In an elegantly furnished apartment of one of the most fashionable
hotels of Paris, a young lady sat alone. The rich sunshine of a warm
July afternoon streamed through the room. Now and then a gentle breeze
strayed in at the open window beside which she was seated, and sounds
of life, careless, outwardly happy life, floated upwards.
It was a brilliant and varied scene to look on: the handsome equipages
dashing by, the gaily attired ladies, the city itself, of which
the window commanded a fine view, with its sungilt trees and white
glittering domes; a scene that might well attract the eye.
But this gazer, though beautiful and young, not more apparently than
twenty years of age, one for whom it might be supposed to have every
attraction, appeared indifferent to it. Her attitude, as she leaned
back in her chair, her head resting on its cushioned top, betokened
weariness; and the beautiful large black eyes fixed so wistfully,
appeared to look far away and beyond what lay before her. It might be
that it was a scene she was well accustomed to from childhood--that
she was worn out after last night's gaiety. Yet she did not look like
a born Parisian. There was a light in those eyes that seemed as if
reflected from limpid, rippling streams, a something about that form
which told of mountains and heath-covered paths. She roused herself
from her reverie with a deep sigh and sat upright in her chair.
'Oh, if I could see it once again!' she murmured, 'the dear old place,
and my father and all the familiar faces! It is a long time since I
wrote to him. I never care to do it, because I can tell him nothing.
Yet why should I not? What a relief it would be if I might freely
unburden my heart to some one! I must do it.'
She rose, and walking to a small writing-table, unlocked the desk that
stood on it and took out a letter. It was written in a large masculine
hand. She read it over with fond brimming eyes, then seated herself at
the table, and taking a sheet of paper, began to write rapidly, seldom
pausing for consideration, as if she wrote straight down the thoughts
that were in her mind. The letter abounded in fond expressions of love
and interest, that seemed as if wrung from a sad home-sick heart.
'I sometimes think,' she wrote, 'in the morning when I awake, that I
am at home, and fancy I hear the loud chirping of the birds among the
ivy round my window, the lowing of the cattle, your voice in the yard
talking to the labourers, and all the sounds that used to rouse me.
Shall I never, never hear any of these again? I left them heedlessly,
thinking only of _him_ and the life of enjoyment I was going to. I do
not think I cast one parting glance on the hills and fields that last
evening, nor pressed a warmer kiss than usual on your cheek at night.
There seemed some glamour over me that I could not resist, and that
made me cold and unfeeling to all but the one. It is a just retribution
that I should pine to return now, when I never can. He may tell me
that I shall yet be there as mistress of Crofton Hall; but shall I?
Something in my heart tells me that I shall see it never, nevermore!
Would you know me now, I wonder, if you saw me? I am changed, I think,
but the change within is the greatest of all. I can hardly recognise
myself sometimes, as the same lively, thoughtless Eliza Daly.'
She then went on to tell how she had at first enjoyed her entrance into
society. It was plain that she had been greatly admired, and that she
had been able to adapt herself quickly to her new sphere in life. But
as her triumph became less new, spots began to tarnish its brightness.
With the murmurs of admiration and praise that reached her ears,
scornful reflections on her humble birth were mingled; and she began
to notice a tinge of condescension in the manner of many towards her,
which at first, when absorbed in delight at the novelty and grandeur of
everything, had not struck her. It was not possible even that with all
her native quickness and tact, the humble farmer's daughter could at
once be transformed into the polished lady, and so occasionally slight
breaches of etiquette were observable, which did not fail to excite
criticism. She would have thought much less about all this, only she
saw how her husband was annoyed by it. She found too that remarks which
she made in conversation frequently displeased him. He would accuse
her of being too _naïve_, and of allowing her ignorance of some things
with which she should be familiar, and her familiarity with others of
which she ought to be ignorant, to appear. At first he would reprove
her laughingly; but gradually, whenever she offended, with more and
more displeasure. She soon learned to seal her lips on such subjects,
and appear to know no more of the ways among which she had been brought
up than any of them--learned even to deny all knowledge of the familiar
spot itself.
But the gloss had gone from her pleasure, and she saw that it was also
fading from something more valued still--her husband's love. She feared
that he was becoming tired of her. She had amused him for a while, and
he had lavished the most passionate fondness on her; but that was past
now. She thought he repented, and was ashamed of the unequal match he
had made; and she resolved that her presence by his side should no
longer remind people of it and wound his pride. She absented herself
from every gaiety. At first he would ask her to accompany him as usual,
and seem surprised when she refused; but he never pressed her. He
thought, or feigned to think, it was because of delicate health she
would not go; but she knew that he was glad.
Withdrawn from the excitement in which she had lately lived, her
spirits sank, and as they did so, her husband grew more and more
careless and indifferent. Still, he was never unkind. He brought her
presents and indulged every fancy; but she could not be content with
the light good-nature that prompted this. She was dependent on him
only, and he left her alone and unhappy, scarcely seeming to know that
she was so, or betraying impatience at it.
As she finished her letter, the outpouring of a sad disappointed heart,
which has found in the reality so mournful a contrast to the bright
ideal, her tears fell heavily one by one. When she wrote the direction
on the envelope, she sobbed aloud, and buried her face in her hands. In
a few minutes she composed herself to read over what she had written.
Having done so, she paused and seemed to consider.
'No; I will not send it,' she said aloud. 'It would be a comfort to me
to get the affectionate reply I know I should from him, but it would
grieve him too much to think I was unhappy. It must not go.'
She was about to tear it across; but a sudden thought stayed her hand.
She folded it up and placed it in the envelope. 'If I die, let them
send it to him. And stay! I will put a little piece of my hair in
it.' She took up a pair of scissors, and going to the glass, severed
a glossy curl. She folded it in a piece of paper, and wrote, 'With
Eliza's love;' then laid it within the letter, which she sealed with
black wax, and instantly locked her desk.
As she did so the door opened, and her husband entered. He threw
himself on one of the couches with some commonplace remark, such as
people make when they think it incumbent on them to say something, but
are urged by no impulse from the heart.
'Paris is beginning to shew signs of getting thin,' he continued
lazily. 'We must leave it soon. I think of Rome for the winter. What do
you say?'
'I have no objection,' she answered, trying to speak cheerfully; but
there was a tremble in her voice, and something that seemed to strike
him as unusual, for he turned round and looked at her.
'What is the matter?' he asked.
'Nothing; there is nothing the matter with me.'
'Very well; that's all right.' He closed his eyes.
She stood looking at him wistfully. Though her own love had grown dim
and faint as his for her, and another face--that of him whom she had
turned from in her infatuation--was ever before her, yet the change
pained her. She went to him, and taking his hand, said gently, but with
a thrill in her voice that told of deep emotion: 'Do you remember that
evening--it is nearly a year ago now--when you first told me that you
loved me, and asked me to be your wife? I was frightened, and said it
was impossible the thing could ever be; but you knelt at my feet, and
declared that the happiness of your life depended on me.'
'Well, of course. And what then?' he answered, somewhat impatiently.
'It does not now, I'm afraid.'
'Oh, do not talk such nonsense, dear. I was courting you then; but now
such raptures and declarations would be ridiculous. _You_ are altered.
You always meet me with a sad face now. It is not very pleasant, I
assure you.' He spoke peevishly, and getting up, walked to the window,
and stood looking out with a discontented brow.
She followed him and laid her hand on his arm. 'Oh, do not--do not
withdraw your love altogether from me!' she said pleadingly. 'You are
all I have. Think of all I left to go with you.'
'All you left!' he repeated. 'And did I leave nothing, give up nothing
for your sake?' There was a bitterness in his tone as he asked the
question, and she perceived it.
'Oh, yes, yes; I know you did,' she answered. 'Much; and that is what
grieves me; because I fear,' she added in a lower tone, 'that if it
were to do again you might act differently.'
'Oh, don't bother yourself and me with such fancies. Of course I do
not, and never can regret that step. There; let us say no more about
it. I'm going to the Opera to-night. Will you come? You are moping
yourself to death.'
She hesitated. She felt no inclination to go, but she thought it might
be some real concern for her that made him ask, instead of the careless
good-nature, more than half selfishness perhaps, which disliked to see
sorrow on any face near him, because it made things less bright for
him. She consented to go.
'Very well,' he said. 'It is time for you to get ready; and don't let
me see red circles round your eyes again. You do not look so pretty
when you cry, Eliza.' He bent down, and pressed a light kiss on her
cheek.
RING LORE.
To Mr W. Jones' book on _Finger Ring Lore_, Historical, Legendary,
Anecdotal, just published by Chatto and Windus (price 7s. 6d.), we are
indebted for the following gossip, which may interest our readers.
In speaking of wedding-rings, we learn that these important symbols
have not always been manufactured from the precious metal, gold. We
are told that in lieu of a ring the church key has often been used;
and Walpole tells of an instance where a curtain-ring was employed.
The Duke of Hamilton fell so violently in love with the younger of the
celebrated Misses Gunning at a party in Lord Chesterfield's house, that
two days after he sent for a parson to perform the marriage ceremony;
but as the Duke had neither license nor ring, the clergyman refused
to act. Nothing daunted, Hamilton declared 'he would send for the
Archbishop; at last they were married with a ring of the bed-curtain,
at half an hour past twelve at night, at Mayfair Chapel.' Forgetful
bridegrooms have been reduced to greater straits than this even; in one
instance a leather ring had, on the spur of the moment, to be cut out
of a piece of kid from the bride's glove. A tragic story of a forgotten
wedding-ring is told in the _Lives of the Lindsays_. When he should
have been at church, Colin Lindsay, the young Earl of Balcarres, was
quietly eating his breakfast in nightgown and slippers; when reminded
that Mauritia of Nassau was waiting for him at the altar, he hurried to
church, but forgot the ring; a friend present gave him one, which he,
without looking at, placed on the bride's finger. After the ceremony
was over, the countess glanced at her hand and beheld a grinning
Death's-head on her ring. She fainted away; and the omen made such an
impression on her, that on recovering, she declared she was destined to
die within the year; a presentiment that probably brought about its own
fulfilment, for in a few months the careless Colin was a widower.
In medieval annals and ballads we find very frequent allusions to
'token'-rings; that is, rings given to prove identity; as knightly
gages, like the ring of the 'Fair Queen of France' that James wore at
Flodden; as pledges, &c. Many examples might be given of these uses of
rings. Perhaps as good as any are the two memorable instances in Queen
Elizabeth's life. She was peculiarly unfortunate in her token-rings.
When Essex was in her favour she gave him a ring, saying that if ever
he forfeited her esteem, and sent back this signet, the sight of it
would insure her forgiveness. The story is well known how, when Essex
lay in prison, doomed to death, he sent the ring to the Queen; but
Lady Nottingham intercepted it, and Essex was allowed to die. Recent
documents tend to prove the truth of the romantic ending of this story,
that when the dying and repentant Countess told the Queen how she had
kept back the ring, the effect on Elizabeth was so overpowering that
she died three days afterwards. The Virgin Queen's other historical
token-ring was one of the many gems that passed between her and Mary
Queen of Scots. She sent Mary part of a ring, with a promise similar
to that in the case of Essex; but though Mary, previous to her fatal
journey into England, wrote reminding Elizabeth of her promise, we all
know how little effect it had.
Bequests of rings in wills, as memorials, were frequent in the middle
ages as well as now. The sapphire ring that Mary sent from Fotheringay,
just before her execution, to Lord Claude Hamilton is still in
Hamilton palace; M'Gowan the antiquary had another of the rings she
distributed among her faithful attendants, which the _Times_ in 1857
traced to Broadstairs. Sir Henry Halford gave Sir Walter Scott a lock
of Charles I.'s hair, which Scott wore in a virgin gold setting with
'Remember' embossed upon it. Instances could easily be multiplied, but
one deserves special mention. The metal of the ball that slew Nelson
was divided into three and set in gold; on the lead in each was cut a
basso-relievo half-bust of the great admiral. Many special memorial
rings of Nelson were made about Trafalgar-time, but none so interesting
as these.
Besides other curious matter, Mr Jones gives us notices of the
customs and incidents in connection with rings, and many anecdotes
of remarkable rings, amongst the more remarkable of which were 'the
wedding of the Adriatic' by the Doge dropping a ring into the bosom
of the sea; the 'death-rings' of Borgia and the medieval Italian
poisoners; the part rings have played in identifying the living and
the dead, as when Cœur-de-Lion, returning from Palestine in disguise,
was recognised at Gazara in Slavonia by his ring. The body of Sir
Cloudesley Shovel, cast up after a storm on the rocks of Scilly
in 1707, was identified by his emerald ring, and was removed to
Westminster Abbey. Rings have saved life, have promoted diplomatic
relations with semi-civilised nations, have been used as bribes; in
short, have played an important part on many different occasions. The
_refusal_ of a bribe-ring was the first step on the ladder by which the
herdsman's son climbed up to be Earl Godwin and the father of a king.
Rings have been lost and found in many strange ways: a matron of East
Lulworth lost her ring one day; two years afterwards she found it
inside a potato! A calf sucked off the ring of Mrs Mountjoy of Brechin:
she kept the calf for three years, and when it became veal, or rather
beef, the ring was found in its inside. Moore tells us, in his _Life of
Byron_, of the interesting recovery of the ring his lordship's mother
had lost many years before, and which the gardener brought in just as
Byron got the letter containing Miss Millbanke's answer to his proposal
of marriage. 'If it contains a consent, I will be married with this
very ring,' exclaimed Byron, before reading the lady's acceptance of
his offer. Solomon's ring, and the story Herodotus gives us of the
recovery of Polycrates' ring from the inside of a fish, are the first
examples of a great array of like legends. Glasgow got the salmon and
the ring in her city arms from a recovery of this kind, of which,
however, there are several conflicting accounts. In former pages of
this _Journal_ we have noticed curious losses and subsequent recoveries
of rings; and those who are further interested in the subject will find
much entertaining matter in the volume before us.
MOTHER GOOSE.
This, it seems, is no fanciful name got up to please children.
There was a real Mrs Goose, or as she was familiarly called, Mother
Goose, who signalised herself by her literature for the nursery.
We learn this rather curious fact from an American newspaper, the
_Congregationalist_, which, in describing a Christmas festival at the
Old South Street Church, Boston, enters pretty largely into a biography
of the lady. Her maiden name was Elizabeth Foster. She was born at
Charlestown, where she resided until her marriage with Isaac Goose,
when she became step-mother to ten children. As if that was not a
sufficient family to look after, she by-and-by added six children of
her own to the number, making sixteen 'goslings' in all. It was rather
a heavy handful, and we do not wonder that she poured out her feelings
in the celebrated lines--
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children she didn't know what to do.
To entertain her young flock, Mrs Goose was in the habit of telling
little stories in prose and verse, and singing songs, which were
highly relished. Though tasked, she spent on the whole an agreeable
existence. Her children having grown up, she was very much at her ease.
Her daughter Elizabeth became the wife of Thomas Fleet, a printer in a
small way in Boston. With this daughter, Mrs Goose, now a widow, went
to live, and had the satisfaction of singing her old songs to an infant
grandson. Now begins the literary history of Mother Goose. Fleet, the
son-in-law, was a shrewd fellow, and, as a printer, he thought he might
turn the penny by noting down granny's nursery songs, and selling
them in a cheap and attractive form. They were issued in a book under
the title, 'Songs for the Nursery; or Mother Goose's Melodies for
Children. Printed by T. Fleet, at his Printing House, Pudding Lane,
1719. Price two coppers.' This title-page also bore a large cut of a
veritable goose, with wide open mouth, shewing that the proverbial
irreverence of sons-in-law is not a thing of recent origin. We are
told that old Mother Goose did not resent the pictorial illustration,
but took it just as sweetly as she had taken all the other trials of
life. Possessing her soul in patience, and gladdening the hearts of
grandchildren, she lived until 1757, dying at the advanced age of
ninety-two. There, then, as we are assured, is the true history of
Mother Goose. How the little books which she originated have spread
over the world, need not be specified.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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_All Rights Reserved._