history of the Church--of her woes, her triumphs,

her martyrs, and her saints--a deathless picture of actual existence,

as though some heaven-sent spirit had come upon the earth, and with a

magic stroke petrified into the graphic stillness of stone a whole

world of life and living things. The length of the nave of this

church, beginning from St. Joseph's chapel (which we shall presently

notice, and which was an additional building) up to the cross, was 220

feet, the great tower was 40 feet in breadth, and the transepts on

either side of it each 45 feet in length, the choir was 150 feet; its

entire length from east to west was {665} 420 feet; and if we add the

appended St. Joseph's chapel, we have a range of building 530 feet in

length.

Turning from the contemplation of this external grandeur, we come to a

structure which forms the extreme west of the abbey--a chapel

dedicated to St. Joseph of Arimathea. The entrance on the north side

is a masterpiece of art, being a portal consisting of four

semicircular arches, receding and diminishing as they recede into the

body of the wall, the four fasciae profusely decorated with sculptured

representations of personages and scenes, varied by running patterns

of tendrils, leaves, and other natural objects. The first thing that

strikes the attention upon entering is the beautiful

triarial-mullioned window at the western extremity, with its

semicircular head; opposite, at the eastern end, another,

corresponding in size and decoration, throws its light upon the altar.

On both the north and south sides of the church are four uniform

windows, rising loftily till their summits nearly touch the vaulting;

underneath these are four sculptured arches, the panelling between

them adorned with painted representations of the sun, moon, stars, and

all the host of heaven; the flooring was a tesselated pavement of

encaustic tiles, each bearing an heraldic device, or some allegorical

or historical subject. Beneath this tesselated pavement is a spacious

crypt, eighty-nine feet in length, twenty feet in width, and ten feet

high, provided with an altar, and when used for service illuminated by

lamps suspended from the ceiling. St. Joseph's chapel, however, with

its softly-colored light, its glittering panels, its resplendent

altars, and its elegant proportions, is a beautiful creation; but only

a foretaste or a prelude of that full glare of splendor which bursts

upon the view on ascending the flight of steps leading from its lower

level up to the nave of the great abbey church itself, which was

dedicated to St. Mary. Arrived at that point, the spectator gazes upon

a long vista of some four hundred feet, including the nave and choir;

passing up through the nave, which has a double line of arches, whose

pillars are profusely sculptured, we come to the central point in the

transept, where there are four magnificent Gothic arches, which for

imposing grandeur could scarcely be equalled in the world, mounting up

to the height of one hundred feet, upon which rested the great tower

of the church. A portion of one of these arches still exists, and

though broken retains its original grandeur. In the transept running

north and south from this point are four beautifully decorated

chapels, St. Mary's, in the north aisle; St. Andrew's, in the south;

Our Lady of Loretto's, on the north side of the nave; and at the south

angle that of the Holy Sepulchre; another stood just behind the tower,

dedicated to St. Edgar: in each of these are altars richly adorned

with glittering appointments, and beautiful glass windows, stained

with the figures of their patron saints, the apostles, scriptural

scenes or episodes from the hagiology of the Church; then, running in

a straight line with the nave, completing the gigantic parallelogram,

is the choir, where the divine office is daily performed. The body is

divided into stalls and seats for the abbot, the officers, and monks.

At the eastern extremity stands the high altar, with its profusion of

decorative splendor, whilst over it is an immense stained-glass

window, with semicircular top, which pours down upon the altar, and in

fact bathes the whole choir, when viewed from a distance, in a sea of

softened many-colored light. The flooring of the great church, like

that of St. Joseph's, is composed of encaustic Norman tiles, inscribed

with Scripture sentences, heraldic devices, and names of kings and

benefactors. Underneath the great church is the crypt--a dark vault

divided into three compartments by two rows of strong massive pillars,

into which, having descended from the church, the spectator {666}

enters; the light of his torch is thrown back from a hundred different

points, like the eyes of serpents glittering through the darkness,

reflected from the bright gold and silver nails and decorations of the

coffins that lie piled on all sides, and whose ominous shapes can be

just faintly distinguished. This is the weird world, which exerts a

mysterious influence over the hearts of the most thoughtless--the

silent world of death in life; and piled up around are the remains of

whole generations long extinct of races of canonized saints, pious

kings, devout queens, mitred abbots, bishops, nobles who gave all

their wealth to lie here, knights who braved the dangers of foreign

climes, the power of the stealthy pestilence, and the scimitar of the

wild Saracen, that they might one day come back and lay their bones in

this holy spot. There were the gilded coffins of renowned abbots,

whose names were a mighty power in the world when they lived, and

whose thoughts are still read with delight by the votaries of another

creed--the silver crosiers of bishops, the purple cloth of royalty,

and the crimson of the noble--all slumbering and smoldering in the

dense obscurity of the tomb, but flashing up to the light once more in

a temporary brilliancy, like the last ball-room effort of some aged

beauty--the aristocracy of death, the coquetry of human vanity, strong

even in human corruption. Amongst the denizens of this dark region

are--King Arthur and his queen Guinever, Coel II., grandfather of

Constantine the Great, Kentwyn, king of the West Saxons, Edmund I.,

Edgar and Ironsides, St. David of Wales, and St. Gildas, beside nine

bishops, fifteen abbots, and many others of note. Reascending from

this gloomy cavern to the glories of the great church, we wander

amongst its aisles, and as we gaze upon the splendors of its choir, we

reflect that in this gorgeous temple, embellished by everything that

art and science could contribute, and sanctified by the presence of

its holy altar, with its consecrated host, its cherished receptacle of

saintly relics, and its sublime mysteries, did these devout men, seven

times a day, for centuries, assemble for prayer and worship. As soon

as the clock had tolled out the hour of midnight, when all the rest of

the world was rocked in slumber, they arose, and flocked in silence to

the church, where they remain in prayer and praise until the first

faint streaks of dawn began to chase away the constellations of the

night, and then, at stated intervals through the rest of the day, the

appointed services were carried on, so that the greater portion of

their lives was spent m this choir, whose very walls were vocal with

psalmody and prayer. It was a grand offering to the Almighty of human

work and human life. In that temple was gathered as a rich oblation

everything that the united labor of ages could create and collect;

strong hands had dug out its foundations in the bowels of the earth,

had hewn stubborn rocks into huge blocks, and piled them up high in

the heavens, had fashioned them into pillars and arches, myriads of

busy fingers had labored for ages at its decoration until every

column, every cornice, and every angle bore traces of patient toil;

the painter, the sculptor, the poet, had all contributed to its

embellishment, strength created it, genius beautified it, and the

ever-ascending incense of human contrition, human adoration, and human

prayer completed the gorgeous sacrifice which those devotees of

mediaeval times offered up in honor of him whose mysterious presence

they venerated as the actual and real inhabitant of their holy of

holies.

Retracing our steps once more to the nave, we turn to take one

lingering glance at the scene: and here the full beauty and

magnificence of the edifice bursts upon the view, the eye wanders

through a perfect stony forest whose stately trees, taken at some

moment when their tops, bending toward each other and interlacing

{667} themselves, had been petrified into the natural beauty of the

Gothic arch; here and there were secluded spots where the prismatic

light from painted windows danced about the pillars like straggling

sunbeams through the thick foliage of a forest glade. The clusters of

pillars resembled the gnarled bark of old forest trees, and the

grouped ornaments of their capitols were the points where the trunk

itself spread off into limbs and branches; there were groves and

labyrinths running far away into the interior of this sculptured wood,

and towering high in the centre were those four kings of the forest,

whose tops met far up in the heavens--the true heart of the scene,

from which everything diverged, and, with which everything was in

keeping. Then, as the spectator stands, lost in the grandeur of the

spectacle, gazing in rapt wonder at the sky-painted ceiling, or at

some fantastic gnarled head grinning at him from a shady nook, the

passing whim of some mediaeval brain--a faint sigh, as of a distant

wind, steals along those stony glades, gradually increasing in volume,

until presently the full, rich tones of the choir burst forth, the

organ peals out its melodious thunder, add every arch and every pillar

vibrates with undulations of harmonious sound, just as in the

storm-shaken forest every mighty denizen bends his massive branches to

the fierce tempest-wind, and intones his deep response to the wild

music of the storm. Before the power of that music-tempest everything

bowed, and as the strains of some Gregorian chant or the dirge-like

melody of some penitential psalm filled the whole building with its

pathos, every figure seemed to be invested with life, the mysterious

harmony between the building and its uses was manifested, the painted

figures on the windows appeared to join in the strain, a celestial

chorus of apostles, martyrs, and saints; the statues in their niches

threw back the melody; the figures reclining on the tombs seemed to

raise their clasped hands in silent response to its power, as though

moved in their stony slumber by a dream of solemn sounds; the

grotesque figures on the pillars and in nooks and corners chanted the

dissonant chords, which brought out more boldly the general harmony;

every arch, with its entwined branches and sculptured foliage, shook

with the stormy melody: all was instinct with sympathetic life, until,

the fury of the tempest dying away in fitful gusts, the last breeze

was wafted, the painted forms became dumb, the statues and images grew

rigid, the foliage was still, all the sympathetic vitality faded away,

and the sacred grove fell into its silent magnificence.

Attached to the great church were two offices--the sacristy and church

treasury. In the former were kept the sacred vestments, chalices,

etc., in use daily; and in the latter were kept all the valuables,

such as sacred relics, jewels and plate not in use, with mitres,

crosiers, cruces, and pectorals; there was also a confessional for

those who wished to use it before going to the altar. The care of

these two offices was committed to a monk elected by the abbot, who

was called the sacrist. Coming out of the church we arrive at the

cloisters, a square place, surrounded by a corridor of pillars, and in

the centre of the enclosure was a flower-garden--this was the place

where the monks were accustomed to assemble at certain hours to walk

up and down. In one of the alleys of the cloister stood the

chapter-house, which, as it was the scene of the most important events

in their monotonous lives, deserves a description. In this spot the

abbots and officers of the monastery were elected, all the business of

the house as a body was discussed, faults were openly confessed,

openly reproved, and in some cases corporal punishment was awarded in

the presence of the abbot and whole convent upon some incorrigible

offender, so that, beside being an assembling room, it was a court of

complaint and correction. One {668} brother could accuse another

openly, when the matter was gone into, and justice done. In all

conventual institutions it was a weekly custom, and in some a daily

one, to assemble in the chapter-house after one of the morning

services (generally after primes), when a sentence from the rule was

read, a psalm sung, and business attended to. It was also an envied

burying-place; and the reader, as he stood at his desk in the

chapter-house of Glastonbury Abbey, stood over the body of Abbot

Chinnock, who himself perfected its building, which was commenced in

1303 by Abbot Fromont. In the interior, which was lit up by a

magnificent stained-glass window, there were three rows of stone

benches one above another. On the floor there was a reading-desk and

bench apart; in a platform raised above the other seats was the

abbot's renowned elbow-chair, which extraordinary piece of monastic

workmanship excited so much curiosity at the great Exhibition of 1851.

In the middle of the hall was a platform called the Judgment, being

the spot where corporal punishment, when necessary, was inflicted; and

towering above all was a crucifix, to remind the brethren of the

sufferings of Christ. In another alley of the cloisters stood the

fratery, or apartment for the novices, which had its own refectory,

common room, lavatory, and dormitory, and was governed by one of the

priors. Ascending the staircase, we come to a gallery in which are the

library, the wardrobe, the common house, and the common treasury. The

library was the first in England, filled with choice and valuable

books, which had been given to the monastery from time to time in its

history by kings, scholars, and devotees of all classes; many also

were transcribed by the monks. During the twelfth century, although

even then of great renown in the world, it was considerably augmented

by Henricus Blessensis, or Henry of Blois (nephew of Henry I. and

brother of Stephen), who was abbot. This royal scholar had more books

transcribed during his abbacy than any of his predecessors. A list is

still extant--"_De libris quos Henricus fecit transcribere_," in which

are to be found such works as Pliny "_De Naturali Historia_," a book

in great favor at that time; "_Originem super Epistolas Pauli ad

Romanos_," "_Vitas Caesarum_," "_Augustinum de Trinitate_," etc.

Here, too, as in every monastic library in the kingdom, was that old

favorite of conventual life, and still favorite with many a lonely

student, "_Boethius de Consolatione Philosophiae_," and many a great

work from the grim solitude of a prison cell, cherished, too, as the

link which connected the modern Latinists with those of the classic

age. Housed up in that lonely corner of the island, the Glastonbury

library was the storehouse of all the learning of the times; and as

devotees bent their steps from all climes toward the Glastonbury

relics and the Glastonbury shrine, so did the devotees of genius

lovingly wander to the Glastonbury library. Leland, the old gossipping

antiquarian, has testified to its glory, and given us an amusing

account of the reverential awe with which he visited it not long

before the fatal dissolution of the monastery. In the preliminary

observations to his "_Collectanea de Rebus Britannicis_," [Footnote

95] he has put the following upon record:--"Eram aliquot ab hinc annis

Glessoburgi Somurotrigum ubi antiquissimum simul et famosissimum est

totius insulaes nostrae caenobium, animumque longo studioram labore

fessum, favente Ricardo Whitingo, [Footnote 96] ejusdem loci abbate,

recreabam donee novus quidam cum legendi tum discendi ardor me

inflammaret. Supervenit autem ardor ille citius opinione; itaque

statim me contuli ad bibliothecam non omnibus perviam at sacras

sanctae vetustatis reliquias quarum tantus ibi numerus quantus nollo

{669} alio facile Britanniae loco diligentissime evolverem. Vix certo

limen intraveram cum antiquissimorum librorum vel solus conspectus,

religionem nescio an stuporem, animo incuteret meo, eaqae de causa

pedem paululum sistebam. Deinde salutato loci numine per dies aliquot

onmes forulos curiosissime excussi."

[Footnote 95: "Collect Reb. Brit." vi., page 87, Hearne's edition.]

[Footnote 96: Richard Whiting, the last Abbot.]

But attached to the library was a department common to all the

Benedictine monasteries, where, during long centuries of ignorance,

the materials of modern education were preserved and perpetuated; this

office was called the scriptorium, or _domus antiquariorum_. Here were

assembled for daily labor a class of monks selected for their superior

scholarship and writing ability; they were divided into two classes,

the _antiquarii_ and the _librarii_: the former were occupied in

making copies of valuable old books, and the latter were engaged in

transcribing new ones, and works of an inferior order. The books they

copied were the Scriptures, always in process of copying; missals,

books for the service of the Church, works on theology, and any of the

classics that fell into their hands. St. David, the patron saint of

Wales, is said to have devoted much time to this work, and at the

period of his death had begun to transcribe the gospel of St. John in

letters of gold with his own hand. [Footnote 97]

[Footnote 97: _Giraldus Cambren, vitâ Davidis Angl. Sac, ii._, 635.]

The instruments used in the work of the scriptorium were pens, chalk,

pumice-stone for rubbing the parchment smooth; penknives, and knives

for making erasures, an awl to make dots, a ruler and inkstand. The

greatest care was taken by the transcriber, the writing was always

beautifully clear, omissions were most scrupulously noted in the

margins, and all interlineations were mentioned and acknowledged. In

an old manuscript belonging to the Carmelites, the scribe adds, "I

have signed it with the sign following, and made a certain

interlineation which says '_redis_' and another which says

'_ordinis_,' and another which says '_ordini_,' and another which says

'_circa_.'" So great was the care they took to preserve the text

accurately, and free from interpolations. In these secluded studies

sprang up that art, the most charming which the middle ages have

handed down to us, the art of illumination, so vainly imitated by the

artists of the present day, not from want of genius, but from want of

something almost indescribable in the conception and execution, a tone

and preservation of color, and especially of the gilding, which was

essentially peculiar to the old monks, who must have possessed some

secret both of combination and fixing of colors which has been lost

with them. This elaborate illumination was devoted to religious books,

psalms, missals, and prayer-books; in other works the first letters of

chapters were beautifully illuminated, and other leading letters in a

lesser degree. The scribe generally left spaces for these, as that was

the duty of another; in the spaces were what were called "leading

letters," written small to guide the illuminator; these guide-letters

may still be detected in some books. So great was the love of this

art, that when printing displaced the labors of the scribe, it was

customary for a long time to have the leading letters left blank for

illumination. Such were the peculiar labors of the scriptorium, and to

encourage those who dedicated their time to it, a special benediction

was attached to the office, and posterity, when satirizing the

monastic life, would do well to remember that the elegance of the

satire may be traced back again to these labors, which are the

materials for the education and refinement of modern thought; we got

our Bible from them, we got our classics from them, and had not such

ruthless vandalism been exercised by those over-zealous men who

effected their dispersion, it is more than probable that the learned

world would not have had to lament over, the lost Decades of Livy. It

is the peculiarity of ignorance to be barbarous. There {670} is very

little difference between the feeling which prompted a Caliph Omar to

burn the Alexandrian Library or a Totila to destroy the achievements

of Roman art; and the feeling had only degenerated into the barbarity,

without the bravery, when it revived again in the person of our

arch-iconoclast, Cromwell, of church-devastating memory, who, however

great his love of piety many have been, must have had a thorough

hatred of architecture. The care of the library and the scriptorium

was intrusted to the librarian. The next department in the gallery was

the lavatory, fitted up with all the appliances for washing; and

adjoining this room was one arranged for shaving, a duty to which the

monks paid strict attention, more especially to preserve the tonsure.

The next room was the wardrobe, where their articles of clothing and

bedding were stored, and in an inner chamber was the tailory, where a

number of lay brethren, with a vocation for that useful craft, were

continually at work, making and repairing the clothes of the

community. These two rooms and the lavatory were in charge of the

camerarius, or chamberlain. The last abbot who sat in the chair of

Glastonbury was, as we shall see, elevated from this humble position

to that princely dignity. The common room was the next office, and

this was fitted up with benches and tables for the general use of the

monks; a fire was also kept burning in the winter, the only one

allowed for general purposes. The last chamber in the corridor was the

common treasury, a strong receptacle for ready money belonging to the

monastery, charters, registers, books, and accounts of the abbey, all

stored up in iron chests. In addition to being the strong room of the

abbey, it had another important use. In those uncertain times it was

the custom for both nobles and gentry to send their deeds, family

papers, and sometimes their plate and money, to the nearest monastery,

where, by permission of the abbot, they were intrusted to the care of

the treasurer for greater security; in the wildest hour, when the

castle was given up to fire and sword, the abbey was always held in

reverence; for, independently of its sacred character, it was endeared

to the people by the free-handed charity of its almonry and refectory

kitchen. Retracing our steps along the corridor, and ascending another

flight of stairs, we come to the dormitory, or dortoir, a large

passage with cells on either side; each monk had a separate chamber,

very small, in which there was a window, but no chimney, a narrow

bedstead, furnished with a straw bed, a mattress, a bolster of straw,

a coarse blanket, and a rug; by the bedstead was a prie-Dieu, or desk,

with a crucifix upon it, to kneel at for the last and private

devotions; another desk and table, with shelves and drawers for books

and papers; in the middle was a cresset, or stone-lantern, with a lamp

in it to give them light when they arose in the middle of the night to

go to matins; this department also was under the care of the

chamberlain. One more chamber was called the infirmary, where the sick

were immediately removed, and treated with the greatest attention;

this was in the charge of an officer called the infirmarius. We now

descend these two flights of stairs, issue from the cloisters, and,

bending our steps to the south-west, we come to the great hall, or

refectory, where the whole convent assembled at meals. At Glastonbury

there were seven long tables, around which, and adjoining the walls,

were benches for the monks. The table at the upper end was for the

abbot, the priors, and other heads, the two next for the priests, the

two next for such as were in orders, but not priests, and such as

intended to enter into orders; the lower table on the right hand of

the abbot was for such as were to take orders whom the other two

middle tables could not hold, and the lower table on the left of the

abbot was reserved for the lay brethren. In a convenient place was a

pulpit, where one of the monks, at the {671} appointment of the abbot,

read portions of the Old and New Testament in Latin every day during

dinner and supper. The routine of dinner, as indeed the routine of all

their meals, was ordered by a system of etiquette as stringent as that

which prevails in the poorest and smallest German court of the present

day. The sub-prior, who generally presided at the table, or some one

appointed by him, rang the bell; the monks, having previously

performed their ablutions in the lavatory, then came into the great

hall, and bowing to the high table, stood in their places till the

sub-prior came, when they resumed their seats; a psalm was sung, and a

short service followed by way of grace. The sub-prior then gave the

benediction, and at the end they uncovered the food, the sub-prior

beginning; the soup was then handed round, and the dinner proceeded;

if anything was wanted it was brought by the cellarer, or one of his

assistants, who attended, when both the bringer and receiver bowed. As

soon as the meal was finished the cellarer collected the spoons; and

so stringent was the etiquette, that if the abbot dined with the

household (which he did occasionally) he was compelled to carry the

abbot's spoon in his right hand and the others in his left; when all

was removed the sub-prior ordered the reading to conclude by a "Tu

antem," and the reply of "Dei gratias;" the reader then bowed, the

remaining food was covered, the bell was rung, the monks arose, a

verse of a psalm was sung, when they bowed and retired two by two,

singing the "Miserere."

A little further toward the south stood the guest-house, where all

visitors, from prince to peasant, were received by the hospitaller

with a kiss of peace, and entertained. They were allowed to stay two

days and two nights; on the third day after dinner they were expected

to depart, but if not convenient they could procure an extension of

their stay by application to the abbot. This hospitality, so

generously accorded, was often abused by sons of donors and

descendants of benefactors, who saddled themselves and their retinues

upon the monasteries frequently, and for a period commensurate with

the patience of the abbot; and to so great an extent did this evil

grow that statutes were enacted to relieve the abbeys so oppressed.

Not far from the refectory, toward the west, stood the abbot's private

apartments, and still further to the west the great kitchen, which was

one of the wonders of the day; its capacity may be imagined when we

reflect that it had frequently to provide dinner for four or five

hundred guests; but the arrangements and service of the kitchen

deserve notice. Every monk had to serve as hebdomadary, or dispenser,

whose duty it was to appoint what food was to be dressed and to keep

the accounts for the week. Upon taking office he was compelled to wash

the feet of the brethren, and upon yielding it up to the new

hebdomadary he was obliged to see that all the utensils were clean.

St. Benedict strictly enjoined this rule upon them, in order that, as

Christ their Lord washed the feet of his disciples, they might wash

each others' feet, and wait upon each others' wants. The Glastonbury

kitchen is the only building which still remains entire; it was built

wholly of stone, for the better security from fire; on the outside it

is a four-square, and on the inside an eight-square figure; it had

four hearths, was twenty feet in height to the roof, which ran up in a

figure of eight triangles; from the top hung suspended a huge lantern.

[Footnote 98]

[Footnote 98: Strange vicissitudes of kitchens--in 1667 this

Glastonbury Abbey kitchen was hired by the Quakers as a

meeting-house; in the fulness of time, where monasticism cooked its

mutton Quakerdom sat in triumph.]

Attached to the kitchen was the almonry, or eleemosynarium, where on

Wednesdays and Fridays the poor people of Glastonbury and its

neighborhood were liberally relieved. This duty was committed to a

grave monk, who {672} was called the almoner, or eleemosynarius, and

who had to inquire after the poor and sick. No abbots in the kingdom

were more liberal in the discharge of these two duties of their

office, hospitality and almsgiving, than the abbots of Glastonbury. It

was not an unusual thing for them to entertain 500 guests at a

sitting, some of whom were of the first rank in the country, and the

loose charge of riotous feasting which has been thoughtlessly made

against the monastic life by hostile historians becomes modified when

we recollect that in that age there were scarcely any wayside inns in

the country, and all men, when travelling, halted at the monastery and

looked for refreshment and shelter as a matter of right; neither had

that _glorious_ system of union work-houses been thought of, and

therefore the sick and the poor fell at once to the care of the

monastery, where they were cheerfully relieved and tenderly treated.

Last, but not least, was the department for boys--another little

detached community, with its own school-room, dormitory, refectory,

hall, etc. One of the monks presided over them. They were taught

Christian doctrine, music, grammar, and, if any showed capacity, the

subjects necessary for the university. They were maintained free, and

had to officiate in the church as choristers; a system maintained

almost to the letter up to the very present moment. William of

Malmesbury records that in the churchyard of Glastonbury Abbey stood

some very ancient pyramids close to the sarcophagus of King Arthur.

The tallest was nearest the church, twenty-six feet in height,

consisting of five stories, or courses; in the upper course was the

figure of a bishop, in the second of a king, with this

inscription--HER. SEXI. and BLISVVERH. In the third the names

WEMCRESTE, BANTOMP, WENETHEGN. In the fourth--HATE, WVLFREDE, and

EANFLEDE. In the fifth, and last, the figure of an abbot, with the

following inscription--LOGVVOR, WESLIELAS and BREGDENE, SVVELVVES

HVVINGENDES, and BERNE. The other pyramid was eighteen feet in height,

and consisted of four stories, whereon were inscribed in large letters

HEDDE Episcopus BREGORRED and BEORVVALDE. William of Malmesbury could

give no satisfactory solution to the meaning of these inscriptions

beyond the suggestion that the word BREGDENE must have meant a place

then called "Brentacnolle," which now exists under the name of Brent

Knowle, and that BEORWALDE was Beorwald, the abbot after Hemigselus.

He concludes his speculation, however, with the sentence--"Quid haec

significent non temere diffinio sed ex suspicione colligo eorum

interius in cavatis lapidibus contineri ossa quorum exterius leguntur

nomina." [Footnote 99]

[Footnote 99: Guliel. Malms. Hist. Glaston.]

The man who ruled over this miniature world, with a state little short

of royalty, was endowed with proportionate dignities; being a member

of the upper house of convocation and a parliamentary baron, he sat

robed and mitred amongst the peers of the country; in addition to his

residence at the abbey he had four or five rural retreats at easy

distances from it, with parks, gardens, fisheries, and every luxury;

his household was a sort of court, where the sons of noblemen and

gentlemen were sent to be trained and educated. When at home he

royally entertained his 300 guests, and when he went abroad he was

attended by a guard of 100 men. The rent-roll of the monastery has

been computed to amount to more than £300,000 per annum, which in

these days would be equal to nearly half a million. Up to the year

1154 he ranked also as First Abbot of England, and took precedence of

all others; but Adrian the Fourth, the only Englishman who ever

ascended the papal chair, bestowed that honor upon the Abbot of St.

Albans, where he had received his education. The church, and different

offices which clustered round it, formed a kingdom, {673} over which

he ruled with absolute power. This description of the buildings and

adjuncts of the abbey may not be inaptly closed by giving a sketch of

the outline of a monastic day, which will assist the reader to form a

clearer idea of the monastic life. At two in the morning the bell

tolled for matins, when every monk arose, and after performing his

private devotions hastened to the church, and took his seat. When all

were assembled fifteen psalms were sung, then came the nocturn, and

more psalms; a short interval ensued, during which the chanter choir

and those who needed it had permission to retire for a short time if

they wished; then followed lauds, which were generally finished by six

A.M., when the bell rang for prime; when this was finished the monks

continued reading till seven o'clock, when the bell was rung and they

returned to put on their day clothes. Afterward, the whole convent

having performed their ablutions and broken their fast, proceeded

again to the church, and the bell was rung for tierce at nine o'clock.

After tierce came the morning mass, and as soon as that was over they

marched in procession to the chapter-house for business and correction

of faults. This ceremony over, the monks worked or read till sext,

twelve A.M., which service concluded, they dined; then followed the

hour's sleep in their clothes in the dormitory, unless any of them

preferred reading. Nones commenced at three P.M., first vespers at

four, then work or reading till second vespers at seven, afterward

reading till collation; then came the service of complin, confession

of sins, evening prayers, and retirement to rest about nine P.M.

That was the life pursued at Glastonbury Abbey, according to the

Benedictine rule, from the time of its establishment there until the

dissolution of the monastery, nearly ten centuries. With our modern

training and predilections, it is a marvel to us that men could be

found willing to submit to such a monotonous career--ten hours a day

spent in the church, beginning in the middle of the night, winter and

summer. And yet the monastery was always full. We read of no breaking

up of institutions for want of devotees, and we are driven to the

conclusion that in the age when the monastic life was in its power and

purity these men could have been actuated by none other than the

motive of strong religious fervor--a fervor of which we in modern

times have neither conception nor example. The operation of the

influence of that life upon the history of these islands can only be

contemplated by watching it in the various phases of its action upon

the politics, literature, and art by which it was surrounded, and for

that purpose we have selected this oldest and grandest specimen of

English monasticism, so faintly described, the mother Church of our

country, in whose career so brilliant, so varied, and so tragically

ended, we hope to be able to show wherein was the glory, the weakness,

and the ruin of the system, as it rose, flourished, and fell in

England.

We have endeavored to conjure up from the shadowy realms of the past

some faint representation of what Glastonbury Abbey was in the days of

its glory; let us now transfer ourselves from the age of towered

abbeys, wandering pilgrims, monks, cloisters, and convent bells to

this noisy, riotous, busy time in the year of grace 1865--from the

Glastonbury Abbey of the sixteenth century to the Glastonbury Abbey of

to-day.