His father is reported to have been a butcher, but this is not quite
certain; it appears, however, that he possessed some property, and that
“Thomas,” possessed much talent, and he was consequently sent to Oxford
at the age of fifteen, when he obtained the degree of Bachelor of Arts,
which procured him the designation of the “Boy Bachelor.” Few so young,
with all the advantages of rank and influence, attained in that age
academical honors—his great progress in philosophy and other learning,
having early procured for him a fellowship at Magdalen College. He was
also appointed master of the school, and entrused with the education
of the sons of the Marquis of Dorset. The proficiency which these
two young men made under his tuition, procured him the Rectory of
Lymington, in Somersetshire, and afterwards he was appointed one of the
Chaplains to King Henry VII.
Soon after this appointment he was favourably noticed by Fox, Bishop of
Winchester, who about that time held the Privy Seal, and Thomas Lovell,
then Chancellor of the Exchequer, who thought his uncommon capacity
might be useful in state affairs; and, accordingly, while the treaty of
marriage was pending between the King and Margaret, Dowager of Savoy,
they proposed him as a fit person to be sent to her father, the Emperor
Maximilian, on that business. His Majesty, Henry VII, had not before
particularly noticed Wolsey, but after conversing with him, he was
so satisfied with his qualifications, that he commanded him to be in
readiness for the Embassy.
The Court was then at Richmond, from which Wolsey proceeded with
his dispatches to London, where he arrived at four o’clock in the
afternoon; he had a boat waiting, and in less than three hours was
at Gravesend. With post horses he got next morning to Dover, reached
Calais in the course the afternoon; and arrived the same night at the
Imperial Court. The Emperor, informed that an extraordinary ambassador
had come from England, immediately admitted him; and the business
being agreeable, was quickly concluded. Wolsey then returned, and
reached Calais at the opening of the gates—found the passengers going
on board the vessel that brought him from England—embarked, and about
ten o’clock was landed at Dover. He reached Richmond the same night,
and after taking some repose, rose and met the King as he came from
his chamber to hear the morning-service. His Majesty suprised at
seeing him there, rebuked him for neglecting the orders with which
he was charged;—“May it please your Highness,” said Wolsey, “I have
been with the Emperor, and executed my commision to the satisfaction,
I trust, of your Grace,” he then knelt and presented Maximilian’s
letters. Dissembling the admiration which he felt at such unprecedented
expedition, the King inquired if he had received no orders by a
pursuivant who had been sent after him. Wolsey answered that he met the
messenger as he returned: but having preconceived the purpose for which
he was sent, he had presumed of his own accord to supply the defect in
his credentials, for which he solicited his Majesty’s pardon. Pleased
with this foresight, and gratified with the result of the negotiation,
the king readily forgave his temerity; and commanded him to attend the
Council in the afternoon. Wolsey, at the time appointed, reported the
business of his mission with so much clearness and propriety, that he
received the applause of all present; and when the Deanery of Lincoln
soon after became vacant, it was bestowed on him by his Majesty, who,
from the period of that embassy, continued to treat him with particular
favor.
Such, my young friends, was the commencement of the rise of this great
man; and from it we may learn a lesson of dispatch and assiduity well
to follow. I have not space here to relate to you the life of this
extraordinary man, but I can tell you that he rose from one place of
high trust to another, till he had almost reached the pinnacle of human
greatness. His table was surrounded by the wise and learned of the
age; the pomp and magnificence of his retinue surpassed that of the
king; he had attained the dignity of Cardinal, and was virtually at the
head of the Church in England; prime political minister, and the chief
judge of law and equity;—but all these high powers could not preserve
him from the fall that awaited him, and it was for him to furnish one
of the most striking instances of the instability of fortune, and the
ingratitude of his fellow men, which the whole compass of history
affords.
King Henry VIII had formed a desire to put away his first wife,
Katherine of Arragon, and to marry Anne Boleyn. Wolsey was struck
with alarm, and, it is said, fell on his knees before the King to
dissuade him from his wicked design. The duty he owed to religion and
to the church would not allow him to side with heresy, and therefore
he was put into, what is called, a false position between the King on
one side and the Pope on the other,—to both he was bound to act with
fidelity, the service of one was contrary to the interests of the
other—he was placed in a situation where his honesty had the effect
of making him equally offensive to both parties; there was no chance
for him whatever. Of course one so powerful and at the same time so
influential, had numerous enemies, and the ministers of Henry VIII were
his bitter foes; and articles of impeachment were drawn up against the
Cardinal, who was charged with superiority of talent, and surpassing
assiduity in business—with being eloquent in discourse—liberal and
lofty-minded. The main strength of his enemies lay in the House of
Lords, among the nobility, the prelates, and the abbots, and the bill
of impeachment passed this branch of the legislature, but in the
house of Commons, Thomas Cromwell, who had been devoted to Wolsey,
so manfully exposed, the absurdity of the charges, and so powerfully
vindicated the integrity of his old master, that the Commons, to their
immortal honor, threw out the bill as unworthy of investigation.
The impeachment having failed, the Cardinal was immediately indicted on
the 16th statute of Richard III, for having exercised his commission as
the Pope’s Legate without the King’s authority; one of the Judges was
sent to Ashur to to receive his answer to this shameless accusation, to
whom Wolsey replied in a proud and melancholy spirit. He objected to
give up York Palace as being the patrimony of the Church, but signified
his readiness to submit to the King’s power, ending his discourse by
directing the Judge to tell the King to remember that there is both a
heaven and a hell. With this answer the Judge returned to London.
Cromwell, who in the house of Commons had so ably defended him, acted
with such open and manly intrepidity in the cause of his deserted
master, that he won the esteem of all parties. Being on a visit of
consolation to him at Ashur, he took occasion to mention that no
provision had been made, for several of the servants had proved very
faithful, and had never forsaken him. “Alas” replied the Cardinal, “you
know that I have nothing to give them, nor to reward you.” Cromwell
however prevailed upon the Cardinal’s chaplain, who had been preferred
to rich benefices by his influence, to contribute a little money for
their relief, which he did.
The turmoil and the anxiety of the Cardinal’s mind so acted upon his
frame that he now fell grievously sick, and his life was despaired of.
Henry, being informed of his indisposition, inquired of one of the
court physicians what was the matter with the Cardinal. On hearing it
arose from indisposition, he struck the table violently with his hand,
exclaiming, “I would rather lose twenty thousand pounds than he should
die—make you haste, therefore, and endeavour to relieve him.” He then
took from his finger a ring chased, with a ruby, on which his own head
was engraved, and sent a gentlemen with it and many kindly assurances
to the Cardinal; and he ordered Anne Boleyn, who happened to be
present, to send also some token of her regard, which she subsequently
obeyed, giving the doctor a golden tablet from her side, and requested
him to deliver from her. Soon after, Wolsey was regularly pardoned and
replaced in the See of York, with a pension of a thousand marks per
annum; and Henry, unknown to the Privy Council, restored to him plate
and effects to the value of six thousand pounds. This attention of the
king revived the drooping spirits of the Cardinal, who went to reside
at Richmond, but his enemies ever active, prevailed upon Henry to send
him off to his diocese, and he was accordingly banished to York.
He commenced his journey to York about the end of Lent, his train
consisted of a hundred and sixty men and servants, and two wagons
loaded with the relics of his furniture. He travelled slowly onward,
walked in the procession of the monks to the cathedral at Peterboro’
on Palm Sunday, kept Maunday Thursday by washing the feet of the poor
and bestowing alms and blessings, he preached in the churches, judged
between contending parties, arguing peace, forbearance, and charity
among all men. As he drew towards York, a great multitude of people
congregated to see him arrive, among whom were the clergy of the
diocese, who welcomed him with the reverence due to his pontifical
dignity. As he had never been installed in the archepiscopal see, the
Cathedral was prepared for the ceremony, but, on the preceding Friday,
as he was sitting at dinner, the Earl of Northumberland accompanied
by a large retinue arrived at the castle, and arrested him for high
treason, and informed him that his orders were to convey him to London.
On his departure a great crowd assembled round the castle, and, as
he came out on his mule guarded, the people began to exclaim “God
save your Grace, and evil over-take them that have taken you from
us,” but the Cardinal was deaf to the voice of pity, he considered
his destruction at hand, and his constitution, impaired by age and
sorrow, gave way. One day, at dinner, he complained of a coldness
in his stomach, and was soon after seized with a violent dysentery,
which gradually reduced his strength. However, he obeyed the king’s
mandate—being anxious to prove his innocence before his accusers at
a proper Court, but his illness increased, and on the evening of the
third day of his return journey he approached Leicester. The appearance
of nature accorded with the condition of the prisoner, the end of the
year was drawing nigh, and the Cardinal beheld, for the last time, the
falling leaf and the setting sun.
When the cavalcade reached the monastery, the day was drawing to a
close, and, the abbot and the friars, apprised of his coming, waited
with torches at the gate to receive him. But the honors of the world
had ceased to afford him any pleasure; and, as he passed down the
stairs, he said to the brethren, “I am come to lay my bones among
ye!” Being supported into a chamber, he immediately went to bed, and
languished with increasing signs of dissolution all the next day. The
following morning, Cavendish, his usher and afterwards historian, as
he was watching near him, thought he perceived the symptoms of death.
The Cardinal noticing him, inquired the hour, and was told eight
o’clock. “That cannot be,” he replied, “for at eight clock you shall
lose your master. My time is at hand, and I must depart this world.”
Continuing to grow weaker and weaker, he fainted several times during
the day. About four o’clock the following morning he asked for some
refreshment, which having received, and made confession, Sir William
Kingston entered his room and inquired how he felt himself. “Sir,” said
Wolsey, “I tarry but the pleasure of God to render up my poor soul into
his hands.” He then gave sage and good counsel to Sir William, and
impressed upon him the duty of acting in all things with fidelity and
honesty towards God, and said, “had I served God as diligently as I
have done the King he would not have given me over in my gray hairs.”
“Farewell,” he continued, “I wish all good things to have success.
My time draws fast on. I may not continue with you. Forget not what
I have said, and when I am gone, call it often to mind.” Towards the
conclusion he began to falter, and linger in the articulation of his
words. At the end, his eyes became motionless, and his sight failed.
The Abbot was summoned to administer the extreme unction, and the
yeomen of the guard were called to see him die. As the clock struck
eight he expired.
The body, with the face uncovered, being laid out in pontifical
robes, the magistrates and inhabitants of Leicester were permitted
to see it, in order that they might certify the death. In the
evening it was removed into the church, but the funeral service was
protracted by unusual dirges and orisons, and it was past midnight
before the interment took place. Such was the end of this proud and
famous Cardinal; who, for a subject, had more of the pomp and glory
of this world than any man who ever lived—few have been thrown down
from so great a height with so few crimes. He cannot be reproached
with anything mean, vile, malicious, cruel, or vindictive. He was a
character of the most splendid class—superior as a statesman to any
of his contemporaries. He was haughty to the haughty—proud to the
proud. Stern and unbending to those who loved him not—but to those who
showed him respect, “sweet as summer!” All his undertakings showed the
foreseeing facilities of his genius. It was he who, more than any other
man, laid the foundation of those maxims of prudence, which, in our own
day, among all European States, restrict the domination of the Pope.
My young friends cannot do better than to study at large the history
of this justly celebrated man. They will find in it much to exalt
their minds and to touch their hearts, and they will rise from their
perusal of his memoir wiser and better children. Those wretched people
who like to contemplate the little blemishes of the most illustrious
characters, will see in the errors of Wolsey much to condemn. But more
generous minds will look upon them as “specks upon a sun,” whose rays
enlightened and benefited the world.
An Adventure with a Bear.
Bears are very funny fellows, sometimes, particularly the “Brown
Bears.” All Black Bears are savage; the White Bears are melancholy and
spiteful, but the Brown Bears give, at times, the oddest sport, and
make us laugh the most. I remember well, upon my travelling from Moscow
to St. Petersburgh, seeing some fun with one, and I can’t help telling
it to my young readers.
The road from Moscow to St. Petersburg is dreary enough; long wastes
of ground stretching far away—straight roads without hedges or
ditches—clumps of trees here and there—savage-looking dens, and as
savage-looking men—rude hovels not fit for pigs to stop in—women
not half so clean as the pigs in Mr. Bendall’s styes—and rough old
chaps, with beards so rough, hard, and bristly, that you might make
shoe-brushes of them. These are the characteristics of the Russian
peasantry, and when, therefore, we talk of bears, we talk of
gentlemen—polite, generous but determined, and not very ceremonious
gentlemen; of one of these it is my object to speak.
[Illustration]
I was, as I said, travelling from Moscow to St. Petersburgh. I had
with me my friend Bendall, as good a shot as ever hit a rabbit in a
sley, and as good a hunter as ever hunted a donkey on a cross-road.
We had travelled many miles over morass and heath, and through the
ugliest roads in Christendom. Sometimes we travelled for a whole day
without meeting with a house or hovel of any kind, and on the day that
the adventure took place I am about to describe, we had travelled till
night-fall without any probability of shelter for the night; so, at
last, thinking that we could do no better, we crept into a cave, with
the intention of passing the night there. We were rather surprised,
when we had stricken a light, to find a great lot of bones strewn
about, all of them picked very clean, and some of them very old; and,
as Bendall remarked, “we were in a Bear’s den”—his own parlor, drawing
room, kitchen, and cookery, and a very warm snug place it seemed, not
over nice as to smell, but quite sheltered from wind and tempest. So we
struck a light, lit a fire, and prepared to make ourselves comfortable
with one “sausage,” the only thing we had to munch that night. We put
it on the fire, and it had not long begun to grill and grizzle, before
something dark moved before the entrance of the cave. Bendall was after
it directly, with his gun cocked; and I held up a lighted brand to see
what would come next. It was a rough old Brown Bear, of very large
size, who seemed by no means pleased at our invasion of his domestic
hearth. He stood, with his nose poked out, savagely looking at us, as
much as to say: “what do you here, you blackguards?” Bendall seeing
this insolent speech in the bear’s eyes, pulled the trigger—flash—but
no bang—the gun missed fire! and, in a moment, the old brute, as if
he knew that he was likely to have all his own way, made a leap at me
with the agility of a young rabbit. I had only just time to pop the
fire-brand in his mouth—which made him howl for a moment—and then,
with redoubled savageness, he flew upon me, and embraced me with such
a hug, that I seemed to feel my ribs cracking, and all the breath
squeezing out of my body. I laid hold of the bear’s throat, and tried
to squeeze him and stop his breath; but his hair was so thick and
shaggy I could make but little impression upon him; and so he squeezed,
and I squeezed; now we rolled—now we tumbled—sometimes Parley was
up—sometimes Bear; and then we rolled over and over again. Poor Bendall
looked on with consternation; he had again primed his piece, but was
afraid to fire lest he should hit and settle me. At last we tumbled and
tumbled, till we both rolled into the fire. Upon this Bruin let go of
me, and leaped to a great distance, and began capering about in fine
style; the pain of the burnings being, no doubt, very teasing—I know
mine were. “Now is your time, Bendall,” said I. So Bendall would have
fired, but his gun again missed; upon which the old bear made towards
me again, pawing out with his fore feet, and standing on his hind
ones, while I, in the same attitude, waited his approach. But Bendall,
finding his gun of no use one way, determined to try its service in
another; and advancing boldly in front of me, dealt Bruin such a blow
with the butt-end, that he rolled him over like a Dutch-cheese. At
the same moment I whipped out my knife, and made a hole in the Bear’s
body; while Bendall gave him another topper “for luck”—and Bruin was
done for. The whole affair was most ludicrous, but almost too serious
a joke. It however ended by our having some of the bear’s haunch for
our supper. And I can tell you, my young friends, that bear’s haunch is
most delicious eating.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Something about Lighthouses.
Lighthouses were in use with the ancients. The towers of Sestos and
Abydos, the Colossus of Rhodes, and the well-known tower in the island
of Pharos, off Alexandria, are examples. Suetonius also mentions a
lofty tower at Ostia, and another on the coast of Batavia, erected
for the purpose of guiding the mariners by night. In lighting a great
extent of coast, it becomes necessary to provide for the distribution
of lighthouses in such a manner, that they may be readily distinguished
from each other, and, at the same time, so disposed, as not to leave
vessels without some point by which to direct their course.
One of the most extraordinary lighthouses on our iron-bound coast,
stands on a reef of rocks called the Eddystone, in the English Channel,
about ten miles from the Land’s End, in Cornwall. It was erected by
Mr. Smeaton, in 1759, and still remains a lasting monument of his
scientific skill. It consists of four rooms, surmounted by a gallery
and lanthorn. The floors are of stone, flat on the surface, but concave
beneath, and are kept from pressing against the sides of the building,
by means of a chain which is let into the walls. The entire edifice is
about eighty feet in height, and yet, such is the immense power of the
wind in the neighbourhood of the rocks, that the waves are seen to
ascend like a cupola, considerably above the lanthorn at the top. The
appearance of this is truly wonderful and sublime.
[Illustration]
Another celebrated lighthouse is called the Bell Rock Lighthouse, which
stands on the coast of Scotland, near Arbroath, in Forfarshire. These
rocks have always been particularly dangerous for shipping, and when
the commerce of Scotland was very much less than at the time of the
erection of the lighthouse, it is said that the monks of the Abbey of
Arbroath erected a bell on the rock, which was rung by machinery during
the flowing and ebbing of the tide. About the year 1807, the present
noble specimen of what man can accomplish, was commenced. The work was
completed in 1811, under the direction of Mr. Stevenson, and reflects
the highest honor upon his professional skill. The difficulties that
had to be overcome were of the most embarassing description. At the
commencement of the work, in consequence of the short time the rock
was not covered with water, two or three hours were considered a good
tide’s work, and, frequently after a portion of the foundation had been
completed, a sudden storm would render it necessary to perform the same
labour twice over, and even oftener. On one occasion, Mr. Stevenson
and the men who were with him at work were exposed to great danger, in
consequence of the vessel that used to carry them from the rock having
broken from her moorings, and the tide at the same time commencing its
rise. They were, fortunately however, saved by a small boat, which
happened to bring Mr. Stevenson some papers relating to the lighthouse
at the time.
The form of the lighthouse is that of an immense pillar; the lower
courses of stones are trenailed and wedged together with oak timber,
to the height of upwards of forty feet, or throughout the solid part
of the building. At the stone staircase leading from the door to the
first floor, the walls are seven feet thick, and from this it gradually
decreases upwards. The stones of the walls of the several apartments
are connected at the ends with dove-tailed joints. The floors are
formed of long stones radiating from the centre, and set in such a
manner that the pressure of the floors upon the walls is perpendicular.
In the stranger’s room or library, the roof takes an arched form, but
the centre is cut only upon the interior end of the stones of the
cornice, the several stones of which it is composed being all laid upon
level beds.
In order to give a slight idea of the force this lighthouse has to
withstand, we may quote the following remarks from Mr. Stevenson. He
says:—“It is awfully grand, at the time of high water, to observe
the spray rising on the building, and even to be on the rock at low
water, when the waves are about to break. Being, in a manner, only a
few yards distant, they approach as if they were about to overwhelm us
altogether. But, now that we are accustomed to such scenes, we think
little of it. You will, perhaps, form a better idea of the force of
these gales, when I relate to you that, on the 15th of February, the
large piece of lead which was used as a tack weight of the balance
crane, weighing nearly five hundred pounds, was fairly lifted by the
sea and carried to the distance of six feet from the hole in which it
had laid since the month of August. It was found turned round, with the
ring-bolt downwards, and it was with great difficulty that four of us
could muster strength enough to move it.”
There are many other lighthouses upon our coast. That at the Land’s End
is a very fine one, as is that at Orford and Yarmouth Sound. Of late
years a new mode of building lighthouses has been in operation, and of
this I shall say a few words.
Perhaps no class of persons are exposed to greater dangers than seamen.
They have to contend, not only against the elements, when all around
them is a barren waste of waters, but, no sooner are they gladdened by
the sight of land, than their perils are increased to a much greater
extent. In the former case, the wind was, perhaps, the only danger they
might have to provide against, but approaching land they must take
care to avoid sunken rocks and sand-banks, which might be the cause
of their destruction. Upon rocks and the solid coasts, lighthouses
have been erected with comparative ease (as we have already stated),
but, upon sands, the erection of them is very difficult; and was,
till within these few years, considered to be almost insurmountable.
Floating lights, which are large lanthorns suspended in the rigging of
a vessel, or built up in the hull, are frequently used to illuminate
a sandy coast, full of shoals and sand-banks—but these are subject to
many inconveniences, by the pitching and rolling of the vessel—for
every now and then she is partially submerged in the trough of the sea,
covered with spray and drift; or, what is most to be dreaded, she is
liable to be blown away from her moorings—an accident productive of the
most disastrous consequences to life and property; for should such a
catastrophe happen, the ships sailing along a coast having nothing to
warn them of their danger, run upon the shoals or sand-banks, and are
frequently totally wrecked, and all traces of them lost, in the course
of a very few hours.
Such being the case, the attention of Engineers has for some time been
directed to the best means for overcoming this difficulty. The building
of a house upon a rock has ever been considered the proof of wisdom,
whilst the erection of it on the sands has been held the proof of
folly. But the advances of science prove that a house may be built even
upon the sands, when proper care is taken in its construction—and the
erection of lighthouses on this foundation is held to be a triumph in
engineering.
This remarkable result has been accomplished chiefly by means of
Mitchell’s screw mooring, which consists of an immense screw, very
similar to that of the corkscrew, with flat cutting spirals. It is a
spiral or screw round a cast-iron spindle, having a square head, upon
which a large key is placed (like the key of a watch), and the screw
is turned by enormous leverage, and it is then forced into the ground,
and can be carried to a great depth. This instrument was thought to
be applicable to the establishment of Lighthouses upon sands; and,
accordingly, a series of experiments was undertaken, and a lighthouse
was speedily erected on the verge of the Maplin Sand, situated at the
mouth of the Thames, about twenty miles below the Nore. The foundation
was formed of seven screw piles, six occupying the six angles of a
hexagon, and the seventh being placed in the centre. From each screw
proceeded a pile fifteen feet in length, at the upper end of which was
another screw for securing a wooden column. These columns were prepared
of Baltic timber: the one in the centre was fifty-six feet, and each of
the remainder forty-six feet in length, firmly bound together with iron
hoops, and coated with pitch.
The platform upon which the house stands is firmly secured round the
centre column, and to the heads of the outer columns by means of hollow
cast-iron capitals let down on the heads of the columns, and secured
with screw bolts. To give lateral strength to the building, round iron
angle traces were applied, by which means a resisting power, equal to
at least three-hundred-and-fifty tons is presented in every direction.
The platform upon which the house stands is twenty-seven feet in
diameter and nine feet high; it has an outside door and three windows,
and is divided into two apartments—one having a fire-place. The floor
is tiled, and the walls are ceiled, lathed, and stuccoed; access to the
platform is secured by means of a Jacob’s ladder to one of the columns.
From the summit of the house rises the lanthorn: it is twelve sided,
and is ten feet in feet in diameter and eight feet high. The light is
elevated about forty-six feet above low water level, and is bright,
steady, and uniform—ranging over an horizon of eight miles and visible
at the distance of ten miles from a coaster’s deck. During foggy
weather a bell is tolled by machinery. Tide time for vessels of twelve
feet draught is also denoted by signals.
This admirable and useful structure was erected in two of the shortest
day months of the year, during which time daylight did not occur at any
low water period; the workmen, therefore, had to depend upon torches
and moonlight; and what is quite as extraordinary, it can be taken down
and erected on another site in a month, should circumstances render it
necessary.
[Illustration]
The Old Abbeys and Castles of England.
[Illustration]
In a former chapter I mentioned something about Old Abbeys. I am now
about to say something concerning the Old Castles of England, for few
things are more interesting to young people than the stories connected
with them. There is scarcely any part of England but has ruins of old
castles; some of these ruins are very picturesque, and, when we look
at them, the mind is carried back to the times of superstition—of
religious bondage—of knighthood and chivalry—and of intestine war.
Happily, these times are gone for ever, and we now enjoy peace,
freedom, and religious happiness, such as ancient times never did, and
never could produce; and we ought to be grateful to Almighty God that
we live in such blessed times.
According to Dr. Johnson, a Castle is a strong house fortified, but
this gives little more information than the saying, according to law,
“Every man’s house is his castle.” A Castle, properly so called, is
a fortress or fortification of stone, surrounded by high and thick
walls of defence, with different walls and lines of circumvallation,
consisting of the Barbican, the Moat, the wall of the outer Ballium,
the outer Ballium, the Artificial Mount, the wall of the inner Ballium,
the inner Ballium, and the Keep or Dungeon.
The Barbican, was a watch-tower for the purpose of descrying the
approach of a distant enemy. It seems to have had no positive place,
except that it was always an outwork, and frequently advanced beyond
the ditch, to which it was joined by a draw-bridge, and formed the
entrance into the Castle.
The Ditch, which was also called the moat or fosse, was sometimes
filled with water, when any convenient stream could be turned into it,
at other times it was dry and deep, and, when this was the case, there
were subterranean passages underneath, by which the soldiers could pass
out and suddenly break ground into the open country, and astonish the
invading forces. This wall of the outer Ballium was within the Ditch on
the castle side. The wall was usually high, flanked with towers, and
had a parapet, embattled, crenellated, or garretted, for mounting it.
The outer Ballium was the space or ground within the outer wall. In
the Ballium were lodgings or barracks for the garrison and artificers,
wells for water, and sometimes a monastery. An artificial mound,
commanding the adjacent country, was often thrown up in the Ballium,
and from this the soldiers and archers would throw their missiles upon
the enemy.
The wall of the inner Ballium separated it from the outer Ballium. The
inner Ballinm was a second enclosed space or ground. When a castle
had an inner Ballium—which was not always the case—it contained the
buildings before-mentioned as being within the Ballium.
The Keep, or Dungeon, commonly, but not always, stood on an eminence in
the centre; sometimes it was, emphatically, called the Tower. It was
the Citadel, or last retreat of the garrison, and was generally a high,
square tower of four or five stories, having turrets at each angle,
with staircases in the turrets. The walls of these edifices were always
of an extraordinary thickness, which enabled them to exist longer
than other buildings; and they are now almost the only remains of our
ancient castles.
In the Keep or Dungeon, the Lord, or Governor, had his state-rooms,
which were little better than gloomy cells, with chinks or embrasures
diminishing inwards, from which arrows from long or cross-bows might
be discharged against besiegers. Some Keeps, especially those of small
castles, had not even these conveniences, but were solely lighted by a
small perforation at the top. The different stories were frequently
vaulted; sometimes they were only separated by joists. On the top of
the Keep, was usually a platform, with an embattled parapet, from
whence the Govenor could see and command the exterior works.
Castles were designed for residences as well as defence. According to
some writers, the ancient Britons had castles of stone; but they were
few in number, and either decayed or so much destroyed, through neglect
or invasions, that, at the time of the Norman Conquest, little more
than their ruins remained. The Conqueror erected and restored many
castles; and on the lands parcelled out to his followers they erected
castles all over the country. These edifices greatly multiplied in
turbulent and unsettled times; and, towards the reign of Stephen, they
amounted to the almost incredible number of eleven hundred and fifteen.
As the Feudal system strengthened, castles became the heads of
baronies. Each castle had a Manor, and the Castellain, Owner, or
Governor was the Lord of the Manor. Markets or fairs were held in
them to prevent frauds in the King’s duties or customs, and there his
laws were enforced, until the Lords usurped the regal power, not only
within their castles but the environs, and exercised civil and criminal
jurisdiction, coined money, and even seized forage and provisions for
the garrisons. Their oppressions grew so high, that, according to
William of Newbury, there were as many kings, or rather tyrants, as
lords of castles; and these lords of castles not only oppressed and
despoiled their weaker neighbours, but exercised even royal privileges.
Henry II., therefore, stipulated for the destruction of many of them,
and prevented the erection of others, except by royal license.
The materials with which castles were built varied according to the
places of their erection; but the manner of building seems to have
been pretty uniform. The outsides of the walls generally consisted
of stones near at hand; the insides were filled up with fragments of
stone, or sometimes chalk, and a large supply of fluid mortar. When
the Normans found the remains of an ancient building on a site which
suited them, they often added their out-work, thus having a mixed piece
of architecture of a Norman and Saxon Order, with, not unfrequently, a
quantity of Roman bricks.
According to Camden, who gives an account of the taking of Bedford
Castle, in his Britannia:—“The castle,” he says, “was taken by four
assaults. In the first was taken the Barbican; in the second the outer
bail (Ballium); at the third attack, the wall by the old tower was
thrown down by the miners, where, with great danger, they possessed
themselves of the inner bail through a chink; at the fourth assault,
the miners set fire to the tower, so that the smoke burst out, and the
tower itself was cloven to that degree as to show visibly some broad
chinks; whereupon the enemy surrendered.”
Castles in process of time, soon became of little use as fortresses;
the change in the art of war, brought about by the invention of
gunpowder, the influence of our navy, and the abolishment of the
feudal system, all tended to diminish the importance of these ancient
safeguards; and, with the progress of civilization and national
improvement, we trace the gradual change in the construction of
castles, till, by the admission of light and air, and some degree of
ornament, the harsh and gloomy features of the massive Norman pile
became softened down into the refined and comfortable aspect of the
castellated house in the reign of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth.
In the reign of Charles I., however, shortly before the civil war,
and probably with the prospects of the awful events which followed
in view, a commission was appointed to inquire into the state of the
ancient castles. Many of these, during the subsequent troubles, were
garrisoned and defended. Not a few were afterwards destroyed by order
of the parliament, and others were left to the ravages of time and the
weather. Some of these monuments of barbaric grandeur have been torn
down for the sake of the materials, or for the purpose of building on
the same site.
Although a view of the generality of these rugged fortresses—destined
chiefly for the purposes of war or defence—suggests to the imagination,
dungeons, chains, and a painful assemblage of horrors, yet some of them
were often the scenes of magnificence and hospitality, where, in the
days of chivalry, the wandering Knight or distressed Princess found
honourable reception, the holy Palmer repose for his wearied limbs, and
the poor and helpless men daily bread.
Having here given a general description of Castles, I shall, in a
future chapter, afford my young readers accounts of some particular
Castles, especially those which have historical incidents connected
with them.
The Queen of Spithead: Review of the Fleet.
[Illustration]
Peter Parley loves our good Queen, and delights to follow her in her
various “progresses”—for wherever she appears, light and happiness
beams around. The sun seems to welcome her wherever she goes, and
bright and fair are the days that belong to her. And one of the
brightest and fairest days, notwithstanding a little cloud or so that
appeared, was the day when Her Majesty, accompanied by the Prince—whom
every true Briton loves for his manly character, and for the good he
does to every one—proceeded to visit the British Fleet at Spithead. It
was delightful for old Peter to behold the Queen and the Prince, and
not less so to see the young Prince of Wales emulating the British Tar,
and looking like an embryo Nelson: and his heart beat with ardour at
the cheers of the sailors and the booming of the guns; and he wished
himself a young man again, and on board of a man-of-war, as he was
for many years of his early life. I believe that no one who has been
thoroughly soused in salt water ever ceases to love it, and although
poor old Peter has now only a pleasure-boat to skull and row and sail
about the Deben in, he still loves the sea-breeze and the sea-water,
and the smell of tar; and he likes to hear the whistle of the gale
in the shrouds, and the cry of the sea-gull, and the voice of the
curlew on the ooze; and he would sing with his poor old voice, like a
shattered clarionet of former days, “Rule Britannia,” and thank God
that he has lived to see the day when England exhibits to the world
that she is still able to “rule the waves.”
[Illustration: _The Queen at Spithead_]
The “review” was, indeed, a spirit-stirring sight. The eyes of half
London and the hearts of all England were there; and a wonderful
thing it was to look upon a fleet such as England never had
before, and the thick black cloud of coal-smoke resting upon the
horizon, or ascending to the skies in volumes, shewed the result
of the innumerable applications of the giant power of steam to the
purposes of navigation. Here stood arrayed the mighty force of
fourteen-thousand-four-hundred-and-twenty horse-power, concentrated
in the holds of the royal ships, impelling these mountain masses with
as much ease as some of my young readers would drag their little boat
across a puny pond.
The most remarkable fact, bearing on this point, was the celerity and
ease with which the Duke of Wellington, the greatest of all the ships,
the Agamemnon, and the Impèrieuse—each of them steam impelled—performed
their evolutions. The chase, when each ship put forth all her powers,
was just continued long enough to establish the superiority of these
ships. They are moved by screw-propellers, and all the steam machinery
in such large ships is placed beneath the water-line, and below the
reach of shot. The ships can steam at pleasure against wind and tide,
and thus, really and not metaphorically “rule the waves,” and a steam
fleet of eleven hundred guns, such as that we witnessed at Portsmouth,
would go far to rule the world.
The Queen, the Prince, and the Royal Family arrived in the “Victoria
and Albert” yacht, and a grand salute from all the ships was fired
in succession, and so quickly was it given, that from the firing of
the first gun to the booming of the last, not more than three minutes
elapsed. As Her Majesty approached the fleet, the Queen and Prince
Albert mounted the bridge of the yacht over the paddle-boxes, and with
the Prince of Wales, and Prince Alfred—both attired as sailors, in
white duck trowsers and jackets—surveyed the scene before them with
much interest. Her Majesty then entered the royal barge, and with
the Prince, and the Royal Children, all went on board the “Duke of
Wellington,” as you see them represented in the engraving. The fleet
now steamed out to sea in double column. They formed into single line.
They then made a feigned attack upon the enemy. After firing a gun or
two of defiance, the three foremost ships resolutely advanced, upon
which the two divisions closed into one grand line, and upon the signal
gun of the “Duke of Wellington,” followed by the tremendous roar of her
whole broadside, rapidly discharged from stem to stern, the rattling
thunder ran along the line, traversing it as it were in a minute,
and again beginning at the other end; main and deck guns, eighteens,
thirty-twos, and sixty-fours, banging and thundering for nearly a
quarter of an hour without intermission. From the moment of the first
discharge, the clouds of white, choking smoke hid everything. The
mimic battle was kept up for some time, at last the enemy was supposed
to have been repulsed, so the heads of the vessels were put round, and
the whole squadron started off homewards at the best of each ship’s
speed, and the same thundering followed.
[Illustration]
A boat attack was next made, which was fully equal in interest to the
“sham fight of the ships,” and the whole day’s proceedings exhibited
“Old England” in her proudest glory; and thus terminated a spectacle,
which no other country in the world could produce but England, and
which well accords with English spirit and English sympathy.
[Illustration]
Something about the Chinese.
[Illustration]
The Chinese are, my young friends, a very wonderful people—quite unlike
the people in any other part of the world. They are very different in
their religion, laws, manners and customs; and were you to go and live
in China, you would be puzzled to know what to do, and how to act. My
friend, Mr. Welton, however, who has just sent over to his native place
a beautiful collection of Chinese curiosities, seems to know how to
get on very well; and from his letters, and the specimens of Chinese
literature, art, and manufactures, it will not be a very difficult
thing to obtain some slight knowledge of the Chinese.
China is the most populous country in the world; it is supposed to
contain at least two hundred and fifty millions of human beings. Of
these, more than two millions live in boats on the rivers, and a very
large number have been enrolled as soldiers. At the present moment,
China is undergoing a great revolution (of which I shall have something
to say before I have done), and the religion of Jesus Christ is making
progress. The end of this will probably be the opening of the whole
of the Chinese empire to European commerce, which will be of great
advantage to the whole world.
No country abounds like China in towns and cities, which in some of
the provinces are so thick and close to each other, that the whole
seems but one continued town swarming with inhabitants. Their roads are
generally crowded with passengers. Some cities are purely military, and
are inhabited by soldiers, of which there are said to be not less than
five millions in the empire.
The most wonderful things in China are the canals, especially the
Great Canal, as it is called, which is an uninterrupted communication
of nearly seven hundred miles of water, between Pekin and the great
central stream of the Yang-tse-Kiang. In connection with the rivers, it
opens a communication between Canton and Pekin, by means of a thousand
miles of navigation.
The Great Wall of China has always been considered one of the wonders
of the world. It was erected three hundred years before Christ. It
is in length one thousand miles, and it passes over hills, vallies,
rivers, and mountains which are in some places more than five thousand
feet high. Its height is thirty feet, and it is very broad. The towers,
which are at short distances from each other, are forty feet high. This
Wall is no longer of much use as a fortification, and is now regarded
more as a curiosity. The mass of materials used in its construction
would be sufficient to build a thick wall, six feet in height, all
round the globe. China is also famous for triumphal arches, erected to
the memory of their heroes; it is said that there are from six hundred
to seven hundred in the empire. It is customary for persons travelling
to pay their adoration at these arches, as well as at the tombs of
their ancestors, whom they regard with the greatest veneration.
[Illustration]
Most of the Chinese cities have large bells set up in their high
towers, by which notice is given of the different watches of the night.
The first watch is denoted by a single stroke; the second, by two; the
third, by three; and so on. Some of the Chinese bells are very large,
and weigh upwards of one hundred thousand pounds. Their clappers are of
wood and not of metal—the former being thought to give a softer sound.
The city of Pekin has been the fixed capital of China ever since
the expulsion of the Moguls; and, although situated on the Northern
confines of China Proper, it is central with regard to the whole
empire. It is surrounded by a wall, flanked with high towers, each
containing accommodation for a hundred men. Within this wall are the
Emperor’s palace and gardens. These are surrounded by another wall, the
enclosure being called the Sacred City. The two cities are not less
than twenty-five miles in circumference.
[Illustration]
The Imperial Palace is situated in the heart of the city, and has a
prodigious number of courts, squares, ponds, parks, and edifices. The
apartments are spacious and healthy, and the whole is adorned with
gardens, baths, and pleasure terraces. There, is, in the midst of one
of the principal gardens, an artificial lake of about a mile in extent,
surrounded by stately trees, and gorgeous temples, and fine statues.
The Great Hall of Audience is a lofty building, one hundred and thirty
feet long, and nearly of a square form. Its ceiling is of carved work,
garnished with green, and adorned with gilt dragons in bas-relief. The
pillars which support the roof are about seven feet in circumference,
and are embellished with raised works of fruits and flowers. The
pavement is covered with a rich carpet; the walls are polished white,
and without hangings, mirrors, or any kind of ornament. The throne
stands in the centre of the hall, and consists of a lofty alcove,
but has few ornaments or inscriptions; it, however, bears the words
“Reason’s glory,” the name assumed by the present Emperor.
[Illustration]
The Great Temple of the Chinese, or of Pekin, is a very curious
edifice—not merely on account of its riches and grandeur, but from its
being the scene of a very important ceremony, performed by the Emperor
every year, when the sun enters the winter solstice; hence it is termed
the Temple of the Sun. The temple stands about half-a-mile from the
east end of the city, and is surrounded by a wall nearly a mile in
circuit. Within this enclosure are reared several stately apartments,
amid groups of lofty trees, and in the centre a spacious round hall,
of a considerable height. The dome or roof is supported by eighty-two
columns, curiously painted with gold and azure, representing the sky.
At an upper part of the temple stands a very large vessel of brass, in
which perfumes are burned; and on each side of it stand the priests. To
this temple the Emperor repairs at the proper season, and, in a homely
garb, without gold, or jewels, or even the yellow garment that denotes
royalty—kneels down in adoration, and offers up his prayers for the
sins of the people, and prays the Divine Being to give happiness and
prosperity to the nation at large.
[Illustration]
In another temple, called the Temple of the Earth, which is without the
walls of the city, a ceremony is performed by every Emperor, on coming
to the throne, equally worthy of description. Immediately after the
coronation, the Emperor comes with regal pomp to this temple, which
stands on the west side of the city. As soon as he passes the walls of
the city, he divests himself of his imperial robes, and clothes himself
in the habit of a common ploughman; and in this humble guise proceeds,
with his numerous retinue, to a spot of ground kept for the purpose
within the compass of the temple. Here he finds a plough, gilt and
ornamented with gold, to which two oxen with golden horns are fastened,
and, taking the plough in his hand, he drives it to the extent of two
or three furrows. Whilst at this laborious exercise, the Empress,
attended by her ladies, prepares some plain dish for his dinner, and
brings it to him into his private apartment, in the most homely style,
and sits and eats with him.
This excellent custom is of Chinese origin, and of great antiquity. Its
design is to put the new monarch in mind that his revenue is owing to
the sweat and labour of his subjects, and that he ought to abstain from
all superfluous expenses, and ease them of all unnecessary burdens.
The Chinese are great lovers of festivals, and one of their principal
entertainments of this kind is celebrated during the eighth moon.
From sunset and the rising of the moon till midnight, every one walks
about with his relatives and friends in the streets, public places,
and gardens. In the preceding days they send to each other tarts and
cakes, called yua-pini, that is, cakes of the moon; they are round and
flat, and made to resemble that luminary. These cakes are eaten by
moonlight—the wealthy to the sound of melodious music, and the poor to
the din of drums, gongs, and other noisy instruments.
The engraving represents a dealer in confectionary of this kind;
the cakes are flat, and the hares, which are one of the chief of
their ornaments, are either sitting on their haunches, or lying down
eating. One of the cakes in the upper row is adorned with peacock’s
feathers, between which is placed a figure of the moon, on which is the
representation of a hare pounding rice.
[Illustration]
Fruit is sold by hawkers, and men who sit at a table in the open
air. The picture shows the way in which fruit is hawked in baskets,
suspended from the ends of a bamboo, which is borne on one shoulder.
The baskets of this trader are stocked with various kinds of fruit. The
melons, one of which is seen in the picture, are water-melons; there
are besides grapes, white and red figs, and peaches. This latter fruit
the Chinese regard as the emblem of immortality. In the abode of Hien
Gien, which is their paradise, they imagine a peach-tree, the fruit of
which secures all those who eat of it from death.
[Illustration]
The other Chinese fruits are apricots, cherries, lemons, and oranges,
which are grown in the gardens of the country people; they also eat
the young shoots of the fragrant ash, the flowers of the yulong, and
the soft shoots of the juicy-bamboo. The leaf which the itinerant
fruit-seller holds, is that of the “_nelumbriem_,” an aquatic plant,
the canes of which sometimes grow large enough for an umbrella. The
engraving represents a retail dealer in fruit, sitting at his stall,
in the shade of an ample umbrella made of rushes.
[Illustration]
The middle classes of the Chinese live upon pork, venison, and
shark-fins. Horse-flesh is eaten by the Tartars, and sold in the
markets with beef. Cats, too, are a favourite dish, and dogs are the
crowning delicacy of the cookery-book.
The Chinese towns swarm with hawkers of all sorts, and among the most
numerous are the flower-sellers. They carry their flowers about in two
flat baskets, suspended like a pair of scales from the two ends of a
bamboo. The flowers common to China are, many of them, now common with
us. The plant for which they have the strongest liking is the peony,
which they call “_moutein_.” It is also called the “king of flowers,”
and “pe-lean-king,” which means one hundred ounces of gold on account
of its beauty, and of the enormous price given for it by the curious.
[Illustration]
The Chinese, as I have said, eat cats and dogs. They also eat snakes
and vipers: the former for food, the latter for physic. The Chinese
are very dexterous in catching these animals, and they will also play
various tricks with them. It is no unusual thing to see a Chinaman put
a viper in his mouth, and ask a bye-stander to pull it out by its tail.
Here is a picture of a viper-seller; the board in his hand contains a
list of his reptiles.
[Illustration]
The engraving in the next page is the representation of a Chinese
barber. He goes from house to house, carrying with him his
instruments—a stool, a small furnace, water, razors, brushes. The
barbers are also ready to shampoo a customer, if the state of his
health require it. The mode of shampooing in China has been thus
described:—“First,” said my informant, “the shampooer placed me in a
large chair, and then began to beat me with both hands very fast, upon
all parts of my body. He next stretched out my arms and legs, and gave
them several sudden pulls; he then got my arm on his shoulder, and
hauled me sideways a good way off the chair, giving my head at the
same time a sudden switch or jerk, almost enough to pull my neck out
of joint. Next he beat with the ends of his fingers very softly and
very quickly, all over my body and legs, every now and then cracking
my fingers. Then he stroked my ears, temples, and eye-lashes. After
this he began to scrape, pick and syringe my ears, every now and then
working with an instrument close to them. The next things were my eyes,
into which several small instruments were thrust. He then proceeded
to paring, scraping, and cleansing the nails of my fingers and toes,
and then cutting my corns. For all this he only charged the sum of one
penny.”
[Illustration]
The Chinese are very fond of fishing, and although they are not so
scientific in throwing a line as Albert Smith, still they manage to get
the fish somehow—indeed fishing is very common in China. The waters of
the rivers contain a great number of fish unknown to us, one of which
is called the flour-fish, on account of its whiteness, and is very
delicious eating. The hoang-zy, or yellow fish, sometimes grows to such
a size, as to weigh 800 lbs.
[Illustration]
When a Chinaman goes fishing he takes with him his nets and lines: but
he has some other very ingenious methods of catching fish, especially
by the employment of the fishing-cormorant; and when he goes out for a
day’s sport, he usually takes with him ten or twelve of these birds,
either in light boats, or on bamboo rafts. The cormorant is taught to
pursue fish in the same manner as the falcon does game. The fishermen
beat the water strongly with one of their oars, which serves as a
signal to the birds, and they instantly plunge into the water, and
swallow in as many fish as they can get; they then repair immediately
to the boat, each conveying a large fish in the middle of its bill.
To prevent the small fish from passing into the stomach of the bird,
a ring is commonly put round its neck to confine its gullet, which is
long and capable of great expansion. To make it disgorge the fish which
it has swallowed, the fisherman holds the bird with its head downwards,
and strokes its head with his hand. Some are so well trained as to
have no occasion for the ring. They bring their prey honestly to their
master, and when they have caught as much he wants, he allows them to
fish for themselves.
[Illustration]
The Chinese are equally as expert in catching birds as in catching
fish. Their method of catching wild ducks is exceedingly curious and
very amusing. The sportsman covers his head with the half of a large
hollow gourd or dry calabash, in which he makes holes, to enable him
to see and breathe; he then walks naked into the water, or swims about
in such a manner that nothing is to be seen above the surface but
the gourd, which is attached to his head. The ducks, which have been
accustomed to the sight of the floating gourds, and to sport and dabble
among them, approach without mistrust; the man then pulls them under
water, breaks their necks to prevent their making a noise, and fastens
them to his girdle.
[Illustration]
Pedlars are common in China, and they travel without a licence. Here
is a picture of one of them. His stock consists of pieces of stuff,
ribands, purses, tobacco-pouches, and other small articles. He also
deals occasionally in a little opium and tobacco. The latter is very
dear in China, and the Chinese frequently mix with it opium, which
produces a delicious kind of intoxication. There are thousands of
professed opium-eaters in China, who ruin both mind and body by this
destructive habit; and Mr. Welton, a surgeon and missionary, to whom
the Chinese are greatly indebted for his services in this particular,
describes the effect of opium as most frightful.
The importation of opium commenced in the seventeenth century,
and since that time it has increased to an enormous extent. The
chief officers of the province of Canton suffered the drug (though
continually prohibited) to come into the country in large quantities,
by paying a bribe for each chest, and in 1825 the importation rose to
10,000 chests every year, which increased till nearly 30,000 chests
were disposed of annually.
I do not, however, wish to go into the opium question. I would rather
afford my young friends some more pictures of China. The countrymen
generally wear cloaks made of rice-straw. Their appearance is very
nearly the same as that of the Chinese husbandman, two thousand years
ago; for the fashions of China never change. The dress of the ladies
is always unalterable. The sempstresses or dressmakers trudge about
the streets, looking out for employment, until some one engages them.
They carry in their baskets various articles belonging to their
profession, and do not work as our poor creatures do, twenty out of the
twenty-four hours in the season, to elaborate the dress of some duchess
or countess, or that of Mrs. Beecher Stowe, the well-known advocate of
freedom among the blacks.
The dress of the Chinese lady is very rich, and not ungraceful. She
usually carries a pipe in one hand and a fan in the other, if the
latter be not carried by a servant. The ladies have often their fans
made so as not to close, whilst those of the gentlemen always close in
the same manner as those of our ladies; but the most distinguishing
mark of beauty among the Chinese ladies is their feet, which, to be
handsome, must be especially small, and resemble in some degree that of
the pettitoes of a little porker. The smallness of the foot is produced
by placing, during infancy, the foot in tight shoes or bandages, so
that it has no room to grow, what can have been the origin of this
strange custom it is not easy to conceive, but it has been supposed
to be one originating in a wish of the men, to keep the women from
gadding abroad.
[Illustration: CHINESE LADY. CHINESE NUN.]
Among many “female varieties” there are a number of female Benzes in
China, one of which is represented in the cut. They are a kind of Nun,
who take vows for a certain period. There are two classes of them,
one of which subjects themselves to stricter rules than the others.
About the year 1787, one of these Nuns, like Miss Sqirrel in the wilds
of Suffolk, set herself up for a goddess, and pretended to enlighten
all the nations by supernatural doings. Thousands flocked to her,
and becoming extremely rich, she erected a magnificent temple. The
Emperor, however, a sly old fox, having suffered her to acquire as much
wealth as he thought proper, at last ordered her to be executed, and
confiscated her wealth to his own coffers. In a future chapter I shall
afford my young friends some further particulars concerning the Chinese.
[Illustration]
A Mysterious Adventure.
One of the most curious Old Castles I was ever at, was that of Baden.
The word “Baden” is German, and signifies “bathing,” and it is here
that much bathing takes place. The city is situated in a charming vale,
about two leagues from the river Rhine.
The Castle is one of the “lions” of those parts; it is situated on a
rock, and affords from all sides the most splendid prospect. The road
to it is well cut, and made as easy as the nature of the ground will
permit; but it was a full hour before Keet (who is one of the best
and most courageous of companions) and I reached the place where the
wide-spread ruin stands. The rock on which it is placed is many hundred
feet above the level of the Rhine; and, being almost in the shape of a
sugar-loaf, the panorama is perfect.
[Illustration]
Keet said his prayers, which he generally does on any painful ascent,
and with the pathos of an old Greenwich Pensioner, blessed the
steps, the brambles, and the hard stumps that annoyed him. He also
performed sundry pious ejaculations to the tyrannical lords of the
ancient domain, wishing them in the “abodes of bliss,” with a fervor
and pathos truly marvellous. At last, we were shown, amid ruins, a
low-browed, dark, shaggy, doleful, savage, ugly-looking archway,
at which Keet curled the hair of his upper lip, as did Don Quixote
when about to attack the Fulling Mills; while I, like Sancho, stood
by, opening the sandwich-box, and the little bottle of very weak
liquor, called water, which Keet eyed with great jealousy. We had a
fierce-looking man as a guide, with a great black beard, clod-hopping
shoes, a long pole with a spike in it—and he had lost his nose, one
eye, and all his front teeth! When we came to this ugly-looking
gateway, our guide, whom Keet called “Ferocio,” knocked with his
spike-stick at the thick walls of the building, and cried out in
mournful accents,—“This is the great gigantic gateway of the powerful,
puissant, and portentious Castle of Baden; where men were strangled,
women were pressed to death, and children were _done for_ in a most
sanguinary, blood-thirsty, and barbarous manner. Behold,” said he,
in continuation, “the frowning granite that seems to yawn upon you
with the sleep of seven centuries. Within these blocks of stone, was
the famous ever-to-be-remembered, and never-to-be-forgotten secret
tribunal; below it are the secret chambers, the secret prisons, the
secret dungeons, and the secret horrors of this unsatisfactory pile of
buildings; but, come my friendships, we will go to the within port, and
there you shall see all the horrors of the dungeons as it appears by
the light of the flambeau. You would like to see the dungeons!—_Gents?_”
To this appellation we gave the most profound of bows, as much like
the obeisances of a “gent” of any of the seven drapers’ establishments
as we could assume. “Now, gents!” said the guide, “elevate the lids of
your desiring eyes, and follow me.” We did so, till we came to a low
portal gate, hedged round with ruins—dark, damp, and nauseous. “Stand
here, gents,” said the guide, with a fierce aspect and a menacing tone;
“stand here and contemplate, while I fetches the key.” After keeping us
waiting for a short time, he returned, holding in his hand a gigantic
key, which, having brandished with a mysterious air for some seconds,
he put into the lock—the old door grated on its hinges, and at last
stood open. He then looked at us sternly, and with the accents of
Hamlet’s Ghost, said in a hollow voice, “Follow me!”
Keet pulled out his “cheese-toaster,” and having deliberately sharpened
it on the stone door-posts, and brandished it as “Ferocio” did the
key, he gave me an expressive leer, and we followed. When we got
into the door-way, we perceived the passage to be very dark, but we
followed—took a turning to the right and then to the left, but all was
dark as “Erebus,” and we began to feel comical. Keet called out to the
guide, “I say, old fellow, I hope you are not going too far in this
darkness visible.” “Nouagh!” said the guide, with a grunt that echoed
through the place, “I av’ a flare-up in my pack!” With that he turned
round, and rubbing a lucifer on the wall, and pulling a flambeau from
his pocket, lighted it, and we proceeded.
We first came to another door, little and sturdy, and grim;—this he
kicked open with his foot. We then descended some stone steps; we then
went up a few steps, then down again, then round a corner, and then
through a niche, till having passed a third door-way without a door,
we came to a large vaulted room, lighted by heavy-barred windows from
above. “This,” said the guide, “is the place in which the women were
confined in time of war, lest they should unman the soldiers by their
frightments. Here they were all shut up like ‘cats in a barn,’ and, it
is said, that sometimes they fought to desperation. These here marks on
the wall are said to be occasioned by their mutual recriminations, and
the _lex talions_, as von gent called Alberto Smytheti say.”
The whole of this part of the structure is of Roman workmanship, but
the dungeons to which they lead are evidently of German construction;
and were, no doubt, appendages to the original pile; and designed
for the exercise of some of the delightful eccentricities of German
Margraves or Margravines, which Keet called “little amiabilities of
temper and prejudice.” We now reached a low vaulted room, and our
guide, with great coolness, took from his German small clothes, two
thick candles, which having lighted, we were told to carry them.
“Gents,” said he, “look to your heads against the walls, your feet
against the floors, and your elbows against the angles, don’t step into
holes, and say your prayers when you see a cross upon the stones, for
that place once belonged to——one who shall be nameless.”
Our guide now unbolted a small door, and descending two or three steps,
we entered a narrow passage which we could just squeeze through, and
this terminated in a square, vaulted room. The aspect of the passage,
and still more the dismal horror of the vault, which Keet said, “smelt
of bye-gone silent systems,” removed all fears that I should not find
dungeons terrible enough. It was quite impossible that stone walls can
convey a feeling of more hopeless desolation. From this square room
branched one more opening; but the utter darkness, the earthy smell,
the coldness, the damp, the sullen mystery of the intricate windings it
comprehended were such, that we now made, what Keet called, an “awful
pause.”
Our guide, however, was not so timid. He said, courageously, “Come
allons, gents. If you die here, you will not want a burying,” and he
led the way, with a “mind your head here,” and “mind your feet there.”
We were, after many tortuous windings, stopped by a door of stone,
a foot thick, hewn in one piece out of the granite rock. This door
stood ajar, and our “Ferocio” opened it with his thick stick, which
he used as a lever. We squeezed past it—Keet gave it one of his pious
addresses, and made the sign of the cross. “This is the little Bijou,”
said the guide, “a nice little gem of a prison.” It was a small,
vaulted stone room, utterly dark, damp, cold, and horribly mouldy to
the nose and lungs—and deadly to the body and soul. We shuddered—Keet
looked savage, and clenched his “cheese-toaster” with revenge in his
looks, as if he would have summoned up the Ghost of the villainous Old
Baron—who could form such dungeons—back again to earth, to have a stab
at him.
“This is the next,” said the guide, as he passed through another
massive door of rock, and another dismal vault. “This is the third,”
said he, and passed into another. “This is the fourth,” said he,
and took out his brandy bottle—“and this is the fifth,” hurrying us
along, and taking sup after sup from the aforesaid brandy bottle—“and
this is the eighth, ninth, and tenth.” There were, indeed, ten such
horrible dungeons; some of them hewn out of the solid rock, as well as
the passages which led to them, and others are constructed of immense
blocks of stone.
After passing through several passages, we reached a chamber of lesser
dimensions, the aspect and atmosphere of which might have chilled
a lion’s heart. Our guide paused as he passed the threshold, took
another dose, of course, from his brandy bottle, and said:—“This is the
‘Zammination Chamber.’” Many massive iron rings fastened into the walls
of this room, gave indications, sufficiently intelligible, of the mode
in which the questionings were wont to be carried on there.
One of the openings that led from this frightful room terminated in a
wall, along which another passage rose at right angles. Exactly at the
corner at which the turn was made, the footing of solid earth or rock
that we had hitherto trod, was changed for a flooring of planks; which,
if not quite loose, were yet so placed as to leave considerable space
between them. He suffered us to pass over them, and when we had entered
the door-way that stood at right angles, he stopped saying—“Here, this
is the _Oubliette_,” and pointed as he spoke to the planks we had
passed.
“And what is the _Oubliette_?” “It means _Maurecement_!” said the
guide, “a sort of ‘_eternal without a bottom_.’ When a foreigner was
sentenced to be forgotten, he was made to pass from the judgment-hall
through this door, these planks then sunk beneath him, he was
_universitied_ as he fell to the bottom, and was heard of no more.” I
shall tell you more of the horrors of this place in another chapter.
[Illustration]
A few Words about the Egyptians,