The most striking winter spectacle of St. Petersburg, to a foreigner, is

that of the ice mountains. They are in full glory during “Butter Week”—of

which more anon—when Russia seems to forget her desire to be any thing but

Russian. The great Place of the Admiralty is given up to the popular

celebrations, and filled with refreshment-booths, swings, and slides. To

form these ice mountains a narrow scaffold is raised to the height of some

thirty or forty feet. This scaffold has on one side steps for the purpose

of ascending it; on the other it slopes off, steeply at first, and then

more gradually, until it finally terminates on a level. Upon this long

slope blocks of ice are laid, over which water is poured, which by

freezing unites the blocks, and furnishes a uniform surface, down which

the merry crowd slide upon sledges, or more frequently upon blocks of

smooth ice cut into an appropriate form.

Two of these mountains usually stand opposite and fronting each other,

their tracks lying close together, side by side.

[Illustration.]

Ice Mountain.

This is a national amusement all over Russia. Ice mountains are raised in

the court-yards of all the chief residents in the capital. And an

imitation of them, for summer use, covered with some polished wood,

instead of ice, is often found in the halls of private dwellings. In the

Imperial palace is such a slide, built of mahogany.

Street-life in St. Petersburgh presents many aspects strange to one who

comes fresh from the capitals of other countries. One of the first things

which will strike him is the silence and desertion of most of the streets.

The thronging, eager crowd of other cities is here unknown. There is room

enough, and to spare here. Broad streets, lined with rows of palaces, are

as silent and lonely as deserted Tadmor, and a solitary _droshka_ breaking

the uniformity of the loneliness, heightens the effect. Leaving these

broad, still streets, and mingling in the throng that presses in and

through the Admiralty Place, the Nevskoi Perspective, or the Place of St.

Isaac, the most noticeable feature, at first glance, is the preponderance

of the military. The ordinary garrison of the capital amounts to 60,000

men. The Russian army comprises an almost infinite variety of uniforms,

and specimens of these, worn by the _élite_ of every corps, are constantly

in the capital.

There are the Tartar guards, and the Circassian guards, Cossacks from the

Don, from the Ural, and from Crimea; guards with names ending with “_off_”

and “_ski_,” unpronounceable by Western lips. The wild Circassian—enacting

the double part of soldier and hostage—silver-harnessed and mail-coated,

alternates with the skin-clad Cossack of the Ural, darting, lance in rest,

over the parade-ground. There are regiments uniform not only in size of

the men, color of the horses, and identity of equipments, but in the

minutiæ of personal appearance. Of one, all the men are pug-nosed,

blue-eyed, and red bearded; of another, every man has a nose like a hawk,

with eyes, hair and beard as black as a raven’s wing. Half the male

population of St. Petersburg wear uniform; for, besides these 60,000

soldiers, it is worn by officers of every grade, by the police, and even

by professors of the university, and by teachers and pupils in the public

schools.

Turning from the military to the civil portion of the population, the same

brilliant variety of costumes every where meets the eye. The sober-suited

native of western and civilized Europe, jostles the brilliant silken robes

of the Persian or Bokharian; the Chinaman flaunts his dangling pig-tail,

ingeniously pieced out by artificial means, in the face of the

smoothly-shorn Englishman; the white-toothed Arab meets the

tobacco-stained German; Yankee sailors and adventurers, portly English

merchants, canny Scotchmen, dwarfish Finlanders, stupid Lettes, diminutive

Kamtschatkians, each in his own national costume, make up a lively

picture; while underlying all, and more worthy of note than all, are the

true Russian peasantry; the original stock out of which Peter and his

successors have fashioned their mighty empire.

The Russian of the lower orders is any thing but an inviting personage, at

first sight. The name by which they have been designated, in their own

language, time out of mind, describes them precisely. It is _tschornoi

narod_, “the dirty people,” or as we might more freely render it, “The

Great Unwashed.” An individual of this class is called a _mujik_. He is

usually of middle stature, with small light eyes, level cheeks, and flat

nose, of which the tip is turned up so as to display the somewhat expanded

nostril. His pride and glory is his beard, which he wears as long and

shaggy as nature will allow. The back of the head is shaved closely; and

as he wears nothing about his neck, his head stands distinctly away from

his body. His ideal of the beauty of the human head, as seen from behind,

seems to be to make it resemble, as nearly as may be, a turnip. He is

always noisy and never clean; and when wrapped in his sheepskin mantle, or

_caftan_ of blue cloth reaching to his knees, might easily enough be taken

for a bandit. As he seldom thinks of changing his inner garments more than

once a week, and as his outer raiment lasts half his lifetime, and is

never laid aside during the night, and never washed, he constantly affords

evidence of his presence any thing but agreeable to the organs of smell.

But a closer acquaintance will bring to light many traits of character

which belie his rude exterior; and will show him to be at bottom a

good-natured, merry, friendly fellow. His most striking characteristic is

pliability and dexterity. If he does not possess the power of originating,

he has a wonderful faculty of copying the ideas of others, and of yielding

himself up to carry out the conceptions of any one who wishes to use him

for the accomplishment of his ends. There is an old German myth which says

that the Teutonic race was framed, in the depths of time, out of the hard,

unyielding granite. The original material of the Russian race must have

been Indian rubber, so easily are they compressed into any form, and so

readily do they resume their own, when the pressure is removed. The raw,

untrained _mujik_ is drafted into the army, and in a few weeks attains a

precision of movement more like an automaton than a human being. He

becomes a trader, and the Jews themselves can not match him in cunning and

artifice.

The _mujik_ is a thoroughly good-tempered fellow. Address him kindly, and

his face unbends at once, and you will find that he takes a sincere

delight in doing you a kindness. In no capital of Europe are the

temptations to crimes against the person so numerous as in St. Petersburg,

with its broad lonely streets, unlighted at night, and scantily patrolled;

but in no capital are such crimes of so rare occurrence.

But the _mujik_ has two faults. He is a thorough rogue, and a great

drunkard. He will cheat and guzzle from sheer love for the practices; and

without the least apparent feeling that there is any thing out of the way

in so doing. But in his cups he is the same good-natured fellow. The

Irishman or Scotchman when drunk is quarrelsome and pugnacious; the German

or the Englishman, stupid and brutal; the Spaniard or Italian, revengeful

and treacherous. The first stages of drunkenness in the _mujik_ are

manifested by loquacity. The drunker he is the more gay and genial does he

grow; till at last he is ready to throw himself upon the neck of his worst

enemy and exchange embraces with him. When the last stage has been

reached, and he starts for his home, he does not reel, but marches

straight on, till some accidental obstruction trips him up into the mire,

where he lies unnoticed and unmolested till a policeman takes charge of

him. This misadventure is turned to public advantage, for by an old custom

every person, male or female, of what grade soever, taken up drunk in the

street by the police, is obliged the next day to sweep the streets for a

certain number of hours. In our early rambles we often came across a

woeful group thus improving the ways of others, in punishment for having

taken too little heed of their own.

_In vino veritas_ may perhaps be true of the juice of the grape; but it is

not so of the bad brandy which is the favorite drink of the _mujik_. He is

never too drunk to be a rogue, but yet you do not look upon his roguery as

you do upon that of any other people. He never professes to be honest; and

does not see any reason why he should be so. He seems so utterly

unconscious of any thing reprehensible in roguery, that you unconsciously

give him the benefit of his ignorance. If he victimizes you, you look upon

him as upon a clever professor of legerdemain, who has cheated you in

spite of your senses; but you hardly hold him morally responsible. Upon

the whole, though you can not respect the _mujik_, you can hardly avoid

having a sort of liking for him.

[Illustration.]

Punishment For Drunkenness.

Perhaps the most thoroughly Russian of all the _tschornoi narod_ are the

_isvoshtshiks_, or public drivers; at least they are the class with whom

the traveler comes most immediately and necessarily into contact, and from

whom he derives his idea of them. Such is the extent of St. Petersburg,

that when the foreigner has sated his curiosity with the general aspect of

the streets, he finds that he can not afford time to walk from one object

of interest to another. Moreover, in winter—and here winter means fully

six months in the year—the streets are spread with a thick covering of

snow, which soon becomes beaten up into powdered crystals, through which

locomotion is as difficult as through the deepest sands of Sahara; and the

wind whirls these keen crystals about like the sand-clouds of the desert.

Every body not to the manner born, whose pleasures or avocations call him

abroad, is glad to draw his mantle over his face, and creeping into a

sledge, wrap himself up as closely as he may in furs. In spring and

summer, when the streets are usually either a marsh or choked with

intolerable dust, pedestrianism is equally disagreeable. All this has

called into requisition a host of Jehus, so that the stranger who has

mastered enough Russian to call out _Davai ishvoshtshik_! “Here, driver!”

or even lifts his hand by way of signal, has seldom need to repeat the

summons.

Like his cart-borne kindred, the Tartars and Scythians, the _ishvoshtshik_

makes his vehicle his home. In it he eats, drinks, and often sleeps,

rolling himself up into a ball in the bottom, to present as little surface

as possible to the action of the cold.—Russian-like, he always names a

price for his services that will leave ample room for abatement. But once

engaged, and he is for the time being your servant, and accepts any amount

of abuse or beating as the natural condition of the bargain.

[Illustration.]

Ishvoshtshiks.

The _mujik_ of every class seems indeed to be born ready bitted, for the

use of anyone who has a hand steady enough to hold the reins. They are the

best servants in the world for one who has the gift of command. It is this

adaptation between the strong-willed autocrats who since Peter have swayed

the destinies of Russia, and the serviceable nature of the people, that

has raised the empire to its present position. A single weak ruler would

change the whole destiny of Russia.

Notwithstanding the hardships of their lives, the _isvoshtshiks_ are

good-natured, merry, harmless, fellows, whether waiting for a fare or

bantering a customer. But they have one thorn; and that is the pedestrian.

Woe to the driver who runs against a foot-man; fine and flogging are his

portion. If the pedestrian be thrown down, visions of Siberia float before

the driver’s eye; to say nothing of the pleasant foretaste of the

policeman’s cane and the confiscation of his vehicle.

Notwithstanding the general characteristic of laxity of principle,

instances are by no means wanting of the most scrupulous and even romantic

fidelity on the part of the Russians of the lower orders. It would be an

interesting subject of investigation, how far this patent trait of

national character is to be attributed to inherent constitutional defects

in the race; and how far to the state of serfdom in which they have

existed from generation to generation. But the investigation does not fall

within the scope of our “Recollections.”

Our friends in the greasy sheepskins or woolen caftans have strong

religious tendencies, though they may smack a little too much of those of

the tight-fingered Smyrniote whom we detected purchasing candles to light

before his patron saint, with the first-fruits of the purse of which he

had not ten minutes before relieved our pocket. In all places where men

congregate there are pictures of saints before which the _mujik_ crosses

himself on every occasion. In an inn or restaurant each visitor turns to

the picture and crosses himself before he sits down to eat. If a _mujik_

enters your room he crosses himself before saluting you. Every church is

saluted with a sign of the cross. At frequent intervals in the streets

little shrines are found, before which every body stops and makes the

sacred sign, with bared head. The merchant in the _gostunoi dvor_ or

bazaar, every now and then walks up to his _bog_ or saint, and with a

devout inclination prays for success in trade.

No one has seen St. Petersburg who has not been there at Easter. The Greek

Church finds great virtues in fasting; and a prolonged fast-time implies a

subsequent carnival. The rigor of the Russian fasts strictly excludes

every article of food containing the least particle of animal matter.

Flesh and fowl are, of course, rigorously _tabooed_; so are milk, eggs,

butter; and even sugar, on account of the animal matter used in refining

it, of which a small portion might possibly remain. The fast preceding

Easter, called, by way of eminence, “The Great Fast,” lasts seven full

weeks, and is observed with a strictness unknown even in Catholic

countries. The lower classes refrain even from fish during the first and

last of these seven weeks, as well as on Wednesdays and Fridays in the

remaining five. When we reflect how large a part some or all of these

animal substances form of the _cuisine_ of all northern nations, and in

Russia most of all, we shall be ready to believe that this Great Fast is

an important epoch in the Russian calendar, and is not to be encountered

without a preparatory period of feasting, the recollection of which may

serve to mitigate the enforced abstinence.

Among the upper classes in St. Petersburg balls, routs, and all carnival

revelries begin to crowd thick and fast upon each other as early as the

commencement of February. But the mass of the people compress these

preparatory exercises into the week before the beginning of the fast. This

is the famous _Masslänitza_ or “Butter Week,” which contains the sum and

substance of all Russian festivity. All the butter that should naturally

have gone into the consumption of the succeeding seven weeks is

concentrated into this. Whatever can be eaten with butter is buttered;

what can not, is eschewed. The standard dish of the week is _blinni_, a

kind of pancake, made with butter; fried in butter, and eaten with

butter-sauce. For this one week the great national dish of _shtshee_ or

cabbage-soup is banished from the land.

Breakfast dispatched, then come the amusements. Formerly the swings,

ice-mountains, and temporary theatres were erected upon the frozen plain

of the Neva. But some years since, the ice gave way under the immense

pressure, and a large number of the revelers were drowned. Since that time

the great square of the Admiralty has been devoted to this purpose. For

days previous, long trains of sledges are seen thronging to the spot,

bearing timbers, poles, planks, huge blocks of ice, and all the materials

necessary for the erection of booths, theatres, swings, and slides. These

temporary structures are easily and speedily reared. A hole is dug in the

frozen ground, into which the end of a post is placed. It is then filled

with water, which under the influence of a Russian February binds it in

its place as firmly as though it were leaded into a solid rock. The

carnival commences on the first Sunday of the Butter Week, and all St.

Petersburg gives itself up to sliding and swinging, or to watching the

sliding and swinging of others. By a wise regulation eating and drinking

shops are not allowed in the square, and the staple potable and

comestibles are tea, cakes, and nuts. Few more animated and stirring

sights are to be seen than the Admiralty square at noon, when the mirth is

at the highest among the lower orders, and when all the higher classes

make their appearance driving in regular line along a broad space, in

front of the booths, reserved for the equipages. Every body in St.

Petersburg of any pretensions to rank or wealth keeps a carriage of some

kind; and every carriage, crowded with the family in their gayest attire,

joins in the procession.

Butter Week, with its _blinni_ and ice mountains passes away all too

quickly, and is succeeded by the grim seven weeks’ fast. The Admiralty

square looks desolate enough, lumbered over with fragments of the late

joyous paraphernalia, and strewed with nut-shells and orange-peel. Public

amusements, of almost all kinds are prohibited, and time passes on with

gloomy monotony, only broken by a stray saint’s day, like a gleam of

sunshine across a murky sky. It is worth while to be a saint, in Russia,

if his day falls during the Great Fast, for it will be sure to be

celebrated with most exemplary fervor.

As the fast draws near its close, preparation s on tiptoe for a change.

The egg-market begins to rise, owing to the demand for “Easter-eggs,” for

on that day it is customary to present an egg to every acquaintance on

first greeting him. This has given rise to a very pretty custom of giving

presents of artificial eggs of every variety of material, and frequently

with the most elegant decorations. The Imperial glass manufactory

furnishes an immense number of eggs of glass, with cut flowers and

figures, designed as presents from the Czar and Czarina.

Saturday night before Easter at last comes and goes. As the midnight hour

which is to usher in Easter-day approaches, the churches begin to fill.

The court appears in the Imperial chapel in full dress; and the people, of

all ages, ranks, and conditions, throng their respective places of

worship. Not a priest, however, is to be seen until the midnight hour

strikes, when the entrance to the sanctuary of the church is flung open,

and the song peals forth—_Christohs vosskress! Christohs vosskress ihs

mortvui_—“Christ is risen! Christ is risen from the dead!” The priests in

their richest robes press through the throng, bowing and swinging their

censers before the shrine of the saints, repeating the “Christ is risen!”

The congregation grasp each other’s hands, those acquainted, however

distantly, embracing and kissing, repeating the same words. The churches

are at once in a blaze of illumination within and without; and all over

the city cannons boom, rockets hiss, and bells peal in token of joy. The

Great Fast is over, and the Easter festival has begun.

In the churches the ceremony of blessing the food is going on. The whole

pavement, unencumbered with pews or seats, is covered with dishes ranged

in long rows, with passages between for the officiating priests, who pace

along, sprinkling holy water to the right and left, and pronouncing the

form of benediction; the owner of each dish all the while on a keen

look-out that his food does not fail of receiving some drops of the

sanctifying fluid. Before daylight all this is accomplished; and then come

visitings and banquets, congratulations of the season, bowings,

hand-shakings, and, above all, kissing.

[Illustration: Kissing.]

[Illustration: Kissing.]

[Illustration: Kissing.]

[Illustration: Kissing.]

All Russia breaks out now into an Oriental exuberance of kisses. What

arithmetic shall undertake to compute the osculatory expenditure? Every

member of a family salutes every other member with a kiss. All

acquaintances, however slight, greet with a kiss and a _Christohs

vosskress_. Long-robed _mujiks_ mingle beards and kisses, or brush their

hirsute honors over the faces of their female acquaintances. In the public

offices all the _employées_ salute each other and their superiors. So in

the army. The general embraces and kisses all the officers of the corps;

the colonel of a regiment those beneath him, besides a deputation of the

soldiers; and the captain salutes all the men of his company. The Czar

does duty at Easter. He must of course salute his family and retinue, his

court and attendants. But this is not all. On parade he goes through the

ceremony with his officers, and a selected body of privates, who stand as

representatives of the rest, and even with the sentinels at the palace

gates. So amid smiles and handshakings, and exclamations of “Christ has

arisen!” pass on the days of the Easter festival. Ample amends are made

for the long abstinence of the Great Fast, by unbounded indulgence in the

coveted animal food, to say nothing of the copious libations of

brandy—evidences of which are visible enough in groups of amateur

street-sweepers who subsequently are seen plying their brooms in the early

morning hours. Such is St. Petersburg, when most Russian.

A LOVE AFFAIR AT CRANFORD.

I am tempted to relate it, as having interested me in a quiet sort of way,

and as being the latest intelligence of Our Society at Cranford.

I thought, after Miss Jenkyns’s death, that probably my connection with

Cranford would cease; at least that it would have to be kept up by

correspondence, which bears much the same relation to personal intercourse

that the books of dried plants I sometimes see (“Hortus Siccus,” I think

they call the thing), do to the living and fresh flowers in the lanes and

meadows. I was pleasantly surprised, therefore, by receiving a letter from

Miss Pole (who had always come in for a supplementary week after my annual

visit to Miss Jenkyns), proposing that I should go and stay with her; and

then, in a couple of days after my acceptance, came a note from Miss

Matey, in which, in a rather circuitous and very humble manner, she told

me how much pleasure I should confer, if I could spend a week or two with

her, either before or after I had been at Miss Pole’s; “for,” she said,

“since my dear sister’s death, I am well aware I have no attractions to

offer; it is only to the kindness of my friends that I can owe their

company.”

Of course, I promised to come to dear Miss Matey, as soon as I had ended

my visit to Miss Pole; and the day after my arrival at Cranford, I went to

see her, much wondering what the house would be like without Miss Jenkyns,

and rather dreading the changed aspect of things. Miss Matey began to cry

as soon as she saw me. She was evidently nervous from having anticipated

my call. I comforted her as well as I could; and I found the best

consolation I could give, was the honest praise that came from my heart as

I spoke of the deceased. Miss Matey slowly shook her head over each virtue

as it was named, and attributed to her sister; at last she could not

restrain the tears which had long been silently flowing, but hid her face

behind her handkerchief, and sobbed aloud.

“Dear Miss Matey!” said I, taking her hand—for indeed I did know in what

way to tell her how sorry I was for her, left deserted in the world. She

put down her handkerchief, and said,

“My dear, I’d rather you did not call me Matey. _She_ did not like it; but

I did many a thing she did not like, I’m afraid—and now she’s gone! If you

please, my love, will you call me Matilda?”

I promised faithfully, and began to practice the new name with Miss Pole

that very day; and, by degrees, Miss Matilda’s feelings on the subject

were known through Cranford, and the appellation of Matey was dropped by

all, except a very old woman who had been nurse in the rector’s family,

and had persevered through many long years, in calling the Miss Jenkynses

“the girls;” she said “Matey,” to the day of her death.

My visit to Miss Pole was very quiet. Miss Jenkyns had so long taken the

lead in Cranford, that, now she was gone, they hardly knew how to give a

party. The Honorable Mrs. Jamieson, to whom Miss Jenkyns herself had

always yielded the post of honor, was fat and inert and very much at the

mercy of her old servants. If they chose her to give a party, they

reminded her of the necessity for so doing; if not, she let it alone.

There was all the more time for me to hear old-world stories from Miss

Pole, while she sat knitting, and I making my father’s shirts. I always

took a quantity of plain sewing to Cranford; for, as we did not read much,

or walk much, I found it a capital time to get through my work. One of

Miss Pole’s stories related to the love affair I am coming to; gradually,

not in a hurry, for we are never in a hurry at Cranford.

Presently, the time arrived, when I was to remove to Miss Matilda’s house.

I found her timid and anxious about the arrangements for my comfort. Many

a time, while I was unpacking, did she come backward and forward to stir

the fire, which burned all the worse for being so frequently poked.

“Have you drawers enough, dear?” asked she. “I don’t know exactly how my

sister used to arrange them. She had capital methods. I am sure she would

have trained a servant in a week to make a better fire than this, and

Fanny has been with me four months.”

This subject of servants was a standing grievance, and I could not wonder

much at it; for if gentlemen were scarce, and almost unheard of in the

“genteel society” of Cranford, they or their counterparts—handsome young

men—abounded in the lower classes. The pretty, neat servant-maids had

their choice of desirable “followers;” and their mistresses, without

having the sort of mysterious dread of men and matrimony that Miss Matilda

had, might well feel a little anxious, lest the heads of their comely

maids should be turned by the joiner, or the butcher, or the gardener; who

were obliged by their callings, to come to the house; and who, as ill-luck

would have it, were generally handsome and unmarried. Fanny’s lovers, if

she had any—and Miss Matilda suspected her of so many flirtations, that,

if she had not been very pretty, I should have doubted her having one—were

a constant anxiety to her mistress. She was forbidden, by the articles of

her engagement, to have “followers;” and though she had answered

innocently enough, doubling up the hem of her apron as she spoke, “Please,

ma’am, I never had more than one at a time,” Miss Matey prohibited that

one. But a vision of a man seemed to haunt the kitchen. Fanny assured me

that it was all fancy; or else I should have said myself that I had seen a

man’s coat-tails whisk into the scullery once, when I went on an errand

into the store-room at night; and another evening when, our watches having

stopped, I went to look at the clock, there was a very odd appearance,

singularly like a young man squeezed up between the clock and the back of

the open kitchen-door; and I thought Fanny snatched up the candle very

hastily, so as to throw the shadow on the clock-face, while she very

positively told me the time half-an-hour too early, as we found out

afterward by the church-clock. But I did not add to Miss Matey’s anxieties

by naming my suspicions, especially as Fanny said to me, the next day,

that it was such a queer kitchen for having odd shadows about it, she

really was almost afraid to stay; “for you know, Miss,” she added, “I

don’t see a creature from six o’clock tea, till missus rings the bell for

prayers at ten.”

However, it so fell out that Fanny had to leave; and Miss Matilda begged

me to stay and “settle her” with the new maid; to which I consented, after

I had heard from my father that he did not want me at home. The new

servant was a rough, honest-looking country-girl, who had only lived in a

farm-place before; but I liked her looks when she came to be hired; and I

promised Miss Matilda to put her in the ways of the house. These said ways

were religiously such as Miss Matilda thought her sister would approve.

Many a domestic rule and regulation had been a subject of plaintive

whispered murmur, to me, during Miss Jenkyns’s life; but now that she was

gone, I do not think that even I, who was a favorite, durst have suggested

an alteration. To give an instance: we constantly adhered to the forms

which were observed, at meal times, “in my father the rector’s house.”

Accordingly, we had always wine and dessert; but the decanters were only

filled when there was a party; and what remained was seldom touched,

though we had two wine glasses apiece every day after dinner, until the

next festive occasion arrived; when the state of the remainder wine was

examined into, in a family council. The dregs were often given to the

poor; but occasionally when a good deal had been left, at the last party

(five months ago, it might be) it was added to some of a fresh bottle,

brought up from the cellar. I fancy poor Captain Brown did not much like

wine; for I noticed he never finished his first glass, and most military

men take several. Then, as to our dessert, Miss Jenkyns used to gather

currants and gooseberries for it herself, which I sometimes thought would

have tasted better fresh from the trees; but then, as Miss Jenkyns

observed, there would have been nothing for dessert in summer-time. As it

was, we felt very genteel with our two glasses apiece, and a dish of

gooseberries at the top, of currants and biscuits at the sides, and two

decanters at the bottom. When oranges came in, a curious proceeding was

gone through. Miss Jenkyns did not like to cut the fruit; for, as she

observed, the juice all ran out, nobody knew where; sucking (only, I

think, she used some more recondite word) was in fact the only way of

enjoying oranges; but then there was the unpleasant association with a

ceremony frequently gone through by little babies; and so, after dessert,

in orange season, Miss Jenkyns and Miss Matey used to rise up, possess

themselves each of an orange in silence, and withdraw to the privacy of

their own rooms, to indulge in sucking oranges.

I had once or twice tried, on such occasions, to prevail on Miss Matey to

stay; and had succeeded in her sister’s life-time. I held up a screen, and

did not look, and, as she said, she tried not to make the noise very

offensive; but now that she was left alone, she seemed quite horrified

when I begged her to remain with me in the warm dining-parlor, and enjoy

her orange as she liked best. And so it was in every thing. Miss Jenkyns’s

rules were made more stringent than ever, because the framer of them was

gone where there could be no appeal. In every thing else Miss Matilda was

meek and undecided to a fault. I have heard Fanny turn her round twenty

times in a morning about dinner, just as the little hussy chose; and I

sometimes fancied she worked on Miss Matilda’s weakness, in order to

bewilder her, and to make her feel more in the power of her clever

servant. I determined that I would not leave her till I had seen what sort

of a person Martha was; and, if I found her trustworthy, I would tell her

not to trouble her mistress with every little decision.

Martha was blunt and plain-spoken to a fault; otherwise she was a brisk,

well-meaning, but very ignorant girl. She had not been with us a week

before Miss Matilda and I were astounded one morning by the receipt of a

letter from a cousin of hers, who had been twenty or thirty years in

India, and who had lately, as we had seen by the Army List, returned to

England, bringing with him an invalid wife, who had never been introduced

to her English relations. Major Jenkyns wrote to propose that he and his

wife should spend a night at Cranford, on his way to Scotland—at the inn,

if it did not suit Miss Matilda to receive them into her house; in which

case they should hope to be with her as much as possible during the day.

Of course, it must suit her, as she said; for all Cranford knew that she

had her sister’s bedroom at liberty; but I am sure she wished the Major

had stopped in India and forgotten his cousins out and out.

“Oh! how must I manage!” asked she, helplessly. “If Deborah had been

alive, she would have known what to do with a gentleman-visitor. Must I

put razors in his dressing-room? Dear! dear! and I’ve got none. Deborah

would have had them. And slippers, and coat-brushes?” I suggested that

probably he would bring all these things with him. “And after dinner, how

am I to know when to get up, and leave him to his wine? Deborah would have

done it so well; she would have been quite in her element. Will he want

coffee, do you think?” I undertook the management of the coffee, and told

her I would instruct Martha in the art of waiting, in which it must be

owned she was terribly deficient; and that I had no doubt Major and Mrs.

Jenkyns would understand the quiet mode in which a lady lived by herself

in a country town. But she was sadly fluttered. I made her empty her

decanters, and bring up two fresh bottles of wine. I wished I could have

prevented her from being present at my instructions to Martha; for she

continually cut in with some fresh direction, muddling the poor girl’s

mind, as she stood open-mouthed, listening to us both.

“Hand the vegetables round,” said I (foolishly, I see now—for it was

aiming at more than we could accomplish with quietness and simplicity);

and then, seeing her look bewildered, I added, “Take the vegetables round

to people, and let them help themselves.”

“And mind you go first to the ladies,” put in Miss Matilda. “Always go to

the ladies before gentlemen, when you are waiting.”

“I’ll do it as you tell me, ma’am,” said Martha; “but I like lads best.”

We felt very uncomfortable and shocked at this speech of Martha’s; yet I

don’t think she meant any harm; and, on the whole, she attended very well

to our directions, except that she “nudged” the Major, when he did not

help himself as soon as she expected, to the potatoes, while she was

handing them round.

The Major and his wife were quiet, unpretending people enough when they

did come; languid, as all East Indians are, I suppose. We were rather

dismayed at their bringing two servants with them, a Hindoo body-servant

for the Major, and a steady elderly maid for his wife; but they slept at

the inn, and took off a good deal of the responsibility by attending

carefully to their master’s and mistress’s comfort. Martha, to be sure,

had never ended her staring at the East Indian’s white turban, and brown

complexion, and I saw that Miss Matilda shrunk away from him a little as

he waited at dinner. Indeed, she asked me, when they were gone, if he did

not remind me of Blue Beard? On the whole, the visit was most

satisfactory, and is a subject of conversation even now with Miss Matilda;

at the time it greatly excited Cranford, and even stirred up the apathetic

and Honorable Mrs. Jamieson to some expression of interest when I went to

call and thank her for the kind answers she had vouchsafed to Miss

Matilda’s inquiries as to the arrangement of a gentleman’s

dressing-room—answers which I must confess she had given in the wearied

manner of the Scandinavian prophetess—

“Leave me, leave me to repose.”

And _now_ I come to the love affair.

It seems that Miss Pole had a cousin, once or twice removed, who had

offered to Miss Matey long ago. Now, this cousin lived four or five miles

from Cranford on his own estate; but his property was not large enough to

entitle him to rank higher than a yeoman; or rather, with something of the

“pride which apes humility,” he had refused to push himself on, as so many

of his class had done, into the ranks of the squires. He would not allow

himself to be called Thomas Holbrook, Esq.; he even sent back letters with

this address, telling the postmistress at Cranford that his name was Mr.

Thomas Holbrook, yeoman. He rejected all domestic innovations; he would

have the house door stand open in summer, and shut in winter, without

knocker or bell to summon a servant. The closed fist or the knob of the

stick did this office for him, if he found the door locked. He despised

every refinement which had not its root deep down in humanity. If people

were not ill, he saw no necessity for moderating his voice. He spoke the

dialect of the country in perfection, and constantly used it in

conversation; although Miss Pole (who gave me these particulars) added,

that he read aloud more beautifully and with more feeling than any one she

had ever heard, except the late Rector.

“And how came Miss Matilda not to marry him?” asked I.

“Oh, I don’t know. She was willing enough, I think; but you know Cousin

Thomas would not have been enough of a gentleman for the Rector, and Mrs.

and Miss Jenkyns.”

“Well! but they were not to marry him,” said I, impatiently.

“No; but they did not like Miss Matey to marry below her rank. You know

she was the Rector’s daughter, and somehow they are related to Sir Peter

Arley: Miss Jenkyns thought a deal of that.”

“Poor Miss Matey!” said I.

“Nay, now, I don’t know any thing more than that he offered and was

refused. Miss Matey might not like him—and Miss Jenkyns might never have

said a word—it is only a guess of mine.”

“Has she never seen him since?” I inquired.

“No, I think not. You see, Woodley, Cousin Thomas’s house, lies half-way

between Cranford and Misselton; and I know he made Misselton his

market-town very soon after he had offered to Miss Matey; and I don’t

think he has been into Cranford above once or twice since—once, when I was

walking with Miss Matey in High-street; and suddenly she darted from me,

and went up Shire-lane. A few minutes after I was startled by meeting

Cousin Thomas.”

“How old is he?” I asked, after a pause of castle-building.

“He must be about seventy, I think, my dear,” said Miss Pole, blowing up

my castle, as if by gunpowder, into small fragments.

Very soon after—at least during my long visit to Miss Matilda—I had the

opportunity of seeing Mr. Holbrook; seeing, too, his first encounter with

his former love, after thirty or forty years’ separation. I was helping to

decide whether any of the new assortment of colored silks which they had

just received at the shop, would help to match a gray and black

mousseline-de-laine that wanted a new breadth, when a tall, thin, Don

Quixote-looking old man came into the shop for some woolen gloves. I had

never seen the person (who was rather striking) before, and I watched him

rather attentively, while Miss Matey listened to the shopman. The stranger

wore a blue coat with brass buttons, drab breeches, and gaiters, and

drummed with his fingers on the counter until he was attended to. When he

answered the shop-boy’s question, “What can I have the pleasure of showing

you to-day, sir?” I saw Miss Matilda start, and then suddenly sit down;

and instantly I guessed who it was. She had made some inquiry which had to

be carried round to the other shopman.

“Miss Jenkyns wants the black sarcenet two-and-twopence the yard;” and Mr.

Holbrook had caught the name, and was across the shop in two strides.

“Matey—Miss Matilda—Miss Jenkyns! God bless my soul! I should not have

known you. How are you? how are you?” He kept shaking her hand in a way

which proved the warmth of his friendship; but he repeated so often, as if

to himself, “I should not have known you!” that any sentimental romance

which I might be inclined to build, was quite done away with by his

manner.

However, he kept talking to us all the time we were in the shop; and then

waving the shopman with the unpurchased gloves on one side, with “Another

time, sir! another time!” he walked home with us. I am happy to say my

client, Miss Matilda, also left the shop in an equally bewildered state,

not having purchased either green or red silk. Mr. Holbrook was evidently

full with honest, loud-spoken joy at meeting his old love again; he

touched on the changes that had taken place; he even spoke of Miss Jenkyns

as “Your poor sister! Well, well! we have all our faults;” and bade us

good-by with many a hope that he should soon see Miss Matey again. She

went straight to her room; and never came back till our early tea-time,

when I thought she looked as if she had been crying.

A few days after, a note came from Mr. Holbrook, asking us—impartially

asking both of us—in a formal, old-fashioned style, to spend a day at his

house—a long June day—for it was June now. He named that he had also

invited his cousin, Miss Pole; so that we might join in a fly, which could

be put up at his house.

I expected Miss Matey to jump at this invitation; but, no! Miss Pole and I

had the greatest difficulty in persuading her to go. She thought it was

improper; and was even half-annoyed when we utterly ignored the idea of

any impropriety in her going with two other ladies to see her old lover.

Then came a more serious difficulty. She did not think Deborah would have

liked her to go. This took us half a day’s good hard talking to get over;

but, at the first sentence of relenting, I seized the opportunity, and

wrote and dispatched an acceptance in her name—fixing day and hour, that

all might be decided and done with.

The next morning she asked me if I would go down to the shop with her; and

there, after much hesitation, we chose out three caps to be sent home and

tried on, that the most becoming might be selected to take with us on

Thursday.

She was in a state of silent agitation all the way to Woodley. She had

evidently never been there before; and, although she little dreamt I knew

any thing of her early story, I could perceive she was in a tremor at the

thought of seeing the place which might have been her home, and round

which it is probable that many of her innocent girlish imaginations had

clustered. It was a long drive there, through paved jolting lanes. Miss

Matilda sate bolt upright, and looked wistfully out of the windows, as we

drew near the end of our journey. The aspect of the country was quiet and

pastoral. Woodley stood among fields; and there was an old-fashioned

garden, where roses and currant-bushes touched each other, and where the

feathery asparagus formed a pretty back-ground to the pinks and

gilly-flowers; there was no drive up to the door; we got out at a little

gate, and walked up a straight box-edged path.

“My cousin might make a drive, I think,” said Miss Pole, who was afraid of

ear-ache, and had only her cap on.

“I think it is very pretty,” said Miss Matey, with a soft plaintiveness in

her voice, and almost in a whisper; for just then Mr. Holbrook appeared at

the door, rubbing his hands in very effervescence of hospitality. He

looked more like my idea of Don Quixote than ever, and yet the likeness

was only external. His respectable housekeeper stood modestly at the door

to bid us welcome; and, while she led the elder ladies upstairs to a

bed-room, I begged to look about the garden. My request evidently pleased

the old gentleman; who took me all round the place, and showed me his

six-and-twenty cows, named after the different letters of the alphabet. As

we went along, he surprised me occasionally by repeating apt and beautiful

quotations from the poets, ranging easily from Shakspeare and George

Herbert to those of our own day. He did this as naturally as if he were

thinking aloud, that their true and beautiful words were the best

expression he could find for what he was thinking or feeling. To be sure

he called Byron “my Lord Byron,” and pronounced the name of Goethe

strictly in accordance with the English sound of the letters—“As Goëthe

says, ’Ye ever verdant palaces,’” &c. Altogether, I never met with a man,

before or since, who had spent so long a life in a secluded and not

impressive country, with ever-increasing delight in the daily and yearly

change of season and beauty.

When he and I went in, we found that dinner was nearly ready in the

kitchen—for so I suppose the room ought to be called, as there were oak

dressers and cupboards all round, all over by the side of the fire-place,

and only a small Turkey-carpet in the middle of the flag-floor. The room

might have been easily made into a handsome dark-oak dining-parlor, by

removing the oven, and a few other appurtenances of a kitchen, which were

evidently never used; the real cooking-place being at some distance. The

room in which we were expected to sit was a stiffly furnished, ugly

apartment; but that in which we did sit was what Mr. Holbrook called the

counting-house, where he paid his laborers their weekly wages, at a great

desk near the door. The rest of the pretty sitting-room—looking into the

orchard, and all covered over with dancing tree-shadows—was filled with

books. They lay on the ground, they covered the walls, they strewed the

table. He was evidently half ashamed and half proud of his extravagance in

this respect. They were of all kinds—poetry, and wild weird tales

prevailing. He evidently chose his books in accordance with his own

tastes, not because such and such were classical, or established

favorites.

“Ah!” he said, “we farmers ought not to have much time for reading; yet

somehow one can’t help it.”

“What a pretty room!” said Miss Matey, _sotto voce_.

“What a pleasant place!” said I, aloud, almost simultaneously.

“Nay! if you like it,” replied he; “but can you sit on these great black

leather three-cornered chairs? I like it better than the best parlor; but

I thought ladies would take that for the smarter place.”

It was the smarter place; but, like most smart things, not at all pretty,

or pleasant, or home-like; so, while we were at dinner, the servant-girl

dusted and scrubbed the counting-house chairs, and we sate there all the

rest of the day.

We had pudding before meat; and I thought Mr. Holbrook was going to make

some apology for his old-fashioned ways, for he began,

“I don’t know whether you like newfangled ways.”

“Oh! not at all!” said Miss Matey.

“No more do I,” said he. “My housekeeper _will_ have things in her new

fashion; or else I tell her, that when I was a young man, we used to keep

strictly to my father’s rule, ‘No broth, no ball; no ball, no beef;’ and

always began dinner with broth. Then we had suet puddings, boiled in the

broth with the beef; and then the meat itself. If we did not sup our

broth, we had no ball, which we liked a deal better; and the beef came

last of all, and only those had it who had done justice to the broth and

the ball. Now folks begin with sweet things, and turn their dinners

topsy-turvy.”

When the ducks and green pease came, we looked at each other in dismay; we

had only two-pronged, black-handled forks. It is true, the steel was as

bright as silver; but, what were we to do? Miss Matey picked up her peas,

one by one, on the point of the prongs, much as Aminé ate her grains of

rice after her previous feast with the Ghoul. Miss Pole sighed over her

delicate young peas as she left them on one side of her plate untasted;

for they _would_ drop between the prongs. I looked at my host: the peas

were going wholesale into his capacious mouth, shoveled up by his large

round-ended knife. I saw, I imitated, I survived! My friends, in spite of

my precedent, could not muster up courage enough to do an ungenteel thing;

and, if Mr. Holbrook had not been so heartily hungry, he would, probably,

have seen that the good pease went away almost untouched.

After dinner, a clay-pipe was brought in, and a spittoon; and, asking us

to retire to another room, where he would soon join us, if we disliked

tobacco-smoke, he presented his pipe to Miss Matey, and requested her to

fill the bowl. This was a compliment to a lady in his youth; but it was

rather inappropriate to propose it as an honor to Miss Matey, who had been

trained by her sister to hold smoking of every kind in utter abhorrence.

But if it was a shock to her refinement, it was also a gratification to

her feelings to be thus selected; so she daintily stuffed the strong

tobacco into the pipe; and then we withdrew.

“It is very pleasant dining with a bachelor,” said Miss Matey, softly, as

we settled ourselves in the counting-house. “I only hope it is not

improper; so many pleasant things are!”

“What a number of books he has!” said Miss Pole, looking round the room.

“And how dusty they are!”

“I think it must be like one of the great Dr. Johnson’s rooms,” said Miss

Matey. “What a superior man your cousin must be!”

“Yes!” said Miss Pole; “he is a great reader; but I am afraid he has got

into very uncouth habits with living alone.”

“Oh! uncouth is too hard a word. I should call him eccentric; very clever

people always are!” replied Miss Matey.

When Mr. Holbrook returned, he proposed a walk in the fields; but the two

elder ladies were afraid of damp and dirt; and had only very unbecoming

calashes to put over their caps; so they declined; and I was again his

companion in a turn which he said he was obliged to take, to see after his

niece. He strode along, either wholly forgetting my existence, or soothed

into silence by his pipe—and yet it was not silence exactly. He walked

before me, with a stooping gait, his hands clasped behind him; and, as

some tree, or cloud, or glimpse of distant upland pastures struck him, he

quoted poetry to himself; saying it out loud in a grand, sonorous voice,

with just the emphasis that true feeling and appreciation give. We came

upon an old cedar-tree, which stood at one end of the house;

“More black than ash-buds in the front of March,

A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.”

“Capital term—‘layers!’ Wonderful man!” I did not know whether he was

speaking to me or not; but I put in an assenting “wonderful,” although I

knew nothing about it; just because I was tired of being forgotten, and of

being consequently silent.

He turned sharp round. “Ay! you may say ‘wonderful.’ Why, when I saw the

review of his poems in ‘Blackwood,’ I set off within an hour, and walked

seven miles to Misselton (for the horses were not in the way), and ordered

them. Now, what color are ash-buds in March?”

Is the man going mad? thought I. He is very like Don Quixote.

“What color are they, I say?” repeated he, vehemently.

“I am sure I don’t know, sir,” said I, with the meekness of ignorance.

“I knew you didn’t. No more did I—an old fool that I am! till this young

man comes and tells me. ‘Black as ash-buds in March.’ And I’ve lived all

my life in the country; more shame for me not to know. Black; they are

jet-black, madam.” And he went off again, swinging along to the music of

some rhyme he had got hold of.

When he came home nothing would serve him but that he must read us the

poems he had been speaking of; and Miss Pole encouraged him in his

proposal, I thought, because she wished me to hear his beautiful reading,

of which she had boasted; but she afterward said it was because she had

got to a difficult part of her crotchet, and wanted to count her stitches

without having to talk. Whatever he had proposed would have been right to

Miss Matey; although she did fall sound asleep within five minutes after

he began a long poem called “Locksley Hall,” and had a comfortable nap,

unobserved, till he ended; when the cessation of his voice wakened her up,

and she said, feeling that something was expected, and that Miss Pole was

counting:

“What a pretty book!”

“Pretty! madam! it’s beautiful! Pretty, indeed!”

“Oh, yes! I meant beautiful!” said she, fluttered at his disapproval of

her word. “It is so like that beautiful poem of Dr. Johnson’s my sister

used to read—I forget the name of it; what was it, my dear?” turning to

me.

“Which do you mean, ma’am? What was it about?”

“I don’t remember what it was about, and I’ve quite forgotten what the

name of it was; but it was written by Dr. Johnson, and was very beautiful,

and very like what Mr. Holbrook has just been reading.”

“I don’t remember it,” said he, reflectively, “but I don’t know Dr.

Johnson’s poems well. I must read them.”

As we were getting into the fly to return, I heard Mr. Holbrook say he

should call on the ladies soon, and inquire how they got home; and this

evidently pleased and fluttered Miss Matey at the time he said it; but

after we had lost sight of the old house among the trees, her sentiments

toward the master of it were gradually absorbed into a distressing wonder

as to whether Martha had broken her word, and seized on the opportunity of

her mistress’s absence to have a “follower.” Martha looked good, and

steady, and composed enough, as she came to help us out; she was always

careful of Miss Matey, and to-night she made use of this unlucky speech:

“Eh! dear ma’am, to think of your going out on an evening in such a thin

shawl! It is no better than muslin. At your age, ma’am, you should be

careful.”

“My age!” said Miss Matey, almost speaking crossly, for her; for she was

usually gentle. “My age! Why, how old do you think I am, that you talk

about my age?”

“Well, ma’am! I should say you were not far short of sixty; but folks’

looks is often against them—and I’m sure I meant no harm.”

“Martha, I’m not yet fifty-two!” said Miss Matey, with grave emphasis; for

probably the remembrance of her youth had come very vividly before her

this day, and she was annoyed at finding that golden time so far away in

the past.

But she never spoke of any former and more intimate acquaintance with Mr.

Holbrook. She had probably met with so little sympathy in her early love,

that she had shut it up close in her heart; and it was only by a sort of

watching, which I could hardly avoid, since Miss Pole’s confidence, that I

saw how faithful her poor heart had been in its sorrow and its silence.

She gave me some good reason for wearing her best cap every day, and sate

near the window, in spite of her rheumatism, in order to see, without

being seen, down into the street.

He came. He put his open palms upon his knees, which were far apart, as he

sate with his head bent down, whistling, after we had replied to his

inquiries about our safe return. Suddenly, he jumped up.

“Well, madam! have you any commands for Paris? I’m going there in a week

or two.”

“To Paris!” we both exclaimed.

“Yes, ma’am! I’ve never been there, and always had a wish to go; and I

think if I don’t go soon, I mayn’t go at all; so as soon as the hay is got

in I shall go, before harvest-time.”

We were so much astonished, that we had no commissions.

Just as he was going out of the room, he turned back, with his favorite

exclamation:

“God bless my soul, madam! but I nearly forgot half my errand. Here are

the poems for you, you admired so much the other evening at my house.” He

tugged away at a parcel in his coat-pocket. “Good-by, Miss,” said he;

“good-by, Matey! take care of yourself.” And he was gone. But he had given

her a book, and he had called her Matey, just as he used to do thirty

years ago.

“I wish he would not go to Paris,” said Miss Matilda, anxiously. “I don’t

believe frogs will agree with him; he used to have to be very careful what

he ate, which was curious in so strong-looking a young man.”

Soon after this I took my leave, giving many an injunction to Martha to

look after her mistress, and to let me know if she thought that Miss

Matilda was not so well; in which case I would volunteer a visit to my old

friend, without noticing Martha’s intelligence to her.

Accordingly I received a line or two from Martha every now and then; and,

about November, I had a note to say her mistress was “very low, and sadly

off her food;” and the account made me so uneasy, that, although Martha

did not decidedly summon me, I packed up my things and went.

I received a warm welcome, in spite of the little flurry produced by my

impromptu visit, for I had only been able to give a day’s notice. Miss

Matilda looked miserably ill; and I prepared to comfort and cosset her.

I went down to have a private talk with Martha.

“How long has your mistress been so poorly?” I asked, as I stood by the

kitchen fire.

“Well! I think it’s better than a fortnight; it is, I know: it was one

Tuesday after Miss Pole had been here that she went into this moping way.

I thought she was tired, and it would go off with a night’s rest; but, no!

she has gone on and on ever since, till I thought it my duty to write to

you, ma’am.”

“You did quite right, Martha. It is a comfort to think she has so faithful

a servant about her. And I hope you find your place comfortable?”

“Well, ma’am, missus is very kind, and there’s plenty to eat and drink,

and no more work but what I can do easily—but—” Martha hesitated.

“But what, Martha?”

“Why, it seems so hard of missus not to let me have any followers; there’s

such lots of young fellows in the town; and many a one has as much as

offered to keep company with me; and I may never be in such a likely place

again, and it’s like wasting an opportunity. Many a girl as I know would

have ’em unbeknownst to missus; but I’ve given my word, and I’ll stick to

it; or else this is just the house for missus never to be the wiser if

they did come: and it’s such a capable kitchen—there’s such good dark

corners in it—I’d be bound to hide any one. I counted up last Sunday

night—for I’ll not deny I was crying because I had to shut the door in Jem

Hearn’s face; and he’s a steady young man, fit for any girl; only I had

given missus my word.” Martha was all but crying again; and I had little

comfort to give her, for I knew, from old experience, of the horror with

which both the Miss Jenkynses looked upon “followers;” and in Miss Matey’s

present nervous state this dread was not likely to be lessened.

I went to see Miss Pole the next day, and took her completely by surprise;

for she had not been to see Miss Matilda for two days.

“And now I must go back with you, my dear, for I promised to let her know

how Thomas Holbrook went on; and I’m sorry to say his housekeeper has sent

me word to-day that he hasn’t long to live. Poor Thomas! That journey to

Paris was quite too much for him. His housekeeper says he has hardly ever

been round his fields since; but just sits with his hands on his knees in

the counting-house, not reading or any thing, but only saying, what a

wonderful city Paris was! Paris has much to answer for, if it’s killed my

cousin Thomas, for a better man never lived.”

“Does Miss Matilda know of his illness?” asked I; a new light as to the

cause of her indisposition dawning upon me.

“Dear! to be sure, yes! Has she not told you? I let her know a fortnight

ago, or more, when first I heard of it. How odd, she shouldn’t have told

you!”

Not at all, I thought; but I did not say any thing. I felt almost guilty

of having spied too curiously into that tender heart, and I was not going

to speak of its secrets—hidden, Miss Matey believed, from all the world. I

ushered Miss Pole into Miss Matilda’s little drawing-room; and then left

them alone. But I was not surprised when Martha came to my bedroom door,

to ask me to go down to dinner alone, for that missus had one of her bad

headaches. She came into the drawing-room at tea-time; but it was

evidently an effort to her; and, as if to make up for some reproachful

feeling against her late sister, Miss Jenkyns, which had been troubling

her all the afternoon, and for which she now felt penitent, she kept

telling me how good and how clever Deborah was in her youth; how she used

to settle what gowns they were to wear at all the parties (faint, ghostly

ideas of dim parties far away in the distance, when Miss Matey and Miss

Pole were young!) and how Deborah and her mother had started the benefit

society for the poor, and taught girls cooking and plain sewing; and how

Deborah had once danced with a lord; and how she used to visit at Sir

Peter Arley’s, and try to remodel the quiet rectory establishment on the

plans of Arley Hall, where they kept thirty servants; and how she had

nursed Miss Matey through a long, long illness, of which I had never heard

before, but which I now dated in my own mind as following the dismissal of

the suit of Mr. Holbrook. So we talked softly and quietly of old times,

through the long November evening.

The next day Miss Pole brought us word that Mr. Holbrook was dead. Miss

Matey heard the news in silence; in fact, from the account on the previous

day, it was only what we had to expect. Miss Pole kept calling upon us for

some expression of regret, by asking if it was not sad that he was gone:

and saying,

“To think of that pleasant day last June, when he seemed so well! And he

might have lived this dozen years if he had not gone to that wicked Paris,

where they are always having revolutions.”

She paused for some demonstration on our part. I saw Miss Matey could not

speak, she was trembling so nervously; so I said what I really felt: and

after a call of some duration—all the time of which I have no doubt Miss

Pole thought Miss Matey received the news very calmly—our visitor took her

leave. But the effort at self-control Miss Matey had made to conceal her

feelings—a concealment she practiced even with me, for she has never

alluded to Mr. Holbrook again, although the book he gave her lies with her

Bible on the little table by her bedside; she did not think I heard her

when she asked the little milliner of Cranford to make her caps something

like the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson’s, or that I noticed the reply,

“But she wears widows’ caps, ma’am?”

“Oh! I only meant something in that style; not widows’, of course, but

rather like Mrs. Jamieson’s.”

This effort at concealment was the beginning of the tremulous motion of

head and hands which I have seen ever since in Miss Matey.

The evening of the day on which we heard of Mr. Holbrook’s death, Miss

Matilda was very silent and thoughtful; after prayers she called Martha

back, and then she stood uncertain what to say.

“Martha!” she said at last; “you are young,” and then she made so long a

pause that Martha, to remind her of her half-finished sentence, dropped a

courtesy, and said:

“Yes, please, ma’am; two-and-twenty last third of October, please, ma’am.”

“And perhaps, Martha, you may some time meet with a young man you like,

and who likes you. I did say you were not to have followers; but if you

meet with such a young man, and tell me, and I find he is respectable, I

have no objection to his coming to see you once a week. God forbid!” said

she, in a low voice, “that I should grieve any young hearts.” She spoke as

if she were providing for some distant contingency, and was rather

startled when Martha made her ready, eager answer:

“Please, ma’am, there’s Jim Hearn, and he’s a joiner, making

three-and-sixpence a day, and six foot one in his stocking-feet, please

ma’am; and if you’ll ask about him to-morrow morning, every one will give

him a character for steadiness; and he’ll be glad enough to come to-morrow

night, I’ll be bound.”

Though Miss Matey was startled, she submitted to Fate and Love.

ANECDOTES OF MONKEYS.

During a short stay on the Essequibo, a little monkey of the Jackowai Ris

tribe, in return for some slight attention I had shown him, permitted me

so far to gain his favor and confidence, that he was seldom away from my

person; indeed, he treated me like one mentioned by a distinguished

traveler, which every morning seized on a pig belonging to a mission on

the Orinoco, and rode on its back during the whole day, while it wandered

about the savannahs in search of food. Nothing pleased him better than to

perch on my shoulder, when he would encircle my neck with his long hairy

tail, and accompany me in all my rambles. His tail formed a no very

agreeable neckcloth, with the thermometer above one hundred degrees; but

he seemed so disappointed when I refused to carry him, that it was

impossible to leave him behind. In appearance he was particularly

engaging—squirrel-like in form—with a light brown coat slightly tinged

with yellow, and arms and legs of a reddish cast—pleasingly contrasting

with a pale face, and small black muzzle; the expressive and merry twinkle

of his sparkling black eye betokened fun, roguery, and intelligence. The

Jackowai Ris are a fierce race, and approach the carnivora in their habits

and dispositions. One reason of our intimacy was the sameness of our

pursuits—both being entomologists; but he was a far more indefatigable

insect-hunter than myself. He would sit motionless for hours among the

branches of a flowering shrub or tree, the resort of bees and butterflies,

and suddenly seize them when they little expected danger. Timid in the

presence of strangers, he would usually fly to the branches of a

neighboring tree at their approach, uttering a plaintive cry, more

resembling a bird than an animal. He was apt to be troublesome, even to

me, unless I found him some amusement; this, fortunately, was not

difficult; for his whole attention was soon engrossed by a flower, or by a

leaf from my note-book, which he would industriously pull to pieces, and

throw on the surface of the water, earnestly watching the fragments with

his quick black eye, as they glided away.

At other times, when sitting on my shoulder, he was an incessant plague,

twitching the hairs from my head by twos and threes, filling my ears with

fragments of plants and other rubbish, and taking a malicious pleasure in

holding on by those members when the boat lurched, and he was in danger of

falling. I think it was one of the same family that Humboldt found capable

of recognizing, as resemblances of their originals, even uncolored

zoological drawings; and would stretch out its hand to endeavor to capture

the bees and grasshoppers. I was unable to test the sagacity of my little

comrade, as the only accessible work with engravings was a copy of

Schomburgk’s “Fishes of Guiana;” and when I showed him the plates he

manifested no signs of a knowledge of any of his finny compatriots; never,

perhaps, having seen them. He was dreadfully afraid of getting himself

wet, particularly his hands and feet; in this respect showing a very

different disposition to a large long-haired black monkey, belonging to a

family settled a short distance from our residence.

This animal—an object of the greatest terror to the little Jackowinki,

from his having caught him one day and ducked him in the river—was one of

the most tractable and docile I ever remember having met. He was in the

habit of accompanying his master in all his fishing and shooting

expeditions, taking his allotted seat in the canoe, and plying his small

paddle for hours together with the utmost gravity and composure; all the

while keeping excellent time, and being never “out of stroke.” Like his

companions, he would now and then dip the handle of his paddle in the

water, to destroy the squeaking grate of the dry surface, and again would

lean over the side and wash his hands. His domestic habits were perfectly

human. The first thing every morning he cleansed his teeth, by taking a

mouthful of water, and using his finger as a tooth-brush; like the other

members of the family, whom he also imitated in their daily bath in the

river. Perhaps one at least of these peculiarities was not entirely

imitative, as a credible authority (Captain Stedman, in his “Narrative of

an Expedition to Surinam”) assures us that he once saw a monkey at the

water’s edge, rinsing his mouth, and appearing to clean his teeth with his

fingers.

As for my little friend, I intended to bring him home; but the day before

my departure he suddenly decamped. We were taking our usual trip up the

creek, and I was just thinking of returning, when, on rounding a sharp

bend in the tortuous channel, I perceived two Jackowinkis sitting on a

branch about twenty yards distant, as yet unaware of our vicinity, and

from their chattering and grimaces seemingly engaged in some matrimonial

squabble. Anxious to obtain a specimen for stuffing, I fired at one, which

proved to be the male, who dropped to the ground.

When he saw his brother fall, he seemed instantly to understand that I was

a murderer. He took immediate revenge. He sprang to my shoulder, tore a

handful of hair from my head, and swiftly clambered away among the

overhanging branches. When I recovered from surprise at this unexpected

attack, he had paused in his flight; and, with his face turned toward me,

was grinning, showing his sharp little teeth, and throwing down glances of

fierceness and hate. In another instant he was pursuing the female, whose

plaintive twitterings were distinctly audible, as she scampered away among

the trees. In the course of time, he no doubt managed to console the

widow; and, free from all shackles and restraints, is probably, at this

moment, quietly enjoying a married life in his native woods.

THE MOUNTAIN TORRENT.

I.

My family, by the paternal side, was originally of Berne, in Switzerland,

whence a branch of it removed to the Milanese, to improve its fortunes.

The name of Reding—well-known in the Cantons—was sustained with credit by

my father. He inherited a thriving mill and farm, about a quarter of a

league from the straggling village and venerable Castle of St. Michael,

within sight of the Tyrolese Alps. Traveling to Zurich, where he had

distant connections, he returned with a companion who weaned him from the

desire of wandering any more.

The Castle of St. Michael, with the estate on which our little property

was situated, belonged to an Austrian noble, who managed it by deputy, and

lived in courtly splendor at Vienna. Count Mansfeldt was equitably

represented by his steward, Engel; and under him, our house enjoyed

prosperity from the days of my grandsire.

I had but one sister; my mother was the sole superintendent of her

education; she thought the feminine mind, so susceptible of impressions,

should never be spontaneously consigned to foreign culture. Katherine was

worthy of her preceptress. It is not for me to dilate upon her

excellence—a portrait by my hand might be deemed the glowing creation of a

brother’s fondness. It is enough to mention the strength of our

attachment. I was two years her senior; and when her age qualified her for

sharing in childish pastimes, she was the welcome partner of all my

amusements. I showered into her lap the first flowers of spring, and

brought her the wild-strawberry from heights where few would venture. In

her friendship, I reposed the confidence of ripening boyhood—frequently

were the overflowings of a sanguine temperament repressed by her mildness.

With innocent wiles she endeavored to vail my errors from parental eyes;

when I did incur displeasure, her accustomed gayety was gone, and the

voice that recalled her truant smile, was ever that which pardoned the

offender.

II.

I was entering my twentieth year, when our situation underwent an

important change. Our landlord was gathered to his ancestors, having

bequeathed his Lombardy estate to his second son, Count Rainer. Engel, the

good old steward, was soon after dismissed from office, and retired, with

the fruits of faithful service, to his native town in Carniola.

Count Rainer was a captain in the imperial army. He was with his regiment

at Pavia when informed of his father’s death. Devolving his authority on

an emancipated sergeant of hussars, the purveyor of his libertine

pleasures, he dispatched him to St. Michael to wring money from the

tenantry, and prepare for his reception.

Ludolf was a swaggering bravo, emulous, at middle age, of the vices of

profligate youth. On his arrival, he circulated a pompous intimation that

he came vested with full powers to treat with the vassals of the count,

and renew their engagements.

My sister had gone to the village to make purchases, and I left the mill

at vesper chime with the intention of meeting her. The path was abrupt,

and little frequented. I was cherishing discontent at the husbandman’s

unvaried existence, when I was roused by the distant accents of a female

in distress. They were clearly distinguishable, and I rushed to the

quarter whence they proceeded. In a corner of an open spot, backed by a

deep ditch, fenced with luxuriant underwood, Katherine was keeping a man,

unknown to me, at bay: he was above the middle size, and in his beard and

costume affected the fashion of the military. He faced me as I approached,

and my sister, with disordered dress and agitated frame, flew to my side.

Defenseless as I was, my first impulse was to chastise the ruffian, though

he wore a sabre; but consideration for the terrified girl, who clung to me

imploringly, induced me to forego my purpose. We had not receded many

paces, when Katherine relinquished her hold, and uttered a warning cry:

the hand of violence was already at my throat; and a harsh voice, unsteady

from rage or intemperance, demanded why a contemptible slave dared to

interfere with the representative of Count Rainer.

Unequal to my opponent in bulk and inert force, I was far above him in

activity and the resources of a vigorous constitution. A sudden jerk freed

me from his hold, and a well-applied push sent him reeling to the verge of

the ditch. He drew his weapon with a rapidity on which I had not

calculated; Katherine’s coolness saved my life: she arrested his arm in

its sweep. Ere he could disengage himself, I collected all my energy for

one buffet, and laid him supine in the reservoir of mud.

III.

Count Rainer was greeted at St. Michael with the show of rustic rejoicing

usual on the appearance of a new master. He was accompanied by a train of

riotous associates. The roar of Bacchanalian merriment shook the dusky

halls of his patrimonial fabric, which, in the blaze of unwonted

festivity, seemed to have renewed its youth. Naught, from the evening of

the rencounter, had we heard or seen of Ludolf. His rudeness might have

originated in the coarse jocularity of a soldier, stimulated by too fervid

an application to the bottle. Prudence required that I should abstain from

needlessly irritating a man whose enmity might mar my father’s

arrangements with his lord: I therefore avoided the chance of collision.

I was strolling about the fields with my gun on my shoulder, when a pet

pigeon of Katherine’s whirred past me, pursued by a hawk. I fired at the

bird of prey, which dropped in an adjoining meadow. Springing across the

intervening hedge, I found myself in the presence of a group of mounted

sportsmen and their attendants. One of the horsemen was examining the dead

hawk; his attention was directed toward me by a retainer, in whose brawny

proportions, husky voice, and ferocious mustaches, I recognized my

adversary, Ludolf.

My gun was demanded, in the name of Count Rainer: I refused to surrender

it. The party formed a circle around, pinioned me, and wrested it from me,

ere I could attempt resistance. “Mr. Steward,” said the count, “you may

now acquaint your friend with the consequences of destroying a nobleman’s

falcon.”

The ready villain and his servile followers dragged me to the earth; they

profaned my person by stripes. When they left me in my abasement, the air

felt pestilent with their brutal laughter.

I lay with my face to the greensward long after their departure. My brain

was eddying in a hell-whirl. I could have welcomed the return of chaos,

that the circumstance of my shame might be obliterated in the clash of

contending elements. Had the sun been blotted from the heavens, and the

summer earth turned to blackness and desolation, I should have thought

them fit and natural occurrences. I raised my burning brow; but the orb of

day was riding high in his glory, and the meadow-grass and wild flowers

were fresh and fragrant as if they had not witnessed the act of

degradation. I discovered that a stranger had been regarding me with a

vigilant eye. I confronted him, and darted at him a devouring glance; his

firm, contemplative look remained unaltered. Placing a hand on my

shoulder, he said, “Albert Reding, consider me your friend.”

“I know you not,” I answered, “nor care to know you.” He smiled

benevolently:

“Young man, I am no Austrian. I shall be with you to-morrow.”

IV.

The stranger kept his word: on the ensuing day he came to our dwelling.

Making, he said, a tour through the north of Italy, the picturesque

scenery tempted him to prolong his sojourn at St. Michael. In his

excursions, he had chanced to hold random converse with my father, whom he

professed to value as the worthy descendant of an independent and

intelligent people.

I had forborne to grieve my family by the story of my disgrace, nor had it

yet been detailed to them by the officious communicativeness of pretended

friends. Our visitor made no allusion to it, but expatiated very agreeably

on topics of general interest. He described the passes of the Alps with

the accuracy of a mountaineer, and displayed an intimacy with the

localities of the cantons that filled my parents with pleasure and

surprise. In pursuit of knowledge he had traversed the most remarkable

sections of the globe; and his observations, affluent in instruction,

proved that his wanderings had been of a different order from the

capricious migrations of sight-seeking wealth.

The warmth with which I seconded some of his sentiments appeared to please

him. He complimented my father on my education; adding, that the judgment

with which I developed its resources designated me for a wider sphere of

action than belonged to a tiller of the soil of Lombardy. I had been vain

enough to entertain the same opinion; and its confirmation by a competent

authority was balm to my spirit. Gladly I acceded to his request, of

guiding him to the Baron’s Font, a romantic cascade, where, to use his own

language, he sighed to offer allegiance to Nature.

My companion noted the peculiarities of the route, and committed to

writing the information I furnished respecting the district. We rested on

the summit of a steep, skirted by the foaming stream of the cascade,

beyond which rose wooded grounds in bold acclivity, mellowing, with their

dusky greenness, the gloomy grandeur of a mouldering tower.

The stranger abruptly adverted to the hateful humiliation of the preceding

day. He descanted on the contumely I had suffered, with a vehement

bitterness that chafed my young blood to flame. I denounced endless

hostility against the count and his minions. He calmly commented on the

futility of the threat. In the frenzy of exasperation, I insinuated the

possibility of resorting to the darkest means of accomplishing revenge. He

replied, that in cooler moments I would spurn the idea of Italian

vengeance. Requiring a pledge of secrecy, he proceeded to point out an

honorable mode of lowering the crest of the oppressor.

“My name,” he said, “is Philippon—my profession, a military engineer, in

the service of the French Republic. The armies of Liberty only await the

capture of Toulon to sever the chains of Italy. I am terminating a secret

journey of observation through Piedmont and the Milanese. Come with me to

Paris, and join the standard of Freedom. In France, no parchment barrier

excludes untitled youth from fame and fortune; draw a blade in her cause,

and relieve the place of your nativity from the thralldom of its petty

tyrant. These brutal and stolid Austrians must be driven to their land of

hereditary bondage—justice demands it. The time has gone by for insulted

and injured Humanity to shed tears in secret. Five dreary years I pined in

the dismal solitudes of the Bastile—I saw it fall, amid the curses of my

countrymen; and never shall the spirit of a liberated nation taste repose,

until every stronghold of remorseless power is patent to the winds of

heaven as yon grim old fortress, where the Count Rainers of the past

outraged with impunity the natural equality of man!”

The majesty of generous indignation irradiated his brow: the eloquent

thunders of the Roman forum seemed to roll around me. I agreed to attend

him to the capital of the young Republic.

V.

Bent on entering the field of martial adventure, I anticipated much

difficulty in obtaining the concurrence of my father. A lover of

tranquillity, he had sickened at the sanguinary measures that had

crimsoned the cradle of the French Revolution. Yielding also to age and

infirmity, he had been accustomed to the prospect of resigning to me the

chief management of our affairs. The narrative of my shame, however, which

led him to tremble for the consequences, determined him against opposing

my departure. Of my military project, and the pursuits of my patron, I

made no disclosure—I barely stated the fact, that he had promised to

provide for me at Paris, and proposed, in the mean time, giving me

employment as an amanuensis.

Sorrow and joy are twin daughters of affection. Notwithstanding the

excitement of curiosity and ambition, reluctantly and despondingly I

crossed our humble threshold. I went away at night, and this added to the

melancholy character of the separation. My mother was unwell, and at her

bedside I received her blessing. The features of my gentle-natured sister

gave dim and pallid testimony to the fullness of her affliction. When I

had parted with my parents, she escorted me to the extremity of the

orchard. “Oh, Albert!” were the only words she had power to utter; and her

face looked so mournful—so heart-appealing, in the moonlight—that to

desert her smote me as a sin. One embrace, and I bounded off like a

chamois—then paused, till weeping relieved my soul—Katherine! Katherine!

VI.

I remained about a year at Paris in the house of my patron. Toulon had

fallen, and the army of Italy had commenced operations by a successful

movement on the Sardinian frontier. Profiting by the opportunity I

possessed of studying the theory of the military art, I was rewarded with

a commission in a regiment of the line—one of those destined for the

invasion of the Milanese. I received, with alacrity, the order to proceed

to Nice. I was shocked and disgusted by the dreary spectacle of civil

broil, and I thirsted for distinction. The memory of wrong also rankled in

my bosom, and in my dreams I planted the revolutionary banner on the

battlements of St. Michael, and heard myself hailed in the halls of the

insolent Austrian with the acclamations due to a hero.

I joined my regiment; but a government weakened by vacillations in its

form, and dissensions in the capital, permitted the army, with which my

hopes were associated, to languish ill-appointed and inactive. Instead of

running a career of glory, it was forced to contend with the most

depressing privations. In my despondency, a long-delayed letter arrived

from my father. Its contents were almost limited to the earnest request,

that I would immediately hasten home.

Its emphatic urgency, unaccompanied by explanation, assured me that all

went not well. I would fain have obeyed the summons, but it was

impracticable. The Directory, established in authority, ordered the army

of Italy to the field. General Bonaparte, an officer in his twenty-sixth

year, marshaled the way to the Alps.

Napoleon’s campaigns in 1796 are familiar to all Europe. It was my fortune

to be present in the most remarkable engagements, and to escape without a

wound. When Wurmser, after repeated defeats, succeeded in recruiting his

forces in the Tyrol, a strong body of our troops, headed by the

commander-in-chief, advanced against a division of 20,000 Austrians

stationed at Roveredo. Our line of march lay through the district of my

birth. A few hours before we were in motion I was summoned to the quarters

of the general. It was the well-known characteristic of this extraordinary

man scrupulously to ascertain the extent of his resources, even to the

qualifications of an individual soldier.

Aware of my knowledge of the country he was about to penetrate, he wished

to make it subservient to his purpose. He questioned me as to the

correctness of some local information, which I perceived had been derived

from the documents of Philippon. Satisfied on these points, he sportively

inquired, if I had any dislike to act as his herald to my old neighbors. I

related my obligations to our German superior, and he promised me ample

powers for discharging them in full.

We were evidently unexpected. No artificial obstacle opposed our progress,

and we proceeded with unexampled celerity. Our advanced posts were only

separated from St. Michael by a few miles of broken ground, when I was

dispatched with a detachment to surprise it. The troops halted in a

chestnut grove, about half a league from the mill, while I, grappling a

fowling-piece, assuming a light hunting-cap, and covering my uniform with

an ordinary cloak, went forth to reconnoitre the place, and to provide for

the safety of my relatives.

I skirted round the village and castle, which I found were occupied by a

company of Hungarian infantry under Count Rainer. Not anticipating the

irruption of an enemy into their secluded fastness, camp indulgences had

relaxed order. My informer, a poor peasant, seemed afraid of confiding to

a stranger his opinion of the count and his followers. I asked concerning

my family, but with the name of Reding he was unacquainted.

It was the beginning of September. There had been a continuance of

unusually sultry weather, and the melting of the mountain snows had

swelled the stream at St. Michael to an impetuous torrent. Twilight was

approaching when I reached a sheltered position opposite the castle. The

waters dashed furiously against the base of the building, and the crazy

supports of the antiquated bridge quivered like a harpstring.

I resolved on a nocturnal attack, and was about to seek a passing

interview with the dear domestic circle, when, looking toward the castle,

I saw what stayed my step. A female ran wildly to the stream, pursued by

some menials, in the rear of whom, on horseback, came the count their

master. The fugitive cleared the bridge just as her pursuers gained it. At

that moment the centre of the infirm structure gave way to the torrent.

Concealed among the trees, I perceived the female on bended knees,

distractedly blessing God for her deliverance; and I knew that it was

Katherine, my only—my beloved sister!

I fired a shot at him who had been foremost in the chase—the infamous

Ludolf—as he clambered up a remnant of the shattered bridge. He stood

unhurt amidst the group that surveyed me, while I sheltered the dove of my

boyhood in my bosom. In the confusion I exposed my uniform; the alarm was

given, and every instant became precious. I supported Katherine until out

of sight of the foe. “Fly!” I cried; “fly to our parents, dear sister!

tell them I shall bring glad tidings in the morning!”

I counseled in vain. The sense of injury had unsettled her mind—she hung

helplessly upon me—her lips moved, but I could distinguish nothing of what

she spoke, save the repetition of the words, “Home! I have no home!”—Oh,

God! she was sadly altered!

A bugle echoed among the cliffs. I bore her to a cavern, the discovery of

my youth, and wrapped her in my cloak. Hurrying, by familiar paths, with a

speed I had never before exerted, I rejoined my associates.

VII.

An intricate and circuitous track brought us at midnight to the isolated

church of St. Michael, commanding the village and the narrow road to the

castle. We crouched in the church-yard, until every sound ceased, and the

lights that had blazed in different directions were no longer visible.

Leaving part of my force to intercept the communication with the village,

I led the remainder to a point of the fortress which I had scaled in my

youthful rambles.

The pacing of the sentinels, and the noisy vigils of the count and his

guests, were clearly audible as I descended the ivied wall. My party

followed, one by one, and our success would have been signally complete,

but for the accidental discharge of a musket. This was answered by a

volley from the guard, the din of arms, and the hasty gathering of a

tumultuous body of defenders. Ordering my men to keep close and follow me,

we pressed forward to a private door that opened into the body of the

pile.

This barrier was quickly shattered by a shower of balls, and in a second

the great hall resounded with the groans of the dying and the shouts of

the triumphant. In that arena of slaughter I was collected as I am now.

Once had Rainer’s bloated visage confronted me in the fray, but the

baleful meteor vanished, and bootless to me was the issue of the conflict,

until blade or bullet did its work on him and his subordinate.

The hall gave indications of a carousal. The red wine streaming from

flagons overturned in struggle, mingled with the life-drops of the

wassailers. Death derived a more appalling aspect from the relics of

recent revelry. Some intoxicated wretches had been bayoneted with the

goblets in their hands. One had fallen backward on the hearth above the

burning embers; he was mortally wounded, and the blood gushed freely in

the flames. I stooped to raise him from his bed of torture. The streaks of

gore did not disguise the lineaments of Ludolf. The reprobate had closed

his reckoning with mortality.

Victory was ours, but discipline was at an end; I could with difficulty

muster sentinels for the night; the cellars were ransacked, and weariness

and intemperance soon produced their effects. Sending confidential

messengers to attend to my sister’s safety, and convey intelligence to my

father, I prepared to await the dawn of morning.

Feverish from anxiety, I felt no inclination to grant my wearied limbs

repose. My brain was racked with the thought of Katherine, and

apprehension for my parents. I had seen enough to convince me that Rainer

had done his worst. What confederate demon had enabled him to escape me?

I paced from post to post, execrating the sluggish march of time. Leaning

over an eminence near the broken bridge, I listened to the turbulent music

of the waters. A subterraneous opening cut in the rocky soil below

communicated with the vaults of the castle. Hearing the echo of a

foot-fall, I bent cautiously over the outlet. A lamp glimmered beneath. A

muffled figure raised it aloft to guide its egress, then extinguished it

hastily. The light fell on the face of the count.

I grasped his cloak as he emerged, but, slipping it from his shoulders, he

retreated toward a shelving wood-walk on the margin of the stream. Had he

gained it, the darkness must have saved him. Both my pistols missed fire.

I outstripped in the race, and bore him back to the very edge of the

ravine. He made a thrust at me with his sword. I neither paused for a

trial of skill, nor attempted to ward off the weapon; the butt-end of a

pistol found its way to his forehead; not a sound passed his lips; down he

went—down—down—passively bounding over the jagged declivity, till a heavy

plash told that he was whirling with the torrent.

Vengeance was satisfied: I recoiled involuntarily from the scene of the

encounter. Suddenly arose an explosion, as if a volcano had torn up the

foundation of the castle: I was felled to the earth ere I could speculate

upon the cause.

VIII.

My campaigns were over. Rainer had laid a train, and fired the powder

magazine of his captured hold. The bravest of my men perished; and I,

crushed beneath a fragment of the toppling towers, lived to curse the art

that returned me mutilated and miserable, to a world in which I was

henceforth to have no portion.

I left the hospital a phantom, and set forth on a pilgrimage, the

performance of which was the only business that remained to me in life.

The tide of battle had ebbed from St. Michael, when I crawled up its

steep—the church and castle were blackened ruins—the habitations of the

villagers roofless and deserted—the mill a shapeless mass of timber and

stones. Our orchard was unfolding the buds of spring—I fancied that the

hoary apple-trees wore the aspect of friends—the voice of singing floated

on my ear, as I neared the dwelling of my infancy, and the fountain of my

heart re-opened.

Close to the spot where our pretty porch once stood, a matron, in the garb

of extreme penury, was bending over the trampled remains of a plot of

flowers. Her features were only partially revealed, but the mountain

melody she sang could not be mistaken—I fell at my mother’s feet! Shading

back the hair from my scarred temples, she asked me if I had come from her

children!

Mercy was vouchsafed to her and to me. She soon slumbered with the clods

of the valley. My father had died, ere my departure from France; and the

story of our injuries from the Austrian lightened the burden of remorse

for the shedding of blood. I have discovered no trace of Katherine since I

quitted her at the cave.

A MASKED BALL AT VIENNA.

It is a bitterly cold night, and the snow which has been for three days

tumbling down upon the roofs and pavements of Vienna, tumbles down upon us

still. The theatres, which get through their performances by half-past

nine, are closed already; and there is a lull now in the muffled streets.

I mean to go out as a muffled man, and use the ticket I have bought for a

Masked Ball at the palace. The sale of tickets for such balls, which take

place now and then during the winter, raises enormous sums, which are

applied to charitable purposes, so that the luxury of the rich is made to

minister, in this case, also to the comforts of the poor.

Here I stand ankle-deep in snow, and look up at the palace; all the

windows on the first story are being lighted up, and cold gentlemen

converging toward the door from all parts, are the members of Strauss’s

band. And now lights have begun to flash about the streets, and masks are

beginning to arrive. Splendid carriages of the nobility; and positively

some of the imperial family do not disdain to be among the first arrivals!

The beau from the suburbs, in a light fiacre. Actresses and officers in

their broughams. Sledges from the country, drawn by merry little horses,

frisking through the snow, and jingling bells over their harness. A chaos

of lights, a coachman, and the long poles of sedan chairs in the way of a

chaos of legs, hats, shoulders, coach-tops, and every thing else, powdered

with snow that tumbles silently and steadily upon the scene of riot. A

crush of revelers upon the staircase. Half-past eleven; all the most

important people having now entered—except myself—it is quite time for me

to follow to the ball-room.

A vast room. Think of the Great Exhibition, if you want a notion of it;

and take off a discount for exaggeration. Walk to the end of this room,

and a door opens into another ball-room, almost twice as large. In each of

these great halls, there are raised orchestras, in which the bands are

stationed; and when one band ceases playing, another is prepared

immediately to begin. Galleries, to which you ascend by flights of stairs

at each end, run round both the rooms; and into these galleries open

innumerable ice and supper-rooms, passages, and out-of-the-way cells,

wherein you may lose yourself, but not your company. Masks are to be found

sitting in every corner; wherever a mask is, there is mischief.

You see nothing vulgar, no rude costume, no monstrous noses, no absurd

pairs of spectacles, or woolly wigs. You hear no boisterous shouts of

mirth; beautiful music reigns incessantly supreme over all other sounds.

Only the ladies are disguised; their faces are hidden behind elegant

little black silk masks, and they vie with each other in the costliness

and beauty of their costumes and dominoes. The men are all in simple

evening dress; they walk about, defenseless game, and yield sport in

abundance to the dames and damsels. Most of the ministers are here—grave,

steady gentlemen, with bald heads or gray hair. Each of them is surrounded

by a swarm of masks—princesses, perhaps—milliners, perhaps—and some of

them are evidently making wry mouths at what they are obliged to hear.

This is the time for home truths. The ladies at a masked ball make good

use of their disguise, and scatter about their wholesome mischief

abundantly.

A vision in black and gold beckons to me. I place myself at her disposal.

“You are an Englishman,” the vision says; “I know you.” “How, madam?” “By

your awkwardness.” “Are Britons awkward?” “Yes, and wearisome. Go, you are

not amusing. Take care of your gloves; they are so large that I fear they

will fall off.” The vision laughs at me and vanishes. I have a secret or

two which I don’t mean to print. I did think that those mysteries were

locked up in my bosom. If you ever happen to be at Vienna, with some

secrets in your keeping, and desire to know whether you hold them safe, go

to a Masked Ball. Mocking voices, behind black silk masks, will very much

surprise you with some samples of the penetration proper to a sex which

seems, in Vienna, to be made of Blue Beard wives. Twenty ladies honor me

with minute details of the contents of one apartment in my mind, which I

had considered quite a patent safe, with a fastening like that of the box

in the talisman of Oromanes.

The night wears on; at three o’clock the instrumental music ceases, but

the music of the mischievous and merry tattlers still continues to be

ringing in all ears, and making them to tingle. Every man is destined to

go home abundantly informed and criticised upon the subject of his

foibles. Until six o’clock, supping, and taking tea and coffee, will

continue, and the relish for amusement will be as keen as ever. Nobody is

dancing—nobody has danced; that is no part of the business. At length, the

multitude has dwindled down to a few stragglers; the remainder of the

cloaks, and coats, and wrappers, are brought out and scattered, as so many

hints to their possessors, in the middle of the great room. We immediately

dive and scramble for them. In another hour, the lights are put out; all

is over, and I travel home over the snow.

THE ORNITHOLOGIST.

I was still young, when a sudden reverse of fortune deprived me of a kind

father and affluence at the same time. A home was offered for my

acceptance by Mrs. Priestly, a widow lady, whom I had never seen since my

infancy, distance and circumstances having combined to effect this

separation. Mrs. Priestly was not only my godmother, but she had been the

earliest chosen friend of my own lamented mother, and now came forward to

extend succor to the destitute orphan. In former years, I remembered to

have heard that she had suffered deep sorrow, from the loss of her only

child, a fine boy, who was heir to a princely fortune, independent of his

mother’s considerable possessions. There were rumors afloat, at the period

of this bereavement, of a peculiarly distressing nature—strange,

half-suppressed whispers of some fearful accident that had rendered the

widow childless; but the memory of these things had passed away, and Mrs.

Priestly’s first despair and agony had settled down to a resigned

melancholy. On her fine countenance premature age was stamped, a smile

seldom visible, while her mourning garb was never cast aside; she was a

lifelong mourner.

The outward aspect of Lodimer—so Mrs. Priestly’s domain was called—was but

little in accordance with the sad heart of its owner, for a more cheerful

or animated scene I had rarely witnessed. The villa, surrounded by

colonnades, stood on the side of a gently swelling hill, at the base of

which flowed a broad and sparkling river, on which numerous boats and

picturesque-looking barges were continually passing and repassing. Roses

and thatch, light French windows and exotics, trimly-kept

pleasure-grounds, slopping down to the water’s edge, drooping willows and

silver birches were accessories, doubtless, to produce an effect of

combined elegance and grace, while on the opposite banks richly wooded

hills were studded with white cottages, glancing in the sunshine; though

even during rainy seasons Lodimer never looked gloomy, an indescribable

air of joyousness and hilarity pervading it. The calamity which

overshadowed Mrs. Priestly’s existence had not occurred at this pleasant

home, but at the distant seat of the widow’s brother, Mr. Lovell, of

Lovell Castle, where she and her son were on a visit at the time; and

still Mrs. Priestly continued to pay an annual visit thither, never

leaving Lodimer save for that purpose, but leading a life of extreme

seclusion. I had the satisfaction of believing that my society tended to

enhance the comfort of Mrs. Priestly; who, with the utmost delicacy and

kindness, lavished a thousand nameless attentions—trifling in themselves,

but keenly felt by the dependent; calling me her adopted daughter, while

her candor demanded and received my grateful thanks, for I fully

appreciated the excellent motives actuating Mrs. Priestly’s avowal. She

wished to prevent false expectations on my part, and yet to set at rest

all anxiety respecting the future; informing me, that the bulk of her

wealth she designed to bequeath to her nephew, Mr. Lovell’s son, but that

a moderate provision was secured for her dear orphan god-daughter. But my

agitation gave place to surprise, when Mrs. Priestly continued, addressing

me, “You have sense and discretion beyond your years, Evelin, my love, and

when you came to reside here with me, I determined first to ascertain if

this were the case, ere I confided my secret to your keeping—for I _have_

a secret—which may not be mentioned at Lovell Castle, when you accompany

me thither shortly. A few miles hence, an individual resides, to whom I

intend shortly to introduce you. He is a most unfortunate person, and

desires the strictest privacy; but Mr. Edwin is not unhappy, because he

knows the ’peace within which passeth show,’ while his intellectual

attainments are of the highest order. But, in case you should weave a

romance, Evelin, out of these details,” added Mrs. Priestly, faintly

smiling, “it is but fair I warn you, that romance and Edwin may not be

coupled together, for he is—alas! poor fellow—an unsightly and deformed

creature; his captivations are those only of the heart and mind—in this he

shines pre-eminent. Again let me remind you, my love, not to allude to Mr.

Edwin in conversation; forget him altogether, except when you speak to me.

I know that you are not tormented with feminine curiosity, or I would tell

you to ask no questions. This is my secret, Evelin, which I fearlessly

confide to your keeping.”

However, Mrs. Priestly did me more than justice, for though I certainly

endeavored to indulge no idle speculations on the forbidden topic, yet I

was not apathetic enough to forget it; more especially after accompanying

Mrs. Priestly to see her mysterious friend, whose _ménage_, to say nothing

of himself, might have excused a far more insensible person than I was for

feeling a strong interest and sympathy. Surrounded by thick woods on all

sides save one, which opened toward the same river that washed the emerald

turf of Lodimer, we came to a small spot of ground resembling a

“clearing,” and I fancied we were transported to those wild western lands

I had so often read of—the old ivy-covered hunting-lodge in the midst

adding much to the real beauty of the picture, though detracting somewhat

from its savage charms. Quantities of feathered tribes were strutting

about within the inclosure, or enjoying themselves in various attitudes of

indolence or security; an immense aviary extended down one side of the

clearing, fitted up with the view of affording as much solace and liberty

of movement as possible to the inmates. The whole place seemed alive with

fowls of the air, and we beheld a human form within the wire-work of the

aviary, literally covered with birds, small and large, wherever they could

find a resting-place—on head, arms, or back—and many more were fluttering

and crowding over and around him, as Mr. Edwin—for it was he—proceeded to

dispense food to his loving flock. Presently he made his escape, and

approached us, with a jay perched on one shoulder and a magpie on the

other, appearing to hold whispering discourse with their benefactor, who

fondly caressed and chirruped to them in turn. He was of middling stature,

perceptibly and painfully deformed; but his countenance was such an one as

Raphael would have loved to portray—holy, placid, and spiritual, beyond

any mortal face I have looked upon before or since. His voice was

inexpressibly touching and melodious; it thrilled the heart of the

listener, for there was an intonation of sadness in its tone, though the

words were cheerful, as he cordially and warmly welcomed us. We followed

him into a long, low-roofed apartment, the windows of which looked out on

woodland vistas, and on all sides, from floor to ceiling, it was lined

with books, and cases containing stuffed birds, for Mr. Edwin was devoted

to the study of ornithology, and almost rivaled Audubon in patient

watching and research. A married couple, of quiet and orderly habits,

formed the domestic establishment at Ivy Lodge; and the profound stillness

and solitude of this sylvan retreat was unbroken, save by the cooing of

the cushat dove, the song-birds’ varied notes, the sonorous hooting of the

white owl up among the eaves, and the occasional screams of the splendid

peacocks ringing through the greenwood glades.