PART II.

When it was known in the country that M. le Marquis had joined the army

as a common soldier, the consternation was great; but when it was known

why he had done so, surprise gave way to bitter indignation and regret.

The Marquis de Gondriac gone to risk his life for the son of a low

plebeian, generally supposed to have been a pirate! The marvel was how

the world stood still while such a scandal was enacted in its face. As

to the widow, nobody thought of congratulating her. If Marcel had gone

out and been shot, they would have pitied her, within reasonable bounds;

but now every man’s hand was against her and her son—even the women felt

the sweet font of pity dried up within them when they thought of what

might come of this. But the people, despite their wrath, were loath to

take so gloomy a view of the future.

“The bullets have a sense of their own,” said Peltran; “they know who to

hit first and who last, and who never to hit. Look at M. le Comte, how

they respect him! He has seen more fighting than ever the Caboffs did,

and yet the bullets have never touched a hair of his head. It’s my

belief the things are alive and know what they are about.”

No one contradicted this sapient remark; for Peltran was not a pleasant

person to contradict.

Marcel Caboff had never been popular, but from this time forth he was

branded as a sort of potential malefactor; if M. le Marquis died, Marcel

would be his murderer, and Marcel’s life would not be worth an old song

in Gondriac. The only people who did the young man justice and had the

courage to take his part were Virginie and Alba. Since the night of the

storm a friendship had sprung up between Marcel and Alba which had grown

to more than friendship on his side. Alba was a lovely maiden now;

impulsive, untutored as the waves that her nature seemed attuned to,

wild as the sea-birds whose lot she sometimes envied when they beat

their wings, rose up from the rocks, and took flight across the sea.

“I wonder you can stay here and live this idle, humdrum life when you

might be away seeing the great world,” Alba said to him one day, as they

met upon the cliff and walked on together.

“You wish I were away, do you?”

“Oh! no; only I wonder you don’t go. I should, if I were a man.”

“It is harder on me than you think,” said Marcel bitterly. “I did my

best to get away; but mother went on her knees and said I would kill her

if I went. It was hard to resist that; but it makes me feel angry with

her when I think of what has come of it. I know the people hate me and

call me a coward. Alba,” he said, turning suddenly round, “you don’t

think me a coward, do you?”

“No, Marcel; if you had not been braver than any man in Gondriac, except

your father, you would not have come out in the boat that night. How

dare they call you a coward when they remember it!”

“They don’t remember it. Everybody has forgotten it but you.”

“M. le Marquis has not forgotten it.”

“I wish he had. That is what has brought all this misery about. If he

had not remembered, I should be away with the _grande armée_ now, and

should either die a glorious death like my brothers, or come home by and

by with the cross, and perhaps a wound or two. Then everybody would know

I was a brave man, and mother would have had something to be proud of.”

“Yes,” said Alba dreamily; she was watching a ship that flecked the

horizon far away like a great swan, its white sails flapping against the

sky, the sea-gulls following in its wake, as it cleaved the wave.

“Would _you_ have been proud of me?” asked Marcel.

“Yes,... perhaps.”

“You would not have cared a straw, I believe,” he said, angry and hurt

at her indifferent tone.

“If you had been killed? Indeed I should, Marcel. I should have been

very sorry; but what is the good of being sorry now, when it is never

going to happen? Look at that ship out there! With what a dip she shears

the water! How fast she goes! Her sails are like wings. I wish I had

wings!”

“You are always wishing for impossible things,” said Marcel, huffed at

this summary dismissal; “you were wishing you were a man a little while

ago, and now you want to be a bird. Why don’t you wish for something I

could give you?”

“_You_ give me! You could not give me any one of the things I wish for!”

Alba flung back the waves of swart hair from her low, broad brow and

laughed derisively.

“How do you know that? I have plenty of money, and money can buy

everything—everything reasonable, that is. Suppose a fairy were to come

and say she would give you whatever you wished; what would you ask for?”

“I would ask her first to make me perfectly beautiful, perfectly good,

and perfectly happy,” began Alba.

“Why, you are all that already, you foolish girl!”

“You think so; but you know nothing about it. I would ask her to make me

as rich and powerful as a queen, and to make everybody pay me homage—not

because I was rich and powerful, but because they loved me! Oh! I should

like to be loved more than anybody ever was in this world before. And I

should like to live in a beautiful castle, like the castle yonder, and I

should fill it with beautiful things, and make it a real fairy palace to

live in.”

“And who would you like to live in it with you? You would not care to

live in it all alone?” inquired Marcel, bewildered by these ambitious

aspirations that left himself and his money-bags altogether out of the

reckoning.

“Well, first, I should like to have petite mère, of course; then ...

then I should ask the fairy for a brave and handsome prince, who would

come and woo me as they do in the story-books; he should be handsome and

clever and good, or I should not care for him; but if he was all that, I

should love him with all my heart and soul, and we should be as happy as

the days are long!”

Marcel heard her to the end, and then began to consider if there was not

some one item in the capacious list that came within his possibilities.

“If another castle would do instead of this one—you know you never

_could_ have this one—I would go and buy it for you, Alba, and you might

have as many pretty gauds to fill it as you liked. We have lots of gold

and silver things and pictures up there”—nodding towards the

Fortress—“and if I asked mother she would give them to us—to you, I

mean.” Alba’s laugh rang like a silver echo all along the cliff.

“And the prince—where would you get him?”

“Must he be a prince? Would not a brave man who loved you and was ready

to do your bidding in everything, who would spend his whole life in

trying to make you happy—would not that do instead? Must he be a prince,

Alba?”

He took her hand and held it, and she did not struggle to release it.

They were standing at the foot of a rock that cast a long, black shadow

far out upon the sea; the west wind blew into their faces; Alba’s

scarlet hood had fallen back, and her hair drifted in a heavy stream

behind her, as Marcel bent over her, waiting to hear his fate. He might

have read it in her blank, scared looks, in her startled, reluctant

attitude. If there had been hope for him, would she have shrunk away and

drawn closer to the rock, as if asking it to protect her?

“I have been too hasty,” said the young man penitently; “I should have

spoken to Mère Virginie first. Forgive me, Alba, and say only if I may

go to her now and ask you for my wife?” He still held her hand, and,

mistaking her silence, made an effort to slip his arm around her. The

movement acted on Alba like the sting of a snake; she escaped from him

with a cry, and sped along the cliff like a deer flying from the

hunters.

“My child, you have been foolish, and so has Marcel; but there is no

need to cry or be unhappy about it,” said Mère Virginie when Alba had

sobbed out the terrible story on her breast. But Alba was not to be

comforted. She had been living in dreamland, and now awoke to find the

hard ground under her feet instead of golden clouds. Of course she had

dreamt of love and lovers, and her heart, or that vague yearning which

as yet took its place, had become enamored of the dreams, visions that

lay safe beyond the disenchanting present, wrapped in the golden haze of

distance; and now this rude awakening had dispelled them, and brought

home to the dreamer that she had reached that border-land that lies

between the mystery of morning and the revelation of noon; the pearly

mists had rolled away in an instant, and the blaze of the mid-day sun

was upon her, chasing the fairy phantoms and making sober realities

pitilessly clear. She had been dreaming of a lover in some remote time

and place, and, lo! he was at her side; he had been close to her all

along—an ugly, common man, who seemed made on purpose to mock the

visions of her fancy. And yet this incident, which threw Alba into such

despair, had been for many a day the fond anticipation of her mother’s

heart.

“Why need it frighten you to find that Marcel loves you and wants to

have you for his little wife, my child?” said Virginie. “Don’t shudder

and cling to me as if he were going to drag you away this very moment!

You shall never leave me, unless you do it of your own free will. But

remember, darling, that I may have to leave you; and then what will

become of you?”

“You leave me, petite mère?” And Alba looked up at her in dismay.

“It must come to that some day. I am old and you are young. I have a

trouble here that reminds me of this often, and then I lie awake of

nights, thinking of my little one, and praying God to give her a friend,

the best and truest friend a woman can have in this world, to take care

of her before I am called away.”

“Mother, if you go I will go too. I could never live without you! What

should I do here if you were gone? Nobody wants me, nobody loves me in

the whole world but you.”

“Marcel loves you, my child, and he will be that good friend, if you

will let him.”

“Marcel! Marcel! As if he could replace you! I don’t love him; I don’t

care if he went to the wars and never came back again.”

“If you married him you would soon learn to love him; his goodness would

soon win your love. And then remember, Alba, how happy he could make

you. You often long to have beautiful things—pearls and jewels and

splendid dresses—and you sigh to go away in the ships that we see

setting sail for distant lands, and to see fair cities, and the great

mountains, and the countries where it is always summer and the flowers

never die. Marcel would give you all these wishes; and then he would let

you be so good and generous to the poor!”

“I should not care for pearls and pretty things, if I had to marry

Marcel,” said Alba. “I should not like to go to distant cities with him;

and if he loved me like a real lover, he would let me be good to the

poor without making me his wife.”

How was the anxious woman to argue with this sweet, foolish innocence?

If she could but teach the child to believe in the happiness that was at

her feet, and persuade her to become Marcel’s wife, how easy it would be

to die! How terrible it was to have to leave her unprotected and alone!

Virginie’s heart overflowed in tears as she thought of it, and the hot

drops trickled down her face and fell on Alba’s.

Alba looked up quickly. “Petite mère!” she said.

Throwing her arms round Virginie and kissing the wet cheeks again and

again, “I will marry him! I will do anything, only don’t be unhappy,

don’t cry! O mother, mother! what is it?” she cried, starting up in

terror; for Virginie had fallen back and was gasping for breath. She

pressed the child’s arm, and with her eyes bade her be still. The spasm

of pain passed away after a while; but when she tried to speak the words

came faintly in broken sentences.

“Petite mère! what is it?” entreated Alba, scarcely reassured. “May I

call Jeanne? Shall we send for the doctor?”

“No, my darling, it is nothing; I am well now,” said Virginie, with a

sickly smile that belied her words. The sharp pang had, it is true,

subsided, but she was still ashy pale and could only speak under her

breath. Alba watched her intently for some minutes, and then, twining

her arms round Virginie’s neck, she laid her head upon her breast,

nestling to her like a bird.

“Mother,” she whispered, “would it really make you happy if I were to

marry Marcel?”

“My darling, it would make me happier than anything else in this world.”

“Then I will marry him, petite mère.”

“My child!” Virginie’s face lighted up with a beaming joy.

“I will marry him to please you. There, now, promise me not to be

unhappy, not to lie awake at night fretting, and never to have any more

pains at your heart!”

“But, my darling, I would not have you do it to make me happy. It is

your happiness I am thinking of, not my own. Don’t you think you could

learn to love Marcel after a while?”

“Petite mère! how can you ask me? Foolish, ugly Marcel, whom everybody

laughs at and calls a coward! But never mind. I will marry him, since he

wants me and you wish it; I promise you I will.”

“You are a foolish child to speak of Marcel so,” said Virginie; “those

who laugh at him are the fools, and you know he is not a coward. As to

his ugliness, what does that matter, if he is faithful, and fond, and

good?”

Alba pondered this philosophy for some minutes; then she said: “When

will he want to marry me, petite mère?”

“Not for a long while yet, my darling. You are both very young; there’s

time to wait.”

“How old am I?”

“You were sixteen in September.”

“And how long will you let me wait?”

“Till your seventeenth birthday is passed, at least.”

“Nearly a whole year! Then I have all that time to be free and happy!”

“And if at the end of that time you have not learned to care for Marcel,

I shall not ask you to marry him at all,” said Virginie. The ecstasy

which the reprieve had called forth sent a pang through her heart, and

made her ask herself whether, after all, she was doing wisely and well

in forcing upon the child a lot from which her sympathies recoiled so

violently.

“Not marry him at all!” repeated Alba in amazement; but she added

quickly, with one of those sudden changes of manner that were familiar

to her sensitive and mobile nature: “I think, petite mère, I had better

not wait for the year. Instead of growing easier, it might grow harder

by thinking over it all that time. You know you always tell me that when

one has a disagreeable thing to do, it is better to do it at once and be

done with it; one only makes it worse by looking at it. I think it would

be better if I were to marry Marcel at once and get it over.”

Virginie was aghast at the combination of strength and utter childish

ignorance of the true nature and bearings of the sacrifice in

contemplation which Alba’s reasoning revealed. In the bottom of her

heart the mother believed this repugnance would pass away, and there was

no cruelty in coercing the child’s will at the outset, in order to bend

it to her real happiness; but unless it could be so bent, Virginie would

rather die trusting her treasure to God’s guardianship than force it

into any man’s keeping.

“We will say no more about it for the present, my child,” she said; “we

will leave it in the hands of God for another year.”

“And you will be happy now, petite mère?”

“Yes. I feel more tranquil about my darling’s future.”

“And Marcel—must I tell him?”

“No, you must not mention to him or to any one what we have been saying.

I will speak to him myself.”

So there was no engagement, no promise exchanged; not a word of thanks

or of rejoicing passed between him and Alba; but Marcel knew how docile

she was to the power of love, and she loved her mother with a strength

and depth of feeling that knew no limits and measured no sacrifices. He

did not mean to be accepted as a sacrifice. He had faith enough in his

love to believe that before the year was out it would have conquered the

coy heart of his lady-love and brought her a willing captive to his

side. Meantime, he would leave none of the stratagems and tactics of

honorable warfare untried.

Alba was fond of books; he sent for all those he could hear of that were

likely to interest her, and she and Virginie read them together in the

long evenings, and talked over them, until their days were brightened by

the scenes of travel and story which the books described. He knew she

loved jewels and shining silks, and he went to Paris himself and

selected pretty trinkets of every kind—a necklace of pearls, and rings

of emeralds and rubies, and silks of soft and brilliant colors—and he

would carry them to the cottage, and shyly lay them down without saying

a word. Alba seldom noticed them till he was gone, when she would open

the parcel and examine its contents; but Mère Virginie seemed to take

more pleasure in the gauds than she did. This went on for three months.

Then, one morning, Alba, who had been out since sunrise, sitting on the

rocks and watching the tide come in and the creamy surf break upon the

shore, entered the cottage and said abruptly:

“Mother, I won’t take any more presents from Marcel, and I want to give

him back all those we have. I can’t keep them; I can’t indeed.”

“You have made up your mind never to marry him?”

“I will marry him whenever you wish it. It is not that, only I can’t

take his gifts; they make me miserable. I hate them!”

“My darling, I will send them back to him, if you wish; but it will hurt

him very much, poor fellow!—he took so much trouble to get them for you,

and you used to love pretty things. How often have I not heard you long

for the rings and flowers and shining silks we have seen in the fine

shops at X——? Many a time you have wished a fairy or a lover would come

and give them to you! Do you forget?”

“Ah! that is just it,” said Alba, with a light laugh that was full of

pain; “if a lover gave them to me, I dare say I should like them well

enough.”

“But Marcel is your lover?”

“Poor Marcel! It is so funny trying to think of him like that. He is so

awkward and stupid and ugly; a real lover would be quite different. But

I don’t want one now; I don’t indeed, petite mère. Only please send

Marcel back his gifts. They make me feel as if he were bribing me to be

fond of him, and I should not care a bit more for him if he gave me the

loveliest jewels in France. I don’t care any more for jewels. I used to

long to be happy myself, but now I only care to make you happy. You

promised me to be very happy when I married Marcel?”

This was dreadful. This was not what the mother meant when she prayed

for the marriage that Alba contemplated with such pathetic resignation,

as if it were a sacrifice or a torture that every day brought nearer to

her. There were still eight months between her and the dreaded fate, and

Virginie was strongly moved to tell her at once that she was released.

It seemed cruel to poison the child’s life all that time on the chance,

which apparently grew less as the months went on, of her getting to love

Marcel at the end of the year. But, again, this marriage was the one

prospect of security and happiness which the future opened out—quiet,

substantial happiness such as the mother longed to see her in possession

of. If Alba flung it away, there was nothing before her but a lonely,

loveless life of unprotected poverty. It was best to be patient, to keep

silence a little longer. Virginie, meantime, had faith in the power of

her own love, and she would never cease imploring heaven to take the

destiny of her darling into its safe-keeping.

* * * * *

Hermann de Gondriac had now been five years absent, and those years had

been an uninterrupted series of triumphs for him; he had borne a charmed

life on every battle-field, and come off unharmed where all around him

were stricken. But the chances of war prevailed at last, and the news

came to Gondriac that M. le Comte had been seriously wounded and was

coming home. His left arm had been shattered, and, though the skill of

the emperor’s surgeon had saved him from amputation, he was in great

suffering and condemned to the severest precautions. A few bonfires were

lighted on the cliffs to bid the home-comer welcome, but this was all

the people ventured on. M. le Marquis, it was said, had been in the same

engagement with his son, but had come out of it unhurt.

That winter was a fierce one all through France, and Gondriac suffered

terribly; the bleak gray sea in a perpetual roar, and the winds beating

on its wild, open coast. Food and fuel were scanty, and but for the

presence of the young lord at the castle many amongst the fishermen’s

families must have perished and starved. No one had yet seen him; the

great physician, who came from Paris at intervals, forbade his going

beyond the southern side of the park until spring came with sunshine and

blossoms. But Hermann could not have been more actively present amongst

his people had he been walking daily in the midst of them. He seemed to

know by inspiration what they wanted, and food and clothing were dealt

out from the castle in unlimited supplies. There were toys for the

children, and medicine and strengthening wine for the sick, and books

for those who could enjoy them, until the people came to think that the

bird of the fairy-tale must be true, and that their young master had the

tell-tale messenger at his orders.

Alba busied her poetic fancy in making pictures of what Hermann was

like. She had not seen him since she was a child and he a tall, slim

lad. Now that he was a man and a hero, she longed to behold him again.

Even to look at a hero from a distance would be something—life was so

tame, and all the people she knew were so commonplace. Was he proud and

stern and abrupt in speech, as they said the emperor was? Or was he

gentle and honey-tongued like the knights of old?

One morning a man rode in from X—— to the castle bearing important news

to M. le Comte. Important news indeed: the emperor was coming the next

day to inspect the fortifications of a neighboring seaport. It was

settled at once in Gondriac that M. le Comte would go to meet his

majesty. No physician could hinder him in that, come what might of it.

Alba had heard nothing of this great event which was stirring the

country for fifty miles round. She and Virginie lived a life apart up in

their sea-nest, and old Jeanne was not given to gossip, but did her

marketing without waste of words, and brought home little news in her

basket.

It was a lovely morning; the sun shone brightly on the sea; the breakers

were scampering in, not loud and angry, but tossing over one another in

masses of creamy foam. Alba loved these laughing seas, and would sit for

hours on the rocks, watching the tide ride in on the silver horses.

To-day the salt breath of the ocean and the mellow west wind excited her

like wine, and carried her off to the old dreamland where she seldom

ventured now. She was away on the dancing billows, sailing to the land

of the sun with a noble knight by her side. Virginie sat there with

maidens serving her; there was music on shore, and crowds waving glad

farewells. Alba began to sing as she walked briskly along the cliff,

building her castle in fairy-land. But the Fortress standing out like a

spectral prison, with the ivy blown inside out on its grimy walls, sent

a sudden chill through her and put out the sunlight. There was a figure

at the window watching her. She turned hastily back, walking quickly

until she got down the slope, when she almost flew across the moor, on

and on till she was safe in the shelter of the park. O that figure, how

it pursued her! How the Fortress threatened her! If she could but fly

from them for ever, and never hear of Marcel Caboff any more! She had

fancied latterly that the prospect of being his wife and living with old

Mme. Caboff in the gloomy, rat-haunted place was less odious to her than

it used to be; but to-day the thought nearly drove her mad. She had sped

along as if some evil fate were behind her, and she was tired; there was

a moss-grown oak close by, and she sat down on the trunk to rest. The

wind rustled the dead leaves at her feet and swept the topmost branches

of the pines; then the anthem died softly away and all was silent. The

place was very still; nothing stirred but the insects in the grass, and

the zephyr high up above her head, as it rose and fell in swift, Æolian

breathings. In the distance, with a forest of trees between, lay the

castle, its battlements and towers and flying buttresses rising

majestically against the sky—a high romance of chivalry and war

chronicled in stone; to Alba the door of an enchanted realm whose

portals she might never pass. No wonder men were heroes who lived in

homes like this; how easy it must be to lead grand lives where the very

walls are heralds and witnesses urging to noble and knightly deeds! The

present owner of this splendid house was worthy in all this of his proud

ancestors. What a royal act of heroism it was of the old Marquis to

enlist as a common soldier out of gratitude to a dead man and pity for

his widow! Then Alba thought of Marcel, of the poor, tame creature he

showed beside this race of knightly nobles, and she despised him, and

fell to wondering how it would be when she was his wife. Gradually the

castle melted away, and in its place rose the Fortress, dark and

frowning, and it lowered on her like a doom, and Marcel and his grim old

mother stood at the window beckoning her to advance. Alba flung herself

down upon the trunk and buried her face in the moss, and began to cry

passionately. She cried a long time, being full of pity for herself, and

there was no one within reach that she need check her sobs.

“What has happened? What is the matter with you, child?” said a voice

close to her.

She started up in terror. Yet the speaker was not at all terrible to

look at—a gentleman in the brilliant uniform of the Imperial Guard,

young and handsome, with a most commanding air, and carrying his left

arm in a sling. When Alba rose it was his turn to start. Lying there in

an attitude of child-like _abandon_, shaken with sobs, her scarlet hood

thrown back and her masses of black hair falling in loose coils over her

neck and face, he had taken her for a little girl; he had called her

child, and, lo! she was a full-grown maiden, and lovely beyond words,

despite her tears and her dishevelled mien. He bowed to her as he might

have done to a queen.

“You are M. le Comte!” said Alba, pretty much as she might have said to

a celestial apparition, “You are the Archangel Gabriel!”

“Hermann de Gondriac, your humble servant, mademoiselle.”

She stared at him through the big tears that hung like dew-drops from

her lashes, her soft, large glance modest, yet unabashed as if it were

gazing on a picture. The knighthood in Hermann recognized the maidenhood

of that fearless gaze and did it reverence, but he could not quench the

glowing admiration of his own. How liquid and pure they were, those

black stars with which she stared at him, those soul-lit eyes that met

his without dismay, too innocent to quail beneath their burning light!

Why should they quail? Were they not looking at a vision, a dream

transmuted into substance? This was the young chief whom she had

pictured to herself so often, whose lineage and prowess were the pride

of all the people. Only how much grander the reality was than anything

she had fancied! What a martial air he wore in his gold-embroidered

uniform, with his spurs and clanging sword and plumed helmet, the stars

upon his breast—every inch a warrior and a knight!

“You have hurt yourself, mademoiselle; you are in pain,” said Hermann.

“Can I send to the castle for assistance for you?”

“Thank you, monseigneur; I have not hurt myself.”

“Yet you were crying?”

“It was not with pain.” This time Alba dropped her lids and blushed.

“Forgive me; I did not mean to intrude upon you.” Alba stood looking

down like a guilty child, her cheeks aflame, her lips quivering with the

sudden conflict between fear and shame, and a strange emotion that

thrilled her like sweet music. “Who is she?” thought Hermann. He

remembered, years ago, a child whom his father raved about, wondering

how a plebeian stem could have put forth so fair a flower. Could this be

she? The _curé_ had told him of the girl’s rare beauty as a sad and

anxious burden on his mind, and of the mother’s being ill and in need of

generous wine, and he had ordered the best in his cellar to be sent to

her. Half unconsciously, as when we try to catch some forgotten air by

humming it under our breath, he murmured, “Alba....”

She looked up with a start, and then they both smiled.

“How did you guess I was Alba?” she said, her shyness gone in an

instant.

“I did not guess, I remembered.”

“How wonderful! I should never have remembered you, monseigneur.”

“That is not surprising. I am changed since you saw me.”

“And so am I, am I not?”

“Yes, more changed than I could have believed.”

“Ah?” Did he mean for the better or the worse? The man read the question

in her eyes and answered it:

“You are far more beautiful than I expected.”

“Beautiful!” she repeated, and her face lighted up.

“I was frightened when I saw you; I took you for a fairy princess,” said

Hermann, yielding to the irresistible temptation of pleasing her.

Alba’s face clouded over. “Now I know you are laughing at me,

monseigneur; you don’t believe in fairies, and you know very well I’m

not a bit like a princess.”

“I have seen many a one who would have given a great deal to be like

you,” said Hermann.

“Like me! I thought princesses were all so happy!”

Hermann smiled. “Sometimes they have hearts,” he said.

“Sometimes! And does that make them unhappy?”

He turned to walk under the trees, tacitly inviting her to do the same.

“It endows them with the power of loving,” he answered absently.

“But I thought....” She hesitated; it was difficult to put the thought

into the right words.

“You thought that love always led to happiness?” said Hermann, finishing

the sentence for her, while he looked at her with a curious glance. Why

had she come to cry in this lonely place?

“I don’t know what it leads to. I shall never know,” said Alba very

gravely.

M. le Comte smiled. “Tell me, Alba, why were you crying so bitterly just

now?”

She turned away her head and made no answer.

“Tell me, sweet Alba,” persisted the young man; “perhaps I can help you

if you are in trouble. Trust me with your secret. As I am a soldier and

a gentleman, I will defend you if I can. Tell me, is there some one you

care for who does not know it?”

She shook her head. “It is not I who care.... I wish I could, but I have

tried my best and I _cannot_ love him!” The tears welled up again and

were flowing freely.

“Who is forcing you to love him? Tell me his name and I will protect you

from him. I swear to you I will!” And Hermann, with a soldier’s

instinctive gesture, put his hand to his sword, while his eye kindled

with chivalrous anger. Alba thought him the ideal of a noble knight, as

she looked at him, terrified and enchanted.

“He is not forcing me, monseigneur,” she said, “and you can do nothing

to help me. I have promised to marry, and I must keep my word.”

“You shall not, by heaven, if it makes you wretched! He is a cowardly

dog who would hold you to your word against your will,” protested the

count hotly.

“He is not forcing me; but I have promised,” repeated Alba.

“And you cannot love him?”

“No! and I have tried so hard.... But mother says that when I am his

wife it will be different....”

“Yes, it will be worse, a thousand times worse! Alba, tell me this man’s

name; trust me with your secret,” said Hermann, changing his angry tone

to one of soft persuasion.

“I dare not,” said Alba in a frightened whisper; “you would go and kill

him.” The great, swart eyes were looking up at him, full of trust and

admiration.

“Kill him, child! Do you think me so terribly wicked? Do I look like a

murderer?”

“It would not be murder in you. You are a warrior; you don’t think it

wrong to kill men. That is what warriors are for; but I should not like

you to kill poor Marcel.”

“Marcel!... Marcel! I seem to know that name,” said the count, musing.

“Has he no other?”

“Yes, Marcel Caboff,” replied Alba in a confidential tone; “but you must

not hurt him, monseigneur. Oh! I wish I had not told you.”

Hermann started and muttered something between his teeth which she did

not hear, but his look frightened her.

“Marcel Caboff! the fellow whom my father ransomed at the risk of his

own life!” said the count. “And he would force you into marrying him! By

heaven! he shan’t. I will foil him there.”

“O monseigneur, monseigneur! you will not kill him,” pleaded Alba,

clasping her hands and appealing to the murderer with a scared face. “It

is not his fault—it is not indeed, monseigneur!”

“I don’t mean to kill him; I would not touch a hair of his head,” said

Hermann. “But why do you say it is not his fault? Does he not love you?

Does he not want you to marry him?”

“He does, oh! so dreadfully. But I should not mind that. It is mother

whom I have promised. It is to please her that I must marry him,” said

Alba, and her breast heaved with big sobs, and all the floods were let

loose again.

Hermann longed to draw her to his breast and kiss away the tears—she was

such a child in spite of her sixteen summers and their full-blossomed

beauty! But he checked the impulse. There is no majesty so imposing as

the majesty of childhood. “Alba,” he said, “I will save you from Marcel

Caboff without hurting him or any one. You shall not marry him, unless

you come to wish it yourself. Are you sure that if he gave you up you

would not change your mind and wish him back again?” This was Hermann’s

estimate of woman’s nature; true, his experience had been gathered among

types as different from the one before him as the flowers of a hot-house

are from the primrose of the woods.

“I should never wish him to come back; I could never love him,” said

Alba—“never, never, never.”

“Then I swear to you on my sword you shall not marry him!” said the

count impetuously. “Now tell me, Alba,” he resumed, seeing that she did

not speak, “is there not some one you would like to marry better than

this fellow Caboff? Tell me the truth. If you had a brother, you would

not mind telling him. Try and fancy I am your brother.”

Fancy him her brother! Alba’s fancy had taken many an aerial flight, but

never such a one as this.

“Who is he? What is his name?” said Hermann in a whisper, bending closer

to her.

But she shook her head. “There is no one, monseigneur.”

“Oh! I don’t believe that; you are afraid to trust me. There is surely

some one else who wants to marry you?”

“No one, monseigneur, but Marcel.”

“Alba, look at me!” She turned and looked at him like a docile child.

“Have you never seen any one whom you could love or whose heart you

would care to win?” He was gazing deep down into the two dark pools of

light, as if he thought to see into her soul through them. She did not

shrink from the searching glance, but dwelt in it for one long moment;

then, as if the flame in Hermann’s eyes leaped out and flashed upon her

with too intense a radiance, revealing the spring of some sweet mystery

in her heart and his, the white lids quivered and dropped, and a deep

blush rose to Alba’s face. They were alone. The voices of the wood were

hushed; the dead leaves ceased to rustle at their feet; the zephyrs

paused in the branches overhead; the silence grew and deepened, filling

the solitude with an overpowering presence, till each seemed to hear the

beating of the other’s heart. Suddenly the sound of a horn, followed by

a noise of wheels crushing the gravel in the distance, broke the spell

and admonished Hermann that he must be gone. He lifted Alba’s hand to

his lips, and without a word of farewell turned from her and struck

across the park towards the castle.

Alba watched him out of sight, and then turned and wended homewards. Her

heart beat with wild throbs of joy; the spirit that had been dead within

her all these miserable months woke up, quickened to a new birth, and

overflowed in song. The flute-like voice trilled out over the lonesome

moor like the carol of a bird let loose; but as she drew near the

confines of the heath the Fortress came in sight and checked her song.

Was it so certain that Hermann could set her free? and how? What would

her mother think of it? how of this wonderful meeting and monseigneur’s

promise? Alba slackened her steps and took to pondering. A moment ago

she was impatient to pour into Virginie’s ear the story of the

interview, to repeat every word Hermann had said, to convey, as far as

it was possible, the impression he had made upon her, to describe his

manly beauty, his warlike aspect, his gentle courtesy, the incomparable

sweetness of his voice, the chivalrous kindness of his manner, never

doubting but that Virginie would sympathize in this new delight, as she

had done in every little joy that had gladdened her child’s young life.

But suddenly a change came over Alba—something vague, and undefined; a

sense of doubt, of warning, of intangible fear. She had done nothing

wrong, and yet the still, small voice was whispering inaudible reproach

as if she had. Could Virginie be angry with her for speaking to

monseigneur? How could she have avoided it, how refuse to answer his

persistent questions, so kindly and so courteously put? He had entreated

her to trust him! Alba stood amidst the breezy waves of heather, and

recalled him as he bent near her and lowered his voice and bade her look

at him. How he had seemed to read her through and through! “Have you

never seen any one whose heart you would care to win?” She murmured the

words softly to herself, and the sound of them was like the echo of his

voice, and called up the hot blush to her cheeks again. There was

nothing wrong in monseigneur’s asking her the question. Why, then, did

she feel afraid to tell her mother of it? Musing for a moment on this

mystery, Alba remembered how he had said: “Try and fancy I am your

brother.” Virginie could not be angry at that, surely. “I will tell her

that, and say nothing about the other,” muttered Alba to herself; and,

satisfied that this was a safe way out of the difficulty, she walked on

briskly till she was close upon the confines of the moor. Then the sound

of a carriage coming down the road made her stop till it should pass. It

was an open calêche preceded by outriders. Alba recognized the occupant

at once, even before his hand was raised in courtly salutation as he

flashed by. Her heart beat fast, and sent the blood to her cheeks and

brow, dying them crimson.

“Perhaps I had better say nothing at all to petite mère,” was her

reflection as she crossed the road and began to climb the cliff. “He

told me to trust him; perhaps he would be angry if I spoke until he bade

me.” And so it was decreed. The tyrant had stepped in, and at his first

whispered prompting the discipline of a life gave way.

It was not many days after this wonderful morning when an event occurred

which threw all the sweet romance of life into the shade, and made Alba

forget her own cares and hopes in concern for the great sorrow of

another. M. le Marquis was dead. He had died, not actually on the field,

but of a wound received in battle. The young lord’s grief was like a

madness, they said. Those about him said that in the first frenzy of

despair he had called on Marcel Caboff and cursed him as the murderer of

his father. Whether this was true or not, Gondriac believed it, and

bitter words were spoken against the widow’s son in all the country

round. Bitter words are like the wind; they fly, and have a faculty for

reaching those whose aching nerves most dread their sting. The widow

heard what was said of her son and felt it keenly; it was cruel, yet it

was just; it was a hard price to pay for Marcel’s safety, but she could

not reckon it too high. If only she might pay it alone! They are all

alike, these mothers. Mme. Caboff was a vain, hard woman, but the mother

in her was all soft and generous and beautiful. She came to Virginie for

sympathy—not for herself, but for Marcel. It was her doing, M. le

Marquis’ death, not his. Why would not people visit her sin upon

herself, and not upon her boy? But Virginie and Alba would be kind; they

had always said that Marcel was no coward. Virginie gave the poor woman

what comfort she could; but Alba was not there. She could not bear the

sight of Marcel’s mother; for the thought of Marcel was now unendurable

to her. It might be unjust, and yet it was true to say that he was the

murderer of M. le Marquis, of Hermann’s father. The news had thrown her

into such a paroxysm of distress that Virginie was terrified, not

holding the key to it. It was right that she should be sorry, and

natural that she should be shocked, but this agony of grief was

unaccountable. Virginie took her in her arms, and soothed her with

caresses and endearing words, and then bade her go and rest awhile. But

Alba, as if instinct warned her of the coming visit, hastened out of the

house, and fled across the moor until she was safe in the shelter of the

park, and then she flung herself down on the moss-grown trunk that had a

memory of its own, and buried her face in the primroses and cried her

heart out in pity for Hermann.

After this it was impossible to mention Marcel Caboff’s name in her

presence. “I loathe the very thought of him, mother! I would rather die

than marry him!” she said; and Virginie felt that Providence was against

her, and surrendered. Marcel took back his gifts, and quarrelled with

his mother, and went away from Gondriac. People said it was shame and

remorse that drove him forth; but Alba knew this was not true, and, now

that he had set her free, she pitied him.

* * * * *

M. le Marquis was borne to the grave amidst such honors as the proudest

Crusader of his name might have envied. It was with the jubilant pomp of

a coronation rather than the mournful pageant of a burial that they laid

him to rest. For his people would have it that he was a martyr; he had

gone out to die of his own free will, sacrificing himself out of

gratitude to the dead and charity to the living. The population flocked

in from thirty miles round to attend the funeral. Five hundred men

followed the crimson-draped car with palms and laurel branches; children

clad in white bore crimson banners that fluttered in the breeze, while

their voices rose in hymns of victory, giving glory to God and the

Christian soldier; the voices of the multitude made response in chorus,

and the waves, breaking in low thunder against the rocks, sounded their

everlasting _amens_ as the procession wound its way by the sea-shore to

the cemetery.

And now Hermann de Gondriac was alone, the head of an ancient house,

wealthy and young, but as poor in that which makes life rich as the

poorest of his peasantry. If he could but have girded on his sword, and,

escaping from solitude, have drowned his grief in the excitement of the

camp! Spring came, and the fields were carpeted with wild flowers, and

the woods were full of music. But Hermann was seldom seen abroad; he

lived indoors, amidst his books, the people said; but, in truth, the

young lord’s chief companions were his thoughts, angry, rebellious

thoughts, that made him chafe most bitterly against his forced inaction.

The park was vast as a forest, and he never went beyond it. Often, in

his moody walks, he strayed to that spot close upon the moor where he

had first seen Alba lying upon the mossy trunk. The charm of her beauty

and her daisy-like simplicity had wrought upon his heart more deeply

than he was aware. For days after that meeting she had been ever in his

thoughts. He said that he was thinking only of how he might rescue her

from a cruel fate; no doubt it was to help him to this issue that he

returned to the spot where she had stood, and conjured up her image,

till the nymph-like figure with the dark eyes and witching smile seemed

to float visibly before him, and listened for her voice until he thought

he heard it in the sighing of the wind.

Then came the thunderbolt of his father’s death, and Alba and all the

world were forgotten. But grief cannot hold its sway in human souls

beyond a given time. As the days go by they bear away its sting upon

their wings, that touch the bleeding places with a balm. Hermann was

young, and as the weeks passed youth vindicated itself, and rebelled

against the stagnant, lonely life, and longed for action and for the

sweet companionship of kindred youth. If he could not fight, he could at

least love; but who was there at Gondriac to love? The merry comrades of

the bivouac were out of call, and when he returned to the midst of them

he would find his place filled up; others would have come and gone

again, and risen in command and won place and distinction, while he was

out of sight, a prisoner to a stiff arm, as good as a dead man. He hated

himself with bitter vexation. One morning he betook himself in one of

these savage moods to wander in the park, and, not heeding which way he

went, strayed to that lonely walk under the shadow of the old trees near

the moor. Some one, meanwhile, was watching him, crouched timidly behind

a furze-bush, admiring his quick, military stride, thinking how grand

and lion-like was that angry toss of the head which every now and then

relieved his bitter thoughts.

The air was fresh, and yet warm with that delicious warmth of some

spring days that come like heralds of the summer, gathering up all the

sweets of earth into one fragrant breath, wooing us with soft, furry

zephyrs, and the scent of opening blossoms, and the melody of young

birds learning to sing. Alba had been tempted across the heath to the

park, where the trees had put out their bright green foliage that looked

so lovely sparkling in the sunlight. Perhaps, too, though she did not

own it, there was a lurking hope in her heart that she might catch a

glimpse of Hermann in the distance. If so, she was not disappointed.

There he was, walking under the pine-trees, but, happily, with his back

to the heath, so that he did not see her! She dipped quickly behind a

furze-bush, and disappeared from view just as he turned, and, coming

through the trees at an angle, stepped out on the pathway. A nightingale

began to sing in the distant copse; but Alba, as she cowered behind her

bush, thought the crystal trills and the loud call-note less musical

than the sound of Hermann’s foot-fall crushing the gravel close to her

hiding-place—so close she almost feared he would note the shadow of her

pink skirt upon the grass, or mayhap overhear the palpitation of her

heart. But presently the foot-falls died away, and the nightingale and

the zephyrs had it all to themselves again. She waited some minutes—an

hour it seemed to her—before she ventured to look up; but at last she

did, and there, within a few paces, straight before her, stood Hermann.

He had left the pathway and taken to the noiseless grass under the

trees.

“Alba!”

There was a ring of joy in the greeting, as the young lord came forward,

holding out his hand.

“Why have you never come? I have been here again and again in hopes of

seeing you!”

He was a true knight and meant no harm; but in his joy at seeing the

sunbeam on his path he forgot that he had no right to be so glad or to

let Alba see it.

“I did not forget my promise,” he said, leading her into the park and

turning to walk by her side; “but I learned soon after that there was no

need for me to interfere. Caboff left the place, they told me.”

“Yes, monseigneur, people said” ... she hesitated. “They were all so

sorry for you, and Marcel could not bear it, because they hated him—poor

Marcel! It was not his fault; he never was a coward.”

“You are sorry now that he is gone! Perhaps he will come back? No doubt

he will, if you ask him.”

“I will never ask him; but I am sorry for him,” she replied, and then,

looking up at Hermann with those soul-lit eyes that had a language of

their own like music, she added timidly: “But I was more sorry for you,

monseigneur.”

“Alba!” He took her hand and kissed it. It was very sweet to be so near

him, Alba thought. They walked on together, hand in hand, without

speaking for a while. The grass was soft beneath their feet, and the

trembling sunbeams stole through the trees and touched their faces with

golden shadows, thrilling and pure and full of gladness, as the touch of

nature is when it stirs the chords of young vibrating hearts. “If I

could but comfort him!” she was thinking, till the thought grew so loud

within her she feared he would overhear it. But we are deaf to those

voices that lie “upon the other side of silence.” Hermann, as he held

the warm, soft hand within his own, was wondering how it came to pass

that yonder on the barren cliffs a flower so rare and delicate had

grown, and been trained to so much grace and ease by a woman who was

called Mère Virginie. Then he remembered his father’s words about the

royal flower on the plebeian stem, and, thinking of him, he sighed. Alba

looked up quickly, offering all her soul’s wealth of sympathy through

her eyes, and Hermann bethought to himself how delightful it would be to

have this sympathetic creature always at his side. But he thought also

of the emperor and the world, and wondered what these potentates would

say were he to pick up the jewel from the dust and set it in his

coronet. Bonaparte had a way of choosing mates for his officers as he

chose sites for his battles, and ordering them to marry as he ordered

them to charge; but Hermann felt he was not one to be cowed by the

imperial match-maker, and there was something rather inspiriting in the

idea of defying the despot if he attempted to meddle with his life

outside the camp. Why should he not gather this wild flower, if he

chose? Had his father lived, it would have been different; but now he

was free, there was no one to whom he need sacrifice the promptings of

his heart, be they wise or foolish. The world and the court might laugh;

it was not from amongst them he cared to take a wife; he wanted to be

loved, to be wed for his own sake, and not for the good things he had to

offer. But did Alba love him?

“Alba,” he said, “now that Marcel is gone, who is to be the favored

suitor?”

“No one, monseigneur; I told you so before.”

“But I did not believe you. I don’t believe you now.”

“Why should I tell you a lie? I never told one in my life.”

She spoke without anger or offended pride; but Hermann saw that he had

pained her, and there was a purity of truth about her that rebuked his

denial, though it was spoken in jest.

“Forgive me, dearest! I wanted to hear you say it again. I wanted to be

certain there was no one else you cared for.”

He bent toward her caressingly, and, looking under her hood, saw two big

tears slowly trickling down her cheeks.

“Alba....”

What an idle boast seems this about the freedom of the human will! Our

most pregnant words, our weightiest actions, spring far oftener from

impulse than from deliberate resolve; a touch, light as the feather

floating on the summer breeze, will stir the fountain and make its

waters overflow; a word spoken when we had meant to be silent will

change the current of our life, and push us to a step that can never be

retraced. An hour ago Hermann de Gondriac no more dreamed of offering

his hand to Alba than he did of burying himself in the Grande

Chartreuse; but those two tears were the drops that made the fountain

overflow, and, in the sudden flood of tenderness, pride, prudence,

everything but love was swept away.

“Alba,” he whispered, clasping her in his arms and gathering her to his

breast—“Alba, I love you. Will you come to me and be my wife?”

Was she awake, with the solid earth under her feet, or were those

whispered words the music that our fancy makes in dreams? But the music

did not die away, nor did the clasping arm melt from her, as do the

embraces of those loved ones who visit us in sleep.

“You love me!” she said, looking up into his face with her large, warm

glance, pure and trusting as a child’s—“you love me!” And the sunbeams

went on singing it in shadow music on the grass, and the cuckoo called

it through the woods, and the trees in their murmurous song repeated it,

and the clouds, as they sailed over the zenith, traced it in silver

lines upon the sky—“You love me!”

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

MAGDALEN AT THE TOMB.

Deep sombre clouds roll up to shroud the night,

For in the silence of a guarded tomb

Rests the rich promise of a Virgin’s womb;

And hearts that hoped are shrunk as buds by blight,

Till, like a soul which gains from Heaven delight,

The radiant morn dispels the woeful gloom,

And casts o’er hungry Earth a new perfume.

A white-robed Angel, pinion-fring’d with light,

Beside the empty grave bade one rejoice,

Who, coming from the cross, outran the morn,

In loving haste the body to adorn;

But found it gone—and wept. Oh! hasty choice

Of tears, for one who was the first to turn

Her eyes upon her Lord, and hear his voice.

FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES.

_'A free translation._

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

[_The Chorus dissuades Medea from slaying her children._]

STROPHE I.

O race renowned in ancient story,

Race from the blest Immortals sprung,

Athenians, ye who all day long,

Feeding on wisdom and on glory,

Walk lightly through that climate fine,

Where, as the fabling poets say,

The yellow-tressed Harmonia

Brought forth the Muses nine;

That sage and virgin choir whose shell

You hear so often, love so well:—

ANTISTROPHE I.

To you white Aphrodite sends

Her Loves, to make you wise and kind;

For they are Wisdom’s choicest friends;

And here they say the goddess wreathed

Her fragrant locks with rosy twine;

And here they sing that, passion-fraught

And o’er Cephisus’ stream reclined,

Along the flowery vale she breathed

Sweet airs from that cold current caught

Upon her balmy lips divine.

STROPHE II.

Medea, dream not that the city

Of sacred founts and streams can e’er

Give harbor to a wretch like thee:

Pity them, ruthless mother, pity!

See but thy guilt as others see;

By all things great and good, forbear!

We clasp thy knees, and bid thee spare

The babes that laughed upon thy knee!

ANTISTROPHE II.

They are thy children! They will call

Aloud, aloud upon their mother!

How can’st thou hear that pleading cry?

In vain thou striv’st:—thou can’st not smother

A mother’s love. Thy hand will shake;

Thy heart will bend; thy heart will break,

Thy frenzy melt away and die,

When twining round thy feet they fall

In that despairing agony.

THE STORY OF THE GOTHIC REVIVAL.

When, centuries hence, historians endeavor to delineate the

characteristics of the present century, it is more than probable that

the features that will most strike them will be those of innovation and

change. Progress in every science, rapid advance in material prosperity,

sweeping reforms in laws and governments, political and social changes

not a few, will appear to have pretty well filled up the records of the

busy century that is fast drawing to its close. To those, however, who

look more closely into the minor though oftentimes important details

that contribute in a great measure to influence the character of an age,

it will be evident that, if change and revolution have to a large extent

reigned paramount in this century, neither has it been altogether

wanting in a just recognition of the past, and in a serious revival of

some of the best features of that past.

These thoughts have been suggested by the perusal of Sir Charles

Eastlake’s _History of the Gothic Revival in England_—a work in which is

displayed a thorough knowledge of the subject combined with an agreeable

style and a high artistic taste, which cannot fail to interest even

those whose predilections are for other styles of architecture.

The revival which it describes has not been confined to England; in both

France and Germany progress in Gothic art has made rapid strides during

the last thirty years. In the production, indeed, on the history and

theory of the pointed style France is perhaps in advance of England; but

nowhere else has the revival been so universal and so practical as in

the latter country, nowhere else has it reached a point which could

justify an author in attempting its history. So many Catholic

associations are linked with Gothic architecture, so many fond

recollections of a glorious past are called up by the mere name, that it

is only natural that Catholics should take a special interest in its

revival, should feel justly proud of the large part that some of their

co-religionists have had in that revival, and should refer with feelings

of pleasure to the influence brought to bear upon it by the adoption of

many Catholic doctrines and practices by their Protestant brethren.

American readers cannot be indifferent to the history and fortunes of

edifices where their ancestors prayed in those happy days when unity of

faith prevailed; nor can they fail to take an interest in the history,

which we propose to sketch, of those years during which a handful of

earnest men struggled, and struggled successfully, to revive the glories

of a style that had been rendered for ever illustrious by such names as

Cologne and Chartres, Amiens and Salisbury, Notre Dame and York Minster.

Many were the fair buildings that graced the broad lands of merry

England at the commencement of the reign of Henry VIII.; stately

churches and splendid monasteries adorned her towns and nestled among

her wooded hills and valleys; the one same principle of art had presided

over their structure—happy symbol of the one faith to whose service they

ministered. Before the end of that reign what a transformation had come

over the face of the land! One of the first acts of the Reformation had

been the suppression of the monasteries and confiscation of their

property. Cromwell and his band of impious followers but too faithfully

carried out the orders of their royal master; the venerable and

beauteous piles on which the pious munificence of ages had lavished

their skill and their treasures were soon reduced to bare and crumbling

ruins. Nor did the spoliation end here; the zealous reformers of God’s

church were not slow in condemning as idolatrous the rich and brilliant

decorations and ornaments that filled the cathedrals and churches, and

thus these sacred edifices were shorn of all the costly treasures that

devotion had accumulated to honor the abiding presence of a heavenly

King, in order to fill the coffers of a licentious monarch.

It was not, however, the material ruin and desecration of its finest

buildings that struck the severest blow at Gothic art; it was rather the

loss of that faith which had witnessed its earliest efforts and had

inspired its grandest works. When the cold blast of Protestantism swept

away one after another each Catholic dogma and each Christian belief,

the sources of Gothic inspiration were dried up, its very _raison

d’être_ ceased to exist. Not that the Catholic Church has in any way

adopted one style of architecture as the _only_ fitting one for her use;

she has equally sanctified by her solemn ritual and her sacred

ceremonies the colonnades of the Greek temple, the dome of the Italian

basilica, and the pointed arch of the Gothic cathedral. But this last,

if we may use a comparison, seems somehow more especially her own child;

the others are but children of adoption—wayward children that she has

rescued from pagan parents. She has not watched over them from their

birth, nor seen them grow up under her fostering care to the vigor and

strength of manhood.

It naturally took some time before the spirit of a form of art which was

then the only form could completely disappear from the country; for we

must recollect that in England at the time of the Reformation not only

ecclesiastical but civil and domestic architecture was entirely Gothic.

As there were for several centuries no new churches built—for the

usurped edifices of Catholic days more than sufficed for the needs of

Protestant piety—it was in domestic structures that the spirit of the

style lingered longest in a practical form.

“Even down to the reign of James I. the domestic architecture of

England, as exemplified in the country-houses of the nobility, was

Gothic in spirit, and frequently contained more real elements of a

mediæval character than many which have been built in modern times

by the light of archæological orthodoxy. Inigo Jones himself

required a second visit to Italy before he could thoroughly abandon

the use of the pointed arch. But its days were numbered when in 1633

the first stone was laid for a Roman portico to one of the finest

cathedrals of the middle ages, and Gothic architecture as a

practical art received what was then no doubt supposed to be its

death-blow.”[101]

Footnote 101:

Eastlake, p. 5.

From this period the practice of Gothic art gradually died out. Classic

and Italian architecture, which had received a fresh impulse from the

French Renaissance, rapidly came into fashion. Architects studied no

other style, for the very good reason that the public admired no other.

It was henceforth considered the criterion of good taste to abuse as

barbarous all the productions of mediæval art, and the test of good

Protestantism to look upon them as superstitious and popish. It is

indeed surprising that so many of the wonderful productions of a period

no longer understood or appreciated should have been allowed to come

down to us unaltered by “classical” remodelling. What saved them and at

the same time preserved the spirit of the old art from total extinction

is thus told by Sir C. Eastlake:

“By a strange and fortunate coincidence of events, however, it

happened at this very time, when architects of the period had

learned to despise the buildings of their ancestors, a spirit of

veneration for the past was springing up among a class of men who

may be said to have founded our modern school of antiquaries.

Sometimes, indeed, their researches were not those of a character

from which much advantage can be expected.... But, luckily for

posterity, the attention of others was drawn in a more serviceable

direction. Up to this time no work of any importance had been

published on the architectural antiquities of England. A period had

arrived when it was thought necessary, if only on historical

grounds, that some record of ecclesiastical establishments should be

compiled. The promoters of the scheme were probably little

influenced by the love of Gothic as a style. But an old building was

necessarily a Gothic building, and thus it happened that, in spite

of the prejudices of the age, and probably their own æsthetic

predilections, the antiquaries of the day became the means of

keeping alive some interest in a school of architecture which had

ceased to be practically employed.”[102]

Footnote 102:

_History of the Gothic Revival_, p. 6.

Amongst the earliest names that attained to a certain celebrity by their

researches and writings may be mentioned those of Mr. R. Dodsworth and

Mr. W. Dugdale, joint authors of the _Monasticon Anglicanum_, a work

first published in 1655, and which still retains much interest for the

modern student, as it includes many records and views of buildings which

have long since perished. Another writer whose name deserves mention was

Antony à Wood, born 1611, whose _History of the Antiquities of Oxford_

was a book of considerable importance, connected as it was with a

university where Gothic architecture was so nobly illustrated and where

the traditions of the style lingered long after its true principles were

forgotten.

During the next two hundred years the annals of Gothic art are indeed

meagre; from time to time we have the record of some antiquarian

research, and at rare intervals we hear of some uncouth attempts at

Gothic building remarkable only for the egregious mistakes they display.

Early in the eighteenth century we find the name of a remarkable man

connected with one of these crude attempts at mediæval art—that of the

celebrated Horace Walpole, Earl of Oxford, the author of the first work

of modern fiction whose scene is laid in the middle ages. His labors in

the fields of literature and art were not profound. Eccentricity seemed

the most marked feature of his taste; and, as may be well imagined, his

famous Gothic house, Strawberry Hill, which has remained almost

unaltered to the present day, is a strange monument of what debased art

can achieve. The fact, however, that a man of his position, and enjoying

the reputation he did, could patronize a form of architecture which had

fallen into almost universal contempt could not have been without a

powerful effect on the public mind—an effect which may be traced in the

erection during the next fifty years of a certain number of mansions

throughout the country in that style which Pugin loved so much to call

“Brummagem Gothic.”

Towards the end of the century some useful books on architectural

archæology appeared, such as Carter’s _Specimens of Ancient Sculpture

and Painting_, Hearne’s _Antiquities of Great Britain_, Gough’s

_Sepulchral Monuments_, Halfpenny’s _Gothic Ornaments of the Cathedral

of York_, B. Willis’ _History of Gothic Architecture in England_.

“It was something at least to draw attention to the noble works of

our ancestors, which had long been neglected and despised; to record

with the pencil or with the pen some testimony, however inadequate,

of their goodly form and worthy purpose; to invest with artistic and

historical interest the perishing monuments of an age when art was

pure and genuine.”[103]

Footnote 103:

_History of the Gothic Revival_, p. 71.

When the nineteenth century opens, we find these works already producing

practical fruits; for we see several architects of note, such as Wyat,

Nash, and Smirke, attempting, and not without some success, the erection

of edifices of Gothic design. Nearly always, however, their efforts were

confined to domestic structures for private individuals—a proof how

completely the taste was confined to the upper classes and was still

unappreciated by the general public. If they did not often attempt to

_build_ new churches, unfortunately they did not hesitate to restore and

_improve_ the venerable cathedrals and churches of the past. Wyat in

particular has a heavy burden of responsibility to bear on this score;

for many were the noble buildings that long bore the traces of acts of

vandalism and ignorance associated with his name.

How, indeed, could we expect better things in ecclesiastical

architecture at a time when religion was at so low an ebb in England? As

each generation had passed away the lingering memories of the old faith

and the old ritual had vanished one by one; the last remnants of

Catholic feelings and practices had disappeared under the influence of

the cold formalism of the Puritans and the colder indifferentism of

those who succeeded them. When we read the following description, given

by Sir C. Eastlake, of a Protestant church and Protestant worship as he

recollected them during the early years of the present century, we

cannot feel surprised that there was a lack of inspiration among church

architects:

“Who does not remember the air of grim respectability which

pervaded, and in some cases even still pervades, the modern town

church of a certain type, with its big bleak portico and

muffin-capped charity-boys? Enter and notice the tall,

neatly-grained witness-boxes in which the faithful are empanelled;

the 'three-decker’ pulpit placed in the centre of the building; the

lumbering gallery which is carried round the three sides of the

interior on iron columns; the wizen-faced pew-opener eager for stray

shillings; the earnest penitent who is inspecting the inside of his

hat; the hassock which no one kneels on; the poor-box which is

always empty. Hear how the clerk drones out the responses for a

congregation too genteel to respond for themselves. Listen to the

complicated discord in which the words of the Psalmist strike the

ear after copious revision by Tate and Brady. Mark the prompt, if

misdirected, zeal with which old ladies insist on testing the

accuracy of the preacher’s memory by turning out the text. Observe

the length and unimpeachable propriety, the overwhelming dulness, of

his sermon.”

Alas! as far as exterior worship was concerned, the Catholic chapels of

this period were in an equally sad condition; but from how different a

cause! Centuries of persecution had not been able to stamp out the

Catholic faith, but penal laws still in force, though not rigorously

carried out, forced it to hide away in back streets and lanes, always

avoiding whatever might attract public notice, lest it might awaken

again the dormant flames of bigotry. Add to this the state of poverty to

which, in many places, the Catholic body was reduced, and we need not

wonder at the desolate aspect of the chapels, if the miserable

structures that oftentimes were used for divine service deserved the

name. _They_ possessed, however, the presence of that God who had not

disdained the poverty of a stable nor the humble offerings of poor

shepherds; in like manner he looked with indulgence on the mean and

scanty ornaments that in these sad times decorated his altars, and on

the cold and desolate walls within which persecution had forced him to

make his dwelling. He was pleased to await the time when happier days

and gentler laws should once again permit his worship to be freely

celebrated with all the glory and pomp of by-gone years. Such days were

rapidly advancing, and Catholics were not slow in availing themselves of

each relaxation of penal statutes, each favorable turn of Protestant

bigotry, to improve their churches and to carry out more fully their

sacred ceremonies—a task of no small difficulty on the part of a

community so ill supplied with the riches of this world, and so long,

from cruel necessity, forced to content themselves with a simplicity

almost akin to that of the early Christians.

The dawn of the revival, which was now at hand, was marked by some

writers of eminence whose theoretical works contributed much to prepare

the way for it. Their writings were distinguished from those of the

earlier antiquarians by a more practical knowledge of building and a

more exact delineation of the details of the edifices they describe. Mr.

J. Britton may be looked upon as a link between the two schools, as he

had some of the characteristics of both. He was the author of numerous

works on the English cathedral and other Gothic edifices, all

illustrated with really artistic drawings. They were, however, more

designed to create a taste for ancient art among the reading public than

to assist the professional architect.

“While Britton was thus enlisting the sympathy of the amateur world

two architects were engaged in preparing a practical and valuable

work for the use of professional students.

“The examples of Gothic architecture which had hitherto been

selected for publication were chiefly those which either served to

illustrate a principle in the history of the style, or possessed

some picturesque attraction in the way of general effect. But

neither of these were of real service to the practical architect,

who required geometrical and carefully-measured drawings of ancient

roofs, doors, and windows to guide him in his designs and to help

him in reviving a style the details of which had been as yet most

imperfectly studied. Pugin’s (father to the celebrated Welby Pugin)

and Wilson’s specimens of Gothic architecture supplied this want. It

was a happy accident which brought these men together, the one

eminently qualified as a draughtsman for the task, the other equally

fitted to undertake its literary labor.”[104]

Footnote 104:

Eastlake, page 88.

The writer whose name next appears on the roll of champions of Gothic

art is one whose memory is enshrined in the hearts of all English

Catholics—Dr. Milner, Vicar-Apostolic of the Midland district, better

known to most people for his holy life, his ardent zeal, and his

controversial power than as a writer on architecture. In this latter

capacity, however, he deserves a foremost place among those who prepared

the way for the great revival which unfortunately he did not live to see

accomplished.

His _Survey of the Antiquities of Winchester_ revealed much erudition

and a thorough appreciation of ancient art; but by far the most

important part of it was the short but now famous essay it contained,

“On the Rise and Progress of the Pointed Arch.” In it the author uses

for the first time the appellation now become so general as applied to

the architecture of the middle ages—viz., _the pointed style_. His next

work was an important _Treatise on the Ecclesiastical Architecture of

England during the Middle Ages_. In this work the author not only proves

himself an antiquary but a man of taste. A work more important still,

and one productive of the most serious results, was a short pamphlet

entitled _A Dissertation on the Modern Style of Altering Ancient

Cathedrals, as Exemplified in the Cathedral of Salisbury_. In it he

protests in vigorous language against the miserable degradation of the

old churches accomplished under the name of restoration; nor does he

spare Wyat, the leading spirit in these unfortunate _improvements_. No

one before the days of Welby Pugin had so enthusiastically entered into

the spirit of the old art, so thoroughly appreciated its beauties, and

so ably defended its principles, not only against its avowed enemies,

but against the ignorance of many of its would-be admirers. So

outspoken, indeed, was Dr. Milner’s language in this pamphlet that it

shocked the staid members of the Society of Antiquaries, before whom it

was to have been read, and was in consequence withdrawn—not, however, to

lie mouldering in its author’s desk, but soon to appear in print, and to

work even more important effects on the future than its author ever

contemplated.

Dr. Milner died in 1826, the very year that W. Pugin, then a youth of

fourteen, was displaying one of the earliest proofs of his taste for

mediæval art in devoting long hours to the studying and sketching of the

old castle of Rochester.

How little did the gray-haired bishop dream of the wonderful revolution

this youth, as yet unknown to fame, was to accomplish within a few

years. Little did he think, when he saw arising the humble walls of his

Gothic chapel at Winchester, that the day was not far distant when a

Catholic architect would revive throughout the land the glories of that

style which Dr. Milner had so well defended in days when it was

neglected and abused.

One more name of importance must be mentioned before we attempt to trace

the outline of Pugin’s career; we again quote from Sir C. Eastlake:

“Midway in point of time between Milner and Pugin, and possessing,

though in a minor degree, the talents of both, Thomas Rickman, as an

architect and author, plays no unimportant part in the history of

the revival. His churches are perhaps the first of that period in

which the details of old work were reproduced with accuracy of form.

Up to this time antiquaries had studied the principles of mediæval

architecture, and to some extent classified the phases through which

it had passed, while architects had indirectly profited by their

labors when endeavoring to imitate in practice the work of the

middle ages. Rickman united both functions in one man.... In the

science of his art he will not, of course, bear comparison with

Willis. In the analyzing of its general principles he must yield to

Whewell. In capability of invention he ranks, even for his time, far

below Pugin; but it may be fairly questioned whether, if we consider

him in the twofold capacity of a theorist and a practitioner, he did

not do greater service than either his learned contemporaries or his

enthusiastic disciple.”[105]

Footnote 105:

Page 122.

Had Rickman done no more than write his _Attempt to discriminate the

Styles of English Architecture_, he would have been worthy of a high

place among those who contributed to revive Gothic art. He supplied by

this book a want long felt by architects and by those interested in

architecture. Of learned, or rather unlearned, dissertations on the

origin of the pointed style there were plenty, but of those short and

useful volumes to which have been aptly given the name of _hand-books_

there was a complete absence. Rickman’s book gave in a small compass a

very complete history of the various phases of Gothic architecture in

England; the main divisions into periods which he adopted being so good

that they have remained unaltered to the present day. The work was

illustrated with very fair engravings, and no architect who had perused

it could any longer plead ignorance as an excuse for the monstrosities

that were so often produced in those days under the name of Gothic.

His work on French Gothic, the fruits of a journey through the North of

France with his friend Whewell, afterwards the famous Master of Trinity,

is full of interest and contains an elaborate and carefully-drawn

comparison between the mediæval remains in France and England.

With Rickman ends that gloomy night which had so long, with faint

flashes of light now and again, enveloped the science and art of Gothic

architecture; a dawn as sudden as it is bright foretells a day of more

than ordinary brilliancy.

Ignorance and prejudice, which had so long reigned supreme in England in

all matters concerning true religion and true art, were fast giving way

before the researches of conscientious science, and as a result we see

two great movements marking the first quarter of the present century—the

Tractarian movement and the Gothic revival; the one religious, the other

artistic. Of the first it does not enter into our plan to speak here,

though it would no doubt afford a highly interesting study to trace out

the mutual influence these two movements have exercised on one another;

for it is impossible not to perceive that, on the one hand, the inquiry

into the principles and form of ancient art led naturally on to an

inquiry into the ancient formularies and practices of the faith which

had inspired that art; and that, on the other hand, the revival of the

long-forgotten ritual of the old faith led directly to the restoration

and refurnishing of those temples that were so intimately connected with

it. Before entering on the life of Pugin, which constitutes the

culminating point in the great artistic revival we are attempting to

sketch, we cannot do better than quote the opening words of the chapter

in which Sir C. Eastlake traces his career, as it clearly proves the

importance he attaches to the labors of this great man:

“However much we may be indebted to those ancient supporters of

pointed architecture who, faithfully adhering to its traditions at a

period when the style fell into general disuse, strove earnestly, in

some instances ably, to preserve its character; whatever value in

the cause we may attach to the crude and isolated examples of Gothic

work which belong to the eighteenth century, or to the efforts of

such men as Nash and Wyat, there can be but little doubt that the

revival of mediæval design received its chief impulse from the

energy and talents of one architect whose name marks an epoch in the

history of British art, which while art exists at all can never be

forgotten.”[106]

Footnote 106:

P. 145.

Augustus Welby Pugin, the architect to whom these words apply, was born

in London on March 1, 1812. We have already spoken of his father, and of

the important place his illustrated works occupy in the history we are

tracing; he was a French refugee and a Protestant, and his son was

brought up a Protestant. Although the elder Pugin had little

professional practice, he seems to have attained to a position of ease

by the sale of his works and the instruction of pupils. His son was

educated at Christ’s Hospital, on leaving which he entered his father’s

office, having from his earliest years shown a great taste for drawing.

He soon mastered the first elements of his profession and became of much

use to his father, already showing that earnestness in all he undertook

that was so characteristic of him in later years. His taste for mediæval

art received a fresh impulse from a professional tour he made in 1827

with his father through Normandy, which gave him the opportunity of

studying the beauty of Gothic ornament in some of its most splendid

productions.

While still a mere youth his cleverness in designing attracted

attention, and he received a commission from the royal upholsterers to

prepare designs for the new furniture for Windsor Castle, which it was

determined should partake of the character of the building. The drawings

he gave were probably better than what most architects of the day could

have produced, yet in the writings of his after-years he always frankly

pointed out their faults.

A love of variety and a strong taste for roving interrupted for a short

period his architectural studies. He devoted for a time his energies to

scene-painting, and with much success when the subjects were of a

mediæval character. Next we find him carried away by an extraordinary

passion for the sea, and he actually for a certain period commanded a

merchant schooner trading between England and Holland. Having been

wrecked, however, on the Scotch coast, his seafaring ardor was somewhat

cooled, and he returned to the labors of his original profession.

His talents were soon rewarded by increasing practice, many architects

being glad to avail themselves of his wonderful, one might almost say

innate, knowledge of Gothic ornament.

A most serious and important event in Pugin’s life, and one having much

influence on his future career, occurred about this time—his conversion

to the Catholic religion. There can be no doubt that his intense love of

the past and his enthusiastic admiration of the glorious monuments of

the ages of faith strongly biassed his mind towards this determination,

though of course it was not these considerations alone that led him to

take so important a step. His after-life proved how thorough was his

faith and how sincere his piety.

This change of religion affected, in more ways than one, the

professional career of Welby Pugin. From a pecuniary point of view it

probably made little difference to him—as his talents were such as to

insure for him constant work, and he already possessed independent

means. But by this step he sacrificed what was far dearer to him, his

future fame as an architect.

Never was there a more splendid opening for architectural talent than

that very time when Pugin, in the first dawn of his genius, embraced the

Catholic faith. Everything had combined to prepare a revival of Gothic

art. The materials were already collected and awaited but the hand of a

man of genius to make a practical use of them. The ritualistic movement

had awakened the desire to restore the old and to build new churches.

Rich men were ready to give unbounded wealth to further the enterprise.

Had Pugin remained a Protestant, had he preferred fame to conscience, he

might have found an easy road to it by availing himself of an

opportunity so worthy the gifts of one eminently fitted to be a leader

in a movement that combined religion and art. He preferred to return to

the faith that had inspired those mediæval times he so fondly loved, and

to risk his future reputation by offending that feeling which is so

strong in Protestant England against converts. The Catholic who for

centuries has kept his faith they can tolerate, nay, admire; but one who

was their own and deserts them they find it hard to forgive.

Not only did Pugin, in thus affronting public opinion, bias the judgment

of his contemporaries and of future critics, but he actually, by

attaching himself to the poorest religious body in England, deprived

himself of the means of adequately displaying his power.

During the next years that composed the short career of Pugin we find

him working with an activity and enthusiasm that showed how all labor

connected with his art was to him a labor of love. His pen and his

pencil were alike devoted to its service. In 1836 he published his

celebrated _Contrasts_—a work in which he compares with keen irony and

scathing satire the buildings and institutions of the past with those of

the present; in the sketches which illustrate it he delineates with

wonderful humor all the weak points of modern architecture. His style of

writing was flowing and easy, always highly picturesque and

enthusiastic, but sometimes slightly inclined to exaggeration and

eccentricity. It was this that made it so difficult for him to write

without giving offence sometimes even to his own friends and

co-religionists.

His next work was his _True Principles of Pointed Architecture_. It is

but a short volume, consisting of two lectures delivered at St. Mary’s

College, Oscott, but it forms a most complete elementary treatise on

Gothic art, founded on the two great principles enunciated in its first

page: “1. That there should be no features about a building that are not

necessary for convenience, construction, or propriety; 2. That all

ornament should consist of enrichment of the essential construction of

the building.”

It is clearly shown that in these principles lies the true secret of all

correct pointed construction and ornament, and that any analysis of

Gothic work undertaken without taking them into consideration must

inevitably lead to erroneous conclusions.

The truth of these principles is now universally admitted in works that

treat of pointed architecture, but to Pugin belongs the honor of having

first laid them down and having shown how important they were to the

right understanding of the lessons handed down to us in the wondrous

structures of the past.

His next work was _An Apology for the Revival of Christian Architecture

in England_. It is a brilliant defence of Gothic art, intended specially

to prove that it is still “the only correct expression of the faith, the

wants, and climate of our country.”

As a specimen of Pugin’s amusing style when describing the incongruous

productions of modern architecture, we cannot do better than quote the

description of a nineteenth-century cemetery contained in this book; we

only wish we could reproduce the delightful picture that accompanies the

text:

“There are a superabundance of inverted torches, cinerary urns, and

pagan emblems, tastefully disposed by the side of neat gravel walks,

among cypress-trees and weeping willows.

“The central chapel is generally built on such a comprehensive plan

as to be adapted (in the modern sense) for each sect and

denomination in turn as they may require its temporary use; but the

entrance gate-way is usually selected for the grand display of the

company’s enterprise and taste, as being well calculated from its

position to induce persons to patronize the undertaking by the

purchase of shares or graves. This is generally Egyptian, probably

from some associations between the word catacombs, which occurs in

the prospectus of the company, and the discoveries of Belzoni on the

banks of the Nile; and nearly opposite the Green Man and Dog

public-house, in the centre of a dead-wall (which serves as a cheap

medium of advertisement for blacking and shaving-strop

manufacturers), a cement caricature of the entrance to an Egyptian

temple, two and a half inches to the foot, is erected, with

convenient lodges for the policeman and his wife, and a neat pair of

cast-iron hieroglyphical gates which would puzzle the most learned

to decipher; while, to prevent any mistake, some such words as 'New

Economical Compressed Grave Company’s Cemetery’ are inscribed in

_Grecian_ capitals along the frieze, interspersed with hawk-headed

divinities, and surmounted by a huge representation of the winged

Osiris bearing a gas-lamp.”[107]

Footnote 107:

_An Apology for the Revival of Christian Architecture_, p. 12.

In 1844 he published his next important work, _The Glossary of

Ecclesiastical Ornament and Costume_. It is a thoroughly practical book,

designed to supply correct descriptions and patterns for the use of

those who manufacture the various ornaments employed in the ritual of

the church, which were at that time of the most incorrect forms and in

the worst taste.

His other literary productions were numerous but of less importance,

being for the most part of a controversial character, and we pass on to

examine, as far as our limited space permits, Pugin’s career and

influence as a practical architect. Catholic emancipation, in freeing

the church from the galling restraints to which she had been so long

subjected in England and Ireland, opened for her a new era of liberty

and prosperity in those countries. True, she did not regain that wealth

which had been sacrilegiously torn from her at the Reformation; still,

she was enabled, through the generosity of her children, to expend large

sums in the construction of churches somewhat more worthy of the august

mysteries she celebrates than those poor edifices she had been so long

forced to use.

As a Catholic of undoubted talents, Pugin soon found that his

architectural capacity was appreciated by his co-religionists, who

entrusted to him the construction of all their principal churches. Few

among them, indeed, were, by their size or importance, calculated to

give full scope to Pugin’s genius; nevertheless, to the smallest

building he always devoted long study and attention and a scrupulous

fidelity to the principles he had laid down in his writings, although in

many cases it was extremely difficult to do so, owing to the small

amount of money that could be expended on the work. Among the many

churches he designed we may mention, as the best specimens of his skill,

the cathedrals of Birmingham, Southwark, Nottingham, Killarney, and

Enniscorthy; the churches of St. Wilfrid’s, Manchester; St. Marie’s,

Liverpool; St. Giles’, Cheadle; St. Bernard’s Abbey, Leicestershire; St.

Augustine’s, Ramsgate.

In all these churches the exterior beauty has been more or less

sacrificed to interior ornament and decoration, Pugin preferring to

devote all the money possible to beautifying those parts which were most

closely connected with the presence of his God, when the funds did not

permit him to adorn fully both exterior and interior. This has often led

his critics to misjudge his capacity as an architect; even Sir C.

Eastlake falls into this error, and, though a sincere admirer of Pugin,

does not hesitate to assert that “of constructive science he probably

knew but little.” That his greatest power lay in ornament and detail may

no doubt be true; still, we are fully convinced that had he found the

same opportunities of displaying his knowledge as a scientific

architect, and had he not been trammelled by the constant necessity to

keep down expense, he would have amply proved to the world how unfounded

were these accusations.

In comparing Pugin with the architects who have succeeded him people

often forget the difficulties _he_ had to contend against. He had to

revive and educate the whole series of artisans whose combined labors

are required to construct the smallest Gothic edifice—sculptors,

carvers, iron-workers, painters, and decorators. When he began his

career as a practical architect he had to design every smallest item

required for his buildings, and, what is more, often personally to

superintend their manufacture; a lock, a screw, a nail of correct

pointed design were then things that had no existence.

If we take up now a book of that period, we can scarcely believe that

ignorance and absurdity could go so far as to call Gothic the designs we

see there depicted under that appellation. It is solely to Pugin’s

untiring energy, to his conscientious love of his art, and to his

wonderful fertility of invention—gifts which even his adversaries cannot

deny him—that we owe the change that has been wrought in a few years.

The important progress in metal work, which now places at the disposal

of the architect and builder material and designs almost equalling the

best products of the middle ages, is completely due to him; in this, as

in another long-lost branch of art—glass-staining—he found in Mr. J.

Hardman, of Birmingham, one thoroughly competent by his practical

knowledge and refined taste to assist him in carrying out his reforms.