Part III.

He Sang.

I.

Beside the well she stood, and water drew:

The bowl, high held in both her hands, I drained;

She smiled, and sparkles showered of gelid dew

On my hot hair, and brows with travel stained.

“O maiden! by thy lambs, and by thy kids,

And by that holy, hospitable hand,

Know’st thou her name whom Love to name forbids,

That fairest fair one of the far‐off land?”

Her eyes grew large; in wonder half, half ruth

She spake, like one who sorrowed, yet forgave

“_Our_ land a land of beauty is, O youth!

_Her_ maids are fair and good; _her_ sons are brave.”

“O maiden! by those eyes, and quivering lids,

Forgive! From thee Love hides not his sweet lore:

Breathe it to none—not even thy lambs and kids—”

Then whispered I thy name, but told no more.

II.

How base the soldier’s revel o’er his wine!

The tale around the encampment fire; the song!

Would I might hear, O maid! no voice but thine,

Or clash of swords that meet to right the wrong!

Why must his earthlier nature taint, or vex

Man’s race? His heart is brave; his thoughts are large;

Benigner angels guard thy happier sex,

The angels that have innocence in charge.

The brightest of that band I saw in dream

To thee make way: a lily stem she bore:

She vanished, lost in thee, as gleam in gleam

Is lost: thou glittered’st brighter than before.

III.

Who shall ascend into thy realm, O Love?

It is a garden on a mountain steep:

From heaven it hangs, the woods, the clouds above;

Sees many rivers into ocean creep.

Round it are icy spires; that vale they guard;

But who can breathe the airs that o’er it blow?

Within it blooms the rose, and drops the nard;

But who can clasp the roses of the snow?

The bird that sings there sings as sings a bride;

But who her mystic chaunt can understand?

O maid, I saw thee ere we met, and cried,

“The land she treads on is a virgin land!”

IV.

Gladdening, as if in founts of Eden dipped,

Thy beauty cheers and strengthens hearts forlorn,

Not like the shafts of Islam, venom‐tipt;—

Dove’s eyes thou hast, the glances of the morn.

Thy father’s joy art thou, thy mother’s boast;

Upon the dusty track by pilgrims trod

Laugheth the cripple; and the warlike host

Divides before thee, giving thanks to God.

The merchants praise thee, and the wandering guest—

“Her veil down streams with such a humble pride,

Fairer is that alone than all the West

Irreverent boasts of charms that scorn to hide!”

V.

“Is thy love fairer than each other maiden?”

The young maids ask me. Answer find I none:

I know but this;—she shines on hearts grief‐laden

Like visitant from star more near the sun.

Above her vesture’s hem a lustre hovers:

Whiter her veil than earliest white of dawn,

Now lifted as on sighs of happy lovers,

Around her now, like mist o’er Hesper, drawn.

Sweet is her voice, as though with saint and angel

Her converse had been ever, and were still:

With her she seems to waft some high evangel,

So light her step, so frank with all good‐will.

Let her be child, or girl, or maid, or woman—

I know not what she is. Alone I know

She moves o’er earth like creature more than human,

Missioned from God to spread his peace below.

VI.

When, travel‐worn, on thee I chance to muse,

Breeze‐like the fragrance comes across my heart

Of spring‐flowers breathing sweetness through their dews;

So blissful and so bountiful thou art.

That hour I sing no song; but all my soul

Inly with laughter loud of music rings:

The anthems of a spirit o’er me roll;

Of virtue, loveliness, and love he sings.

All light, the fields of duty round me spread;

Beyond them honor sits, with thee beside:

A heaven all glory flashes overhead;

An earth all rapture trembles like a bride.

VII.

Changed is my love from what it was when first

Forth from my heart that dream of fair and good,

Like Eve from side of sleeping Adam, burst,

And by me, when I woke, in glory stood.

That dream wert thou! A dream, and yet how true!

Still, still I see thee oft beside that brook,

Standing ’mid lilies in the evening dew,

And in thy hand a little open book.

Dear are such memories; dearer far than these

Art thou—now known; a lovely human soul

Running on levels of some spirit‐breeze

With wingèd feet to virtue’s glittering goal.

The songs and sufferings of our native land,

The faith that lifts her high all griefs above,

These, and thy daily tasks of heart and hand,

Thee too have raised, and with thee raised my love.

VIII.

My hand, made strong by years of manly strife,

Has taught my heart to love in manly sort;

I know thee now—a maid—one day a wife;

No more a phantom from the fairy court.

Mine Arab sires their towers cross‐crowned had raised

Like thine, on crag and peak, and dwelt therein,

Hundreds of years ere first in scorn they gazed

Far down on crescent flags of Saladin.

Seldom for us the unequal strife hath ceased:

Age after age that martyr‐crown we bear,

Here in our old untamed, inviolate East,

The Church for three short centuries bore elsewhere.

Wife of our race must share the heroic mould:

A mother ’mid our mothers with calm eye

Must look on death: like that great heart of old

Must give her own—if God so wills—to die!

IX.

From things that be around thee stand apart,

For I thy lover am, and fight afar:

A sword I send thee, that betwixt thy heart

And alien things henceforth there may be war.

I send thee not the trophies I have won,

Tokens of town redeemed, or rescued shrine:

I send a sword; thy life is now begun:

Look up! In heaven, too, hangs the sword, a Sign!

With this commandment have I bound thine eyes,

That, fixed and set, henceforth no more they swerve:

Mine are they. She my life who glorifies

On me must gaze not, but that cause I serve!

X.

In single fight we met: the invader fell;

Two hosts stood mute, one gloomy, both amazed;

His eyes, the eyes of one that hears his knell,

On me, and not my lifted sword, were raised.

Forth from that shivered helm outstreamed afar

His locks dust‐stained. Forth from those eyes there shone,

Baleful in death, hate’s never‐setting star:

He hoped no mercy, and he asked for none.

Then cried my heart, “A sister’s hands have twined,

How oft! those locks; a mother’s lips have pressed:

Perhaps this morn the cassia‐shaking wind

Waved them, rich‐scented, o’er his true love’s breast.”

“Foe of my race,” I said, “arise; live free;

But lift no more against the Faith thy sword!”

Was it thy prayer, or but the thought of thee,

That sentenced chieftain rescued and restored?

A Glimpse of the Green Isle. II.

After mature reflection, the Lady from Idaho pronounced the Dublin ladies

the most beautiful in Europe. I consider the judgment an important one. If

the fair arbiter had any prejudice, it could only be a general one against

the recognition of beauty in others of her sex. I have been informed by

young gentlemen of my acquaintance who profess a thorough knowledge of

womankind that such a prejudice is not unusual in feminine minds. I think

Madame Idaho was rather astonished at the result of her observations. It

is possible that, before her visit to Ireland, she supposed that feminine

beauty in Ireland offered only one style: that of the robustious or “Irish

washerwoman” type. She did not say so, however. While I agreed with her,

in general, in her estimate of the Dublin beauties, I ventured to ask if

their lovely feet were not a trifle too flat and too large for perfect

symmetry.

“Not at all,” was the reply. “It is the horrid, clumsy, broad‐toed English

_chaussure_ that makes the ladies’ feet look so broad and flat. If they

wore American _brodequins_, their feet would look as small, in proportion,

as—ahem!—as those of any other nation.”

No more on those feet.

Of the various manifestations of Irish beauty, the most engaging is the

union of black or dark‐brown hair with soft blue eyes, a skin with the

whiteness of milk, and cheeks with the bloom of the rose. It is

inexpressibly soft and attractive. And that wonderful blush that decks the

cheek of youth and age! Is it the soft moisture of the climate which makes

the grass so green, even in the winter of the year, that causes the cheek

to bloom so rosily, even in the winter of old age?

A magnificent _jeunesse_ of the sterner sex may also be seen on promenade

in Grafton Street every afternoon. Bright, intelligent‐looking, of

splendid physique, well dressed, not “flashy,” the students of the

university and the other colleges—the picked youth of the country—are not

inferior in appearance to any class of young men in the great educational

institutions either at home or abroad. They have an amiable weakness for

light‐colored Jouvins and single eye‐glasses. You shall not find two out

of twenty unprovided with a glazing for the left eye. They are armed with

canes—for use as well as ornament. I witnessed a “Town and Gown” row in

January of 187‐, in which the canes did vigorous service. A little snow

had fallen. Snow is a very precious thing in Ireland. It does not last

long, and must be used at once. The foolish janitors had swept the snow

into little heaps. This was temptation too strong for undergraduates.

Snow‐balling commenced. The young gentlemen paid their compliments to the

town through the railings of College Green. The unwashed young gentlemen

of the town replied vigorously. The fun grew fast and furious. In the

delightful excitement of the moment some of the students, not having the

fear of the board before their eyes, paid their compliments to some of the

dons, who happened to cross the outer quadrangle in cap and gown, with

snowballs of no contemptible solidity. The excitement increased. The

gownsmen went outside the college grounds, and charged on the town

ragabrashes who were collected outside. The police intervened in the

interest of order, and were attacked by both parties. The policeman is the

natural enemy of the student as well as of the ragabrash. The police

proceeded to make some arrests among the leaders of the gownsmen, and

began brandishing their clubs. Snowballs were thrown aside, and canes were

used. It was a sight to see the canes go up and down. The gownsmen succeed

in rescuing the prisoners from the police, and retire within the walls,

taking a captive policeman with them, and cheering in triumph. The police

invade the college precincts, and rush to the rescue of their captured

comrade. They are driven out, and the victorious students follow them into

the street. The police suddenly turn on their pursuers, seize one of the

college leaders, and, by a pretty piece of strategy, lift him on an

outside car, and drive off with him at full speed to the nearest police

station. Rescue was out of the question, the _coup_ was executed so

quickly. Everybody rushes after the car, and the green is deserted.

“Et le combat cessa faute de combattants.”

After a week of “hearings” at the police court and intense excitement

among the university men, the ringleaders were fined. The fines were paid

at once. The captured policeman, who was a little battered and bruised,

received ten pounds from the students for “sticking‐plaster.” The board

wisely let off the offenders with a reprimand, and the trouble ended in a

grand display of fireworks by the students.

Old Trinity is an imposing structure. Life‐size statues of Burke and

Goldsmith are placed at either side of the principal entrance. The college

grounds cover about thirty acres—a beautiful green spot in the heart of

the city. In the centre of the outer quadrangle is a pretty _campanile_.

The provost has a pleasant residence within the college limits. Entry into

the grounds is free to all. A chief porter, in a swallow‐tailed coat and

black‐velvet jockey‐cap, watches over the principal entrance. The

examination‐hall, the library, the lecture‐rooms, the museum, etc., are

each under charge of a special Cerberus in a jockey‐cap, who shows you the

room or building under his particular charge. Each Cerberus expects a

gratuity. He will be very obsequious if he gets what his modesty considers

a sufficient _douceur_, and the reverse if he does not. The new museum

building is a fine edifice. The entrance‐hall and principal stair‐case are

remarkable for the splendid specimens of every variety of native marble

they contain. The old rooms, where the museum now is, are damp and

cheerless. There is an interesting collection of ancient Irish weapons,

ornaments, etc. What is said to have been the harp of Brian Boroihme will

be pointed out to you by the jockey‐capped janitor, who will also inform

you that, though the public is admitted, the collection is intended for

the use of the students, and not as an exhibition of curiosities.

Lectures, to which the public are admitted free, are given twice a week by

the various professors during term‐time. I had the pleasure of attending

some lectures by Sir Robert Stewart, the professor of music, and one by

the professor of ancient history. The latter gentleman handled Mr. Froude

in an eminently courteous and scholarly manner, but at the same time most

decidedly “without gloves.” His lectures, however, were but poorly

attended, while Sir Robert crammed the examination‐hall with the taste and

fashion of Dublin, from the lady‐lieutenant down. All flocked to hear his

comparison of the Scotch and Irish bag‐pipes, illustrated by performers on

these instruments. Lady Spencer, it seems, has taken the Irish bag‐pipes

under her patronage. Her ladyship seems to be a very amiable and charming

person, but as to her taste in musical instruments—well! _dêgustibus non_.

Trinity College is on the east side of College Green. On the north is the

principal façade of the old Parliament House. It was sold to the Bank of

Ireland after the Union. The House of Commons is now the teller’s office.

The principal façade is of the same order. It is grandly simple and

impressive. The semi‐circular colonnades of Ionic columns produce a noble

effect. This building is said to be the finest development of the order

among modern structures in Europe. I am inclined to think that this

pretension is not without foundation. The dingy appearance of all public

buildings in Ireland and throughout the British Islands—the effect of

smoke and almost continual rain—detracts greatly from their effect. A

porter in livery, with a scarlet waist‐coat and a nose to match, shows you

the House of Lords. A statue of George III. stands where the throne

formerly stood. In all other respects the room remains as it was when

Ireland had “a Parliament House of her own.” Tapestries of the Siege of

Derry and the Battle of the Boyne are hung on the walls. If you give your

red‐breasted conductor a sufficient gratuity, he will ask you to “take a

chair,” that you may be able to say “you had a seat in the House of

Lords.”

One must not leave College Green without paying his compliments to the

equestrian statue of William III., which stands nearly opposite the Bank

of Ireland. The king is costumed _en Romain_. The bronze representative of

the glorious and pious Dutchman and his charger have suffered severely at

the hands of their enemies. The steed’s fore‐leg, which is raised, as in

the act of stepping, has been broken off more than once, and replaced in

contempt of proportion. A curious critic has calculated that, if the leg

were straightened out, it would prove to be about half a foot longer than

the other legs. A gilded wreath on the brows of the statue gives it rather

a “gingerbread” appearance.

At the end of College Street is a bronze statue of Thomas Moore. The

Dublin critics call it “a gloomy horror that murders the memory” of the

poet. The unrivalled songster is enveloped in a long cloak, and holds a

tablet and pencil. He seems to be taking an inventory of the cabs and

“outsides” that pass his station. The statue reminded me of that of Mr.

Lincoln in Union Square. Both have the same weather‐beaten, “Ancient

Mariner” appearance, even to the trowsers of truly nautical extent. At the

end of Westmoreland Street—which is a continuation of College Street—is a

statue of William Smith O’Brien, which is quite respectable in design, and

does not lack spirit in execution. The artist saw that voluminous trowsers

are incompatible with bronze or marble.

Two minutes’ walk brings us to the City Hall—formerly the

Exchange—situated on Cork Hill. It is a fine building of Portland stone

with a Corinthian portico of six lofty columns. It is surmounted by a

cupola. In the hall is a statue of Grattan by Chantrey, one of O’Connell

by Hogan, of Dr. Lucas by Rontilias, and of the Third George by Van Nost.

If you wish to see the Council Chamber—which has nothing more attractive

than portraits of the various lord‐mayors, O’Connell among the number—a

gruff and crusty old porter in blue coat and brass buttons will admit you,

_moyennant finance_. Even an extra obolus will not soften this rough old

Cerberus.

We are now close by the Cork Hill entrance to “the Castle.” A figure of

Justice, or Fortitude—I really forget which—surmounts the gate, and a

private of the Coldstream Guards stands sentry. He will not stop you, as

entry is free to all. About eleven in the morning is a good time to visit

the castle‐yard. At that hour the guard is relieved, and a magnificent

military band will delight your ears with most excellent music.

The castle is a rambling structure, situated in a poor quarter of the

city. There are two quadrangles: the upper and the lower castle‐yard. In

the upper are the apartments of the viceroy; in the lower, the offices and

the castle chapel. The only portion of the original building now standing

is the Record Tower, anciently known as the Ward Tower. Irish prisoners of

state were here formerly confined. General Arthur O’Connor, I believe, was

the last state prisoner who had to endure its hospitality.

The castle chapel is really a Gothic gem. It is built of Irish limestone

and oak. The carving in the interior is exquisite. The windows bear the

arms of the various lord‐lieutenants in stained glass. The verger—a

patriarchal‐looking Englishman in a long, gray beard—was very polite and

attentive. He looked so “respectable,” so venerable, that we hesitated to

offer him a gratuity, lest we might offend him. He soon undeceived us on

this point, for he accepted an English shilling; and pocketed it with an

expression of thanks. The traveller through the three kingdoms never fails

to discover a great many very respectable‐looking persons who are not

above receiving gratuities of sums from a three‐penny piece upwards.

S. Patrick’s Cathedral is situated in a poor and squalid portion of the

city. The poor buildings which cluster close around it mar its general

effect. It was closed when we reached it, but a silver key will open S.

Patrick’s, like most other buildings, at most hours. We were informed that

in one of the dingy tenements hard by we should find a person who would

admit us. We did find him—a man still young, dressed in very rusty black.

He smelled very strongly of whiskey, _entre nous_. The interior of the

cathedral is simple and grand. In the choir hang the helmets, swords, and

banners of the Knights of S. Patrick. The spot where Swift and Stella

sleep was the one most interesting to us, and thither our guide led us at

once. Swift’s memorial is a plain slab of marble affixed to one of the

pillars. He is buried in front of it. The church is damp and cold. Our

guide seems to feel the need of another stimulant. His voice trembles as

he reads the caustic dean’s inscription on Marshal Schomberg’s tomb; for

our guide has picked up some Latin—off the tomb‐stones, probably. The dean

made several applications to the descendants of Schomberg for funds to

raise a monument to their deceased ancestor. But they never vouchsafed a

reply to the dean. He finally put up a tablet at his own expense. The

inscription, which was written by him, shows that he was very bitter on

the subject. The place where Swift lies now needs a little care. Our

conductor said he had called attention to it in vain; but, as I said

before, he smelt strongly of the native beverage. There is a very fine

monument to the officers and men of the 18th Royal Irish who fell in the

Indian Rebellion. But the oldest and most remarkable monument in the

church is that of Boyle, the first Earl of Cork. It is from twenty to

thirty feet high, and represents the earl and countess lying side by side,

surrounded by their children, thirteen in number, if I remember rightly.

The figures are kneeling. They are life‐size, and are colored.

S. Patrick’s has been recently restored in its original style by a wealthy

brewer of Dublin at a cost of seven hundred thousand dollars. It procured

him a baronetcy. The grandeur of the interior is not marred by pews. The

movable seats—such as one sees in Notre Dame and the Madeleine—are

adopted. A pregnant notice is posted on each chair. It informs the public

that “the future sustentation” of the cathedral depends solely on the

voluntary contributions made by the public at the Offertory. Pity the

sorrows of the disendowed Irish Church!

We were not able to visit Christ Church and the tomb of that ancient

filibuster, Strongbow, as the church was closed for repairs. A wealthy

distiller has undertaken the restoration of this cathedral at his own

expense. It is said that he also expects to get a baronetcy for his money,

like his rival, the manufacturer of “Foker’s Entire.” Money is a glorious

thing, if one has plenty of it. Tom Stumps, who sells just enough of man’s

brain‐stealing enemy to eke out a miserable living, is a low, disreputable

fellow. Bob Shallow, who manufactures the liquid madness _en grana_ and

makes a fortune by selling it to Tom Stumps and his like, becomes a

distinguished patriot, a public benefactor, and “Sir Robert Shallow, Esq.,

Justice of the Peace and _coram_.”

The cathedral in Marlborough Street is in the Grecian style, with a

portico of Ionic columns, in imitation, as we are told, of the façade of

the Temple of Theseus at Athens. Massive columns separate the nave and

aisles. The interior decorations are of great richness. In my humble

judgment, they trench on the florid.

The Four Courts, on Usher’s Quay, rise in solemn grandeur over the Liffey.

This building stands on the site of the ancient Monastery of S. Savior. It

was finished in 1800. The central front has a fine portico of six

Corinthian columns surmounted by a rich pediment. On the left stands a

statue of Moses. On either side are statues of Justice and Mercy. At the

extremities of the façades are reclining figures of Wisdom and Authority.

The main building is flanked by spacious quadrangles enclosed by arcades

of stone. The quadrangles are entered by broad and lofty gateways. The

main hall is circular in shape, and about seventy feet in diameter. The

“Four Courts,” Chancery, Queen’s Bench, Exchequer, and Common Pleas, open

into this hall. It is a busy, buzzing place in term‐time. Lawyers with

plenty of briefs, and plenty of lawyers without briefs, may be seen there,

the former having hurried interviews with their clients, the latter

dawdling about with quizzing glasses on their eyes, exhibiting their wigs

and gowns, and eating oranges and “currant‐buns.” The court‐rooms are

small, uncomfortable, badly lighted, and ill ventilated. The hall is

covered by a lantern and a dome supported by Corinthian pillars. In the

spaces between the windows are allegorical _alti‐relievi_—Justice, Wisdom,

Liberty, Law, etc., and medallions of Moses, Lycurgus, Solon, and other

great law‐givers. During night sessions a colossal statue of Truth,

holding a torch lit by gas, illuminates the hall. Over the entrances to

the court‐rooms are bas‐reliefs of subjects in English and Irish history.

The hall contains statues of Lord Plunkett and other legal celebrities.

The custom‐house is on Custom‐House Quay, four or five squares east of the

Four Courts, and, like the latter building, looks upon the Liffey. The

riverfront is about a hundred and thirty yards long. The portico is Doric.

The Union of England and Ireland is allegorically represented in _alto‐

relievo_. The sister kingdoms are sailing in the same shell, while Neptune

drives away Famine and Despair. The building is surmounted by a lofty dome

which bears a statue of Hope.

Dublin is well supplied with means of locomotion at cheap rates. There are

omnibuses, street‐railroads, outsides, insides, covered cars, and four‐

wheelers. The four‐wheeler is something the same as the New York _coupé_.

The fares for cars or _coupés_ are sixpence English per trip for two

persons, sixpence for each additional person, and an additional sixpence

for each stoppage or “set‐down.” The street‐cars, or “tramway cars,” have

seats on the roof, which are a few cents cheaper than the seats in the

interior. The “top seats” are much used by all classes in fine weather.

The city ordinances are very strict regarding cabmen and car‐drivers, and

the magistrates show the “jarveys” no mercy when they are proved to have

made overcharges or illegal demands. The drivers are consequently very

careful in their dealings with the general public. If you have a trans‐

Atlantic flavor about you, “jarvey” will expect a gratuity. You give him

his exact fare. In order to keep within the law, he does not make a demand

for a greater sum, but, allowing the coin to rest on his open palm, he

looks at it with an air of superb disdain, and then, eyeing you with a

sidelong glance, he asks with an air of primitive innocence:

“An’ what’s this for, sir?”

“For your fare,” you reply sharply, with a determination not to be imposed

upon.

“Humph!” he says. “Shure it’s a mighty long dhrive for half a bob. Faith,

it’s hard for a poor divil to make a livin’ nowadays.”

Ten to one you agree with him, and give him an additional threepence or

sixpence, which he receives with enthusiastic wishes that your life may be

prolonged to an indefinite extent.

Our party patronized the four‐wheelers extensively, but never had the

hardihood to venture on an “outside” in daylight. We were averse to public

display. During our stay in Ireland we tried the “outside” on one occasion

only; then it was against our will. Fortunately, it was at night. We

reached Dublin, from a visit to some friends in the south, by the 10 P.M.

train. All the _coupés_ and covered cars were engaged. Our lodgings were

about two miles from the railway station. Walking, with the travelling

“traps” necessary on British railroads, was out of the question. We were

compelled to take an “outside.”

“How do you feel?” I asked the Lady from Idaho after we were seated and

had started.

“Rather out of place,” she replied. “I feel as if I ought to be a little

intoxicated.”

Her answer expressed my feeling exactly. It seemed to me that I was going

“on the biggest kind of a spree.”

Railroads furnish rapid transit to suburban retreats where reside

professional and commercial men whose business is in the city. One can

live in the pleasant little village of Kingstown, the harbor of Dublin,

six miles from the city, and reach Dublin in fifteen minutes. Trains run

each way every half‐hour. It has taken me an hour and a half to come from

Eighty‐sixth Street to the City Hall by the street‐cars. This was when we

met with no accidents, and made a good trip. But New York has the worst

locomotive arrangements of any city in the world, and immeasurably the

dearest.

I had counted upon finding a great many beggars in Ireland. I expected,

whenever I alighted from coach or car, to have to run the gauntlet of a

crowd of hungry petitioners. I was most agreeably disappointed. During my

stay in Ireland I was asked for charity in the public streets only once.

It was in Dublin, by a wretched‐looking woman with a sick child.

A fine view of Dublin is obtained from one of the eminences in the Phœnix

Park. It takes in the entire line of quays. This view has something of a

reduced and smoke‐blackened effect of Paris. The Phœnix is one of the

finest and most extensive parks in the world. It covers nearly eighteen

hundred acres. It is true that art has not done much for it, but nature

has done a great deal. It possesses some of the most beautiful

characteristics of English park scenery—beautiful green lawns, dotted with

clumps of trees. Large herds of deer course swiftly over the uplands, or

stop in groups, half frightened, to reconnoitre, in a coy side‐glance, the

intruder into their domain. Charming rides, drives, and walks invite the

dwellers in the city to pure air and healthful exercise. A portion of the

park is railed off into a “People’s Garden,” where poor as well as rich

have free ingress, and can gladden their town‐weary eyes with the sight of

growing shrubs and budding flowers, and graceful water‐fowl sailing on the

pretty meres. A lofty monument to the Duke of Wellington—not possessed of

any artistic grace, however—crowns one of the knolls. On the right of the

main avenue is the Viceregal Lodge. Near it is the column, mounted by a

phœnix, erected by the celebrated Lord Chesterfield, who first caused the

park to be thrown open to the people. The English Government never sent to

Ireland a viceroy who had less prejudices against the people he was sent

to govern. Somewhere in his celebrated letters he speaks of “his friends

the Irish,” and says: “They always liked me, and I liked them.” The

Viceregal Lodge, with its dependent buildings, is a delightful summer

retreat. I do not wonder that the viceroy should be glad to see the return

of spring, that he might get away from the poor locality in which the

castle is situated. The Hibernian school for soldiers’ children is

situated at the lower extremity of the park.

The Zoölogical Gardens are not far from the King’s Bridge entrance. The

collection is a fair one, but the damp climate does not agree with the

animals, and they have the same woe‐begone appearance as their fellow‐

sufferers in the Regent’s Park. The elephants have a faded, mildewed

appearance. The furred animals are suggestive of worn‐out hair trunks. In

neither the Dublin nor the London Gardens do they look so bright and sleek

as, under the brighter sky and more genial atmosphere of Paris, in the

Jardin des Plantes and the Jardin d’Acclimatation. The collection of lions

is good. Among them is a noble leo which the keeper informed us was born

in the gardens.

“Why, he is an Irish lion!” said one of our party, hazarding a gentle

joke. There was no response from the keeper. Not the merest ripple of a

smile. Decidedly, the Irish in Ireland are becoming a serious people.

Between the Under Secretary’s Lodge and the Hibernian School is the

historical tract known as “The Fifteen Acres.” It was a celebrated

duelling‐ground in the old days, when a “crooked look” was followed by an

invitation to pistols and coffee. There it was that “the Queen’s Bench

went out with the Common Pleas,” and the “Chancery winged the Exchequer.”

It was there that Daniel O’Connell met Mr. d’Esterre, and killed him.

Beyond the park lie the famous “Strawberry Beds,” where the Dubliners

crowd, in the season, to enjoy their “sweet strawberries smothered in

cream.”

An omnibus plies regularly between the city and the Botanical Gardens at

Glasnevin; but it is better to take a four‐wheeler, and suit your own time

and convenience. Make your bargain with Jehu before you start, however.

The gardens are about thirty acres in extent. The cemetery where lie the

ashes of the great orators, Curran and O’Connell, is at Glasnevin. The

monument to O’Connell is an imitation of that puzzle to antiquarians—the

Irish Round Tower. The effect of the monument is not good. It seemed to me

grotesque and out of place. I could not at first explain to myself why it

produced such a harsh, unpleasing effect. A glance at the veritable Tower

of Clondalkin enlightened me. The mock tower wants the mellowing touch of

artist‐centuries to soften down its hard, new outlines, and make it seem

in keeping with the repose that reigns in the City of the Dead.

A pilgrimage to the birthplace of Thomas Moore was a labor of love which

we promised ourselves would be among the first performed after reaching

Dublin. We learned that the spot where the bard first saw the light was in

Anngiers Street, generally pronounced by the Dubliners _Aingers_ Street.

Everybody we asked professed to know all about it, yet nobody could tell

us the number of the house. Anngiers Street is not a very long street. We

concluded to go through it from end to end, and at either side, examining

every house in detail. Anngiers Street commences at Stephen Street, in

rear of the castle, and extends to Bishop Street. It is not a particularly

clean street. It is only just to say, however, that it is no dirtier than

continental, transatlantic, or Britannic streets of like degree. We began

our pilgrimage at the wrong end, but our patient search was at length

rewarded. The house is No. 12, at the corner of Anngiers Street and Little

Longford Street. It was then occupied by “Thomas Healy, Wine and Spirit

Merchant.” According to some of little Tom’s biographers, the old house

has always been devoted to the sale of intoxicating beverages. His father

was what Uncle Sam calls by the undignified name of “rumseller.” But

“honor and shame from no condition rise,” and Tom’s muse may owe her

seductive, anacreontic blush to his early associations.

A weather‐soiled and smoke‐blackened bust of the poet occupies a niche

between the windows of the second story. The house has been recently

painted and renovated. When these repairs were commenced, the bust was

removed by the proprietor, and was not replaced at their completion. The

worthy vender of wine and spirits who occupied the house, though he

believed in filling bumpers fair, and their power of smoothing the brow of

Care, was probably rather bored by the continual visits of votaries to the

shrine of the poet. The sacrifices of these pilgrims to the rosy muse were

most probably merely theoretical. They did not “send round the wine,” or

order any of it sent to their address in the city. They took none of those

“brimming glasses” generative of “wit’s electric flame.” A plague on such

pilgrims! say I, marry and amen! The bust of the bard shall no longer be a

beacon for them. But the statesmen and critics who sit at the base of

Nelson’s Pillar soon noticed that the niche was empty. Their poetical ire

was raised to an unpleasant degree. They brought such influences to bear

on the proprietor of the Cradle of Genius that the bust was at once

restored to its accustomed niche.

The Dubliners have a passion for flowers and rock‐work. Every available

foot of ground in front and in rear of their houses is devoted to the

cultivation of flowers and the building of miniature grottos. The city is

spreading very fast, and rows of cottages are building in the suburbs on

all sides. In general, the houses are not what we Americans would call

comfortable. The fire‐places are very small; for coal is scarce and dear,

and a bundle of kindling‐wood, composed of half a dozen chips not much

larger than matches, is an object of purchase. The grates seem constructed

to throw out smoke instead of heat. In this they are well seconded by the

moist, heavy atmosphere. Living is good and cheap, however—about one‐

fourth cheaper than it is in our principal cities on this side of the

Atlantic. Liquors are good in quality and moderate in price. Clothing of

all kinds costs two‐thirds less than in New York, and is not “shoddy.” The

English custom of wearing flowers in the button‐hole prevails in Dublin.

The commerce in flowers is therefore extensive, and the shops devoted to

that charming traffic make delightful displays of floral treasures. The

Irish fruit, however, with the exception of strawberries, gooseberries,

and currants, is inferior to ours. American apples are for sale at all

fruiterers’, at prices very little greater than those of New York.

Carving in “bog‐oak” is quite an important trade in Dublin. Indeed, it may

much more probably be called an art. I have seen some very artistic

specimens of bog‐wood ornaments—statuettes, groups, etc. Ladies’ chains,

brooches, and bracelets of Irish bog‐oak were very fashionable a year or

two since. The fashion extended even to London and Paris.

The Dublin streets are dull at night. The quality of gas supplied the city

is poor. Early closing is pretty general, and all the principal stores are

closed at dark. Doubtless this is better for the clerks and shopmen, and

more economical for their employers. But it is not so pleasant for that

large class of the community who love to saunter along the lighted streets

in the evening, and feast their eyes on the treasures in the illuminated

shop‐windows. There is little to tempt the tourist into the Dublin streets

at night. I should advise him—or particularly _her_—to avoid promenading

on Saturday evening. I regret to say that evening is very generally

observed by handicrafts‐men and laborers, and even by shopmen and clerks,

as a Bacchanalian festival. The number of persons who sacrifice to the

rosy god at the week’s end is lamentably great. Monday is a workmen’s

holiday, and it is very hard to get mechanics to work on that day.

The unsavory localities of Dublin are designated by strange names. Here

are a few by way of example: Bow Lane, near the Insane Hospital founded by

Dean Swift, who, as he says or sings,

“Left the little wealth he had

To build a house for fools or mad,

To show, by one satiric touch

No nation wanted it so much”;

Cook’s Lane, Paradise Row, Cuff Street, Bride Alley, Lung Lane, Smoke

Alley, Black Horse Lane, Bull Alley, Pill Lane, Marrowbone Lane, Pig Town,

and Stony Batter.

One Corpus Christi.

“Flowers? Are they for a bride?” he said,

And wondered if that graceful head,

Now bent to catch the soft perfume,

Was soon to wear their tender bloom;

But when she raised her modest eyes,

And answered him in half surprise,

“No, they are for our Lord,” he smiled,

And thought: “This is indeed a child.”

“Give me the loveliest,” she said

“Delicate white and rosy red,

And heliotrope and mignonette,

All that you know and I forget;

And heap these crimson roses, so:

Yes, they are costly, that I know;

But what can be too fair or sweet

To strew beneath His sacred feet?”

The light was fading; broken flowers

Lay scattered through the aisles in showers;

For all their fragrant wealth that day

Had marked the Master’s glorious way,

And now, before the altar‐rail,

A girl knelt, motionless and pale.

A line of sunlight touched her hair,

Her slender hands were clasped in prayer;

In silent bliss the moments passed,

For she had lingered to the last,

Unconscious, in that holy spot,

Of eyes that watched and wearied not.

“How beautiful!” the whispered thought,

All human, all of earth, she caught;

And reading what that thought expressed

By the one key‐note in her breast,

Uplifting her adoring head,

“Is He not beautiful?” she said.

A thrill of awe, a flush of shame,

He knelt, and named his Saviour’s name.

Softly she glided from the place:

He never looked upon her face;

Low bent to earth his suppliant head,

“O Lord! make _me_ a child,” he said.

Relatio Itineris In Marylandiam.

Narrative of a Voyage to Maryland. 1633.

By F. Andrew White, S.J.

The most beautiful chapter in the colonial history of North America is

that setting forth the colonization of fair Maryland, _Terra Mariæ_, or,

as she was pre‐eminently called, the _Land of the Sanctuary_. And yet this

is, strange to say, one of the least read and least known of the chapters

of our early history. Every American knows all about the Puritan Pilgrim

Fathers, and the _Mayflower_, and Plymouth Rock, and all the facts and

fictions concerning the settlement of New England. Most Americans devoutly

believe, upon the authority of New England orators and historians, that

the Pilgrim Fathers aforesaid were the founders of the civil and religious

liberty now organized in this great republic, mistaking a strife for

sectarian ascendency and domination for a contest for the great principles

of religious liberty. In point of fact, the Puritan Pilgrims held in

intense horror the very principles now so generously assigned to them.

They wanted, not equality, but supremacy. It was only in Catholic Maryland

that religious equality was truly established, both by the design of the

Catholic proprietary, Lord Baltimore, and by the legislative enactments of

the freemen of the province, who cordially invited all persons persecuted

for their religious belief to find not only a refuge in Maryland, but all

the rights and privileges, civil and religious, enjoyed by themselves, the

founders of the colony.

Here, and here only, then, do we see the first rays of true civil and

religious liberty in the American colonies—a glimmer of light in old S.

Mary’s like Portia’s candle:

“_Portia_—That light we see is burning in my hall.

How far that little candle throws his beams!

So shines a good deed in a naughty world.”

If now, indeed, the greater glory dims the less, we must not forget the

light of the candle in the then surrounding darkness.

Everything connected with the early history of Maryland is, and ought to

be, deeply interesting to every American of liberal culture or sentiment.

We are pleased to see that the Maryland Historical Society is making

earnest efforts to gather and save all the fragmentary lore pertaining

thereto. The volume we now have in hand bears evidence of the fact. We

give the title‐page in full, as a summary of its substance:

“Fund Publication, No. 7.”—_Relatio Itineris in Marylandiam. Declaratio

Coloniæ Domini Baronis de Baltimoro. Excerpta ex Diversis Litteris

Missionariorum, ab anno 1635, ad annum 1638._ (Seal of Maryland Historical

Society.) “Narrative of a Voyage to Maryland. By F. Andrew White, S.J. An

Account of the Colony of the Lord Baron of Baltimore. Extracts from

different letters of missionaries, from the year 1635 to the year 1677.

Edited by the Rev. E. A. Dalrymple, S.T.D. Baltimore, February, 1874.

Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. (Printers to the Maryland Historical

Society).”

The Historical Society gives us a neat octavo volume of nearly 200 pages,

issued in a style that would do credit to any publishing house in America,

or, for that matter, in Europe either.

The learned editor, Dr. Dalrymple, tells us in the preface where and how

these valuable documents were obtained: “About the year 1832 the Rev.

William McSherry, S.J., discovered, in the archives of the ‘Domus

Professa’ of the Society in Rome, the originals of the MSS. which are

named on the title‐page. He carefully copied these MSS., and placed the

copies in the library of Georgetown College, D. C., of which institution

(being at the same time the provincial of the society in Maryland) he

afterwards became the honored president.”

Translations were made and printed of these manuscripts; but, copies being

nearly exhausted, the Historical Society determined to make a new issue,

accompanying the new translation with the Latin text, as far as that could

be obtained, some pages of the original transcripts being unfortunately

lost. The present volume is of the new issue, and it is little to say that

its contents are intensely interesting.

It is quite charming to follow good F. White, missionary, saint, scholar,

“vir non minus sanctitate vitæ, quam doctrina conspicuus,” in his humble

and earnest and successful labors among the savage aborigines of Maryland.

His great soul was given up to his holy mission. We follow the little

fleet, the _Ark_ and the _Dove_ (what beautiful and significant names—the

_ark_ of Noah, and the _dove_ sent forth by the patriarch!), over the

waste of waters, where they had not only the dangers of the sea, but

_Turks and pirates_, to dread, even from the British Channel onward over

the whole _Virginian_ Ocean.

On the 25th of March, A.D. 1634, the pious missionaries celebrated, as

they believed, the first Mass ever said in Maryland. But it seems that

some of their own order had preceded them on this field; for as early as

1570 F. Segura and other Spanish Jesuits from Florida were endeavoring to

bring the Indian tribes on the shores of the Chesapeake into the Christian

fold, when they were ruthlessly murdered before the rustic altar on which

they had daily offered the Holy Sacrifice for the traitors who slew them

(_Woodstock Letters_).

The colonists in S. Mary’s soon made friendly relations with the Indians,

and the missionaries had the inexpressible happiness of bringing many over

to the true faith. The fathers would often‐times leave the dwellings of

the whites to abide entirely with the Indians, though the governor

disapproved of remote excursions, on account of the treachery of hostile

tribes, who were always hovering around the borders. The fathers,

moreover, had no light duties in attending to the spiritual wants of the

colonists themselves, who were largely, but by no means exclusively, good

Catholics.

In those primitive days, when all the freemen of the province met in

general assembly for the purposes of legislation, F. White and his

colleagues were summoned to take part in the sessions; but they declined

the honor, and, as “they earnestly requested to be excused from taking

part in the secular concerns of the colony, their request was granted.”

They could do _their work_ more effectively, _ad majorem Dei gloriam_, in

the rude Indian wigwam where they had established an altar, than in the

hall of the legislative assembly.

Lord Baltimore obtained lands from the Indians by purchase, and not by

conquest, and colonists and Indians and missionaries were usually upon the

most friendly terms together. The Indians treated the strangers to their

dishes, to _pone_ and _omini_, and roasting ears, and game, and fish, and

oysters; and, in return, during a season of famine, the Indians were

supplied from the not over‐abundant stores of the colonists. The natives

then were not inclined to strong potations: “They are especially careful

to refrain from wine and warm drinks, and are not easily persuaded to

taste them, except some whom the English have corrupted with their own

vices.” Alas! from that day to this how many untold thousands of the

children of the forest have been sent, body and soul, to perdition by the

infusion and diffusion among them of English vices!

The missionaries give accounts of their labors with a _naïveté_ that is

charming. We can see them starting on the broad river in a little boat—a

father, an interpreter, and a servant‐man of all work, with their supplies

of bread and cheese, and dried corn and beans, with a bottle of wine for

religious purposes, a casket with the sacred utensils, and a table as an

altar for performing sacrifice, and another casket with trifles for the

Indians—bells, combs, fishing‐hooks, needles and thread, and other such

commodities. They take a tent to cover them when beyond the reach of

English residents, and, after a weary day’s work, they lie down by the

open fire to take their rest. “If fear of rain threatens, we erect our

hut, and cover it with a larger mat spread over; nor, praise be to God, do

we enjoy this humble fare and hard couch with a less joyful mind than more

luxurious provisions in Europe.” In fact, they are so happy in their work

that they think God gives them already a foretaste of the blessed life of

the future.

Upon one of these excursions a friendly Indian was pursued by enemies and

transfixed with a spear; they “pierced him through from the right side to

the left, at a hand’s breath below the arm‐pit, near the heart itself,

with a wound two fingers broad at each side.” Some of the man’s friends

were converts, and they called in F. White to prepare him for death. The

missionary gave him suitable instructions, taught him short prayers, and

received him into the church, and, touching his wounds with relics of the

most holy cross, took his leave, directing the bystanders, when he should

breath his last, to take him to the chapel for the purpose of burial. The

next day this same Indian, with a companion, followed the father in a

boat, showed him the red spots where the wounds were of the previous day,

exclaiming “that he is entirely well, nor from the hour at which the

father had left yesterday had he ceased to invoke the most holy name of

Jesus, to whom he attributed his recovered health.”

The people of the lower counties of Maryland have always had a reputation

for culture, refinement, and good manners. They appear to have these

traits by inheritance. “The Catholics who live in the colony,” writes a

missionary (A.D. 1640), “are not inferior in piety to those who live in

other countries; but in urbanity of manners, according to the judgment of

those who have visited the other colonies, are considered far superior to

them.”

We find we are extending what was intended for a brief notice into a

regular article, for which the reader may or not thank us; an abiding and

essential interest in the cause must be our apology. We will say but

little more, though the theme admits of vast expansion.

In Lord Baltimore’s _Declaratio_, or account of the colony—which, by the

way, is very much _couleur de rose_ (“It is sad to contrast the glowing

accounts of Maryland in the _Declaratio_ and the painful experience of the

missionaries,” says the editor with great justice)—we find him inviting

his countrymen to go to his colony, not only to better their material

interests, but also to spread the seeds of religion and piety—a work, he

says, _dignum angelis, dignum Anglis_. This recalls to mind the happy

witticism of the great pontiff who sent Augustine to perform the same work

with the English themselves.

There is scarcely a page of this new issue of the _Relatio_, and the

accompanying letters, that does not invite special interest. Surely those

missionaries were men of God, living and dying to serve him only. “I would

rather,” writes F. Brock, laboring in the conversion of these Indians,

“expire on the bare ground, deprived of all human succor, and perishing

with hunger, than once think of abandoning this holy work of God from fear

of want.” Within a few weeks after writing that letter, worn out with

privations, he went to rest from his labors.

Good F. White, seized by Claiborne’s rebel soldiers, was sent in irons to

England, where he died like a saint, as he had lived. “His self‐denial,

privations, and sufferings,” says Dr. Dalrymple, himself a Protestant

minister, “and the touching patience and cheerfulness with which they were

all endured, move our profound respect and admiration. F. White deserves a

high place of honor amongst the many heroic missionaries of the Society of

Jesus.” What wonderful men they were indeed, the old Jesuit missionaries!

We of the present day could scarcely believe their lives possible but for

the F. De Smets and kindred spirits who repeat them even in our own day.

_Laudamus viros gloriosos.... Omnes isti in generatione suæ gentis gloriam

adepti sunt._—Eccles. cap. xliv.

We may repeat that the Maryland Historical Society has done a good work in

bringing out this volume anew; and its agents, editor, translator, and

publisher have all done their work in the most creditable manner. We

observed in the translation, excellent as it is, some few points open to

criticism; as, _e.g._, p. 10, “_To the Very Rev. Father, General Mutius

Vitelleschi_.” The comma is misplaced between father and general. On p. 11

it is said, speaking of S. Clement, “who, because he had been tied to an

anchor and thrown into the sea, obtained the crown of martyrdom.” A man is

not a martyr because of his execution in any fashion, but because of the

principles for which he suffers. We find, on p. 12, the word _Sabbatum_

rendered _Sabbath_, instead of _Saturday_, which would convey the true

idea in this case. There may be some other slight inaccuracies of the same

or a similar kind, but, upon the whole, they are unimportant, and the

translation is a fair and creditable rendering of the text.

Finally, we would say that if the reader would wish to spend a few hours,

safely, profitably, and pleasantly in field and camp, with true soldiers

of the cross, let him obtain and read the _Relatio Itineris_, with the

accompanying documents.

On The Wing. A Southern Flight. IV.

“De Fil En Aiguille.”(119)

By the time we had been a fortnight at R—— R——, the sentiment of the

_dolce far niente_(120) of the Italians seemed gradually to take

possession of Mary and myself. I sketched a little, and Mary sat in the

_loggia_, reading occasionally, and dreaming a great deal. Frank was still

absent; having, in the most unjustifiable way, undertaken a complete tour

in the Abruzzi, accompanied by his friend, Don Emidio Gandolfi, who had

given him rendezvous at Monte Casino. One day, however, when I came home

from a delightful ramble all over the gardens of the Villa “Mon Caprice,”

Mary greeted me with the exclamation:

“Frank will arrive the day after to‐morrow, and Don Emidio is coming with

him.”

“I thought it had been settled Don Emidio was to go back to Rome.”

“Settled by whom, my dear Jane? I conclude he has changed his plans.”

“Well! I know how it will be: we shall have none of Frank’s society; he

will for ever be making excursions with Don Emidio where we cannot go.”

“Their distant excursions are over; and we want them for all the places we

have to visit near Naples. Up to now we have been so taken up with the

Vernons that I have not cared for much more than the walk backwards and

forwards to their house and our own. But we have a great deal to see, and

I am longing to begin.”

“Oh! Don Emidio has seen it already a dozen times. It would only bore him

to go over it again.”

I cannot conceive what made me say this to Mary. I think I was cross. I

know I was tired and hot with my walk. She made no answer for a few

seconds; but I felt she was looking at me. And so I did that stupid thing

which one always hates doing and cannot the least prevent—I blushed.

Having thus made myself look like a fool, I glanced at Mary, and our eyes

met.

“Do you dislike Don Emidio, Jane, that you speak in that way?”

“Dear me! no, not at all. I only did not suppose he would care to go over

all the old places again.”

“It is not always the places; it is sometimes the company that is the

chief attraction.”

“Oh! yes; I know Don Emidio is devoted to Frank.”

“I think he likes us all, Jane.”

“No one can help liking you, Mary; and I dare say he does not _dis_like

me.”

“Is that all you think about it, my dear?”

“Of course it is. What more is there to think about it?” And then, as I

knew I was blushing again, I went out of the room to take off my hat. But

I did not care to go back to Mary directly, for fear she should say

anything more to make me cross. So I ran down to Villa Casinelli to have a

chat with the Vernons. I found them all in a state of very great

excitement. Ida was looking anxious, her eyes glistening like diamonds,

and a bright, hectic spot on each cheek—which I never like to see, knowing

how delicate she is. Elizabeth, who is always calm and gentle, and rather

slow in speaking and moving, was sitting opposite Ida, with her large,

dark velvet eyes full of tears. As I entered, Ida started up, exclaiming:

“O Jane! what do you think those dreadful Casinelli have done now? This

morning, before anybody was up, they cut down the chapel bell, which was

hung outside the door on our floor, near the servants’ rooms, so that

Lucia might ring it every morning. And now, to‐day, a feast‐day, on which

the congregation was sure to be numerous, when Lucia went to ring the bell

for the first time (you know we always ring it thrice), she found that the

rope was left dangling, but no bell. After hunting about everywhere, one

of the Camerota, the father of your Paolino, found it tied to a fig‐tree

on the terrace just above the chapel. The _contadini_(121) are in a wild

state of indignation, and I really am at a loss to imagine what will

happen next; for what with the insult to religion, the annoyance to Padre

Cataldo, and the constant anxiety to ourselves, I begin to think we shall

have to throw it all up, and leave this place.”

I had already heard a great deal about the Casinelli and their

extraordinary conduct. Indeed, ever since we had been near neighbors to

the Vernons, the ins and outs of this intricate and truly Italian intrigue

had formed one of the chief themes of our daily conversations. But to

enable my readers to follow the plots and stratagems of this Macchiavelian

family, I must give an account of the whole group. My story will represent

a state of things not, I imagine, to be found anywhere out of Italy. Every

nation has its characteristics, its qualities, and their corresponding

defects. The peculiar _finesse_ and acuteness of the Italians make them

the best constructors of a plot that imagination can conceive, and give

them a proportionate facility for carrying it on and working it out. They

are natural born actors. And they can so identify themselves with the

character they wish to assume that not only is it exceedingly difficult

for the most diligent observer to detect the false from the true, but I

doubt if even they themselves do not end in interiorly confusing the two

so absolutely as to efface all moral lines of demarcation. They can make

themselves a false conscience on a gigantic scale, and end in themselves

believing the lies they have invented.

The Casinelli are a numerous family, consisting of seven daughters and two

sons, all equally endowed with the faculty, of assuming a part, not for

days or weeks, but for years or for a whole life. The one fixed and

determinate object of the nine persons is, as is usual with Italians, to

make money. To obtain wealth, and always more wealth, all means seem

lawful to them, and no stratagem too low. The house, garden, and vineyards

of Casinelli make altogether a nice and profitable little property, and,

of course, it belongs to them all—that is, each has a share in it. They

have wisely agreed that more will be gained by their all holding together,

as regards the property, than by any division, especially as it is but

small. They reserve a few rooms on the ground floor of the house for their

own use, though their residence is principally in Naples. The other two

sets of apartments in the house they let to strangers. But in order to

make sure of all the fish that may come to the net, the elder brother is

stated to be the owner of one of the suites of rooms, and one of the

sisters of the other. The sister professes to be a very dragon of virtue,

and will receive no tenants who do not bear an unspotted reputation, and

who cannot also give evidence of a more than merely respectable position

of life—they must be well, and even highly, connected. The brother, on the

contrary, is quite ready to part with his rooms to anybody who pays his

rent. “What does he care about who they are, or what they do, so long as

he gets his money?” And in the case of the honest man happening to have a

preference for the brother’s rooms, while the gay Lothario has set his

heart on the spinster’s domain, ho! _presto_, the proprietorship is

quickly changed; the brother owns the sister’s side of the house, while

the sister is the fair possessor of the brother’s portion. If you are so

ill advised as to look dubious and express an impression that it had been

otherwise, you are met with a calm, indulgent smile at your evident

deficiency of intelligence: “Dear me! no. Were you not aware it was

nothing of the kind? Some repairs necessary to be made in my brother’s

rooms had led to his holding mine for a time. He wanted them for a friend

of his. I regretted the fact; but I was not acquainted with the character

of the tenant when I conceded my rooms to my brother, because I was myself

called from home” (or some such reason), “and was unable to attend to the

letting. I deeply regretted the fact; but it was done without my

knowledge.” And thus they turn about; always contriving to run with the

hare, and hunt with the hounds. As a rule, it is the sister who comes

forward and acts as _padrona_(122) when the parties wishing to hire either

set of rooms are evidently respectable. If they are the reverse, the rooms

are let nevertheless, but then it is the brother who meets the storm. And

thus they enact the little man and woman who come out of the clock: the

lady in fair weather, the gentleman in great‐coat and umbrella when it is

wet.

I am not aware of what the Casinelli family motto is; but it ought to be,

“Divide and govern.” For they adopt the same double‐surface process as

regards politics. One brother is a staunch Bourbonist, the other a fervent

Liberal. In public each bewails the opinions of the other. And thus,

between the two, they catch the favor of both parties, and divide the

spoils between them. If circumstances call for extreme measures in order

to gain some end in view, the whole family will combine together to fall

upon one particular member who, for the time being, represents some

political view at that moment discredited. Their lamentations over the one

black sheep are long and loud. Everybody’s sympathy is appealed to;

everybody must lend an ear to the terrible calamity which has befallen

their illustrious family, inasmuch as one of the race has been, or is,

guilty of—, whatever the crime in question may be. Such grief, such

indignation, expressed on the highest moral grounds, attracts attention,

procures small favors from compassionating friends, creates at least an

interest, and adds to their importance and consideration; while all the

time the black sheep himself is privy to the whole affair, and receives,

in the secrecy of the domestic circle, his full share of indemnification

for having stood as whipping‐boy for the rest of the family. He keeps

quiet for a little while, as being under a cloud. Then presently he

reappears to enjoy the results of his own condemnation. The elder brother

and sister, who are the prima donna and tenor of the domestic comic opera,

are always said to be on bad terms with each other; not that they are so

in reality, but because, if one has made a bad bargain or inconveniently

offended anybody, the other can immediately step forward, pretending

severely to blame the delinquent, and offering his or her services to

repair the injury, or, in the case of a bad bargain having been made,

insisting on a readjustment of the case; not from personal motives,

having, as he or she states, no interest in the matter, but solely from a

sense of justice. In short, they “hedge” in a way that would make their

fortune a thousand times over at Epsom or Ascot. No matter what horse

loses, they are sure to have made up their book in such a way that they

must win something out of whatever happens. And, meanwhile, the member of

the family who appears to the outsider to take his part against all his

own kith and kin obtains the eternal gratitude of the deluded individual,

who is not aware that he has been assisting at a family intrigue, based

upon his own misfortune, and intimately and minutely combined by the whole

set of them. When the Vernons wished to rent one of the suites of

apartments, it was the elder sister who came forward with expressions of

the warmest delight. What she had long desired had been that some family

should reside there who had a chaplain, and that thus their pretty little

chapel, entirely cut out in the tufa rock on the sands of the sea‐shore,

which rock forms the foundation of the house, would again come into use.

She was eloquent in describing how that formerly that chapel had been so

useful to the numerous _vignaiuoli_ and their families living on and near

the premises. They themselves, she stated, were no longer rich enough to

afford themselves so great a consolation, now that the one brother who had

been in the priesthood was dead. She was quite certain that Padre Cataldo

was a saint; and, for her part, no one but the Vernons should inhabit that

part of the house, for their mere presence would bring a blessing on all

the rest. She even talked of restoring whatever was wanting in the chapel,

and doing it up. It had been sadly neglected, and the cobwebs hung in

festoons from the rude but effective carving above the altar on the coved

roof and the walls. The subject of the bas‐reliefs was the Assumption,

and, though roughly done, it had a very good effect, scrolls and angels’

heads being intermixed with the principal figures, and the whole

distempered in white picked out with bright blue. A great deal was said

about the reparations, and the Vernons, who did not then know what sort of

people they had to deal with, imagined all that was required for the use

of the chapel would be found. They soon discovered their mistake, and,

beyond a little cleaning done, they had to provide almost everything. As

soon as the Vernons had prepared it, the eldest Casinelli brought all her

friends to look at it, that they might admire the piety of her family, and

learn the sacrifices _they_ had made in order to afford this consolation

to the neighborhood!

But wisely judging that unforeseen circumstances might occur which would

show their interests and the way to make more money might lie in another

direction, the eldest brother was directed to assume quite another tone.

He was therefore deputed to act the sceptic on the occasion, and make

supercilious remarks about his sister’s excess of piety, and the

inconvenience and folly of these extremes of devotion. He shrugged his

shoulders about it, and lamented that, not being master, he could do

nothing to refrain her from so rashly committing herself to possible

expenses, and even to probable difficulties with the present government,

from the presence of a zealous and hard‐working Jesuit father. At the same

time, he gave no handle against himself in the matter, but preserved an

outwardly civil manner towards the Vernons, and a cold regret towards

Padre Cataldo. As time went on, the Vernons discovered that there was an

ever‐increasing difficulty about all that was requisite for the altar. The

altar linen was withdrawn, and they had to find their own. The vestments

were borrowed one day, and never returned. By the time we arrived, almost

everything for the service of the altar was the property of the Vernons;

and Ida’s active fingers had achieved the happiest results from very

limited materials.

Meanwhile, there could be no doubt of the good that was being done in the

neighborhood from the reopening of the little chapel and the active piety

of Padre Cataldo. The parish church is a long way off, and up a very steep

hill. The result is that few of the little children and women could get to

church at all. There is a chapel, dedicated to Our Lady of Dolors, by the

roadside at Posilippo, but it is very small. And there is another built by

the Minutoli when, for love of the poor, they left their beautiful villa

of “Mon Caprice,” and raised an asylum for the aged poor, and a house to

which they themselves retired, giving away all they could spare from their

own modest requirements. But this also is somewhat at a distance; and,

moreover, the population is large, and the accommodation altogether but

scanty.

I have seldom seen more fervor and devotion than in the little chapel at

Casinelli, hewn out of a rock, with its simple decorations and a few

natural flowers on the altar. There was no music, and I cannot for a

moment pretend that there was the slightest approach to harmony in the

loud, harsh, powerful shouting which the Italian peasantry are content to

mistake for singing. But, at least, there was real devotion, as they sat

with eyes fixed on the preacher, who so beautifully and so earnestly

discoursed to them as a father might to his children. I have often seen

the tears streaming down their cheeks; and then from time to time we would

hear of first this and then that hardened sinner who came creeping back to

his or her duties, and making us all glad. Several small boys served at

the altar; and as the honor was highly prized, they had been made to come

in rotation to obviate quarrels. One small creature of about four years of

age, and who had quite the most marvellous eyes and the longest lashes I

ever saw, was specially pertinacious about his rights. In short, there was

something touchingly primitive and real about the whole thing which could

not fail deeply to impress us who came as strangers into this little

seaside sanctuary. As we sat waiting for the priest to arrive, or in the

silent parts of the Mass, we could hear the waves lapping the yellow sands

just outside the half‐closed door. This was the public entrance; and

sometimes, in rough weather, I think it must have entailed a little

sprinkling of salt water on the worshippers. We entered the chapel by a

flight of marble stairs, in a tower which led from the inner court of the

Villa Casinelli, and which stairs brought us into an aisle of the chapel,

cut further in the rock, and consequently always somewhat dark. I remember

Mary’s going to Mass before breakfast, and having desired Paolino to bring

her coffee, and put it in one of the niches of the marble staircase; which

he did, greatly amused and pleased at so unusual a proceeding. It was

never, however, repeated, for the wind blew fresh and cold, and the

Vernons were almost hurt at what might look like a mistrust of their ever‐

ready and abundant hospitality.

There was altogether something about the arrangement and position of the

chapel so unlike the beaten ways of everyday life that, united as it is

with the memory of the beautiful short addresses of the father and the

devotion of the people, it remains in our minds heightened by a tinge of

romance. And now there was the fatal apprehension that all this was to be

destroyed.

It was some little time before Mary and I could quite make out what this

suddenly‐developed though long smouldering hostility to Padre Cataldo and

the Vernons could mean, the Casinelli had appeared so anxious to be civil

to the latter, and had professed such delight at first that the chapel

should be reopened. At length we learnt the facts of the case, which were

as follows: The Vernons had been residing at Casinelli for about two

years, and doing a great deal of good in their immediate neighborhood,

when an Italian gentleman, a strong Liberal, and openly professing

infidelity, applied for the set of apartments corresponding to those

occupied by the Vernons. In this case it was the brother who appeared as

the owner, and who, careless of all save his rent, let it at once to the

Martorelli, as we will call the gentleman in question and the lady who

accompanied him.

This, of course, was a grand opportunity for the sister to come forward in

the family comedy, and enact her part. So with loud bewailings and great

disturbance of the whole household, she took to her bed, and sent for all

her acquaintances to come and bewail with her the wickedness of her

brother, who had let the apartments to such people—not even

respectable!—and so brought a slur on his father’s house. Everybody was

entreated to pray that the brother’s hard heart might be touched and his

conversion effected.

But, in the meanwhile, nothing was done by any member of the family to

prevent the Martorelli from taking quiet possession, as tenants, of a

property which belongs to all the Casinelli, and about the letting of

which, therefore, every one had a voice. This case was so glaring a one,

and was so likely to bring the Casinelli into disrepute, that it was found

necessary to drill all the members of the family to act the part of

outraged propriety. Therefore all the seven sisters refused acquaintance

with the new‐comers, while they redoubled their attentions to the Vernons,

wearying them with reiterated invectives against the Martorelli, and

ostentatiously going the whole round of the garden, rather than run the

risk of meeting them in the avenue which leads to the principal entrance.

Six months elapsed, and during that time the brother was a constant guest

at the Martorelli’s, while more and more he evinced a marked absence of

civility towards the Vernons, and especially towards Padre Cataldo. On one

occasion, as the brother returned from dining with the Martorelli, he said

something positively insulting to the Vernons, whom he met in the garden.

This was overheard by some of _vignaiuoli_,(123) and was repeated to the

seven sisters, who accordingly went in a body, the next day, to call on

the Vernons, with redoubled regrets about their brother and about the

vicinity of such objectionable people as the Martorelli, who, however,

they rejoiced to add, would certainly vacate the apartment in another

month. The Vernons, knowing no reason to doubt their statement, were

naturally gratified to hear it, as the garden belonged equally to all the

inhabitants of the house, except a very small portion assigned to each

family, only sufficient for the cultivation of a few flowers. Time,

however, wore on, and another six months had expired without making any

difference as regarded the presence of the Martorelli.

Far from showing any signs of intended departure, Signor Martorelli was

allowed to undertake several improvements in the house and garden at his

own expense. About the same time some of the sisters called on Padre

Cataldo, and, without making any allusion to the works that were being

carried on by their tenant, they informed him, with every demonstration of

zeal, that the lady who resided in the house with him had shown some signs

of a better state of feeling than the gentleman; and that, in short, she

was a very interesting person—one about whose welfare they could not but

feel anxious. They added that, when she saw people going to and from the

chapel, she was noticed to sigh deeply, and had actually expressed

surprise that no one had ever invited her to enter the chapel; while, on

the other hand, their brother was always taunting them with a want of real

charity in having avoided any intercourse with this perhaps repentant

sister. They had therefore, they asserted, after many misgivings, come in

a body to consult his reverence as to what he would advise them to do.

Personally, they could have no wish to know such people; but here,

possibly, was a question of the salvation of a soul, and all selfish

sentiments must be laid aside for that. Perhaps _their_ knowing her might

do good; did his reverence not think that, with such an end in view, they

ought to sacrifice their natural aversion, and call on the interesting

lady? Of course the only reply that a priest could make to such a question

was that no consideration should stand in the way when any hope of doing

good is in question. And then all the seven damsels, breaking forth in

expressions of submission to his advice, and appearing to take it as if

the initiative had come from him, with pious phrases and low courtesies,

left his reverence’s presence. From that day the greatest intimacy and

constant intercourse sprang up between the two families. The seven sisters

and the young lady were inseparable. Signor Martorelli’s sentiments and

principles were deeply bewailed; but if her husband, as he is called, and

as we hope he is, showed so little religion, at least she was a promising

subject; and whenever they saw the Vernons, it was always to relate the

growing success of their happy manœuvre. Time, however, sped on his way,

and no practical results followed. Signora Martorelli entered no church,

while the man threw off the mask, and openly began to do the devil’s work

among the pious _contadini_(124) of the place. He would send for two or

three of the young lads at the hour of Mass on Sundays and feast days, and

promise them a trifling sum, if, instead of going to church, they would

execute some commission for him. When they hesitated, he would laugh at

their scruples, and ridicule their attachment to the Jesuit father, and

their caring to have objects of devotion like a rosary or the picture of a

saint. By degrees his discourses to them became impregnated with positive

blasphemy; he grew bolder in his expressions of hatred against religion,

and more virulent in his attacks on the ministers of the church. At length

he had messages conveyed to the Vernons, to the effect that the bell for

Mass (which was never rung before 8 o’clock) was an intolerable nuisance

to him; and he threw out hints of revenge if it was not discontinued.

Whenever it was rung, suddenly furious sounds proceeded from his part of

the house. And really it would seem as if the wretched man were seized

with the rage of the possessed, and that, when that bell sounded, the

devil entered into him. The Vernons’ servants became the objects of

mysterious threats and of vile calumnies. A wretched peasant was bribed to

frighten one of them at night; and a more daring sinner, but who

afterwards repented with tears, was induced, by promises of money, to fire

at Padre Cataldo one evening as he was entering the avenue where the man

stood concealed.

At length the climax was reached which I have related at the beginning of

this chapter, and the Mass bell was cut down in the night, and hung upon a

fig‐tree. I remained a long time with Ida and Elizabeth, discussing what

would be the best course to pursue; and as I have got so far in the

history of the Mass bell, I think I had better carry it on to the end,

though it will lead me beyond many of the other incidents of our stay at

Posilippo. It was decided that Ida should write very civilly but very

firmly to the elder sister, remonstrating at the bell being removed. The

sisters rose up in a body, and all together intoned a loud lamentation

over the wickedness of the world. It was their desire the bell should be

replaced, and that in all things the reverend father should do whatever he

thought proper. It was impossible to say who had removed the bell; no one

could so much as guess who could be at the bottom of so much wickedness;

but as it was quite overwhelming, the eldest sister, true to her

traditions and habits, retired to bed, informed her friends of the

circumstance, and gathered them round her couch for two days of sympathy

and condolence. The bell was, of course, replaced by the still trusting

Vernons; but the atheistic Martorelli only escaped condign punishment at

the hands of the indignant _contadini_ through the remonstrances and

commands of Padre Cataldo, who, in this instance, had unusual difficulty

in getting his orders obeyed, and in preventing the insults that had been

heaped upon him from being revenged by his loving but hot‐headed Italian

penitents.

The next Sunday morning Mary and I, who had far less faith in the

possibility of any sincerity in the Casinelli than even the Vernons,

listened anxiously for the first sound of the Mass bell. My watch was, I

suppose, in advance of the right time; for it was five minutes past eight,

and I had not heard a sound, when Mary came running in with the joyful

exclamation that it was all right, and that the bell was pealing loud. The

good Posilippians looked out of their cavernous houses, and peeped from

their windows; and as we stood at our garden door, we could hear them

calling to each other just as Mary had done to me—that the bad man had not

dared again to cut down the bell in the night.

It was not long, however, before Martorelli, whose rage knew no bounds,

began to express his threats against the Vernons, and especially against

their chaplain, too loudly to escape notice. The father himself was well

aware of these threats, because they never failed to be repeated by the

people about the place, who were all devoted to him. Of course he avoided

telling the Vernons, for three girls and one aged lady could do little in

the matter, except feel very anxious for his safety. On the other hand, he

was not the man to avenge, or even protect, himself. But as he was

constantly out till late in the evening, preaching at different churches,

giving retreats, and visiting the sick, several of the men who formed part

of the congregation decided that he was never to be allowed to go down

that treacherous winding path which leads from the Strada Nuova through

the vineyards and garden to Casinelli, except accompanied by one of them.

The terraces are admirably adapted for shooting down upon your enemy, as

he passes just beneath you, while you lie concealed amongst the beans

above. At length some of the wiser and more authoritative of the men,

disgusted at the annoyances to which the females of the Vernon household

were exposed, and at the threats against Padre Cataldo’s life, had

Martorelli summoned before the magistrates as a disturber of the peace.

This strong measure kept him quiet for some time; and it was during this

happy interval that Frank and Don Emidio Gandolfi returned from their long

wanderings, Frank, of course, to take up his abode with us, and Don Emidio

to return to his Neapolitan villa, his principal residence being in Rome.

The day of their return we were all sitting in the _loggia_ together

watching the evening light, which, falling on the rocks of Sorrento and on

the island of Capri, seemed to turn them into pink topaz set in a sapphire

sea. I was eagerly relating the history of the bell to our two gentlemen,

and, forgetting that Don Emidio was an Italian, I launched out in strong

expressions against the cunning and intrigue of the whole nation. In the

midst of my harangue I suddenly looked up, and there was Don Emidio

leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped,

his deep, calm eyes fixed on my eager face, and a slight, sly smile

curving his well‐defined mouth. I stopped dead short, and blushed to the

eyes. We were so used to seeing him with us, and to hearing him talk in

his perfect English, that, in the heat of my discourse, I forgot I was

abusing his countrymen. Frank laughed outright when, looking at Don

Emidio, he saw the expression which had so suddenly arrested me, and Mary

alone looked sorry for me.

“O Don Emidio!” I exclaimed, “I forgot you were not one of us. I forgot

you were an Italian.”

“It needs no apology, signorina. I agree with a great deal that you say.

In the first place, you spoke chiefly of Neapolitans. I am only half a

Neapolitan. And, secondly, whatever you may think of Italians you are too

just not to believe there are many honest men amongst them.”

“You are very kind to let me off so easily. No one who knew Padre Cataldo,

who is a Neapolitan, could fail to believe in the possibility of honest

Italians.”

“Excuse me, signorina, if I say that you would be nearly as far wrong in

taking Padre Cataldo as a guarantee for there being honest men amongst us

as you would be in believing us all rogues because you have met with

people like the Casinelli.”

“Why so?”

“Because saints are as much an exception to the generality as are

accomplished Machiavellians like the Casinelli.”

“You are right,” said Mary. “But do you not think that just as the French

are specially addicted to vanity, so the Italians are to intrigue?”

“I do. It is the reverse of the medal. The French are sanguine, and the

drawback to that is self‐conceit. The Italians are astute, and the

corresponding defect is cunning.”

“As Emidio is too sensible to be thin‐skinned at our speaking out our

thoughts,” interrupted Frank, “I must say that I have always thought the

Italians great in duplicity.”

“The Italian does not care to tell you an untruth about a trifle. If he

did so, it would be from carelessness rather than from purpose. But when

once he sees his way, or thinks he sees it, to accomplishing some distant

and important end, then the full strength of his close‐knit mind and his

marvellous faculty of mental investigation are brought to bear. He is

unscrupulous because he is passionate. Not passionate only as a sudden

burst, but condensed, sustained passion. The object he has in view, no

matter what it be, becomes the object of his passion, and gradually he

weaves around it the web of his whole being. With fixed, undeviating

purpose, he bends all things to one point. If truth will serve him, he

will employ truth; where that fails, deceit will be as readily adopted. He

overlooks mountains and valleys, walls and barriers, in pursuit of his

end; or rather he sees through them, as if they were merely a mist, and

fixes his unflinching gaze on what he is resolved to obtain beyond them.

So long as his purpose is unchanged, nothing will stay his progress. Once

that changed, no matter how or why—out of his own will or through the will

of others—and the whole fabric of deceit passes from him like a mantle

loosely draped from his shoulders, only to be resumed when next required.”

“You seem to me to have made it out very clearly, Emidio,” said Frank.

“Now, what is the good side of this disagreeable picture?”

“The good side is the strength of will and the power of sustained and

concentrated thought and purpose. Turn all that in the right direction,

and you will find it leads you to a long list of heroic saints, surpassed

in no country, and equalled only in Spain, where some of the like

characteristics exist.”

“But surely,” said I, “France also is a great land of saints.”

“No doubt. But, generally speaking (of course there are exceptions), they

belong to a different category. The greatest contemplatives have been

Italian or Spanish.”

“But, Don Emidio, I don’t like to think that nationality, which seems to

include temperament, and even climate, can have anything to do with the

making of God’s saints.”

“And why, signorina, should you object to it when He who makes his saints

makes also the climate and the temperament? He has linked the outer and

inner world too closely together for us to have any reason to be

astonished that he should observe certain general laws in connection with

the gifts of his highest graces.”

Mary started forward from the depths of her arm‐chair, and said eagerly:

“Then do you really think that the slower temperament and depressing

climate of England, for example, have prevented, and will prevent, our

country from being honored by great saints?”

“I am very far from thinking it. On the contrary, and strange as it may

appear at first sight, there are certain characteristics amongst the

English which assimilate them, in my mind, to the Italians in a way I

never could assimilate the French. I allude to your steadiness of purpose

and to your reserved and silent habits. These qualities, when laid hold of

by grace, tend to lead to contemplation and mystic holiness, much as do

the qualities we have spoken of among Italians.”

“Then, I suppose, the extraordinary energy and versatility of the French

are likely to make them more active than contemplative.”

“Just so, signorina, and yet there have been wonderful exceptions; and I

should be wrong in making out anything like a rigid rule. In the first

place, ‘the wind bloweth where it listeth’; and, in the next, the

demarcations of national character are not sufficiently strong to

necessitate any given development of even mere natural qualities, much

less of spiritual qualities.”

“I suppose, in short, all you really mean, Don Emidio,” resumed Mary, “is

that, when it pleases God to make a saint in the full acceptation of the

term, he makes use of natural conditions blended with the supernatural.”

“God always works with a method, signora—by rule and measure. We cannot

solve all the divine problems; but we know that they are according to

truth and justice.”

Don Emidio’s last words seemed to shut us all up in silent thought. Frank

went on puffing at his cigar in a way which set my wicked imagination

wondering how far smoking was conducive to meditation. But then I never

heard of a saint who smoked. Perhaps if any very holy man, whose

canonization was in progress, had been given to smoking, the devil’s

advocate would lay hold of it, and try to destroy the cause. I do not

think tobacco was much in vogue when the great modern saints lived. S.

Philip Neri, for instance, that large‐hearted, “large‐sleeved”(125)

saint—I wonder if, in these days, he would have smoked? But then he was a

priest. That makes a great difference. I think a layman might have an

occasional cigar. There is that dear old Frank lighting his second. But

Don Emidio has had only two tiny cigarettes. What nonsense runs in my

head! And, meanwhile, the red lights have all died away. Capri lies like a

large, dense cloud on the bosom of the sea; and though all the sunlight

has faded from the sky, there is a strange color of mingled purple and

orange that seems to flash upon the water, and that I never saw anywhere

except in the Bay of Naples. Presently we are roused from our reverie by

the sound of voices; and Ida’s tall figure stands by the open window

looking out upon us, while Elizabeth and Helen are behind.

“How silent you all are!” exclaims Ida with a laugh. “I am afraid we shall

disturb you.”

“Oh! it is only that Don Emidio has been talking to us so much about

heroic sanctity that we are all in a state of depression from the

consciousness that we have no hope of ever reaching it.”

“I am quite sure you never will, if you set about it in this melancholy

fashion. Besides, nobody is a saint till he is dead; and who knows but

what you may live to pray at my tomb yet?”

“_Yours_, Ida dear?” said Mary quite gravely.

“Why not? There are so many kinds of saints; and I may yet come out as

quite a new variety. But that is not what I am come about. Padre Cataldo

is gone to see the poor man I told Mary of this morning. He has got the

fever, and, when he is delirious, he keeps calling so piteously for the

padre that this is the second time to‐day he has had to toil up our hill

to go to him, besides all his other toils. As soon as the man is pacified,

he promised to come here. He told us at dinner that to‐morrow will be a

free day, and that for once he could make an excursion with us, if we

liked to go to Baiæ.”

It was soon all settled. I thought it strange the two gentlemen did not

wish to ride, but preferred coming in the carriage with us. For my part, I

longed to be on horseback, and, in their place, I would have ridden. Padre

Cataldo looked in for a moment to learn our plans, and then Don Emidio

took leave of us. He had a long way to drive home.

“Your villa is on the Vomero, is it not?” I said.

“No, signorina; it is at Capo di Monte. Do you prefer the Vomero?”

“Oh! dear, no. I think Capo di Monte very beautiful.”

He was holding my hand, as he wished me good‐night. I thought what an odd

question it was to ask me. What could it matter which I liked best? I told

Mary I thought Don Emidio was sometimes a little absent, and hardly knew

what he was saying. But I suppose Mary did not agree with me, for she only

smiled and made no answer.

The next morning I overheard Mary lamenting to Frank about the way in

which Paolino disturbed her rest, beginning, as early as half‐past four,

firing at the little birds in the garden. I used to envy that lad his

faculty for early rising. The first streak of light through his

shutterless window saw Paolino on the alert. And then he would go

strolling out into the garden, leaning over the low wall that divided our

entrance from the main road, hailing all his comrades on their way to

their work, whistling and shouting to his sisters, who lived in a portion

of the villa where we had originally thought of taking apartments but for

its dirty and miserable condition. These noises so early in the morning,

and close to our windows, were bad enough; but when to these the constant

firing of a gun was added, Mary’s powers of endurance failed. It would

have been a waste of feeling to compassionate the birds, who flew away

from Paolino’s aim with perfect impunity. It was therefore from no

apprehensions for the few songsters of a garden in Southern Italy that we

complained. But all day long Paolino was absent at inopportune moments,

attempting a hopeless massacre of sparrows and finches. He had often been

scolded about it, but the instinct of sport in the boy was superior to any

fear of being found fault with. When at length it reached such a pitch

that Mary even was induced to complain, Paolino had to endure a sharp

scolding from Frank. The result of which was that, a few hours after, he

took the gun, with tears in his eyes, to Monica, requesting her to carry

it to his father, that through him it might be returned to the friend who

had lent him the fatal weapon. He alleged that he had not the moral

courage to have the gun in his possession, and yet refrain from inordinate

use of it; and thus, as he said, the only way was to put the occasion out

of his reach. The little birds enjoyed peaceful matins ever after, and

Paolino rose wonderfully in our esteem.

The roomy landau and the impish coachman were ready early to take us on

our long excursion; while Pascarillo, the coachman’s master, and the owner

of many carriages, provided another conveyance for the rest of the party.

Don Emidio went with Mary, Ida, and myself; Padre Cataldo and Frank with

Mrs. Vernon and the other girls. We took the Posilippo road, intending to

return by the Grotto of Puzzuoli. Nothing can be more beautiful than the

view which greets you at the top of the hill, and which, in a steep

winding descent, brings you to the town of Puzzuoli. To the left is a high

bank of verdure covered with flowering shrubs, and here and there a goat

browsing on some almost inaccessible peak. The sea always seemed to me to

be even bluer here than in the Bay of Naples. We drive past places bearing

some of the grandest names of antiquity; Puzzuoli itself was once a

“little Rome”; Cicero’s villa was here; here Sylla died. Temples

unrivalled in beauty covered those hill‐sides, and villas with umbrageous

trees were dotted all over those flat plains where the willows wave their

long, yellow twigs amid rows of tall poplars, and here and there a plane‐

tree. Here are the market gardens that supply Naples, or rather a portion

of them. But all the land is full of sulphur springs, and it is only in

certain seasons of the year that Puzzuoli and its neighborhood is fit for

habitation. Then Neapolitans and strangers come to take the sulphur baths,

the hateful vapors of which catch our breath as we pass. I have a growing

sense of everything being unreal around me; and no length of time or habit

removes the impression. The sea has swallowed up one‐half of the spots

sacred to classic memories. But where are the trees of Cicero’s villa that

Pliny praises? What wild havoc or gradual but most obliterating change has

availed to wipe away all but the faintest traces of what once was looked

on as a paradise? Fire and water alike have combined to erase the last

relics of that luxurious pagan time. The volcanic action in all this part

of Italy and the encroaching ocean have sufficed to wipe out all but the

faintest indications of a state of luxury, wealth, architectural beauty,

and lavish decoration to which old Phœnicia, Greece, and Rome had lent

their aid in the long course of ages. Never was ruin greater, perhaps,

since the beginning of the Christian era. Sodom and Gomorrah, Nineveh and

Babylon, have passed away more entirely. But in Puzzuoli, Misenum, Cumæ,

and Baiæ the ruin is more pathetic, from the fact that enough remains to

betray how vast those villas and baths and temples once were, and how

absolutely the aggressive force of silent nature has overpowered and swept

away or buried the proud achievements of man.

We proceed from one marvel of destruction to another. The Mare Morto is to

our right, shrunk to a tiny lake; and yet this was to have been, when

completed, the great port for Roman merchandise. The same melancholy

feeling of utter destruction and radical change in the whole aspect of the

country fills the mind wherever we turn; and through all the excursions we

made in this neighborhood, I never found it less; while Mary, who had been

here many years ago, recollected having experienced the same impression,

and found that it returned upon her, if possible, with fuller force. It

may be as well to remind my readers that the ancient name of Puzzuoli was

Puteoli. And perhaps in no one place are crowded, within a circumference

of about twelve miles around it, so many and such intimate associations

with pagan Rome and the old classic life. The crumbling tufa‐banks by the

road‐side are filled with rectangular Roman bricks, the remains of baths

connected with the villa residences and temples of antiquity. Also, there

are considerable remains of Columbaria and large tombs. We passed beneath

the Arco Felice, and, clambering up a high bank, reached the cottage of a

_vignaiuolo_, and rested beneath an elm‐tree while I made a drawing of

Lago Fusaro and part of the Elysian Fields. We saw the Lake of Lucrinus,

but the oysters are gone. We shuddered as we approached Avernus. The dense

forest which once flung its black shadows on the waters has long ago been

felled or died away. The wholesome mid‐day sun shot laughing beams on the

clear surface, disarmed of all preternatural horror. The Elysian Fields

are, indeed, a smiling plain of land partially cultivated, and partially

covered with trees and brush‐wood, the king’s favorite hunting‐grounds. We

women refused to enter the Sibyl’s cave, liking neither damp nor

sulphurous smells. The horrors of the surroundings are all swept away. The

little birds fly over the once deadly Lake of Avernus as safely as from

Paolino’s harmless gun; and as we look back through the dim avenue of

misty ages, it is curious to reflect that what is a dream of the past to

ourselves was hardly less so to others who are now but shadowy

representatives of a world gone by to us; for it was Agrippa whose

engineering robbed Avernus of many of its terrors, and probably disturbed

even the placid oysters of Lucrinus. Thus the sense of unreality grows

upon us, as we visit one spot after another, and find the green tendrils

of the young vine, the blue‐purple blossoms of the vetch, and bright

scarlet poppies covering with gay garlands the few vestiges of a world

that is dead and gone. Yet even here I am tempted to repeat, “Le passé

n’est pas mort, il n’est qu’absent,”(126) and yet how far absent! How the

old gods have died away from their own sylvan scenes, and the nymphs fled,

shamefaced, from lakes no longer solitary! Victor Emanuel will scare no

dryads from their leafy bowers, and is hardly the man to trace the small

footprint of the chaste huntress on the yielding moss, as he pursues the

wild boar through what were doubtless once her covers. No laughing

Bacchante peeps behind the trailing vine, or dances, with light, flowing

tresses and scanty tunic, to the trilling of double pipes. The goats are

here, but the satyrs are absent. The vines show promise of rich grapes;

but Bacchus, grape‐crowned, with the skin of the spotted pard across his

sun‐bronzed chest, and the tragic melancholy of liquid eyes with sleepy

lids, is nowhere found; for, be it remembered, the god of wine was no

drunken lout, but rather one who, at least in his ripe youth, was but

quickened and inspired by the blood of the red grape.

The myths and fables have long ceased. As myths, they held a divine truth,

dimly shadowed forth. As fables, they degenerated, like all half‐truths,

into wholesale errors. Then human depravity swept over them, and left its

poisonous slime o’er all. We go back to the memory of those times with

mingled feelings of wonder and of pain. But amid the decaying fragments of

classic lore there shines forth one little incident which quickens our

pulse, and bridges over all the succeeding ages with a touch of feeling

that obliterates time and space. The words are few, but they are dearer to

us than the epics of Virgil, or the letters of Cicero, or all else that

may grace the memory of this lovely land: “The south wind blowing, we came

the second day to Puteoli, where, finding brethren, we were desired to

tarry with them seven days.”

“Finding brethren!” Yes, even here, beneath the shade of marble porticos,

temple, and fane devoted to an infamous religion, the Name that is above

every name was whispered by a few. The sign of the cross was secretly made

by quiet inhabitants of Puzzuoli’s noisy streets, the Virgin Mother was

revered, and the words of S. Paul and S. Luke listened to as a message

from above. And how little the citizens of Puteoli knew of the divine

mysteries which were going on among them! And now, as if the wicked city

had been in every sense too near the gate of hell, the volcanic flames

have penetrated the earth’s thin crust on all sides, and flung down and

devoured the traces of brilliant, triumphant, and overbearing vice,

leaving in its place a handful of Christian peasants and a few relics

prized by the scholar and the antiquarian.

I must own to my readers that I am chiefly repeating Don Emidio’s words,

and that, as we approached Baiæ, I with startling indecorum exclaimed:

“But it must not be forgotten that we have come here to eat oysters,

whether or not the Lake of Lucrinus produces them.” We did eat oysters. We

alighted at the humblest little wayside inn close to the shore. We sat

beneath the trellised vine that covered the vast _loggia_. The lemons were

gathered, as sauce for the oysters, in the garden below; the ruins of the

circular temple of Venus or Mercury shone, deep red, in the light of the

setting sun. The merry landlord and a half‐dozen nondescript servants, men

and maids, proposed to dance the _tarantella_ for us. The women happened

to lack beauty, and the men youth. But that was not our reason for

declining the pleasure. The dance was doubtless innocent enough; but it

was not often we were favored with the company of “Nostro Zio Prete,” our

uncle priest, and we thought it more decorous not to order dances in his

presence. I must explain to my readers that the peasantry in South Italy

call a priest uncle when they do not call him father; and that in some of

our excursions, when Padre Cataldo bargained about carriages or

refreshment (and which must always be done if you do not want to be

scandalously overcharged), they always protested that for no consideration

would they attempt to impose on their uncle priest! Happily for us, our

reverend uncle was a Neapolitan, and too well acquainted with the true

value of the services we received for us to have any apprehension of being

cheated in any expedition organized by him. Perhaps our host himself

surmised our reason for declining the _tarantella_, for he did not press

it; and returning to our carriage, we drove home by moonlight through the

Grotto of Puzzuoli.

Switzerland In 1873.

Lake Of Lucerne.

It was a lovely evening as we sailed away, a happy, lively party, from

Lucerne. Our minds were full of the enthusiasm for his native land which

Herr H——’s descriptions had excited, but for one characteristic of the

Lake of the Forest Cantons we were as yet totally unprepared, namely, its

unusual and wonderful variety.

Every traveller viewing it from Lucerne readily admits its extreme beauty.

Its interest is acknowledged beforehand, according to the greater or

lesser degree in which each one can clothe its shores with historic

memories, but its remarkable diversity of scenery is a feature generally

ignored until seen, although amongst Swiss lakes it is in this respect

pre‐eminent. And this peculiarity is mainly attributable to its

geographical formation. Consisting, as it does, of divisions completely

distinct one from the other, they lead us on, as if designedly arranged in

the most artistic manner, in a series of “surprises,” from one picture to

another, on an ever‐increasing scale of beauty.

That part of the lake which is nearest to Lucerne may be said to resemble

in shape a Maltese cross, so equal do its proportions appear to the

passing observer. In characteristics and detail, however, it differs

widely. The northern shores, though spreading round two of the arms in

undulating hills, may decidedly be called flat compared to the magnificent

line of Alpine peaks towering along the southern extremity. At one of the

angles of the cross stands Mount Pilatus, 5,900 feet high—at the opposite

one the Rigi, 5,541 feet above the sea—like two sentinels guarding the

entrance to the territory beyond. The tourist sailing straight onwards

from Lucerne is fain to believe that the lake ends where a spur of the

Rigi seems to stretch across the southern bay, right before him. No other

explanation appears possible until the spot itself is reached, when

suddenly a channel, hitherto unperceived, opens to the right, between that

mountain and the opposite shore—the two promontories thus disclosed

rejoicing in the rather ignoble appellation of “Die Nasen,” or “The

Noses.” What a beautiful and perfectly different view is then disclosed,

as the steamer darts through the narrow strait to the village of Buochs,

at the foot of its own Buochserhorn, the base of which is covered with

comfortable farm‐houses, embosomed in their orchards, changing step by

step into châlets as they ascend to the higher pastures! At once we have

got into another country. A landlocked bay, that to the eye seems nearly

circular, bordered on one side by the precipitous but wooded mountains of

Unterwalden, and on the opposite by the southern peaks and slopes of the

Rigi, between whose folds nestles pretty Gersau, not large enough to be

called a town nor unimportant enough for a village. A sunny, peaceful

picture—a “happy _lake_ of Rasselas”—from which no exit is visible, nor,

we might suppose, ever need be sought for! At the further end, towering in

the distance, snow‐clad summits peer above the clouds; but, more striking

than all, rise two curiously‐pointed peaks close by, which stand, we are

told, right above the white houses of Schwyz. So here we are truly in the

cradle of Switzerland—the genuine “Urschweiz”! And as we sail towards

Brunnen (the port of Schwyz, three miles inland) we try to trace their

resemblance to a bishop’s distinctive mark, which has given to these two

bare rocks, nearly five thousand feet high, the familiar name of “The

Mitres.”