Five minutes later, Miss Brandon burst into the room in her usual
impulsive fashion. Lady Dimsdale was standing at one of the windows. It
was quite enough for Elsie to find there was some one to talk to—more
especially when that some one was Lady Dimsdale, whom she looked upon
as the most charming woman in the world. At once she began to rattle on
after her usual fashion. ‘Thank goodness, those hateful exercises are
over for to-day. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. Arma virumque
cano. How I do detest Latin! My grandmother didn’t know a word of it,
and she was the most delightful old lady I ever knew. Besides, where’s
the use of it? When Charley and I are married, I can’t talk to him in
Latin—nor even to the butcher’s boy, nor the fishmonger. Perhaps, if I
were to speak to my poodle in dog-Latin, he might understand me.’ Then,
with a sudden change of manner, she said: ‘Dear Lady Dimsdale, what is
the matter?’ for Laura had turned, and the traces of tears were still
visible around her eyes. ‘Why, I do believe you have been’——
‘Yes, crying—that’s the only word for it,’ answered Laura with a smile.
‘Do tell me what it is. Nothing serious?’
‘Nothing more serious than the last chapter of a foolish love-story.’
She had taken up a book instinctively.
‘I’m awfully glad it’s nothing worse. Love-stories that make one cry
are delicious. I always feel better after a good cry.’ Her sharp eyes
were glancing over the title of the book in Lady Dimsdale’s hand.
‘“Buchan’s _Domestic Medicine_,”’ she read out aloud. ‘Dear Lady
Dimsdale, surely this is not the book that’—— She was suddenly silent.
The room had a bow-window, the casement of which stood wide open this
sunny morning. Elsie had heard voices on the terrace outside. ‘That’s
dear old nunky’s voice,’ she said. ‘And—yes—no—I do believe it is
though!’ She crossed to the window and peeped out from behind the
curtains.
Stumping slowly along the terrace, assisted by his thick Malacca, came
Captain Bowood. By his side marched a dark-bearded military-looking
inspector of police, dressed in the regulation blue braided frock-coat
and peaked cap. They were engaged in earnest conversation.
‘An inspector of police! What can be the matter? I do believe they are
coming here.’ So spoke Elsie; but when she looked round, expecting a
response, she found herself alone. Lady Dimsdale had slipped out of the
room.
The voices came nearer. Elsie seated herself at the table, opened a
book, ruffled her hair, and pretended to be poring over her lessons.
The door opened, and Captain Bowood, followed by the inspector, entered
the room. ‘Pheugh! Enough to frizzle a nigger,’ ejaculated the former,
as he mopped his forehead with his yellow bandana handkerchief. Then
perceiving Elsie, he said, as he pinched one of her ears, ‘Ha, Poppet,
you here?’
‘Yes, nunky; and dreadfully puzzled I am. I want to find out in what
year the Great Pyramid was built. Do, please, tell me.’
‘Ha, ha!—Listen to that, Mr Inspector.—If you had asked me the distance
from here to New York, now. Great Pyramid, eh?’
The inspector, pencil and notebook in hand, was examining the
fastenings of the window. ‘Very insecure, Captain Bowood,’ he said;
‘very insecure indeed. A burglar would make short work of them.’
Miss Brandon was eying him furtively. There was a puzzled look on her
face. ‘I could almost swear it was Charley’s voice; and yet’——
‘Come, come; you’ll frighten us out of our wits, if you talk like
that,’ answered the Captain.
‘Many burglaries in this neighbourhood of late,’ remarked the inspector
sententiously.
‘Just so, just so.’ This was said a little uneasily.
‘Best to warn you in time, sir.’
‘O Charley, you naughty, naughty boy!’ remarked Miss Brandon under her
breath. ‘Even I did not know him at first.’
‘But if Mr Burglar chooses to pay us a visit, who’s to hinder him?’
asked the Captain.
The inspector shrugged his shoulders and smiled an inscrutable smile.
‘You don’t mean to say that they intend to pay us a visit to-night?
Come now.’
‘Every reason to believe so, Captain.’
‘But, confound it! how do you know all this?’
‘Secret information. Know many things. Mrs Bowood keeps her jewel-case
in top left-hand drawer in her dressing-room. Know that.’
‘Bless my heart! How did you find that out?’
‘Secret information. Gold chronometer with inscription on it hidden
away at the bottom of your writing-desk. Know that.’
‘How the’——
‘Secret information.’
‘O Charley, Charley, you artful darling!’—this _sotto voce_ from Miss
Brandon.
The Captain looked bewildered, as well he might. ‘This is really most
wonderful,’ he said. ‘But about those rascals who, you say, are going
to visit us to-night?’
‘Give ’em a warm reception, Captain. Leave that to me.’
‘Yes, yes. Warm reception. Good. Have some of your men in hiding, eh,
Mr Inspector?’
‘Half a dozen of ’em, Captain.’
‘Just so, just so. And I’ll be in hiding too. I’ve a horse-pistol
up-stairs nearly as long as my arm.’
‘Shan’t need that, sir.’
‘No good having a horse-pistol if one doesn’t make use of it now and
then.’
‘Half-a-dozen men—three inside the house, and three out,’ remarked the
inspector as he wrote down the particulars in his book.
‘And I’ll make the seventh—don’t forget that!’ cried the Captain,
looking as fierce as some buccaneer of bygone days. ‘If there’s one
among the burglars more savage than the rest, leave him for me to
tackle.’
‘My poor, dear nunky, if you only knew!’ murmured Elsie under her
breath.
‘Perhaps I had better lend you a pair of these, Captain; they might
prove useful in a scuffle,’ remarked the inspector as he produced a
pair of handcuffs from the tail-pocket of his coat. ‘The simplest
bracelets in the world. The easiest to get on, and the most difficult
to get off—till you know how. Allow me. This is how it’s done. What
could be more simple?’
Nothing apparently could be more simple, seeing that, before Captain
Bowood knew what had happened, he found himself securely handcuffed.
‘Ha, ha—just so. Queer sensation—very,’ he exclaimed, turning redder in
the face than usual. ‘But I don’t care how soon you take them off, Mr
Inspector.’
‘No hurry, Captain, no hurry.’
‘Confound you! what do you mean by no hurry? What’—— But here the
Captain came to a sudden stop.
The inspector’s black wig and whiskers had vanished, and the laughingly
impudent features of his peccant nephew were revealed to his astonished
gaze.
‘Good-afternoon, my dear uncle. This is the second time to-day that I
have had the pleasure of seeing you.’ Then he called: ‘Elsie, dear!’
‘Here I am, Charley,’ came in immediate response.
‘Come and kiss me.’
‘Yes, Charley.’ And with that Miss Brandon rose from her chair, and
with a slightly heightened colour and the demurest air possible, came
down the room and allowed her lover to lightly touch her lips with his.
It was a pretty picture.
‘What—what! Why—why,’ spluttered the Captain. For a little while words
seemed to desert him.
‘My dear uncle, pray, _pray_, do not allow yourself to get quite so red
in the face; at your time of life you really alarm me.’
‘You—you vile young jackanapes! You—you cockatrice!—And you, miss, you
shall smart for this. I’ll—I’ll—— Oh!’
‘Patience, good uncle; prithee, patience.’
‘Patience! O for a good horsewhip!’
‘When I called upon you this morning, sir,’ resumed Charles the
imperturbable, ‘I left unsaid the most important part of that which
I had come to say; it therefore became needful that I should see you
again.’
‘O for a horsewhip! Are you going to take these things off me, or are
you not?’
‘The object of my second visit, sir, is to inform you that Miss Brandon
and I are engaged to be married, and to beg of you to give us your
consent and blessing, and make two simple young creatures happy.’
‘Handcuffed like a common poacher on his way to jail! Oh, when once I
get free!’
‘We have made up our minds to get married; haven’t we, Elsie?’
‘We have—or else to die together,’ replied Miss Brandon, as she struck
a little tragic attitude.
‘Think over what I have said, my dear uncle, and accord us your
consent.’
‘Or our deaths will lie at your door.’
‘Every night as the clock struck twelve, you would see us by your side.’
‘You would never more enjoy your rum-and-water and your pipe.’
‘I should tickle your ear with a ghostly feather, and wake you in the
middle of your first sleep.’
‘I shall go crazy—crazy!’ spluttered the Captain. He would have stamped
his foot, only he was afraid of the gout.
‘Not quite, sir, I hope,’ replied young Summers, with a sudden change
of manner; and next moment, and without any action of his own in the
matter, the Captain found himself a free man. The first thing he did
was to make a sudden grasp at his cane; but Elsie was too quick for
him, or it might have fared ill with her sweetheart.
Master Charley laughed. ‘I am sorry, my dear uncle, to have to leave
you now; but time is pressing. You will not forget what I have said, I
feel sure. I shall look for your answer to my request in the course of
three or four days; or would you prefer, sir, that I should wait upon
you for it in person?’
‘If you ever dare to set foot inside my door again, I’ll—I’ll
spiflicate you—yes, sir, spiflicate you!’
‘To what a terrible fate you doom me, good my lord!—Come, Elsie, you
may as well walk with me through the shrubbery.’
Miss Brandon going up suddenly to Captain Bowood, flung her arms round
his neck and kissed him impulsively. ‘You dear, crusty, cantankerous,
kind-hearted old thing, I can’t help loving you!’ she cried.
‘Go along, you baggage. As bad as he is—every bit. Go along.’
‘_Au revoir_, uncle,’ said Mr Summers with his most courtly stage bow.
‘We shall meet again—at Philippi.’
A moment later, Captain Bowood found himself alone. ‘There’s
impudence!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s worse than that; it’s cheek—downright
cheek. Never bamboozled like it before. Handcuffed! What an old
nincompoop I must have looked! Good thing Sir Frederick or any of
the others didn’t see me. I should never have heard the last of it.’
With that, the last trace of ill-humour vanished, and he burst into
a hearty, sailor-like guffaw. ‘Just the sort of trick I should have
gloried in when I was a young spark!’ He rose from his chair, took
his cane in his hand, and limped as far as the window, his gout being
rather troublesome this afternoon. ‘So, so. There they go, arm in
arm. Who would have thought of Don Carlos falling in love with Miss
Saucebox? But I don’t know that he could do better. She’s a good
girl—a little flighty just now; but that will cure itself by-and-by—and
she will have a nice little property when she comes of age. Must
pretend to set my face against it, though, and that will be sure to
make them fonder of one another. Ha, ha! we old sea-dogs know a thing
or two.’ And with that the Captain winked confidentially to himself two
or three times and went about his business.
* * * * *
When Sir Frederick Pinkerton followed Mrs Bowood and Mrs Boyd out of
the room where the interview had taken place, and left Lady Dimsdale
sitting there alone, he quitted the house at once, and sauntered in his
usual gingerly fashion through the flower-garden to an unfrequented
part of the grounds known as the Holly Walk, where there was not much
likelihood of his being interrupted. Like Lady Dimsdale, he wanted to
be alone. Just then, he had much to occupy his thoughts. To and fro he
paced the walk slowly and musingly, his hands behind his back, his eyes
bent on the ground.
‘What tempts me to do this thing?’ he asked himself, not once, but
several times. ‘That I dislike the man is quite certain; why, then,
take upon myself to interfere between this woman and him? Certainly I
have nothing to thank Oscar Boyd for; why, then, mix myself up in a
matter that concerns me no more than it concerns the man in the moon?
If he had not appeared on the scene just when he did, I might perhaps
have won Lady Dimsdale for my wife. But now? Too late—too late! Even
when he and this woman shall have gone their way, he will live in
my lady’s memory, never probably to be forgotten. He is her hero of
romance. That he made love to her in years gone by, when they were
young together, there is little doubt; that he made love to her again
this morning, and met with no such rebuff as I did, seems equally
clear; and though she knows now that he can never become her husband,
yet she on her side will never forget him. In what way, then, am I
called upon to interfere in his affairs? Should I not be a fool for
my pains? And yet to let that woman claim him as her own, when a word
from me would—— No! _Noblesse oblige._ What should I think of myself
in years to come, if I were to permit this man’s life to be blasted
by so cruel a fraud? The thought would hardly be a pleasant one on
one’s deathbed.’ He shrugged his shoulders, and went on slowly pacing
the Holly Walk. At length he raised his head and said half aloud: ‘I
will do it, and at once; but it shall be on my own conditions, Lady
Dimsdale—on my own conditions.’
There was a gardener at work some distance away. He called the man to
him, and sent him with a message to the house. Ten minutes later, Lady
Dimsdale entered the Holly Walk.
Sir Frederick approached her with one of his most elaborate bows.
‘You wish to see me, Sir Frederick?’ she said inquiringly, but a little
doubtfully. She hoped that he was not about to re-open the subject that
had been discussed between them earlier in the day.
‘I have taken the liberty of asking you to favour me with your company
for a few minutes—here, where we shall be safe from interruption. The
matter I am desirous of consulting you upon admits of no delay.’
She bowed, but said nothing. His words reassured her on one point,
while filling her with a vague uneasiness. The sunshade she held over
her head was lined with pink; it served its purpose in preventing the
Baronet from detecting how pale and wan was the face under it.
They began to pace the walk slowly side by side.
‘Equally with others, Lady Dimsdale, you are aware that, by a strange
turn of fortune, Mr Boyd’s wife, whom he believed to have been dead for
several years, has this morning reappeared?’
‘You were in the parlour, Sir Frederick, when I was introduced to Mrs
Boyd only half an hour ago.’ She answered him coldly and composedly
enough; but he could not tell how her heart was beating.
‘Strangely enough, I happened to be in New Orleans about the time of Mr
Boyd’s marriage, and I know more about the facts of that unhappy affair
than he has probably told to any one in England. It is enough to say
that the reappearance of this woman is the greatest misfortune that
could have happened to him. Oscar Boyd was a miserable man before he
parted from her—he will be ten times more miserable in years to come.’
‘You have not asked me to meet you here, Sir Frederick, in order to
tell me this?’
‘This, and something more, Lady Dimsdale. Listen!’ He laid one finger
lightly on the sleeve of his companion’s dress, as if to emphasise her
attention. ‘I happen to be acquainted with a certain secret—it matters
not how it came into my possession—the telling of which—and it could
be told in half-a-dozen words—would relieve Mr Boyd of this woman at
once and for ever, would make a free man of him, as free to marry as in
those old days when he used to haunt that vicarage garden which I too
remember so well!’
Lady Dimsdale stopped in her walk and stared at him with wide-open
eyes. ‘You—possess—a secret that could do all this!’
‘I have stated no more than the simple truth.’
‘Then Mr Boyd is not this woman’s husband?’ The question burst from her
lips swiftly, impetuously. Next moment her eyes fell and a tell-tale
blush suffused her cheeks. But here again the pink-lined sunshade came
to her rescue.
‘Mr Boyd is the husband of no other woman,’ answered the Baronet drily.
‘With what object have you made _me_ the recipient of this confidence,
Sir Frederick?’
‘That I will presently explain. You are probably aware that Mr Boyd
leaves for London by the next train?’
Lady Dimsdale bowed.
‘So that if my information is to be made available at all, no time must
be lost.’
‘I still fail to see why—— But that does not matter. As you say, there
is no time to lose. You will send for Mr Boyd at once, Sir Frederick.
You are a generous-minded man, and you will not fail to reveal to him a
secret which so nearly affects the happiness of his life.’ She spoke to
him appealingly, almost imploringly.
He smiled a coldly disagreeable smile. ‘Pardon me, Lady Dimsdale, but
generosity is one of those virtues which I have never greatly cared
to cultivate. Had I endeavoured to do so, the soil would probably have
proved barren, and the results not worth the trouble. In any case, I
have never tried. I am a man of the world, that, and nothing more.’
‘But this secret, Sir Frederick—as between man and man, as between one
gentleman and another—you will not keep it to yourself? You will not.
No! I cannot believe that of you.’
He lifted his hat for a moment. ‘Lady Dimsdale flatters me.’ Then he
glanced at his watch. ‘Later even than I thought. This question must be
decided at once, or not at all. Lady Dimsdale, I am willing to reveal
my secret to Mr Boyd on one condition—and on one only.’
For a moment she hesitated, being still utterly at a loss to imagine
why the Baronet had taken her so strangely into his confidence. Then
she said: ‘May I ask what the condition in question is, Sir Frederick?’
‘It was to tell it to you that I asked you to favour me with your
presence here. Lady Dimsdale, my one condition is this: That when this
man—this Mr Oscar Boyd—shall be free to marry again, as he certainly
will be when my secret becomes known to him—you shall never consent to
become his wife, and that you shall never reveal to him the reason why
you decline to do so.’
‘Oh! This to me! Sir Frederick Pinkerton, you have no right to assume——
Nothing, nothing can justify this language!’
He thought he had never seen her look so beautiful as she looked at
that moment, with flashing eyes, heaving bosom, and burning cheeks.
He bowed and spread out his hands deprecatingly. ‘Pardon me, but I have
assumed nothing—nothing whatever. I have specified a certain condition
as the price of my secret. Call that condition a whim—the whim of an
eccentric elderly gentleman, who, having no wife to keep him within the
narrow grooves of common-sense, originates many strange ideas at times.
Call it by what name you will, Lady Dimsdale, it still remains what
it was. To apply a big word to a very small affair—you have heard my
ultimatum.’ He glanced at his watch again. ‘I shall be in the library
for the next quarter of an hour. One word from you—Yes or No—and I
shall know how to act. On that one word hangs the future of your
friend, Mr Oscar Boyd.’ He saluted her with one of his most ceremonious
bows, and then turned and walked slowly away.
There was a garden-seat close by, and to this Lady Dimsdale made her
way. She was torn by conflicting emotions. Indignation, grief, wonder,
curiosity, each and all held possession of her. ‘Was ever a woman
forced into such a cruel position before?’ she asked herself. ‘What
can this secret be? Is that woman not his wife? Yet Oscar recognised
her as such the moment he set eyes on her. Can it be possible that she
had a husband living when he married her, and that Sir Frederick is
aware of the fact? It is all a mystery. Oh, how cruel, how cruel of Sir
Frederick to force me into this position! What right has he to assume
that even if Oscar were free to-morrow, he would—— And yet—— Oh, it
is hard—hard! Why has this task been laid upon me? He will be free,
and yet he must never know by what means. But whose happiness ought I
to think of first—his or my own? His—a thousand times his! There is
but one answer possible, and Sir Frederick knows it. He understands
a woman’s heart. I must decide at once—now. There is not a moment to
lose. But one answer.’ Her eyes were dry, although her heart was full
of anguish. Tears would find their way later on.
She quitted her seat, and near the end of the walk she found the same
gardener that the Baronet had made use of. She beckoned the man to
her, and as she slipped a coin into his hand, said to him: ‘Go to Sir
Frederick Pinkerton, whom you will find in the library, and say to him
that Lady Dimsdale’s answer is “Yes.”’
The man scratched his head and stared at her open-mouthed; so, for
safety’s sake, she gave him the message a second time. Then he seemed
to comprehend, and touching his cap, set off at a rapid pace in the
direction of the house.
Lady Dimsdale took the same way slowly, immersed in bitter thoughts.
‘Farewell, Oscar, farewell!’ her heart kept repeating to itself. ‘Not
even when you are free, must you ever learn the truth.’
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Mrs Boyd, after lunching heartily with kind, chatty Mrs
Bowood to keep her company, and after arranging her toilet, had gone
back to the room in which her husband had left her, and from which he
had forbidden her to stir till his return. She was somewhat surprised
not to find him there, but quite content to wait till he should think
it well to appear. There was a comfortable-looking couch in the room,
and after a hearty luncheon on a warm day, forty winks seem to follow
as a natural corollary; at least that was Estelle’s view of the present
state of affairs. But before settling down among the soft cushions of
the couch, she went up to the glass over the chimney-piece, and taking
a tiny box from her pocket, opened it, and, with the swan’s-down puff
which she found therein, just dashed her cheeks with the faintest
possible _soupçon_ of Circassian Bloom, and then half rubbed it off
with her handkerchief.
‘A couple of glasses of champagne would have saved me the need of doing
this; but your cold thin claret has neither soul nor fire in it,’ she
remarked to herself. ‘How comfortable these English country-houses are.
I should like to stay here for a month. Only the people are so very
good and, oh! so very stupid, that I know I should tire of them in a
day or two, and say or do something that would make them fling up their
hands in horror.’ She yawned, gave a last glance at herself, and then
went and sat down on the couch. As she was re-arranging the pillows,
she found a handkerchief under one of them. She pounced on it in a
moment. In one corner was a monogram. She read the letters, ‘L. D.,’
aloud. ‘My Lady Dimsdale’s, without a doubt,’ she said. ‘Damp, too. She
has been crying for the loss of her darling Oscar.’ She dropped the
handkerchief with a sneer and set her foot on it. ‘How sweet it is to
have one’s rival under one’s feet—sweeter still, when you know that she
loves him and you don’t! Lady Dimsdale will hardly care to let Monsieur
Oscar kiss her again. He is going away on a long journey with his
wife—with his wife, ha, ha! Fools! If they only knew!’ The echo of her
harsh, unwomanly laugh had scarcely died away, when the door opened,
and the man of whom she had been speaking stood before her.
After bidding farewell to Lady Dimsdale, Mr Boyd had plunged at once
into a lonely part of the grounds, where he would be able to recover
himself in some measure, unseen by any one. Of a truth, he was very
wretched. It seemed almost impossible to believe that one short
hour—nay, even far less than that—should have sufficed to plunge him
from the heights of felicity into the lowest depths of misery. Yet, so
it was; and thus, alas, it is but too often in this world of unstable
things. But the necessity for action was imminent upon him; there would
be time enough hereafter for thinking and suffering. A few minutes
sufficed to enable him to lock down his feelings beyond the guess or
ken of others, and then he went in search of Captain Bowood. He found
his host and Mrs Bowood together. The latter was telling her husband
all about her recent interview with Mrs Boyd. The mistress of Rosemount
had never had a bird of such strange plumage under her roof before, and
had rarely been so puzzled as she was to-day. That this woman was a
lady, Mrs Bowood’s instincts declined to let her believe; but the fact
that she was Mr Boyd’s wife seemed to prove that she must be something
better than an adventuress. The one certain fact was, that she was a
guest at Rosemount, and as such must be made welcome.
When Mr Boyd entered the room, Mrs Bowood was at once struck by the
change in his appearance. She felt instinctively that some great
calamity had overtaken this man, and her motherly heart was touched.
Accordingly, when Mr Boyd intimated to her and the Captain that it was
imperatively necessary that he and his wife should start for London by
the five o’clock train, she gave expression to her regret that such a
necessity should have arisen, but otherwise offered no opposition to
the proposed step, as, under ordinary circumstances, she would have
been sure to do. In matters such as these, the Captain always followed
his wife’s lead. Five minutes later, Oscar Boyd went in search of his
wife.
IN ST PETER’S.
To have spent a winter in Rome is so common an experience for English
people, that it seems as if there were nothing new to be said about
it, nothing out of the ordinary routine to be done during its course.
We all know we must lodge in or near the Piazza di Spagna; must make
the round of the studios; drive on the Pincio; go to the Trinità to
hear the nuns sing; have an audience of the Holy Father; drink the
Trevi water; muse in the Colosseum; wander with delighted bewilderment
through the sculpture-galleries of the Vatican; explore the ruins on
the Palatine; get tickets for the Cercola Artistica; attend Sunday
vespers at St Peter’s; and tire ourselves to death amongst the three
hundred and odd churches, each one with some special attraction, which
forbids us to slight it. These things are amongst the unwritten laws
of travel; English, Americans, and Germans are impelled alike by a
curious instinct of duty to carry them out to the letter. In so doing,
they jostle one another perpetually, see over and over again the same
faces, hear the same remarks, and alas! find only the same ideas. But
notwithstanding this, there are yet undiscovered corners in the old
city, and many quaint ceremonies are unknown to or overlooked by the
_forestieri_. An account of some of these latter may perhaps be found
interesting.
A few winters ago, we learned, through the politeness of a cardinal’s
secretary, that certain services well worth attending would take place
in St Peter’s, commencing at about half-past seven on the mornings
of the Thursday, Friday, and Saturday in Holy-week. These were the
consecration of the chrism used in baptism and the oil for extreme
unction, the commemoration of the death and passion of our Lord,
and the kindling of the fire for lighting the lamps extinguished on
Holy-Thursday. As no public notice is given of the hours of these
ceremonies, we were glad of the information.
The ‘functions’ formerly conducted in the Sistine Chapel were
transferred some years ago to the Capello Papale, which is in St
Peter’s, the third chapel on the left-hand side of the nave. It is
extremely small and inconvenient, being almost entirely taken up
with stalls for the cardinals, bishops, canons, and vicars lay and
choral. The pope’s own choir always sing here, but are assembled
in full strength only on festivals; then, however, their exquisite
unaccompanied singing is well worth hearing, and in the year of which
we speak, the soprani and alti were specially good. On Holy-Thursday
there is scarcely any cessation of worship in the great church all day;
and at 7.30 A.M. we are barely in time to watch the assembling of the
functionaries who are to assist at the ceremony of the consecration of
the oil. The chrism used in baptism is composed of balsam and oil; and
this and the oil for holy unction are considered extremely precious;
bishops and other dignitaries journey long distances to procure it, and
convey it to their respective dioceses and benefices. Their appearance
adds not a little to the effect of the usual assemblage of canons of St
Peter’s, for their vestments are much more varied in colour; the canons
wearing always violet silk robes, and gray or white fur capes when not
officiating; and their soft hue makes an excellent background for the
brilliant scarlet trains of the cardinals, two of whom are lighting up
the corner stalls with their crimson magnificence.
A number of seats take up the space in the middle of the chapel, and
are arranged in a square, having a table in the centre. The choir
presently commence singing a Latin hymn, and a glittering procession
of canons and heads of orders enters; they take their places in the
square; the chalices with the oil and the balsam of the chrism are
placed on the table, and the officiating cardinal begins the ceremony.
He is an exceedingly handsome man, very tall, with clearly cut
features, and walks in a magnificent fashion; his great white silk
cope, stiff with its embroidery of gold, silver, and precious stones,
seems no encumbrance to him, and he looks a fitting president for
this august meeting. The cardinal blesses the first of the chalices
presented to him, saying the words of benediction in clear distinct
tones, the singing meanwhile continuing softly while he lays his hands
on all the cups placed before him. Then the choir cease, and each
cardinal, bishop, priest, and canon kneels in turn before the table,
saying three times, ‘Ave sancta chrisma.’ The sounds of the different
voices in which the words are said, as their various old, young,
short, tall, fat, or thin owners pronounce them, have a somewhat odd
effect, and it is a relief when the lovely singing is resumed, while
the cardinal’s clear tones pronounce blessings on the oil for extreme
unction. After this, the same ceremony is repeated, except that the
words three times said are, ‘Ave sanctum oleum.’ As there are at least
one hundred and thirty persons to perform this act of devotion, the
service becomes a little tedious; and if it were not for the novelty,
the exquisite singing, and the wonderful effects of light and colour
in the glowing morning atmosphere, we should not have been surprised
at the absence of our compatriots; but there is a sense of freshness
and strangeness in the service which makes us wonder the chapel is
not crowded. The small congregation consists of flower-sellers, women
in black veils—who always belong to the middle classes—beggars, and
shopkeepers from the long street leading to St Peter’s. The magnificent
gathering of officiating priests makes the smallness of the attendance
more noticeable.
After the consecration service, a mass is celebrated, and during
the _Gloria in excelsis_, the bells are rung for the last time till
Saturday.
No mass is sung on Good-Friday; therefore, two hosts are consecrated on
Holy-Thursday, one of which is placed in a magnificent jewelled pyx,
and carried in procession to a niche beneath an altar in a side-chapel;
the beautiful hymn, _Pange lingua_, being sung the while. The niche is
called a ‘sepulchre,’ and is covered with gold and silver ornaments,
and glitters with candles. All coverings are removed from the altars,
and all lights put out on this day, the next ceremony to the mass being
that of stripping and washing the high-altar. The bare marble of the
great table is exposed, and those who have taken part in the earlier
‘functions,’ walk in procession, and stand in a circle round it;
acolytes carrying purple glass bottles pour on it something that smells
like vinegar; and each dignitary, being provided with a tiny brush made
of curled shavings, goes in turn to sweep the surface, places his brush
on a tray, takes a sponge, with which he rubs the marble, and finally
replaces that by a napkin, with which it is dried. By this time the
morning is well on; the worshippers and onlookers in the great church
are many; but there is no crowding or pushing. As the space is so vast,
that all who wish can see, a few of the functionaries who keep order
are quite enough to make things go easily.
At all these services, we are much impressed by the extreme ease with
which everything is conducted. There is a ‘master of ceremonies,’ and
he, one fancies, must have held rehearsals; for from the officiating
cardinal to the smallest acolyte, no one ever moves at the wrong time,
or steps into the wrong place; yet the marching and counter-marching,
the handing, giving, placing, taking, involved in such an elaborate
ceremonial must require nice and careful arrangement and extreme
foresight. The dresses of the priests who assist at these functions
are violet cassocks, and very short surplices edged with lace, plaited
into folds of minute patterns, involving laundry-work of no mean
description. Other priests, and all bishops and monsignore, wear the
same coloured cassocks, but with the addition of red pipings on cuffs
and collars and fronts.
The function of the ‘washing of the altar’ being ended, there is a
pause; and one cannot but imagine that the cardinal retires to the
great sacristy with a feeling of relief that the pageant is over for
the time. The procession winds away to the left, and disappears through
the gray marble doors of the sacristy; and we go home to lunch, feeling
as if we had been spending a morning with our ancestors of three
centuries back. The doings of the last four or five hours do not seem
to agree with the appearance of the Via Babuino as our old coachman
rattles us up to the door of our lodgings.
In the afternoon, we are again in St Peter’s; this time, to find it
almost crowded. At three, the ‘holy relics’ are exposed. These are—the
handkerchief given by St Veronica to the Saviour as He passed on His
way to the cross, and on which there is said to be the impression of
His face; the lance with which His side was pierced; the head of St
Andrew; and a portion of the true cross. They are presented to the
public gaze from a balcony at an immense height, on one of the four
great buttresses which support the dome. There is a rattle of small
drums, and priests with white vestments appear on the balcony, holding
up certain magnificent jewelled caskets of different shapes, amidst
the dazzling settings of which it is quite impossible to recognise any
object in particular. The kneeling throng, the vast dim church, the
clouds of incense, the roll of drums, the sudden appearance of the
glittering figures on the balcony, their disappearance, followed by
the noise of the crowds as they quickly move and talk, after the dead
silence during the exposure of the objects of veneration, combine to
make this a most striking and impressive scene. Then, in the Capello
Papale, follows the service of the Tenebræ, as it is called, with the
singing of the Lamentations and the Miserere. The quietness of the now
densely packed crowd, the soft music, and the glimmer of the few lights
left in the dim chapel, strike one with a novel effect, after the
somewhat careless and florid services usually conducted here.
Emerging thence, the vast space of the cathedral looks larger than ever
in the twilight, and the brilliant line of lights round the shrine
of St Peter seem to glitter with double lustre; these, however, with
all others, are soon extinguished, and the great basilica remains in
darkness with covered crucifixes and stripped altars till Saturday
morning. The ‘crowd’ as it seemed within the small chapel, appears
nothing outside, and one by one the listeners disappear through the
heavy leathern curtain that screens the door, finding by contrast the
great piazza a scene of brilliant light, but quiet with what seems a
strange stillness in the midst of a crowded city.
On Good-Friday morning we are again in the Pope’s Chapel at half-past
seven, and are in time to see the canons take their places in the
stalls. Three priests, habited only in black cassock, and close
surplice with no lace edging, advance to the altar and begin the
service. The first part of this consists simply of a reading in
Latin of the whole of the chapters from the gospel of St John which
relate to the passion. The priests take different parts: one reads
most beautifully the narrative; another speaks the words uttered by
our Saviour; the third, those used by Pilate; and the choir repeat
the words of the populace. It is startling in its simplicity, but
wonderfully dramatic; the dignified remonstrances of Pilate, and the
clear elocution of the reader of the history, making up an impressive
service, not the least part of its strangeness consisting in the
fact of there being no congregation; not a dozen persons besides
the priests and canons are present in the chapel. This ended, the
officiating bishop, who is clothed in purple vestments embroidered with
gold, kneels in prayer before the altar, while the priests prostrate
themselves. The bishop then rises; and the choir chant softly in a
minor key while he takes the crucifix from the altar, uncovers it, and
holds it up to the people. In the afternoon, the relics are exposed,
Lamentations and Miserere sung after Tenebræ, as on the preceding days;
but the church is dark, bare, and silent.
The gloom of Friday is forgotten in the brilliant sunshine of Saturday
morning, and we feel inspired with the freshness and life of a new day,
as we once more gain the great steps leading to the basilica, watch the
rainbow on the fountains, and the dancing lights in the waters of the
large basins in the piazza. The obelisk in the centre is tipped with
red gold, and the clear blue sky makes the figures on the _loggia_ and
colonnades stand out with lifelike distinctness. This morning we are
called to join in an unquestionable festival, the early ceremonial of
rekindling the lights being one of the most cheerful ‘functions’ in
which it is possible to participate.
This service commences outside the cathedral; and ascending the steps
to the _loggia_ or porch, we find it already occupied by an imposing
array of priests and bishops. The handsome cardinal again officiates;
he is seated with his back to the piazza, just within the pillars
of the porch, and facing the brazen centre-doors of the church. In
front of him is an enormous brasier, in which burns a bright fire of
coals, branches, and leaves, which has been lighted by a spark struck
from a flint outside the church. He wears magnificent purple and gold
vestments; his finely embroidered cope and jewelled mitre glitter in
the sun. Around him are acolytes, some of whom tend the fire, while
others carry censers; priests, canons, and bishops all gorgeously
apparelled, and performing their parts in the service with the usual
precision and alacrity. Two priests stand with their backs to the great
bronze doors; one bearing a massive gold cross, the other holding a
bamboo with a transverse bar on the top, and on this are three candles.
After some chanting, the cardinal rises; and an acolyte fills a censer
with live coals from the brasier, and brings it for benediction;
another presents five large cones of incense covered with gold; these
are also blessed and sprinkled with holy-water; then incense is put
on the hot ashes in the censer; and as the smoke ascends, the great
bronze doors, so rarely unclosed, are thrown open, and the procession
enters the cathedral. The effect is strangely beautiful. The lovely
early morning light and sunshine, the great building empty of living
thing, the gorgeous procession throwing a line of brilliant colour into
the dim soft mist of the nave, the choir chanting as the priests walk,
their voices echoing in the great space—all form a combination which
must touch the least impressionable spectator, and which cannot but be
photographed on the memory to its smallest detail. At the door, there
is a pause while one of the candles on the bamboo is lighted; a second
flame is kindled in the nave, and the third at the altar in the choir
chapel. Thence, light is immediately sent to the other churches in
Rome, where also darkness has reigned since Thursday afternoon.
A venerable canon now ascends a platform, and from a very high desk
reads some chapters, recites prayers, and then lights the great
Easter candle which stands beside him. This is a huge pillar of wax,
decorated with beautifully painted wreaths of flowers, and is placed in
a magnificent silver candlestick. He takes the five cones of incense
which the cardinal had blessed in the porch, and fixes them on the
candle in the form of a cross. During his reading, the candles and
lamps all over the church are relighted, and when it is over, all who
formed the procession, bearing bouquets of lovely flowers, and small
brushes like those used on Holy-Thursday, march to the baptistery,
where the cardinal blesses the font, pours on the water in the huge
basin chrism and oil, and sprinkles water to the four points of the
compass—typifying the quarters of the globe.
On the return of the procession to the choir chapel, the cardinal and
others prostrate themselves before the altar while some beautiful
litanies are chanted. Then follows a pause, during which the priests
retire to the sacristy to take off their embroidered vestments. They
return wearing only surplices edged with handsome lace over their
cassocks. The cardinal has a plain cope of white silk and gold.
After this, is the mass; and at the _Gloria_ the bells ring out a grand
peal, all pictures are uncovered, and the organ is played for the first
time during many days. The great church resumes its wonted cheerful
aspect, and light and colour hold again their places.
The afternoon ceremonies consist only of a procession of the cardinal
to worship at special altars, the display of the holy relics, and the
singing of a fine _Alleluia_ and psalm, instead of the usual vespers.
Some pause is needed, one feels, before the cathedral is filled by
the crowds who attend the Easter-Sunday mass; for no greater contrast
can be imagined than that between the scenes of the quiet morning
functions, with the numerous priests and few people, the stillness
and peace of the hours we have been describing, and those enacted by
the thronging crowds of foreign sightseers at the great festivals,
who, pushing, gesticulating, standing on tiptoe, and asking irrelevant
questions in audible voices, seem to look on these sacred services as
spectacles devised for their gratification, rather than as expressions
of the worship of a large section of their fellow-creatures; thus
exemplifying the rapidity with which ignorance becomes irreverence.
AMONG THE ADVERTISERS AGAIN.
Can it ever be said that there is nothing in the papers, when
advertisers are always to the fore, providing matter for admiration,
wonder, amusement, or speculation? One day a gentleman announces
the loss of his heart between the stalls and boxes of the Haymarket
Theatre; the next, we have ‘R. N.’ telling ‘Dearest E.’—‘If you
have the slightest inclination to become first-mate on board the
screw-steamer, say so, and I will ask papa;’ and by-and-by we are
trying to guess how the necessity arose for the following: ‘St James’s
Theatre, Friday.—The Gentleman to whom a Lady offered her hand,
apologises for not being able to take it.’
Does any one want two thousand pounds? That nice little sum is to be
obtained by merely introducing a certain New-Yorker to ‘the Pontess;’
or if he or she be dead, to his or her heirs. ‘There is a doubt whether
the cognomen was, or is, borne by a woman, a man, or a child; if by
the last, it must have been born prior to the spring of 1873.’ If the
Pontess-seeker fails in his quest from not knowing exactly what it is
that he wants, an advertiser in the _Times_ is likely to have the same
fortune from knowing, and letting those interested know, exactly what
it is that he does not want. Needing the services of a married pair as
coachman and cook, this outspoken gentleman stipulates that the latter
must not grumble at her mistress being her own housekeeper; nor expect
fat joints to be ordered to swell her perquisites; nor be imbued with
the idea that because plenty may be around, she is bound to swell the
tradesmen’s bills by as much waste as possible. ‘No couple need apply
that expect the work to be put out, are fond of change, or who dictate
to their employers how much company may be kept.’
When two of a trade fall out, they are apt to disclose secrets which it
were wiser to keep to themselves. Disgusted by the success of a rival
whose advertising boards bore the representation of a venerable man
sitting cross-legged at his work, a San Francisco tailor advertised:
‘Don’t be humbugged by hoary-headed patriarchs who picture themselves
cross-legged, and advertise pants made to order, three, four, and five
dollars a pair. Do you know how it’s done? When you go into one of
these stores that cover up their shop-windows with sample lengths of
cassimere, marked “Pants to order, three dollars fifty cents and four
dollars;” after you have made a selection of the piece of cloth you
want your pants made from, the pompous individual who is chief engineer
of the big tailor shears, lays them softly on the smoothest part of
his cutting-table, unrolls his tape-line, and proceeds to measure his
victim all over the body. The several measurements are all carefully
entered in a book by the other humbug. The customer is then told that
his pants will be finished in about twenty-four or thirty-six hours;
all depends upon how long it takes to shrink the cloth. That’s the
end of the first act. Part second.—The customer no sooner leaves the
store than the merchant-tailor calls his shopboy Jim, and sends him
around to some wholesale jobber, and says: “Get me a pair of pants,
pattern thirty-six,” which is the shoddy imitation of the piece of
cassimere that your pants are to be made of. “Get thirty-four round
the waist, and thirty-three in the leg.” They are pulled out of a pile
of a hundred pairs just like them, made by Chinese cheap labour. All
the carefully made measurements and other claptrap are the bait on the
hook. That’s the way it’s done.’
Traders sometimes give themselves away, as Americans say, innocently
enough, a Paris grocer advertising Madeira at two francs, Old Madeira
at three francs, and genuine Madeira at ten francs, a bottle. A
Bordeaux wine-merchant, after stating the price per cask and bottle
of ‘the most varied and superior growths of Bordeaux and Burgundy,’
concludes by announcing that he has also a stock of natural wine to be
sold by private treaty. A sacrificing draper funnily tempts ladies to
rid him of three hundred baptiste robes by averring ‘they will not last
over two days;’ and the proprietor of somebody’s Methuselah Pills can
give them no higher praise than, ‘Thousands have taken them, and are
living still.’
When continental advertisers, bent upon lightening British purses,
rashly adventure to attack Englishmen in their own tongue, the
result is often disastrously comical. The proprietor of a ‘milk-cur’
establishment in Aix-la-Chapelle, ‘foundet before twenty years of
orders from the magistrat,’ boasts that his quality of ‘Suisse and his
experiences causes him to deliver a milk pure and nutritive, obtained
by sounds cow’s and by a natural forage.’ One Parisian hosier informs
his hoped-for patrons he possesses patent machinery for cutting
‘sirths’—Franco-English, we presume, for shirts. Another proclaims his
resolve to sell his wares dirty cheap; and a dealer in butter, eggs,
and cheeses, whose ‘produces’ arrive every day ‘from the farms of the
establishment without intermedial,’ requests would-be customers to
send orders by unpaid letters, as ‘the house does not recognise any
traveller.’ A Hamburg firm notifies that their ‘universal binocle of
field is also preferable for the use in the field, like in the theatre,
and had to the last degree of perfection concerning to rigouressness
and pureness of the glass;’ while they are ready to supply all comers
with ‘A Glass of Field for the Marine 52ctm opjectiv opening in extra
shout lac-leather étui and strap, at sh 35s 6d.’ This is a specimen of
their ‘English young man’s’ powers of composition that would justify
the enterprising opticians in imitating the Frenchman whose shop-window
was graced with a placard, bearing the strange device, ‘English spoken
here a few.’
An Italian, speaking French well and a little English, with whom ‘wage
is no object,’ advertising in a London paper for an engagement as an
indoor servant, puts down his height as ‘fifty-seven feet seven.’ But
he manages his little English to better purpose than his countryman of
Milan, who offers the bestest comforts to travellers, at his hotel,
which he describes as ‘situated in the centre of an immence parck,
with most magnificient views of the Alp chain, and an English church
residing in the hotel’—the latter being furthermore provided with
‘baths of mineral waters in elegant private cabins and shower rooms,
and two basins for bathin’; one for gentlemen, the oter for ladies;’
while it contains a hundred and fifty rooms, ‘all exposed to the
south-west dining-groom.’
Such an exposure might well cause the Milanese host’s visitors to
become ‘persons dependent upon the headache, or who have copious
perspirations,’ whom a M. Lejeune invites ‘to come and visit without
buying his new fabrication,’ with the chance of meeting ‘the
hat-makers, who endeavour by caoutchouc, gummed linen and others, to
prevent hats from becoming dirt;’ eager to hear the inventor of the new
fabrication demonstrate ‘how much all those preparations are injurious,
and excite, on contrary, to perspiration.’ Equally anxious to attract
British custom is a doctor-dentist who, ‘after many years consecrated
to serious experiences, has perfected the laying of artificial teeth
by wholly new proceedings. He makes himself most difficulty works; it
is the best guaranty, and, thanks to his peculiar proceeding, his work
joins to elegancy, solidity, and duration.’ Considering all things, our
doctor-dentist’s derangement of sentences is quite as commendable as
that of the Belfast gentleman desirous of letting ‘the House at present
occupied, and since erected by J. H——, Esq.;’ who might pair off with
the worthy responsible for—‘To be sold, _six_ cows—No. 1, a beautiful
cow, calved eight days, with splendid calf at foot, a good milker;
No. 2, a cow to calve in about fourteen days, and great promise. The
_other two_ cows are calved about twenty-one days, and _will speak for
themselves_.’
By a fortuitous concurrence of antagonistic lines, the _Times_ one
morning gave mothers the startling information that
JOSEPH GILLOTT’S STEEL PENS
THE BEST FOOD FOR INFANTS
IS PREPARED SOLELY BY
SAVORY AND MOORE
—a hint as likely to be taken as that of a public benefactor who
announced in the _Standard_: ‘Incredible as it may seem, I have ground
to hope that half a glass of cold water, taken immediately after every
meal, will be found to be the divinely appointed antidote for every
kind of medicine.’
Another benevolent individual kindly tells us how to make coffee:
Placed in the parted straining-top let stand
The moistened coffee, till the grain expand,
Before the fire; then boiling water pour,
And quaff the nectar of the Indian shore.
But he is not quite so generous as he seems, since he is careful
to inform us he is in possession of an equally excellent recipe
for bringing out the flavour of tea, which he will forward for
five shillings-worth of stamps. Urged by an equally uncontrollable
desire to serve his fellow-creatures, a ‘magister in palmystery and
conditionalist’ offers, with the aid of guardian spirits, to obtain for
any one a glimpse at the past and present; and, on certain conditions,
of the future; but with less wisdom than a magister of palmystery
should display, he winds up with the prosaic notification, ‘Boots and
shoes made to order.’
The wants of the majority of advertisers are intelligible enough;
but it needs some special knowledge to understand what may be
meant by the good people who hanker for a portable mechanic, an
efficient handwriter, a peerless feeder, a first-class ventilator on
human hair-nets, a practical cutter by measure on ladies’ waists,
a youth used to wriggling, and a boy to kick Gordon. Nor is the
position required by a respectable young lady as ‘figure in a
large establishment,’ altogether clear to our mind; and we may be
doing injustice to the newspaper proprietor requiring ‘a sporting
compositor,’ by inferring he wants a man clever alike at ‘tips’ and
types.
It does not say much for American theatrical ‘combinations,’ that the
managers of one of them ostentatiously proclaim: ‘We pay our salaries
regularly every Tuesday; by so doing, we avoid lawsuits, are not
compelled to constantly change our people, and always carry our watches
in our pockets.’ Neither would America appear to be quite such a land
of liberty as it is supposed to be, since a gentleman advertises his
want of a furnished room where he can have perfect independence; while
we have native testimony to our cousins’ curiosity in a quiet young
lady desiring a handsome furnished apartment ‘with non-inquisitive
parties;’ and a married couple seeking three or four furnished rooms
‘for very light housekeeping, where people are not inquisitive.’ Can
it be the same pair who want a competent Protestant girl ‘to take
entire charge of a bottled baby?’ If so, their anxiety to abide with
non-curious folk is easily comprehended.
Very whimsical desires find expression in the advertising columns of
the day. A lady of companionable habits, wishing to meet with a lady
or gentleman requiring a companion, would prefer to act as such to
‘one who, from circumstances, is compelled to lead a retired life.’
A stylish and elegant widow, a good singer and musician, possessing
energy, business knowledge, and means of her own, ready, ‘for the
sake of a social home,’ to undertake the supervision of a widower’s
establishment, thinks it well to add, goodness knows why, ‘a Radical
preferred.’ Somebody in search of a middle-aged man willing to travel,
stipulates for a misanthrope with bitter experience of the wickedness
of mankind; displaying as pleasant a taste as the proprietor of a
wonderful discovery for relieving pain and curing disease without
medicine, who wants a partner in the shape of a consumptive or
asthmatical gentleman.
Your jocular man, lacking an outlet for his wit, will often pay
for the privilege of airing his humour in public. Here are a few
examples. ‘Wanted, a good Liberal candidate for the Kilmarnock Burghs.
Several inferior ones given in exchange.’—‘Wanted a Thin Man who has
been used to collecting debts, to crawl through keyholes and find
debtors who are never at home. Salary, nothing the first year; to
be doubled each year afterwards.’—‘Wanted, Twelve-feet planks at
the corners of all the streets in Melbourne, until the Corporation
can find some other means of crossing the metropolitan creeks. The
planks and the Corporation may be tied up to the lamp-posts in the
dry weather.’—‘Wanted, a Cultured Gentleman used to milking goats; a
University man preferred.’—‘Correspondence is solicited from Bearded
Ladies, Circassians, and other female curiosities, who, in return for a
true heart and devoted husband, would travel during the summer months,
and allow him to take the money at the door.’—‘Wanted, a Coachman,
the ugliest in the city; he must not, however, have a moustache nor
red hair, as those are very taking qualities in certain households at
present. As he will not be required to take care of his employer’s
daughter, and is simply engaged to see to the horses, he will only be
allowed twenty dollars per month.’
A great deal might be said about pictorial advertisements, if the
impossibility of reproducing them did not stand in the way. As it is,
we must content ourselves with showing how an advertisement can be
illustrated without the help of draughtsman or engraver. By arranging
ordinary printers’ types thus:
[Illustration]
an ingenious advertising agent presents the public with portraits of
the man who does not and the man who does advertise, and says: ‘Try it,
and see how you will look yourself.’
A STRANGE INSTITUTION.
Amongst the oral traditions of the past in Cambridge, there is handed
down to the modern undergraduate an account of a secret Society which
was established in the university at a remote period of time, and which
was called the Lie Society. At the weekly meetings of the members, an
ingenious falsehood was fabricated, which frequently referred to some
person locally known, and which was probably not altogether free from
scandal. It was the duty of all the members to propagate this invented
story as much as possible by relating it to every one they met. Each
member had to make a note of the altered form in which the lie thus
circulated came round to him individually, and these were read out at
the next meeting with all the copious additions and changes the story
had received passing from one to the other, often to such an extent
as to leave but little of the original fabric left. After a time the
Society began to languish, and soon after disappeared altogether.
In the dim past, and before the present stringent regulations were made
as to examinations in the Senate House, another secret Society was
organised, called the Beavers, which was for the purpose of enabling
members, when being examined, to help each other by a system of
signals. With this view, one of the members of the Beavers was told off
by lot to perform various duties assigned to him, such as engaging the
attention of the examiners, and giving information as to the papers by
preconcerted signs. This Society soon collapsed. To one of its members
is credited the ingenious watch-faced Euclid, and the edition of
Little-go-classics on sleeve-links.
MY HOME IN ANNANDALE REVISITED.
I leave with joy the smoky town,
As pining captive quits his cell,
O’er shining sea and purple fell,
Again to see the sun go down:
As once behind great Penmanmawr,
A ball of fire, o’er Conway Bay
He silent hung, then sank away,
And beauteous shone the evening star.
My village home at length I reach,
And stand beside my father’s door;
His feet are on its step no more:
From texts like this, Time loves to preach.
Daylight is dying in the west;
The leaden night-clouds blot the sky;
Across the fields, the pewit’s cry
Only makes deeper nature’s rest.
The water-wheel stands at the mill,
The fisher leaves the sandy shore,
By garden gate and unlatched door
Lassies and lads are meeting still.
Beside me stand the kirk and manse,
On this green knoll among the trees;
The summer burn still croons to these;
But where are those who loved me once?
Only a sound of breaking waves,
All through the night, comes from the sea:
But those who kindly thought of me,
Are sleeping in these quiet graves.
No sounds of earth can wake the dead!
I vainly yearn for what hath been:
The faces I in youth have seen,
With the lost years away have fled.
The faintest breath that stirs the air
Will take the dead leaf from the tree;
Thus, one by one, have gone from me
Those who my young companions were.
A stranger in my native place,
Wearing the silver mask of years,
None meet me now with smiles or tears,
Or in the man the boy can trace.
My trees cut down, have left the place
Vacant and silent where they grew;
From fields and farms, that once I knew,
I miss each well-remembered face.
This price, returning, I must pay,
With wandering foot who loved to roam:
Thrice happy he who finds a home
And constant friends, when far away.
As relics from a holy shrine,
Dear names are treasured in my heart;
Death only for an hour can part;
And all I loved, will yet be mine.
With blinding tears, I turn away.
Young hearts round this new life can twine;
But from my path has passed for aye
The light and love of auld langsyne.
KIRTLE.
* * * * *
Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._