Noon by the Town Clock; noon, by the shadow of the blessed sun on the
dial face, on the face of the Town Pump. High, hot, scorching, melting,
smelting noon. Noon, by the thermometer at eighty-two degrees; noon, by
the whirr of the dragon-fly,[A] and the quivering haze over the meadow;
noon, by heat without and heat within, and by every melting moment.
Come, then, my younkers, fresh from school, where you have been turning
over dictionaries and spelling, with sweaty fingers—come and take
another lesson. Come and shake hands with the Town Pump!
[A] The dragon-fly _rests_ at noontide, and flies most actively towards
sundown.
[Illustration]
How do you do, my young gentlemen? Take hold of my iron hand. Welcome
to you all; I am not above shaking hands with the meanest of you,
although I am a public character. Some people have dignified me with
the name of Town Treasurer; and not an improper title either, as I am
the guardian of the best treasure the Town has: whoever has a draught
upon me will be sure to get it honoured, which cannot be said of every
Treasurer. The Overseers of the Town ought to make me their Chairman,
since I have the best interests of the Town’s people at heart. I am at
the head of the Fire Department, and one of the Physicians of the Board
of Health. I ought to be dubbed High Constable also, as I am the best
Justice of the Peace; for whosoever taketh my cool advice will seldom
fall into black eyes or bloody noses: and, in this my magisterial
capacity, I think myself as useful as a dozen policemen at least. To
speak within bounds, I am the chief person in the Municipality; a
Mayor in my own right; and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to
my brother officers, by the cool, steady, downright-and-upright motion
of my arm in the cause of sobriety and virtue, and by the copious and
impartial discharge of my duty. Summer and winter few seek my aid in
vain; for all day long I am sure to be found at my post, ready to
welcome all comers with a pure and delightful glass, sparkling like the
diamond, or the light of gladness in a good man’s eye.
Let me be the Cup-bearer to the State; for I ought to be, by virtue of
the iron goblet chained round my waist, and I can sing, with swanging
jingle—
“Let’s quaff the goblet full and bright,
And see it in the soul’s best light!—”
and be a water-Anacreon. I am the wisdom that crieth out in the
streets, “Will no man regard me?” Yes; I am sure some will. Here is
the _aqua vitæ_, the pure blood of the earth, the distilled juices
of heaven. Walk up, gentlemen and children! walk up! Here is the
true elixir of life, the _primum mobile_ of existence—the spring of
springiness in the joints—the fountain of Diana herself—chaste, pure,
and holy! Come and taste the unadulterated ale of Father Adam! Here you
can have it pure, or mixed with sunshine, or bubbling with cheerful
looks—all without stint—by the hogshead or single glass; and all for
love, and nothing to pay! The only untaxed article in the kingdom;
think of that! Walk up! walk up! friends and neighbours, and help
yourselves.
It would be a pity if this outcry should draw no customers. Here they
come, scores of them. A hot day, gentlemen! Quaff, and away again!
You, my friend, will need another cupfull to wash the dust off your
mustaches—the new English invention. I see you have been inhaling the
dust of a cotton-mill, and this will wash it all down, not leaving one
single particle sticking to the palate, as the “jolly fat ale” does.
Come on you, also, Mr. Traveller; you have walked half a score miles
to-day, and, like a wise man, have passed by the taverns and stopped
at the running brooks and well-curbs; otherwise, betwixt heat without
and fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder, or melted like
a lump of butter in a frying-pan. Drink, friend, and be thankful,
and make room for that other fellow who seeks my aid to quench the
fever of last night’s potations at the “Pig and Whistle.” Welcome,
most rubicund sir, with your rosy gills, round paunch, and pimpled
nose; I am very glad to see you here, sir! You and I have been great
strangers hitherto; nor, to confess the truth, will my nose be anxious
for a closer intimacy, till the fumes of your breath become a little
less potent. Mercy on you, man, the water absolutely _hisses_ down
your red-hot gullet, and is converted quite to steam in the miniature
“tophet” which you mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me,
on the word of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, gin
palace, or dram-shop, spend the price of your children’s food for a
swig half so delicious? Now, for the first time for a long while, you
know the flavour of cold water. Good bye! and remember, whenever you
are thirsty, that I keep a constant supply at the old stand. Who next?
O, my little friend, just let loose from school; you would clear your
throat with a sup of the pure and lovely? Take it, and may your heart
and throat be never scorched by a fiercer thirst than now. There, my
dear child, put down the cup, and yield your place to this good-looking
gentleman, with a countenance fair and ruddy, and cheerful as the sun
in May. It is Stephen Grovely, a friend to water, and to peace, and
to vegetable food, and a good friend beside. He takes a sup as if he
could make a supper of it, and sleep like moonshine on the placid deep.
Who is that coming by, with a sneer and a laugh at Mr. Grovely? He is
an oldish kind of gentleman, and treads very lightly on the stones,
saving his poor old toes with a stick, and stopping for breath every
minute or so. How he pants and wheezes, and what strange winces and
contortions are on his face at every movement! How do you find yourself
this morning, sir? I hope you had a comfortable night—no nightmares,
groanings, fearful dreams, or kickings about in your sleep. “You be
hanged!” says the old man. “Thank you, sir, for your good wishes.” I
only say:—Go and draw one cork, tip the decanter, pour out the ‘rosy
red,’ the ‘golden saffron,’ the ‘purple blue;’ but, when your great toe
shall set you a-roaring, don’t say it is the Town Pump.“ If gentlemen
love the pleasant titilation of the gout, and won’t take advice, ’tis
all one to the Town Pump. Ah, ah! Old Lion, PETER PARLEY’S old dog,
sixteen years old this very day! Come and celebrate your nativity.
Well done, old boy, with your two fore-legs on the cistern, and your
hind-legs erect; loll out your red tongue, while I pump you a draught.
Well may you wag your old tail as thanks, and walk away satisfied, and,
old as you are, gambol about refreshed. Lion, Lion! your worship never
had the gout, so do not bark at that poor old gentleman who hobbles by
you, looking so sour and woeful.
Are you all satisfied? then wipe your mouths, my good friends, and be
thankful; and while the spout has a moment’s leisure, I will delight
the town with a few historical reminiscences. In far antiquity,
beneath the darksome shadow of venerable boughs a spring bubbled out
of the leaf-strewn earth, on the very spot where you now behold me
on the sunny pavement. The water was bright and clear, and seemed
as precious as liquid diamonds. Amid the grove—for it was a sacred
one—Druid-seers celebrated their mystic rites, and, with the pure,
undulterated stream, allayed the fiery thirst of feverish lips, and
cured diseases. Here they assembled in high delight at Christmas time,
and while snow covered all the earth, was kept open by their prayers
the then only bubbling spring. But the Druids passed away, and in their
place, ages after, were seen, yet still in the same white robes, holy
priests of Christ, sanctifying the sacred spot. The spring bubbled as
before: but now it had the power to heal—pilgrims flocked to it from
all parts—the pious St. Columb had sanctified it. It worked miracles
on the diseased. The halt, the maimed, the sick came to it and were
healed. Free rose the spring; but it was no longer a free offering to
the poor, the sick, and the wretched. A price was set upon it. Those
that thirsted for the water had to pay before they got any;—as the pay
was increased the miracles were more wonderful, till at last, over
the once free and natural spring a stupendous building arose, with
its flying buttresses high in air; its spandrils within, and their
corbels capped with the faces of the condemned; its lofty pinnacle
studded with angels, and every coign of vantage speaking the mysteries
of a faith which was obliterated by its grotesque ornaments; yet, age
after age, the miraculous waters flowed. At last, the sacred fane
decayed, and holy men were no more seen; broken pillars and scattered
mouldings bestrewed the place; and the grass, and the rank plants of
summer, and the briar, and the burdock, and the tansy were the only
guardians of the spot; yet, still the spring bubbled forth, and threw
its bright gems of brilliance to the light of heaven; and solitary
men would come and moralise over its site, with tears as deep as its
own gushings. At last the fountain was broken up; the ruins of the
old abbey were cleared away; place was given to the levelling hand of
time; a hostlery arose near to the place whereon the fountain stood,
a part of which occupied the very spot. Still, however, the spring
bubbled forth by fits and starts,—its waters sometimes clear, sometimes
turbid. It was turned into a tank or pool; and while horses slackened
their thirst, their masters increased theirs by the strong waters of
the inn; and there were carousals, and debaucheries, and strifes,
and murders upon a place which had once been considered holy. Fire
came during an intoxicating season—the season when peace on earth and
good-will towards man was proclaimed. The hostlery was burnt down—the
pure spring was smothered—and its very site, after a lapse of years,
forgotten. At last foundations were dug—a new town sprang up over the
old—a church and market-house took the place of the old abbey—and a
Temperance Hotel that of the Inn. The old spring bubbled up again, in
delight, at the improved prospect. But it now lay on the earth, yet
higher on Sabbath-days. Whenever a baby was to be baptised, the sexton
came and filled his basin, and placed it on the font in the baptistry
of the church: and hither, too, came the pious deacon of the chapel,
with his rude basin of delf, for the same holy purpose. Thus, one
generation after another was consecrated to heaven by its waters, and
cast their waning shadows into its crystal bosom. But in course of time
another change took place; a greedy bricklayer of a churchwarden, who
wanted a job out of the parish, proposed to build over the spring; and
cartloads of bricks and high mountains of mortar incased it on every
side. The spring was effectually brick-bound, and upon it arose the
Town Pump, with its spout and handle of iron, and a gas-light above it,
and a stone cistern below, on which appeared, in all the emblazoning
of municipal grandeur—“Erected in 1848: Job Trick and Giles Keen,
Churchwardens.” Then let us drink the health of these worthy gentlemen,
and success to their better motives. Drink then again, my friends, to
the cause of Temperance; drink to the cause of peace all the world
over; drink to the cause of righteousness; to that of pure religion,
drawn from the fountain-head of Him who called himself the “Living
Water.” Pump away, while you have life, in the cause of Truth! Pump
away, my lads, for all that thirst! Let our Town Pump be our Physician,
our Town Councillor, our Keeper of the Peace, and our best resource
when we are sick, sad, or thirsty.
[Illustration]
The Youthful Nelson.
[Illustration: NELSON’S SCHOOL-HOUSE.]
Lord Nelson, our great Naval Commander, was, in his youth, remarkable
for his disinterestedness and intrepidity. Among his school-fellows,
he was always the first to do a noble thing; and, whenever he
thoughtlessly joined others in doing a foolish one, he never shrank
from the responsibility; but, instead of trying to shift the blame upon
others, was always ready to take it upon himself. On one occasion,
while at school, upon an approaching Fifth of November, the Rev. Mr.
Jones, with whom Nelson went to school, at North Walsham, strictly
prohibited any of the scholars from leaving the house or grounds, to
go in search of what is called “Plunder;” that is, wood, sticks, and
loose stubble, with which bonfires are generally constructed, and the
getting of which sometimes plays sad havoc with hedges, railings,
and the like. This was, indeed, a sad misfortune to the school-boys,
who always feel that the best part of the fun of a Fifth of November
is the prowling about for forage; and a glorious thing it has ever
been and ever will be, to see boys bearing their boughs of trees,
roots of trees, stumplings and hedgelings, into the grand square of
the play-ground, with almost military honors. The shouting, the warm
hands and hearts, the cheerful faces, the mad pranks, and the thousand
laughable incidents which occur, give to these sports a charm unknown
to any other youthful frolics. Nelson was not a boy to relinquish this
old custom; and therefore, when before going to bed on the Fourth
of November, the Reverend Dominie pronounced the interdiction, and
solemnly warned the school-boys not to attempt any wild freaks on that
day of brimstone-matches and fire-works, Nelson’s blood rose into his
face, and he said, loudly—
“I hope you don’t include me, Sir.”
“Not include you, Sir?” replied the indignant Clergyman. “Indeed I do
include you, Sir! and positively insist upon your keeping with the
other boys in the school-room, and not to leave the play-ground.”
“I can’t answer for myself, Sir,” replied Nelson; “and you can’t answer
for the boys, I am sure. Such a thing was never heard of since the days
of James the First.”
“I do positively enjoin the strictest obedience to my commands,” said
the Master, “and positively forbid any one from leaving the school
premises to-morrow,” and, with a severe look at Nelson, the Master
ordered the boys to bed on the instant.
The lads of the school, in number about forty, were domiciled in one
large bed-room. As soon as the doors were shut and the lights out,
little Nelson leaped out of bed, and whispered, loud enough to be heard
by all—
“Who is for a sky-lark?”
“I—I—I—I—I—I am,” responded a dozen voices; and, in the same moment,
as many lads leaped out of their beds, and were jumping about the
dormitory in their long bedgowns.
“It is bright moonlight,” said Nelson.
“What a beautiful night for a ramble,” said little Eugene Harris, the
schoolmaster’s nephew.
“What a beautiful night for ‘plunder’ for a bonfire,” rejoined Nelson;
and thereupon all the boys leaped out of bed, and ran to the windows.
“’Tis too soon yet,” said Nelson; “it is but nine o’clock: let us wait
till twelve and then sally out, and get as much fire-wood into the
play-ground as will reach to the level of the old Clock-house, and set
fire to it in the morning, and begin our day as we are wont to end it,”
cried Nelson. “In the meantime put on your clothes, and get ready for a
start.”
The boys did as they were told; for, although Nelson was smaller than
many, and younger than most, he had obtained such an influence over his
schoolfellows, that every one seemed quite ready to do his bidding.
They knew that they could depend upon him; that, if he got them into a
scrape, he would, somehow or other, contrive to bring them off again
with honor, although he suffered in their stead. Thus, the boys made
themselves ready for the enterprise; and Nelson began by tying the
sheets and blankets together, by which the boys were to descend from
the bed-room to the ground; and long before midnight all was ready for
the exploit.
The moon, which had been shining brilliantly, had, however, now
become obscured by darkened, dismal clouds, and the wind began to
howl fearfully. Some of the boys were disturbed at this state of the
elements, and ventured to suggest a postponement of the enterprise.
“The more the danger the greater the fun,” cried Nelson; “besides
which, the less likely are we to be seen or heard—
‘So, let the wind blow;
Our ship rocks so.’
The wilder the night, the frisker we will be.“ He then opened the
window, and let down the first knotted set of blankets; and, calling
on all those who had got any spirit for a good thing to follow him, he
descended by the said blankets into the shrubbery underneath.
Most of the boys followed; but a portion of the younger branches were
too timid to descend, and kept a good look-out at the windows. In
the meantime, Nelson mustered his followers in three divisions—ten
in each—placing a captain to each “corps.” He then directed them to
proceed in three several directions, and to capture all that was
burnable, and bring it to a grand rendezvous, underneath the great
clump of trees at the further end of the shrubbery contiguous to the
play-ground.
[Illustration: “PLUNDER.”]
Noble and exciting was the work of that dreary night. The wind blew,
and the rain came; but, nothing daunted, the little heroes went long
distances for their “plunder;” and, like bees in search of honey and
wax, went and returned with all the delight and joy imaginable. Young
Nelson was here and there, and everywhere; now guiding, now directing,
now cautioning, and now cheering his little army. At last, by the time
morning dawned—which was not very early at that time of the year—such a
tremendous lot of matters were brought together as had never been known
on any former occasion. It filled all the back avenue of the shrubbery,
and there seemed almost enough of material to set a town on fire.
Nelson, who beheld this accumulation of igneous matter, felt his heart
beat with joy; and a thought suddenly seized him of bringing the whole
into the play-ground, and of setting fire to it, to begin the day. This
idea was no sooner communicated to his playmates than it was eagerly
adopted; and, in less than half-an-hour, bushes, straw, branches of
trees, blocks of wood, tarred palings, and a variety of odd things,
such as it would be puzzling to describe, were piled up in the centre
of the play-ground to the height of twenty feet, and with a base equal
to it, so as to form a most noble pyramid.
The day was breaking; and, just as the full light broke upon the pile,
worthy of a Sardanapalus, all the merry workers felt proud of their
labours. Some capered, some danced, some almost shrieked with joy; and
Nelson, beholding the excitement, could not refrain, in the true spirit
of a sailor that was to be, from crying out, at the top of his voice—
“Three cheers for an old Guy! Hurrah for a bonfire!”
Three cheers were immediately given, shrill and loud as the wild
war-whoops of so many ferocious Indians. Again, and again—for, once
begun, the youngsters seemed as if they could never leave off, and the
welkin rang with the noise.
Its effects had not been anticipated; and the cheering had scarcely
subsided, when up flew a window, and in the centre of it appeared the
head of the Reverend Doctor. In a moment the boys vanished, as if by
instinct; and, rushing round the gable end of the premises, regained
their bed-chamber by the same means they had escaped from it. Not so,
however, with their leader. He only hid himself behind the laurels and
evergreens; feeling it a point of honor not to leave the post of danger
till the very last. At the same time, the Dominie kept vociferously
shouting from his chamber-window—
“You wicked boys! you shall all of you smart for this! I will flog
every one of you who have dared to disobey my orders; and, as to a
bonfire, you shall never have one as long as I live.” So saying, he
disappeared from the window, with the intention of coming down to the
court-yard; and ringing furiously at the bell to awaken the servants,
and calling loudly for John and Richard, the groom and gardener, he
made the best of his way down stairs.
In the interim, Nelson, who had heard the threat, fearing that
after all he and his companions would be deprived of the fun,
frolic, and glory of a bonfire, determined to be beforehand with the
Magister,—crept slyly into the stable, where he knew a tinder-box
and matches were always kept, speedily struck a light and, as quick
as light itself, ran to the immense pile, and set fire to it. In a
few seconds all was in a blaze; and as the flames rose up, and thick
volumes of smoke on every side, and the whole atmosphere became
illuminated, the Dominie appeared with his servants, male and female,
at the back-door. He, indeed, wore a look of most odd consternation,
while a sly laugh peeped from the peering eyes of the groom and
gardener, and twinkled out of the corners of the mouths of the cook
and housemaid. Nelson had mounted a fine old Scotch fir-tree a short
distance off, to observe the fun—and rare fun it was—for the Reverend
Doctor took to pulling the fire to pieces; and in so doing set fire
to the thatched roof of the cow-house, which required the united aid
of John and Richard to extinguish. All was hubbub and confusion; no
one knew exactly what to do—and one ran one way and one another. The
stable-boy, a sly rogue, thought he could not do better than run for
the parish-engine; but the flames rose so high and furiously, that they
threatened, long before the parish-engine arrived, to make up their
minds to burn themselves out, with “all the honors.” By this time the
boys had all dressed themselves, and came to the scene of conflagration
as meek and astonished as if they knew nothing whatever about it. The
Master was in a furious fever, and had under his arm his very best
strapping-cane, determined to use it woefully so soon as the fire was
got under. At last, the great blaze slackened; sundry crackings and
bangings were heard. Now the upper parts fell in, and made a great
dust and smoke—then again it blazed out for a few brief moments with
redoubled fury, at which the young gentlemen could not refrain from
testifying their infinite approbation, to the extreme mortification
of their Master. The engine at last arrived to play on the expiring
embers; and, in the language of that part of the country, the fire was
“_douted_.”
But “after pleasure cometh pain,” as the old round-hand copy used to
preach. The period of retribution walked quietly forth. It was not yet
the hour of breakfast, and the first thing the enraged Dominie did
was to issue a mandate for the stoppage of the breakfast supplies,
till the bold, daring, impudent, disobedient authors of the freak
were discovered, and brought to condign punishment. The whole of the
boys were speedily mustered, (to be soon peppered) and brought into
the school-room, where they stood trembling for their fate. Fierce
with rage—his pig-tail bristling with indignation—the Master, with
cane under arm, and with a frown on his face, appeared at his desk.
Forty boys stood before him, uncertain of their coming tortures, and
Nelson foremost among them. “I demand,” said the Master, in a voice of
thunder, “who it is that has dared to brave my authority; and I promise
free pardon and a holiday to those who will——”
“Betray their companions?” said Nelson.
This was a flash of lightning on a touch-hole of powder, and
immediately made the Master spring from his desk, and taking hold of
Nelson by the collar, brought him into the middle of the school.
“You are one of them!” said the enraged Clerical, “and unless you
immediately tell me who are the guilty parties in this exploit, I will
strip the skin from your shoulders.”
“The skinning of an eel is a difficult job,” said Nelson—“but as to who
did the deed, I can inform you at once. It was I.”
“Yes, I know it was you—for you are the mover of all such harum-scarum
exploits; but who were your abettors and instigators?”
“I instigated myself,” said Nelson.
“No doubt, no doubt—but I will know who your companions were, and I’ll
warrant this cane shall bring it out of you.”
“Try it,” said Nelson.
Exasperated by this cool impudence, the Master applied the cane
vigorously to the young hero’s shoulders, who stood the process with
much about the same indifference as a gate-post. At the end of the
caning, Nelson said, mildly—
“Stop and take breath, Sir—you will hurt your constitution.”
This was too much for human endurance, and the Master gave it to Master
Nelson again, with a hearty good will, and only ceased when the cane
split into two. Nelson, standing as obdurate as before, said—
“I think that tree will bear no more good fruit, and ought to be
cast into the fire. But Sir, let me tell you, had that cane been
a crab-stick, and had that crab-stick been knobbled all over, and
had each of those knobs had a sharp spike on it, it would not have
made me dishonourably betray my companions. I am quite ready to bear
this, and as much more, for their sakes. Thirty were with me, and
ten were not—you cannot thrash the real heroes, because you cannot
tell which they are; but give me twenty times my share, and I shall
be thankful—I am the ring leader of the affair, and ought to be
punished. I instigated thirty Spartans to the noble work of keeping
up Guy Faux Day—I am proud of it.—A bonfire on the Fifth of November
is a chartered right of school-boys, and we only say, ‘_Pro aris et
focis_.’ Do not be unmerciful to us, good Sir—you were once a boy—and
how many ‘bonfires’ may you not have had—and how many ‘Guys’ may you
not have dressed? Do look over this offence, if it be one, and we’ll
all do double tasks for the next month, and say you are a good master,
as you always have been.”
This pertinent, but noble speech, found an echo in the breast of the
good old Clergyman, for he was, notwithstanding this somewhat stringent
prohibiting, a kind old man at heart. He could not conceal his
emotion—and hid his face behind his desk, under the pretence of having
dropped his key. Presently, after a short season of cool reflection, he
descended from the rostrum, and coming among the boys, thus addressed
them:—
“My boys,” he said, “obedience to my orders is not only a duty to me,
but to yourselves—you are not old enough to know at all times what
is really good for you. Nor is it proper at all times that I should
give you reasons for my conduct. It ought to be enough, that when I
lay down a rule you should have good faith in my intentions, and you
ought to be well aware that I would in no way restrict your enjoyments
but for some good reason. By your conduct you have not only disobeyed
my commands, but you have probably inflicted a very serious wound in
the breast of one who is a stranger in this place, deserves all the
rights of hospitality, and of Christian charity. Our new neighbour
here, Sir Thomas Alton, is a Roman Catholic; his gardens adjoin ours.
As a school, our doings must be a sufficient nuisance to him. He only
came amongst us last Michaelmas, and yet he gave you peaches by the
hat-full, and nectarines by scores. He is a Roman Catholic, as I said
before, and it was not for us to poke a ‘Guy Faux’ or a ‘bonfire’ under
his nose—we should not have liked it ourselves—and there is nothing
like the religion that teaches us to do as we would be done by. The
first duty we owe to a neighbour is to be charitable to his opinions;
if they are not the same as ours, that is the very reason why we should
act the more forbearingly and lovingly towards him. But, by your
conduct, you have thwarted all my good intentions, defeated my charity,
and spoiled my love.”
“If we had known this,” said Nelson, “we would not have touched a
billet or a faggot for the world.”
“Would that I had informed you of it,” replied the Master; “and from
the circumstance I may also learn a lesson: That it is wiser to teach
by appeals to reason and to conscience, than to expect much from a
blind obedience. Boys are, indeed, but men of a smaller growth. Yet
still, if you love me, and have faith in me, you will obey me without
asking the reason.”
“We will do anything,” said Nelson, “to show our love to Sir Thomas.”
“You can do nothing, Sir,” replied the Master. “You will probably have
inflicted a wound which I shall find some difficulty in healing.”
“Not in the least, my dear Sir,” said a voice, in an Irish accent, from
the door, which stood partly open. “By my faith, I think the boys are
all heroes; and if they want a Guy, if they will come up to the Hall, I
will be a Guy myself, and we will have a good fire, and roasted apples,
and roasted chesnuts, and sure we will _roast_ one another; which is a
vast deal better than so much _basting_. So come along my lads, and
take me for your Guy Faux.”
Three cheers simultaneously burst forth at this speech. The Doctor
was overcome with agreeable emotion. Nelson ran to kiss the hand of
Sir Thomas; and after mutual congratulations, the boys had a cheerful
breakfast, and made the merriest day at the Hall that they ever before
enjoyed, by the most grotesque Guy on the most splendid bonfire.
[Illustration]
Something about the Turkish Provinces.
War, my young friends, is a fiendish sport. It has been said it is a
game that, if their subjects were wise, kings could not play at. Its
object is—killing on a large scale; mowing down men as if they were
fields of corn, and with as little compunction; bringing bristling
bayonets, grape and canister-shot, red-hot balls, explosive bombs,
and volleys of bullets upon poor humanity; and blowing up into the
air, or down into the deep, thousands of poor unfortunate fellows who,
perhaps, know no more about the quarrel that produced the war, than
so many unhatched chickens. Truly, to read history, one might suppose
that the human race, during the last four thousand years at least,
must have been a little insane; there seems so little reason for all
the bombardments, assaults, battles, and massacres, which have taken
place. Well, we thought ourselves getting wiser; the boys and girls
that had read “Peter Parley’s Annual” fifteen years ago, had become men
and women; and education had made great strides. The drill-sergeant of
the German despots was drafted into our schools; and Chelsea children
were taught to read by military discipline, with a view to their being
made friends of humanity, and lovers of peace. The European kings and
potentates were a Holy Alliance of loving brothers, and had pretended
that the Christian religion should be their future guide. They said
this, after they had received several and sundry sound drubbings from
the great Napoleon; and, while rubbing their shoulders and sides, after
one cudgelling they had received—and deservedly received, too—said,
they would be very good boys. But, as soon as the danger was past,
and they had got a little over their various mishaps, they began to
lie, rob, cheat, and filch, not only from each other, but from their
next-door neighbours, like so many wolves or foxes. At last, one savage
old Bear, more savage and more powerful than the rest, makes a grab at
a Turkey; whereupon the Turkey, instead of falling a victim, like a
goose, blew up his purple nose like a windy sun-rise, and puffed out
his feathers, and stretched forth his wings, and came towards the old
Bear like a game-cock, and called upon the British Lion and the French
Eagle to back him. “But what is all this about?” my young friends
inquire. Take a map, and look at it. Find out the Black Sea; and you
will see on its northern coast, the Russian Empire stretches down
towards the south; and, to the west, you will see certain provinces
which belong to Turkey, the principal of which is Moldavia. It is
the most northern province of Turkey. It is bounded on the east by
Bessarabia—a province which formed part of Turkey until 1812, when it
was given up to the great Russian Bear; on the south is Wallachia; and
on the west and north, by the provinces of the Austrian Empire. The
province forms a compact territory, about 200 miles in length, and 120
in breadth.
Moldavia formed part of the Byzantine or Eastern Empire, and suffered
greatly from the incursions of the rude hordes which infested Europe
in the middle ages. When the Turks conquered Constantinople from the
Greek Emperors, Moldavia by a timely submission, obtained favourable
treatment from the Sultan; and had its own laws, liberties, and
religion secured. Thus it remained for two centuries: at length the
Czar of Russia directed his attention to this province; but was unable
to lay hold of it at that time. What he will do now remains to be seen.
Although Moldavia forms a part of the Turkish dominions, the Moldavians
are not Mahommedans. They profess the religion of the Greek Church—a
superstitious and corrupt form of Christianity professed also by the
Russians. Persons who have not received baptism by the rites of this
Church are not deemed Christians; the misguided people dwell upon rites
and ceremonies, oblations, offerings, prayers to images, severity
of discipline; and the heaviest crimes are settled by confession
and absolution of the Priest. Reading and the perusal of the Holy
Scriptures are almost wholly unknown; and though we might at first be
glad that the Moldavians were not Mahommedans, yet, when we consider
the iniquities of the creed they follow, it would perhaps be better if
they were.
The Moldavians believe in all sorts of witchcraft, in apparitions of
the dead, in ghosts and in miracles performed by the images of saints.
In illness they place an image near them, and when they recover, they
attribute the recovery to the efficacy of the image alone. No prayers
or thanksgiving are offered up either to the Deity or to the Saviour;
but to the Virgin and a prodigious number of Saints.
The principal food of the peasantry consists of a kind of dough, called
_mamma linga_, made of the flour of Indian wheat, sometimes mixed
with milk. The season of Lent is usually kept by them with vigorous
severity, and for the first two or three days after its termination,
they sparingly indulge themselves with a little meat; but many of them
are too poor to obtain this indulgence, and content themselves with a
few eggs only.
The dress of these people bears some resemblance to that of the
Dacians, in the time of the Romans; and has probably suffered but
little change for centuries. Their feet are covered with sandals
made of goat skin. They wear a kind of loose pantaloon, which is
fastened to the waist by a light leathern belt, and closes from the
knee downwards. The upper part of the dress is composed of a light
waistcoat, and a short jacket over it, of coarse cotton stuff; in
winter they add a white sheep-skin, which is hung over the shoulders in
the manner of the hussar’s pelisse. The hair is twisted round the back
of the head, and covered with a cap, usually of sheep-skin. The women
are generally clothed from the neck to the ancles in a long gown of
light-coloured cheap cotton, made high at the waist, which they cover
on holiday occasions with a shorter dress, buttoned from the neck to
the waist, and ornamented with one or two rows of beads. Under ordinary
circumstances the poorer classes go barefoot, and have no covering for
the head, except a handkerchief.
Almost every village has a small church or chapel belonging to it,
and one or two priests who act as curates. The ecclesiastics of their
order are chosen from amongst the ordinary peasants, from which they
are only distinguished by an immense beard. They lead the same sort of
life, and follow their usual labour, when not engaged in the exercise
of their clerical functions; but they are exempted from taxes. The
generality of them can neither read nor write. They learn the formula
of the services by rote, and if a book is seen in their chapels, it is
more for ornament than use.
The towns and seaports of Moldavia partake of that mixed European
character that results from the intercourse between merchants, dealers,
&c. The peasants’ huts are all built of the same size and style; the
walls are of clay, and the roofs thatched with straw, neither of
which is calculated to protect the inmates from the inclemencies of
bad weather. The ground-floors are, however, occupied as long as the
weather will permit; and in the winter the inmates retire to cells
underground, easily kept warm by a little fire made of dung, roots, and
some branches of trees, which, at the same time, serves for cooking
their scanty food. Each family, however numerous, sleeps in one of
these subterranean habitations, the beds being formed of coarse woollen
rags.
Perhaps the most extraordinary feature in the structure of Moldavian
society is the vast number of gipsies residing therein. Their bodily
constitution is strong, and they are so hardened by constant exposure
to the cold weather, that they appear fit for any labour or fatigue;
but their natural aversion to a life of industry is, in general, so
great, that they prefer all the miseries of indigence to the enjoyment
of comforts that are to be reaped by persevering exertion.
Both men and women are finely formed, but are exceedingly dirty in
their habits and appearance. They acknowledge no particular religion;
nor do they think of following the precepts of any, unless compelled.
Their chief occupation, in their vagrant life, is the making of iron
tools, baskets, and other cheap articles. They attend wine-houses
and taverns, and are sometimes called to the houses of noblemen when
a concert is to be given; as many of them play rudely on various
concert instruments. When the public works are to be constructed, the
Government gipsies, who are acquainted with masonry, are called in to
assist the labourers, receiving food and no wages, and are, in other
respects, treated like cattle.
I have, for the present, confined myself principally to the humbler
classes of the Moldavians. I shall, in my next _prattle_, inform my
young readers of the Wallachians, and of the country of Wallachia,
which the Great Russian Bear wants to steal.
[Illustration]
Something about the Old Abbeys and Castles of England.
[Illustration]
We give in the above engraving a view of the rains of an Old Monastery,
and as it suggests a train of ideas, pertaining to bye-gone ages, I
must give my young friends the benefit of them.
What about Monasteries? I should like to hear something about them—for
wherever we travel we come to ruins of some kind or other, most of
which are of Old Castles, or Old Monasteries, and therefore I should
like to know more about them. This is what many of my young readers
would say, and upon this “would say”—I join issue.
Monasteries are buildings to which people retired when they were
tired of the world, or when they were unfortunate, or when they
were wicked—and sometimes when they were good. The inclination to a
monastic life arose with the corruptions of society, and with the
dangers in which every body shared in the strifes, feuds, and wars of
the dark ages. Those well-disposed persons who found it difficult to
resist the corruptions of the times, sought in solitude a protection
against temptation; and that fondness for contemplation, so curious
in Eastern parts of the world, gave rise to the most ancient oriental
philosophy, and also to that peculiar sanctity to which those who
retired from the world often attained. To this was added the opinion,
that, transgressions may be best atoned for by abstinence from all the
pleasures of life, and from all society with men. And thus, according
to an early notion popular througout the East, the Deity might be
appeased. Anchorites, hermits, recluses, and monks are therefore found
in the anti-christian times of Asiatic antiquity, and are also still
prevalent in India and other parts of the Orient.
Among the Christians, whose religion assumes a spiritural and solitary
nature among some,—a man used, as he thought, to elevate his soul
above the world by hiding himself in buildings of thick stone, with
little low doors and windows barely sufficient to let in the light
of Heaven. Monasteries were first founded in the deserts of Upper
Egypt, where Antony commonly called “the Great,” collected a number
of hermits, about the year 305. These, for the sake of enjoying the
benefit of retirement from the world in each other’s society, built
their huts close together, and performed their devotional exercises in
common. In the middle of the fourth century, Pachomius built a number
of houses at a small distance from each other, upon the island of
Tabenna, on the Nile, each of which was occupied by three or four monks
in cells, who were all under the superintendance of a Prior. These
Priories formed together the Cænobium, or Monastery—which was under the
care of a Superior, the Abbot (from Abbas father)—and the monks were
obliged to submit to uniform rules of life. Many of the monasteries
were strictly enclosed with high walls, so as to preserve the immates
from the temptations of the world around them; and to supply the
place of the solitude of deserts. Hence the name of Cloisters, from
Claustra, “inclosures.” The monks were soon after made to conform to
still more strict discipline, which, in many cases, consisted in the
most extreme mortification of the body. Stone beds, hair shirts, roots
to eat and water to drink; long kneelings, frequent prostrations,
severe whippings, and endless repetitions of prayers, were among the
more common ways of securing admission to the realms of bliss; thus
monasteries became the resort of all those who thought that heaven
was attainable by such methods. Similar establishments for females
were also instituted, called Nunneries, where women underwent complete
exclusion from the world and the severest mortifications, many of which
have been attempted to be revived in our own times, in connection with
the Church of England. The Nunneries were, in some instances, worse in
their effects than the monasteries; and it is a well-known fact that
the vilest means were taken to imprison young females in such places by
wicked relatives, who divided their fortunes with the priests, who shut
them in.
[Illustration]
Yet with all their abuses, many of the monasteries of the more
enlightened European States became the dwellings of piety, industry,
and temperance; and the refuge of learning, during the prevalence
of those frightful wars which desolated the world in the dark ages.
Yet, as the world became more settled, and as wealth began to abound,
the monasteries became the receptacles of every kind of iniquity
and luxury; and with it, the grossest immorality crept within their
walls—together with all the vices of the world; indeed, murders, with
other abominable crimes, were frequently committed in these dismal
dwellings. At last the Reformation arose. In this country, King Henry
VIII. seized upon the monastic revenues, and applied them to the
service of the State, and to himself. In various parts of Europe where
the Light of the Gospel penetrated, other kings or rulers imitated
our King Henry; and from these enormous revenues, institutions for
educational purposes were founded and supported. In Catholic countries
they retained their original constitution, till the eighteenth
century. From the influence of the spirit of the age they sunk in
public estimation—their whole system was exploded. Many monasteries
have become extinct, many others are with difficulty sustained; but
still, in the more benighted countries of Europe they exist, to the
great detriment of social progress, and will be only overthrown by the
advance of intelligence, and the spread of sound religious principles.
[Illustration]
One of the most famous of these institutions, in England, was St.
Mary’s Abbey, York. It was situated near the walls of York, and during
nearly five centuries maintained a very high rank among the religious
establishments of the North. Its origin, as given by its first Abbot,
is as follows:—Not long after the Norman conquest, Runifried, a pious
monk, fixed his cell at Whitby, with the hope of being there wholly
secluded from the world. His fame attracted round him a great number
of devout persons, among whom was Stephen, afterwards the Abbot. From
the Earl of Northumbria the monks obtained a grant of land; but when,
by their labours, they had cultivated and improved it, the Earl became
their persecutor, to induce them to relinquish what they had made
trebly valuable. They were also harassed by the frequent attacks of
pirates by sea, and robbers by land. Driven from their first place of
sojourn by these distresses, they obtained from the King permission
to repair for themselves the Monastery of Lashingham, then lying in
ruins, about twenty miles to the north-west of Whitby. Nevertheless,
in this solitude they found no rest; they were constantly subjected to
the assaults of robbers and the enmity of their former persecutors, and
also of the Archbishop of York, who claimed part of their domain. The
case was carried at last before the tribunal of the King in person, who
promised to see the monks righted; but the King dying, the claim of the
Archbishop was renewed, till William Rufus interfered and gave to the
Archbishop, in lieu of the disputed ground, a Church in York, dedicated
to St Stephen. Soon afterwards, this monarch visiting York, laid with
his own hand the first stone of a new and larger establishment than
that which the monks had hitherto possessed, and calling it after St.
Mary, made to it liberal grants and privileges.
This religious fraternity were Black Monks, of the Order of St.
Benedict. Their Abbot was little inferior to the Bishop of the
province, being mitred, and having a seat in Parliament, which entitled
him to the dignified appellation of “my lord.” His retinue was sumptous
whenever he travelled abroad, and he possessed two country seats in
the neighbourhood of York, and a house in London, near Paul’s Wharf.
He had also a spacious park well stocked with game. This sumptousness
engendered jealousy among the people of the City of York, who on
several occasions burned parts of the abbey, and slew the monks. Simon,
the Abbot, could not appease the tumult, except upon paying a hundred
pounds as a peace offering to the enraged party. Afterwards, an
enormous wall was built to defend the abbey from these depredations,
which effctually prevented such disasters, till the time of the
dissolution of monasteries, of which I have spoken.
[Illustration]
At this time there were, in the house, fifty monks, including the
abbot, the prior, and one sub-prior, with a revenue of £2,091 4s. 7d.
per annum, equal to £20,000 of our money, which was a pretty good sum
for the support of fifty monks.
The mitred abbeys, at the dissolution, were for the most part granted
by the King to noble or wealthy families, in consideration of service
or exchange of lands, or for the payment of money; and the harvest was
a rich one that the King reaped by this plundering of the monks. Soon
after the dissolution, an order was issued by the Crown, to level the
Abbey, and erect, with due alacrity, a palace for the residence of the
Lords President of the North: thus its splendid architecture was cut up
piecemeal. Some beautiful remains were, notwithstanding, still left;
and, upon the formation of a Philosophical Society, in 1822, the site
of St. Mary’s Abbey was chosen as a proper situation for the erection
of a Botanic Garden. It was the spot on which the front of the palace
had formerly stood, and which had previously been occupied by the
range of buildings and apartments of the monastery. The first opening
of the ground discovered antiquarian treasures, that even Keet, the
great antiquarian, would have rejoiced at. Not mere heaps of mutilated
stones were there, but whole portions of the walls of the monastery; of
spacious and elegant door ways; of columns of various forms, rising to
the height of five or six feet, standing, as they had been, before the
dissolution of the monastery, intersected by massive foundations of the
palace. Not an hour passed without bringing to light some long-buried
specimens of the art and fancy of the monastic sculptor.
In travelling over a country, my young friends will frequently meet
with similar buildings to those I have attempted to describe—and I
would only observe, that antiquities are a most interesting study.
The spirit of times gone by live in the midst of monastic ruins—and
from such we may trace the deeds of our forefathers, and enter into
familiar conversation with them. Nor must we deem our progenitors
entirely unworthy our regard and veneration; for, notwithstanding the
barbarous ages in which they lived—notwithstanding the ignorance that
surrounded them—and notwithstanding their superstition and bigotry—they
have left us a rich inheritance; and our own times teem with the
glories, the virtues, and sterling worth of the past.
[Illustration]
Oranges and Lemons, or the Bells of St. Clement’s.
What a beautiful thing is Memory! It is like the softened sounds of
receding music; it is like the long track of silvery spray which a ship
leaves on the divided waters. Twilight is the air’s remembrance of the
sun. In the olden time, there were some who thought that in childhood
we had recollections of Heaven; and, probably, this little world of
ours will be a memory to us when we have left it for ever. It is a
happy thing that we can drink again some of the sweetness of a by-gone
joy; and very useful, though not so pleasant, that we can recall our
past errors and follies, and, by steeping them in regret and shame,
turn them into lessons of duty.
Pietro Limoncelo was a poor foreigner from the sunny shores of the
Mediteranean. While yet a youth, the political troubles of his country
had obliged him to leave his home among the fruits and sunbeams,
and to find a refuge in London, where he earned a poor living as a
journeyman-tailor. He lodged in a garret, in a court branching off
from the Strand, near the church of St. Clement Danes. What a change
for him! He who had lived near an orange grove, who had basked in
the sunshine of the South, or under the shade of purple vines, or
beneath the trees where “orange lamps in a green light,” glimmered
with a golden beauty—he to become the tenant of a poor room in a dingy
thoroughfare, amidst gloom and discomfort, and the hard life of English
poverty—it was a sad change, indeed. If such changes happen to any
of us, we must keep up our hearts, by remembering that no gloom or
darkness can obscure the vision of the Supreme, and that the beams of
his blessedness may penetrate even into the dreariest places.
Pietro had not been regularly apprenticed to a tailor: it could not
be said of him that he had _learned_ the trade; but he had picked up
a little knowledge of it from time to time, and practice improved
him. What he did was done pretty well, but he was not ranked as a
first-class workman; consequently, the only department in which
he could get employment was that in which is called the “Slop”—a
department in which goods are got up, common in quality and low in
price, for the accommodation of humble customers. There was not much
opportunity here of earning handsome wages; it was a bare living, and
nothing more.
One evening he was sitting cross-legged on his board, bending wearily
over some work that had just come in from his employers, the great
Tailoring firm of Push, Puff, Poetry, Placard, and Company. He had
lately felt very unwell, and unable to work with his usual energy;
he had been obliged more than once to cut off three or four from his
wonted number of labour hours. Less work brought, as a consequence,
less pay; and so the cupboard got bare, and matters became very
desperate indeed with the poor Tailor. He had just put the last stitch
to a couple of waistcoats which were lying on the board beside him,
when a mixed feeling of hunger, pain and weakness, brought this sad
thought into his mind:—“Might I not, without crime, raise a little
money on one of these waistcoats, to give my sinking body its needful
nourishment? I would make restitution as soon as my health returned.”
Conscience grew very uneasy at this thought, and interrupted it several
times with “No! no! no!” but want and pain were so loud in their
clamours that these “noes” were overwhelmed. Pietro determined to go
out and see if half-a-crown could not be borrowed, for a day or two, on
one of the waistcoats; he was rising from his board for the purpose,
when a giddy faintness came over him, and he was obliged to sit down
again. “Ah! I see how it is,” said he; “I am too weak to move to night;
I must lie down and rest; I must put it off till to-morrow. Meanwhile,
I’ll sleep upon it.”
* * * * *
At the counter of that Pawnbroker’s shop, where three gilt balls
hang over the door, and where brushed-up clothes of all kinds for
men, women, and children dangle, from pegs in back rooms and gloomy
passages, there stands a wretched man, with sallow cheeks, wild-looking
eyes, and long streaming hair. He has just pledged a waistcoat, and
with the money in his hand is leaving the shop, when he hears a
rustling sound from above. Looking up, he sees a pale, serious face
looking down upon him. It has an airy, spiritual look, and seems to
be floating in the air on misty wings; and then, with a low, solemn,
whispering voice it sings these words:—
“Toll! Toll!
When a wandering soul
Forsaketh the truthful and fair:
Its days are unblest,
Its nights are unrest,
In the bud of its hope is a worm of Despair.
Toll! Toll!”
Immediately a strong wind stirred through the belfry of St. Clement’s,
and the Bell gave out one long, funereal tone.
The bewildered man leaves the shop and wanders into the street, not
knowing whither. He had intended to buy some bread, and tea and sugar;
but, in the remorse of his mind, and with those words ringing in his
ears, hunger, and thirst, and faintness were all forgotten. He tramps
backwards and forwards in the streets, like a sleep-walker in a wild
dream.
“Hollo!” says a voice, “what’s the matter with you? you don’t look over
cheerful this evening. Why, if you was to go into a dairy, you’d turn
the milk sour! Step in here, man, and take a thimble-full to cheer your
spirits! It will do you good. Come! I’ll stand treat to-night, and you
shall do the same for me to-morrow.”
A door that swung upon its hinges admitted the two men into a
glittering-looking temple, where many lights were shining with great
brilliancy. Sparkling glasses and polished vessels of pewter increased
by reflection the brightness of the light, and made the place look gay.
There was the hum of many voices. In one corner the ringing of loud,
coarse laughter—in another, the mutterings of rising quarrel; here a
song, there an oath, and everywhere that sad mingling of misery and
merriment which are to be found in those scenes of sensuality.
“Now, young lady with the pretty curls, a couple of glasses here for
me and my friend! Here’s a furrener, you see. I aint got no prejudice
against a furrener. I says to him, ‘Aint you a man and a brother?’ Fine
sentiment that, Miss! When I was at school, at the Parochial College
of St. Calves and Leather Breeches, I put that ‘ere sentiment into my
Christmas piece, and it were very much admired. Come, mate! your glass
is standing! Drink up! Here’s towards you! Hollo! music above stairs,
eh? ‘Sons of Harmony! Grand Meeting Night! Glorious Apollo! Bacchus,
God of Wine! Marble Halls! Alice Grey! Never mention Her! Nix my Dolly!
Buffalo Gals!’ Well, if that aint a mixtur! Two more glasses, Miss!
Drink up, mate!”
The wretched “mate,” thus appealed to drinks up his glass and feels
inspirited—his cheek glows—his blood flows merrily through his
veins—and he is just beginning to forget that pale face in the air and
the solemn singing. He goes to the doorway for a moment, and looks up
into the misty night. Just then the Bells of St. Clement’s chime—a
fluttering, like wings is heard, and then a solemn whispering.
“The phantom voice! The phantom voice, again!” cries the wretched man;
and he runs from the place with the quickness of desperate fear. But
the voice follows, and it sings:—
“Hark! the spirit of the Bells
Upon St. Clement’s Tower,
Groans at every deed that tells
Of Evil’s guilty power.
Struggle, strife!
And feverish life—
Struggle, strife, and din;
Night bells chiming,
Souls declining
Into deeps of sin.”
“Why, where are you running to? What the deuce is the matter with
you?” said the man left behind in the gin-temple, who had followed and
overtaken the frightened runaway. “You’re not going to get rid of me in
this fashion to-night, I can tell you. I have got a little job for you
to lend a hand in. Follow me!” and he takes him by the arm.
They go on down a street towards the river, and in a dark bye-place,
under a gateway, they meet two other men, with crape-masks on their
faces and iron instruments in their hands.
“Jim!” said one of the disguised men, “is that you?”
“All right!”
“Who have you got there?”
“A new friend of yours and mine. It’s all right with him, too. He has
been to ‘my Uncle’s,’ and another shop since then. He’s regularly in
for it, now.”
“Let him come with us to-night, then; we want a hand outside to watch,
and help to carry. There’s good booty to-night at that house yonder, in
the left-hand corner. They have been borrowing plate to-day, against a
grand wedding there to-morrow morning.”
The men skulked forward to the house named, and one with his iron
instrument broke a shutter, then opened a window, and crept in. Others
followed, and the wretched new accomplice is left outside to take what
they shall hand out to him. The night is calm and still, with a few
cold, glimmering stars above, and darkness all around. The wretched man
paces up and down the dark gateway at the side of the house, trembling
at the remembrance of those songs in the air. It is now twelve o’clock,
and from all the belfries in the Strand, iron tongues proclaim it in
solemn tones. The man’s quick ear plainly distinquishes St. Clement’s
among them; and, as he listens with fear, the pale face hovers over him
once more, resting on its misty wings—
“Tis midnight, and St. Clement’s chime
Counts the wicked hours of crime.”
He will hear no more. With hands raised to his head, and pressed tight
against his ears, he runs with all the strength and fleetness of
fevered madness and despair. Away! away!—from street to street! Away
from his guilty confederates—from the sound of St. Clement’s bells—from
the ghostly look and the fearful singing. Away! if it were possible,
from himself—away from the world!
He had reached a street in the neighbourhood of the Park, when he came
to a house where a juvenile party was just breaking up. Some little
boys and girls, rather sleepy and weary, and well wrapped up against
the night air, were being lifted into coaches; while others, a little
older, were jumping in of their own accord, in a manner so fresh and
vigorous, that one would have supposed they were going to a party
instead of coming from one. In particular, there was one very fine
boy, with a beautiful eye sparkling beneath a bold, open brow. He came
dancing down the steps of the doorway, his pockets full of fruit, and
a bright orange in his hand. He appeared to be thinking of one of the
games he had played that evening, for he was singing to himself—
“Oranges and Lemons!
Say the bells of St. Clement’s;”
and turning round to a playmate, he said, “Ah, Charley, my side pulled
the strongest, you know.” Into the coach he jumped almost at one bound.
As he did so, the orange in his hand fell from him and rolled far away
down the street with a swift motion: and as the beautiful fruit went
round and round on the smooth pavement, the light of the lamps above
gleamed on its golden rind. It catches the eye of the poor fevered man.
The mere words, “Oranges and Lemons;” the sight of the beautiful fruit
of his native land—the merry voice, the innocent brow, the happy smile
of the child that had dropped it, came upon him like a spell,—he sinks
down, and a vision floats upon his brain.
The scene is in southern Europe, where the blue Mediterranean rolls
from the straits of Gibraltar to the Syrian shores. There was the
murmuring of tranquil, silvery waves—the soft breathing of the
winds—the gushes of sweet music and joy from many a grove on the shore,
and many a green cleft in the hills; and one voice above the rest, in
a tone of earnest and tender entreaty, rose in the warm skies as if a
spirit were singing there. And this was its song:—
“Remember thine early days—
The orange grove, the vine-clad hill;
The river where the sunbeams play—
The evening calm and still.
“Remember thine early days—
Thy mother’s smile, thy sister’s song;
Thy childhood’s little hymns of praise,
Which kept the heart from wrong.”
Then did the air and the ocean break out into a tender joy; and the
spirit of the man rode on the waves of sweet sound along the whole
course of the Mediterranean into the sunny Adriatic, and among
the rocks of the Ægean. And voices came from the Capes of Sicily,
whispering that God the Beautiful expected his children to be Beautiful
too—beautiful in spirit, in thoughts, affections, and desires. And a
like strain floated over the Grecian Isles, and told the enraptured
listener, what a spirit of love it was which had poured out the beauty
of Heaven on the hills and plains and valleys of the world; and it bid
him believe that He who had cherished the grass and the flower through
the dews of night and the chill of winter, did also intend a kindness
to the soul, in pouring on it the dews of sorrow.
And the man wept, and mingled his feeble voice with nature’s, and they
worshipped together, and said—“Our Father! Hallowed be thy name!”
* * * * *
“Decidedly better! the skin is moist; the eye is clearer; the fever is
subsiding; he will do very well now.”
This was spoken by the house-surgeon of one of the London hospitals,
as he stood by the bed-side of a patient in the fever ward—feeling
the pulse, and watching the countenance. The patient raised himself
slightly on the pillows, and looked round with a wondering air.
“Why! who—who am I?”
“Who are you?” said the Doctor, “that is a pretty question for a man to
ask about himself. You are described in the hospital books as Pietro
Limoncello—Journeyman Tailor. You’ll remember it all presently.”
“How came I here?”
“You were brought here by those who took pity on you; you were found
lying on your own shop-board in a state of delirium, and you were
instantly removed to this hospital. You have been for some days
insensible.”
“Oh, Doctor! I have had such dreams.”
“Very likely—men in health have strange dreams, sometimes; men in fever
have still stranger ones. You have had time enough for a good deal of
dreaming. But come! you are going to get well now; the fever has gone
down, and your senses have come back to you. This is visitors’ day:
would you like to see a friend for a moment? I think you may.”
“I have got no friends in this country,” said Pietro.
“Haven’t you? If I remember rightly, I heard some one asking to see you
only a minute ago. It is a little girl that I have seen carrying milk
about somewhere in the Strand.”
“Oh! To be sure, I remember her well. How curious that she should think
of me! It is very kind. But she is a good girl; she looks as if she had
a gentle heart. I should like her to come up, Doctor.”
“Well, if you will not keep her too long, and not talk too much, she
shall come.”
The Doctor turned away, and in a few minutes the little milk-girl was
at the patient’s bed-side.
“Well, Mr. Moncello, I’ve come to see you. I would have come before,
only they told me you were too bad to know any one. Aunty sends a kind
message, and says, If you will make haste and get better, I am to bring
you a glass of new milk every day for a fortnight—real milk, sweet and
new—that isn’t to be got every day in London, I can tell you.”
The patient lifted the hand of the little girl to his lips, and thanked
her with his eyes.
“My little maid,” he said after a pause, “I must not keep you long, nor
talk much; but just a few words I should like to say. You came from the
country, did you not?”
“Yes!”
“And was it very beautiful there?”
“Oh very! My dear mother’s cottage was in the middle of a garden, and
honeysuckle grew over the porch, and birds built under the eaves. I
have heard the cuckoo sing there in the spring, and the nightingale,
too, in the evening.”
“_Remember thine early days!_” said the patient with trembling fervour.
“My child! you are a good girl; I think you must have had a good
mother.”
“My mother!” said the child, bursting into tears. “Oh she was good
indeed! Oh! how she prayed for me the night that she died! I shall
never forget it, never!”
Again the patient broke out, “_Remember thine early days!_ But go now
my dear. Thank you, thank you kindly for coming. Heaven bless you!”
Pietro Limoncello recovered in due time, and returned to his poor
trade. The visions of his illness strengthened his integrity; heavenly
hopes grew out of the roots of heavenly memories. Thoughts of the
loveliness in other lands upraised his heart to Him whose voice is
gone out unto _all_ lands; and he felt that God would be ever present
to such as trusted, and waited patiently for him. Wherever the mind and
heart are devoted to duty and to Heaven, there hovers the Guardian of
Souls, with outstretched wings. Yes! even in the din of the Strand, in
a wretched garret, at a tailor’s board, God the all-beautiful is there.
[Illustration]
The Boy Bachelor, or something about Cardinal Wolsey.
Four hundred years ago, the Papal power was so great in Europe,
that the whole of the countries of which it was composed formed, in
reality, but one general state; for by whatever names the provinces
of Christendom were distinguished—empires, kingdoms, or republics—the
people and their rulers alike acknowledged themselves subjects to the
Pope. Royalty did homage to superstition, and mankind were bound in
chains which they could not break. Man surrendered his reason, and gave
up both body and soul to the power of the clergy, who exercised it for
their own advantage, without any regard to truth, justice, or humanity.
This state of things favoured opportunities for bold and resolute minds
to exalt themselves to greatness, and it was the boast of the Church
then, as now, that the meanest member might rise to the highest office,
which consequently offered a strong temptation to those of superior
talents and attainments to attempt great things. Many persons arose
to eminence in the church at this period, but among all none were so
conspicuous as Thomas Wolsey.