The couples, generally speaking, seemed to answer the expectations of

their respective match-makers better than perhaps the results in real

life might subsequently justify. It is not to be supposed that on this

occasion Tom Murdock and Winny Cavana did not find a place upon the

bar of the grate. But as Winny had given no encouragement to any one

to put her down with him, and as the mistress of the mysteries alone

could claim a right to do so openly, as in the case of the rings,

their place, with the result, could be known only to those who put

them down, and perhaps a confidant.

There were a few pops occasionally, calling forth exclamations of "The

good-for-nothing fellow!" or "The fickle lass!" while some burned into

bright balls--the admiration of all the true and constant lovers

present.

The next portion of the mysteries were three plates, placed in a row

upon the table; one contained earth, another water, and the third a

gold ring. This was, by some, considered rather a nervous test of

futurity, and some objections were whispered by the timid amongst

them. The fearless and enthusiastic, however, clamored that nothing

should be left out, and a handkerchief to blind the adventurers was

produced. The mystery was this: a young person was taken outside the

door, and there blindfolded; he, or she, was then led in again, and

placed opposite to the plates, sufficiently near to touch them; when

told that "all was right," he, with his fore-finger pointed, placed it

upon one of the plates. That with the earth symbolled forth sudden, or

perhaps violent, death; that with the water, emigration or ship-wreck;

while that with the ring, of course a wedding and domestic happiness.

Young people were not generally averse to subject themselves to this

ordeal, as in nine cases out of ten they managed either to be

previously acquainted with the position of the plates, or, having been

blindfolded by their own bachelor, to have a peep-hole down by the

corner of their nose, which enabled them to secure the most gratifying

result of the three.

With this usual course before his mind, Tom Murdock, as junior host,

presented himself for the test, hoping that Winny Cavana, whom he had

asked to do so, would blindfold him. But in this instance he had

presumed too far; and while she hesitated to comply, the mistress of

the mysteries came to her relief.

"No, no, Tom," she said, folding the handkerchief; "that is my

business, and I'll transfer it to no one; come outside with me."

Tom was ashamed to draw back, and retired with Mrs. Moran to the hall.

He soon returned, led in by her, with a handkerchief tied tightly over

his eyes; there was no peep-hole by the side of his nose, let him hold

back {513} his head as he might, Mrs. Moran took care of that. Having

been placed near the table, he was told that he was exactly opposite

the plates. He pointed out his fore-finger, and threw back his head as

much as possible, as if considering, but in fact to try if he could

get a peep at the plates; but it was no use. Mrs. Moran had rendered

his temporary blindness cruelly secure. At length his hand descended,

and he placed his finger into the middle of the earth.

"Pshaw," said he, pulling the handkerchief off his eyes, "it is all

humbug! Let Lennon try it."

"Certainly, certainly," ran from one to the other. It might have been

remarked, however, if any one had been observing, that Winny Cavana

had not spoken.

Young Lennon then retired to the hall with Mrs. Moran, and was soon

led in tightly blindfolded, for the young man was no more to her than

the other; beside, she was strictly honorable. The plates had been

re-arranged by Tom Murdock himself, which most people remarked, as it

was some time before he was satisfied with their position. Lennon was

then placed, as Tom had been, and told that "all was right." There was

some nervousness in more hearts than one as he pointed his finger and

brought down his hand. He also placed his finger in the centre of the

plate with the earth, and pulled the handkerchief from his eyes.

"Now, you see," said Tom, "others can fail as well as me;" and he

seemed greatly pleased that young Lennon had been as unsuccessful as

himself.

A murmur of dissatisfaction now ran through the girls. The two

favorites had been unfortunate in their attempts at divination, and

there was one young girl there who, when she saw Emon-a-knock's finger

fall on the plate with the earth, felt as if a weight had been tied

round her heart. It was unanimously agreed by the elderly women

present, Mrs. Moran amongst the number, that these tests had turned

out directly contrary to what the circumstances of the locality, and

the characters of the individuals, would indicate as probable, and the

whole process was ridiculed as false and unprophetic. "Time will tell,

jewel," said one old croaking crone.

A loud burst of laughter from the kitchen at this moment told that the

servant-boys and girls, who had also been invited, were not idle. The

matches having been all either clenched or broken off in the parlor,

and the test of the plates, as if by mutual consent, having been

declared unsatisfactory, old Murdock thought it a good opportunity to

move an adjournment of the whole party, to see the fun in the kitchen,

which was seconded by Mrs. Moran, and carried _nem. con._

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

----

{514}

Translated from Etudes Religieusea, Historiques, et Litteraires, par

des Peres de la Compagnie de Jesus.

A CITY OF WOMEN.

THE ANCIENT BEGUINAGE OF GHENT.

BY THE REV. A. NAMPON, S.J.

According to some authors, St. Begghe, daughter of Pepin, Duke of

Brabant, and sister of St. Gertrude, must have given her name to those

pious assemblages of Christian virgins and widows called from very

remote times _beguinages_.

These holy women, united under the protection and the rule of St.

Begghe, had nothing in common except the name with those Beguines

whose errors were condemned by the council of Vienne.

Beguinages exist at Ghent, Antwerp, Mechlin, Alost, Louvain, Bruges,

etc., etc. The rule is not in all places the same, but everywhere

these pious establishments are places of refuge open to devout women,

wherein they may sanctify themselves by prayer, labor, and retirement

from the distractions of the world.

Let us transport ourselves to the capital of Flanders. From the centre

of that tumultuous city, in which industry, commerce, activity, and

pleasure reign supreme, are separated two other smaller towns of

venerable aspect--closed to the world, destitute of shops, coaches,

public criers, and all modern inventions. These two towns are the

_Great_ and the _Little Beguinage_.

These places are delightful oases, wherein you breathe a pure air,

where, in the noonday of the nineteenth century, you find the

simplicity of the faith and customs of antiquity. They are surrounded,

as they were five or six centuries ago, by a ditch and a wall; you

enter them by a single gate carefully closed at night, and not less

carefully watched all day. This gate, surmounted by the cross, was

formerly protected by a drawbridge.

As soon as you have passed through this gateway, you are forcibly

struck with the calm and pious atmosphere of this peaceful city, and

with the grave and edifying looks of its _female_ inhabitants. I say

female inhabitants, for no man has ever dwelt in this enclosure. The

priests who serve the beguinages only enter to fulfil their sacred

offices, and have no place therein save the pulpit, the altar, and the

confessional. The dress of the inmates is not elegant, but it is in

strict conformity with the model traced in their thirteenth century

rule.

All the streets, which are at right angles, are named after saints.

The houses are also distinguished by the names, and frequently by the

statue, of some saint, under whose protection they are placed; thus

you may read, gate of St. Martha, gate of St. Mary-Magdalen, etc.,

etc.

The houses, which are whitewashed annually, display in their

furniture, as in their construction, no other luxury but a charming

cleanliness. They are of two kinds, _convents_ and _hermitages_. The

convents are inhabited by communities, each governed by a superior.

The hermitages, which resemble very much the dwellings of the

Carthusians, consist of two or three bed-rooms, a parlor, a kitchen,

and a small garden. Prominent among the convents is the dwelling of

the superior-general, called _Grande Dame_, who has charge of the

infirmary, and who is conservator of the documents, traditions and

pictures, which date from five or six centuries ago. Lastly, in the

midst of this peaceful city rises the house of God, a large church,

very commodious and clean, surrounded by a {515} cemetery, in

conformity with an ancient custom, which all the beguinages, however,

have not been able to retain.

The object of these societies is very clearly stated in a paragraph of

the rule of the beguinage of Notre Dame du Pre', founded at Ghent in

1234. We retain the old style:

"Louis, Count of Flanders, of Nevers, and of Rethel, etc., etc., to

all present and to come makes known, that Dame Jane, and Margaret, her

sister of happy memory, who were successively Countesses of Flanders

and of Hainault (as we are, [Footnote 100] by the grace of God),

having remarked that in the Flemish territory there were a great

number of women, who, from their condition in life and that of their

parents, were unable to find a fitting match; observing that honorable

persons, the daughters of nobles and burgesses, who desired to live in

a state of chastity, could not all enter into convents of women, by

reason of their too great number, or for want of means; remarking,

moreover, that many young ladies of noble extraction and others had

fallen into a state of decadence, so that they were reduced to

mendicity, or to a painful existence, to the dishonor of their

families, unless they could be provided for in a discreet and becoming

manner; incited by God, and with the advice, knowledge, and consent of

several bishops and other persons of probity, the aforesaid countesses

founded, in several cities of Flanders, establishments with spacious

dwellings and lands, called beguinages, where noble young ladies and

children of good families were received, to live therein chastely in

community, with or without vows, without humiliation to themselves or

their families, and where they might, by applying themselves to

reasonable labor, procure their food and clothing. They founded among

others a beguinage in our city of Ghent, called the beguinage of Notre

Dame du Pre, enclosed by the river Scheldt, and by walls. In the

centre is a church, a cemetery, and a hospital for infirm or invalid

beguines, the whole given by the before-mentioned princesses, etc."

[Footnote 100: This bull is in the original French: _"Comteses de

Flandre et de Hainault, comme nous aussi, par la grace de Dieu."_]

Those young persons who desire to be admitted to the beguinage must

first become postulants, and afterward make their noviciate in the

convents or communities. They remain there even after their profession

up to thirty years of age. Thus are they protected during the most

stormy period of life by the watchfulness of their superior and their

companions, by prayer and labor in common. Later they can enjoy

without danger a larger measure of freedom. They then live two or

three together in one of the hermitages, where they pass their time in

exercises of prayer and labor, to which the early years of their

cenobitical life have accustomed them.

"The great beguinage at Ghent," says M. Chantrel, "contains four

hundred small houses, eighteen common halls, one large and one small

church. There are sometimes as many as seven hundred beguines

assembled in the church. The assembly of these pious women, in their

ancient Flemish black dresses, and white bonnets, is very solemn and

impressive. The novices are distinguished by their dress. Those who

have recently taken the veil have their heads encircled by a crown.

"The beguines admit within their enclosure, as boarders, persons of

the gentler sex, of every age and condition, who find in these

establishments an asylum for the inexperience of youth, or a calm and

peaceful sojourn where those who are tired of the world may pass their

days without any other rule than that of a Christian life. In the

great beguinage at Ghent there are nearly two hundred secular

boarders, who live either privately or in community with the nuns."

Among the novices of the great beguinage at Ghent there lived, fifteen

years ago, a Mlle, de Soubiran, the niece of a former vicar of

Carcassonne. For twenty years this worthy ecclesiastic had communed

with Almighty God, in incessant prayers, to obtain an {516} answer to

this question: "Would it be a useful work to introduce, or rather to

resuscitate, beguinages in France?"

Monseigneur de la Bouillerie, whose eloquence and zeal for good works

have made him famous, interpreted in a favorable sense the signs

furnished by a concurrence of providential circumstances; and a small

establishment was opened twelve years ago, in a suburb of

Castelnaudary, under the direction of the Abbe de Soubiran. Since

1856, it has had its postulants, novices, and professed sisters.

The buildings of the new beguinage were too small and poor. This

defect was remedied by a great fire which consumed them, and compelled

their reconstruction on a larger plan, and with better materials than

the planks and bricks of the original buildings.

There is doubtless a vast distance between this feeble beginning and

the extensive beguinage in Belgium, which so many centuries have

enlarged and brought to perfection. But Mlle, de Soubiran and her

first companions brought with them from Flanders the old traditions,

with the spirit of fervor and of poverty and humble labor. The trials

which they have undergone have only improved their work. They are

happy in the blessing of their bishop, and his alms would not be

wanting in case of need.

The Castelnaudary beguinage is already fruitful. A second

establishment is forming at Toulouse, on the Calvary road. Those of

our readers who are acquainted with the capital of Languedoc know the

situation of that road, but all Christians have long since learnt that

the road to Calvary is the way of salvation.

Suffice it for the present that we notice the existence of these two

establishments. We shall have at a future time to narrate their

progress and development.

----

{517}

From The Month.

THE DREAM OF GERONTIUS.

BY JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, D.D.

Sec. 1.

GERONTIUS.

JESU, MARIA--I am near to death,

And thou art calling me; I know it now.

Not by the token of this faltering breath,

This chill at heart, this dampness on my brow,--

(Jesu, have mercy! Mary, pray for me!)

'Tis this new feeling, never felt before,

(Be with me, Lord, in my extremity!)

That I am going, that I am no more.

'Tis this strange innermost abandonment,

(Lover of souls! great God! I look to thee,)

This emptying out of each constituent

And natural force, by which I come to be.

Pray for me, O my friends; a visitant

Is knocking his dire summons at my door,

The like of whom, to scare me and to daunt,

Has never, never come to me before.

'Tis death,--loving friends, your prayers!--'tis he! ....

As though my very being had given way,

As though I was no more a substance now,

And could fall back on naught to be my stay,

(Help, loving Lord! Thou my sole refuge, thou,)

And turn no whither, but must needs decay

And drop from out this universal frame

Into that shapeless, scopeless, blank abyss,

That utter nothingness, of which I came:

This is it that has come to pass in me;

O horror! this it is, my dearest, this;

So pray for me, my friends, who have not strength to pray.

ASSISTANTS.

Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison.

Holy Mary, pray for him.

All holy angels, pray for him.

Choirs of the righteous, pray for him.

Holy Abraham, pray for him.

St. John Baptist, St. Joseph, pray for him.

St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Andrew, St. John,

All apostles, all evangelists, pray for him.

All holy disciples of the Lord, pray for him.

All holy innocents, pray for him.

All holy martyrs, all holy confessors,

All holy hermits, all holy virgins,

All ye saints of God, pray for him.

{518}

GERONTIUS.

Rouse thee, my fainting soul, and play the man;

And through such waning span

Of life and thought as still has to be trod,

Prepare to meet thy God.

And while the storm of that bewilderment

Is for a season spent,

And, ere afresh the ruin on thee fall,

Use well the interval.

ASSISTANTS.

Be merciful, be gracious; spare him, Lord.

Be merciful, be gracious; Lord, deliver him.

From the sins that are passed;

From thy frown and thine ire;

From the perils of dying;

From any complying

With sin, or denying

His God, or relying

On self, at the last;

From the nethermost fire;

From all that is evil;

From power of the devil;

Thy servant deliver,

For once and for ever.

By thy birth, and by thy cross,

Rescue him from endless loss;

By thy death and burial,

Save him from a final fall;

By thy rising from the tomb,

By thy mounting up above,

By the Spirit's gracious love,

Save him in the day of doom.

GERONTIUS.

Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus,

De profundis oro te,

Miserere, judex meus,

Parce mihi, Domine.

Firmly I believe and truly

God is Three, and God is One;

And I next acknowledge duly

Manhood taken by the Son.

And I trust and hope most fully

In that manhood crucified;

And each thought and deed unruly

Do to death, as he has died.

Simply to his grace and wholly

Light and life and strength belong,

And I love supremely, solely,

Him the holy, him the strong.

{519}

Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus,

De profundis oro te,

Miserere, judex meus,

Parce mihi, Domine.

And I hold in veneration,

For the love of him alone,

Holy Church, as his creation.

And her teachings, as his own.

And I take with joy whatever

Now besets me, pain or fear,

And with a strong will I sever

All the ties which bind me here.

Adoration aye be given,

With and through the angelic host,

To the God of earth and heaven,

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus,

De profundis oro te,

Miserere, judex meus,

Mortis in discrimine.

I can no more; for now it comes again,

That sense of ruin, which is worse than pain,

That masterful negation and collapse

Of all that makes me man; as though I bent

Over the dizzy brink

Of some sheer infinite descent;

Or worse, as though

Down, down for ever I was falling through

The solid framework of created things,

And needs must sink and sink

Into the vast abyss. And, crueller still,

A fierce and restless fright begins to fill

The mansion of my soul. And, worse and worse,

Some bodily form of ill

Floats on the wind, with many a loathsome curse

Tainting the hallowed air, and laughs and flaps

Its hideous wings,

And makes me wild with horror and dismay.

O Jesu, help! pray for me, Mary, pray!

Some angel, Jesu! such as came to thee

In thine own agony......

Mary, pray for me. Joseph, pray for me. Mary, pray for me.

ASSISTANTS.

Rescue him, O Lord, in this his evil hour,

As of old so many by thy gracious power:--Amen.

Enoch and Elias from the common doom; Amen.

Noe from the waters in a saving home; Amen.

Abraham from th' abounding guilt of heathenesse; Amen.

Job from all his multiform and fell distress; Amen.

Isaac, when his father's knife was raised to slay; Amen.

Lot from burning Sodom on its judgment-day; Amen.

{520}

Moses from the land of bondage and despair; Amen.

Daniel from the hungry lions in their lair; Amen.

And the children three amid the furnace-flame; Amen.

Chaste Susanna from the slander and the shame; Amen.

David from Golia and the wrath of Saul; Amen.

And the two apostles from their prison-thrall; Amen.

Thecla from her torments; Amen:

--so, to show thy power,

Rescue this thy servant in his evil hour.

GERONTIUS.

Novissima hora est; and I fain would sleep.

The pain has wearied me. . . . Into thy hands,

Lord, into thy hands. . . . .

THE PRIEST.

Proficiscere, anima Christiana de hoc mundo!

Go forth upon thy journey, Christian soul!

Go from this world! Go, in the name of God,

The omnipotent Father, who created thee!

Go, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord,

Son of the Living God, who bled for thee!

Go, in the name of th' Holy Spirit, who

Hath been poured out on thee! Go, in the name

Of angels and archangels; in the name

Of thrones and dominations; in the name

Of princedoms and of powers; and in the name

Of cherubim and seraphim, go forth!

Go, in the name of patriarchs and prophets;

And of apostles and evangelists,

Of martyrs and confessors; in the name

Of holy monks and hermits; in the name

Of holy virgins; and all saints of God,

Both men and women, go! Go on thy course;

And may thy place to-day be found in peace,

And may thy dwelling be the holy mount

Of Sion: through the same, through Christ, our Lord.

Sec. 2.

SOUL Of GERONTIUS.

I went to sleep; and now I am refreshed.

A strange refreshment: for I feel in me

An inexpressive lightness, and a sense

Of freedom, as I were at length myself,

And ne'er had been before. How still it is!

I hear no more the busy beat of time,

No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse;

Nor does one moment differ from the next.

I had a dream; yes:--some one softly said

"He's gone;" and then a sigh went round the room.

And then I surely heard a priestly voice

Cry "Subvenite;" and they knelt in prayer.

{521}

I seem to hear him still; but thin and low,

And fainter and more faint the accents come,

As at an ever-widening interval.

Ah! whence is this? What is this severance?

This silence pours a solitariness

Into the very essence of my soul;

And the deep rest, so soothing and so sweet,

Hath something too of sternness and of pain.

For it drives back my thoughts upon their spring

By a strange introversion, and perforce

I now begin to feed upon myself,

Because I have naught else to feed upon.

Am I alive or dead? I am not dead,

But in the body still; for I possess

A sort of confidence, which clings to me,

That each particular organ holds its place

As heretofore, combining with the rest

Into one symmetry, that wraps me round,

And makes me man; and surely I could move,

Did I but will it, every part of me.

And yet I cannot to my sense bring home,

By very trial, that I have the power.

'Tis strange; I cannot stir a hand or foot,

I cannot make my fingers or my lips

By mutual pressure witness each to each,

Nor by the eyelid's instantaneous stroke

Assure myself I have a body still.

Nor do I know my very attitude,

Nor if I stand, or lie, or sit, or kneel.

So much I know, not knowing how I know,

That the vast universe, where I have dwelt,

Is quitting me, or I am quitting it.

Or I or it is rushing on the wings

Of light or lightning on an onward course,

And we e'en now are million miles apart.

Yet . . is this peremptory severance

Wrought out in lengthy measurements of space,

Which grow and multiply by speed and time?

Or am I traversing infinity

By endless subdivision, hurrying back

From finite toward infinitesimal,

Thus dying out of the expanded world?

Another marvel; some one has me fast

Within his ample palm; 'tis not a grasp

Such as they use on earth, but all around

Over the surface of my subtle being,

As though I were a sphere, and capable

To be accosted thus, a uniform

And gentle pressure tells me I am not

Self-moving, but borne forward on my way.

And hark! I hear a singing; yet in sooth

{522}

I cannot of that music rightly say

Whether I hear or touch or taste the tones.

Oh what a heart-subduing melody!

ANGEL.

My work is done,'

My task is o er,

And so I come,

Taking it home,

For the crown is won.

Alleluia,

For evermore.

My Father gave

In charge to me

This child of earth

E'en from its birth,

To serve and save,

Alleluia,

And saved is he.

This child of clay

To me was given,

To rear and train

By sorrow and pain

In the narrow way,

Alleluia,

From earth to heaven.

SOUL.

It is a member of that family

Of wondrous beings, who, ere the worlds were made,

Millions of ages back, have stood around

The throne of God:--he never has known sin;

But through those cycles all but infinite,

Has had a strong and pure celestial life,

And bore to gaze on th' unveiled face of God,

And drank from the eternal fount of truth,

And served him with a keen ecstatic love.

Hark! he begins again.

ANGEL.

Lord, how wonderful in depth and height,

But most in man, how wonderful thou art!

With what a love, what soft persuasive might,

Victorious o'er the stubborn fleshly heart,

Thy tale complete of saints thou dost provide,

To fill the throne which angels lost through pride!

{523}

He lay a grovelling babe upon the ground,

Polluted in the blood of his first sire,

With his whole essence shattered and unsound,

And, coiled around his heart, a demon dire,

Which was not of his nature, but had skill

To bind and form his opening mind to ill.

Then was I sent from heaven to set right

The balance in his soul of truth and sin,

And I have waged a long relentless fight,

Resolved that death-environed spirit to win,

Which from its fallen state, when all was lost,

Had been repurchased at so dread a cost.

Oh what a shifting parti-colored scene

Of hope and fear, of triumph and dismay,

Of recklessness and penitence, has been

The history of that dreary, lifelong fray!

And oh the grace, to nerve him and to lead,

How patient, prompt, and lavish at his need!

O man, strange composite of heaven and earth!

Majesty dwarfed to baseness! fragrant flower

Running to poisonous seed! and seeming worth

Cloaking corruption! weakness mastering power!

Who never art so near to crime and shame,

As when thou hast achieved some deed of name;

How should ethereal natures comprehend

A thing made up of spirit and of clay,

Were we not tasked to nurse it and to tend,

Linked one to one throughout its mortal day?

More than the seraph in his height of place,

The angel-guardian knows and loves the ransomed race.

SOUL.

Now know I surely that I am at length

Out of the body: had I part with earth,

I never could have drunk those accents in,

And not have worshipped as a god the voice

That was so musical; but now I am

So whole of heart, so calm, so self-possessed,

With such a full content, and with a sense

So apprehensive and discriminant,

As no temptation can intoxicate.

Nor have I even terror at the thought

That I am clasped by such a saintliness.

ANGEL.

All praise to him, at whose sublime decree

The last are first, the first become the last;

By whom the suppliant prisoner is set free,

By whom proud first-borns from their thrones are cast;

Who raises Mary to be queen of heaven,

While Lucifer is left, condemned and unforgiven.

{524}

Sec. 3.

SOUL.

I will address him. Mighty one, my Lord,

My guardian spirit, all hail!

ANGEL.

All hail, my child!

My child and brother, hail! what wouldest thou?

SOUL.

I would have nothing but to speak with thee

For speaking's sake. I wish to hold with thee

Conscious communion; though I fain would know

A maze of things, were it but meet to ask,

And not a curiousness.

ANGEL.

You cannot now

Cherish a wish which ought not to be wished.

SOUL.

Then I will speak. I ever had believed

That on the moment when the struggling soul

Quitted its mortal case, forthwith it fell

Under the awful presence of its God,

There to be judged and sent to its own place.

What lets me now from going to my Lord?

ANGEL.

Thou art not let; but with extremest speed

Art hurrying to the just and holy Judge:

For scarcely art thou disembodied yet.

Divide a moment, as men measure time,

Into its million-million-millionth part,

Yet even less than that the interval

Since thou didst leave the body; and the priest

Cried "Subvenite," and they fell to prayer;

Nay, scarcely yet have they begun to pray.

For spirits and men by different standards mete

The less and greater in the flow of time.

By sun and moon, primeval ordinances--

By stars which rise and set harmoniously--

By the recurring seasons, and the swing,

This way and that, of the suspended rod

Precise and punctual, men divide the hours,

Equal, continuous, for their common use.

Not so with us in th' immaterial world;

But intervals in their succession

{525}

Are measured by the living thought alone,

And grow or wane with its intensity.

And time is not a common property;

But what is long is short, and swift is slow,

And near is distant, as received and grasped

By this mind and by that, and every one

Is standard of his own chronology.

And memory lacks its natural resting-points,

Of years, and centuries, and periods.

It is thy very energy of thought

Which keeps thee from thy God.

SOUL.

Dear angel, say,

Why have I now no fear at meeting him?

Along my earthly life, the thought of death

And judgment was to me most terrible.

I had it aye before me, and I saw

The Judge severe e'en in the crucifix.

Now that the hour is come, my fear is fled;

And at this balance of my destiny,

Now close upon me, I can forward look

With a serenest joy.

ANGEL.

It is because

Then thou didst fear, that now thou dost not fear.

Thou hast forestalled the agony, and so

For thee the bitterness of death is passed

Also, because already in thy soul

The judgment is begun. That day of doom,

One and the same for the collected world--

That solemn consummation for all flesh,

Is, in the case of each, anticipate

Upon his death; and, as the last great day

In the particular judgment is rehearsed,

So now too, ere thou comest to the throne,

A presage falls upon thee, as a ray

Straight from the Judge, expressive of thy lot.

That calm and joy uprising in thy soul

Is first-fruit to thee of thy recompense,

And heaven begun.

Sec. 4.

SOUL.

But hark! upon my sense

Comes a fierce hubbub, which would make me fear,

Could I be frighted.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

------

{526}

From The St. James Magazine

EXTINCT SPECIES

The study of geology teaches us that our planet, has undergone many

successive physical revolutions, the crust of it being made up of

layer upon layer, after the manner of the successive peels of an

onion. Each of these successive depositions constitutes the tomb of

animal forms that have lived and passed away. Now it is a fresh-water

or a marine shell that the exploratory geologist discloses; now the

skeleton, or parts of a skeleton, from the evidence of which a

comparative anatomist can reproduce, by model or picture, the exact

forms. Occasionally science has to build up her presentment of animals

that were, from the scanty evidence of their mere footfalls. As the

poacher is guided to the timid hare, crouching in her seat, by the

vestiges of her footprints on the snow, so the geologist can in many

cases arrive at tolerably certain conclusions relative to the size and

aspect of an extinct animal by the evidence of footsteps on now solid

rock. And if it be demanded how it happens that now solid rocks can

bear the traces of such soft impressions, the reply is simple. There

evidently was a time when these rocks, now so hard and solid, were

mere agglomerations of plastic matter, comparable for consistence to

ordinary clay. It needs not even the weight of a footfall to impress

material of temper so soft as this. The plashes of rain are distinctly

visible upon many rocks now hard, and which have only acquired their

consistence with the lapse of countless ages.

The geologist's notion of the word "recent" comprehends a span of time

of beginning so remote that the oldest records of human history fade

to insignificance by comparison. Since this world of ours acquired its

final surface settlement, so to speak, numerous species have become

extinct. The process of exhaustion has gone steadily on. It has been

determined by various causes, some readily explicable, others involved

in doubt. It is a matter well established, for example, that all

northern Asia was at one time, not geologically remote, overrun by

herds of mammoth creatures which, as to size, dwarf the largest

elephants now existing; and which, among other points distinguishing

them from modern elephants, were, unlike these, covered by a crop of

long hair. Very much of the ivory manufactured in Russia consists of

the tusks of these now extinct mammoths, untombed from time to time.

Tilesius declares his belief that mammoth skeletons still left in

northern Russia exceed in number all the elephants now existing upon

the globe. Doubtless the process of mammoth extinction was very

gradual, and extended over an enormous space of time. This

circumstance is indicated by the varying condition in which the tusks

and teeth are found. Whereas the gelatine, or soft animal matter, of

many specimens remains, imparting one of the characteristics necessary

to the being of ivory, other specimens have lost this material, and

mineral substances, infiltrating, have taken its place. The gem

turquoise is pretty generally conceded to be nothing else than the

fossilized tooth of some extinct animal--probably the mammoth.

Curiosity of speculation prompts the mind to imagine to itself the

time when the last of these gigantic animals succumbed to influences

that were finally destined to sweep them all from the earth. Had men

come upon the scene when they roamed their native wilds? Were those

wilds the same as now as to climate and vegetable growths? {527}

Testimony is mute. Time silently unveils the sepulchred remains,

leaving fancy to expatiate as she will on a topic wholly beyond the

scope of mortal intelligence.

Inasmuch as bones and tusks of the mammoth are dug up in enormous

quantities over tracts now almost bare of trees, and scanty as to

other vegetation, certain naturalists have assumed that in times

coeval with mammoth or mastodonic life the vegetation of these regions

must have been richer than now, otherwise how could such troops of

enormous beasts have gained their sustenance?

On this point Sir Charles Lyell bids us not to be too confident

affirmatively. He remarks that luxuriance of vegetable growth is not

seen at the time being to correspond with the prevalence of the

associated fauna. The northern island of the New Zealand group, at the

period when Europeans first set foot there, was mostly covered by a

luxuriant growth of forest trees, of shrubs and grasses. Admirably

adapted to the being of herbivorous animals, the land was wholly

devoid of the same. Brazilian forests offer another case in

illustration; a stronger case than the wilds of New Zealand, inasmuch

as the climate may be assumed as more congenial to the development of

animal life. Nowhere on earth does nature teem with an equal amount of

vegetable luxuriance; yet Brazilian forests are remarkable for almost

the total absence of large animals. Perhaps no present tract is so

densely endowed with animal life as that of South Africa, a region

where sterility is the prevailing characteristic; where forest trees

are rare and other vegetation scant; where water, too, is infrequent.

Present examples, such as these, should make a naturalist hesitate

before coming to the conclusion that Siberian wilds, even as now, were

wholly incompatible with the existence and support of troops of

mammoths or mastodons. Speculating now as to the latest time of the

existence of mastodons in Siberia, a circumstance has to be noted that

would seem to countenance the belief in the existence of it up to a

not very remote period of historic times. In the year 1843, the season

being warmer than usual, a mass of Siberian ice thawed, and, in

thawing, untombed one of these animals, perfect in all respects, even

to the skin and hair. The flesh of this creature furnished repast to

wolves and bears, so little alteration had it undergone. Another

mastodon was disentombed on the Tas, between the Obi and Yenesei, near

the arctic circle, about lat. 66 deg. 30' N., with some parts of its flesh

in so perfect a state that the bulb of the eye now exists preserved in

the Moscow museum. Another adult carcass, accompanied by an individual

of the same species, was found in 1843, in lat. 75 deg. 15' N., near the

river Taimyr, the flesh being decayed. Associated with it, Middendorf

observed the trunk of a larch tree (_Pinus larix_), the same wood that

now grows in the same neighborhood abundantly.

It is no part of our intention to discuss the causes of mammoth

extinction. This result has assuredly not been caused by any onslaught

of the destroyer man. The Siberian wilds are scantily populated now,

and it has never been suggested that at any anterior period their

human denizens were more plentiful. Nature often establishes the

balance of her organic life through a series of agencies so abstrusely

refined, and acting, beside, over so long a period, that they

altogether escape man's cognizance. The believer in the God of

nature's adaptation of means to ends will see no reason to make an

exception in animal species to what is demonstrated by examples in so

many other cases to be a general law. The dogma, that no general law

is without exceptions, though one to which implicit credence has been

given, may nevertheless be devoid of the universality commonly

imputed. On the contrary, the application of this dogma may extend

over a very narrow field; may be only referable to the codifications,

artificial and wholly {528} conventional, which mankind for their

convenience establish, and under a false impression elevate to the

position of laws. If logical proof in syllogistic form be demanded as

to the proposition that laws established by nature have no exceptions,

the fulfilment of demand would not be possible; inasmuch as human

reason is too impotent for grasping, and too restricted in its

energies for investigating, the multifarious issues which the

discussion of such a thesis would involve. As coming events, however,

are said by the poet to cast their shadows in advance, so, as heralds

and harbingers of truths beyond logical proof, come beliefs, faiths,

even moral convictions. Of this sort is the assurance of the balance

established by nature at each passing epoch of being in the world.

The naturalist is impressed with the firm belief that the number of

animal species existing on the earth, and the number of individuals in

each species, are balanced and apportioned in some way and by some

mysterious co-relation to the needs of the universe.

Some presumptive testimony in favor of this belief is afforded by the

discussion, barely yet concluded, relative to the effect of small bird

destruction. Without any more elaborate reasoning on this topic than

follows necessarily as the result of newspaper reading, the general

concession will be made by any one of unbiased mind, that if small

bird destruction could be enacted to its exhaustive limits--if every

small bird could be destroyed--the aggregate of vitality thus

disposed of would be balanced through the increase of other organisms.

Insect life would teem and multiply to an extent proportionate with

the removal of an anterior restraining cause.

The nature of the topic on which we are engaged does not force upon us

the question whether such proportionate increase of insect life be

advantageous or disadvantageous. What we are wholly concerned in

placing in evidence is the balance kept up between vital organisms of

different species by nature. Nor is the balance of vitality

established between different animal species. It also may be traced,

and even more distinctly, between the vegetable and animal kingdoms;

each regarded in its entirety. Vegetables can only grow by the

assimilation of an element (carbon) which animals evolve by

respiration, as being a poison. Consideration of this fact well-nigh

forces the conclusion upon the mind--if, indeed, the conclusion be

not inevitable--that if through any vast cataclysm animated life were

to become suddenly extinct throughout the world, vegetable life would

languish until the last traces of atmospheric carbon had become

exhausted, and then perish.

In maintenance of her vital balance through the operation of some

occult law, it often happens that animals that have ceased to be

"obviously useful," as taking part in a general economy around them,

are seen to die out. Whilst wolves and elks roamed over Ireland the

magnificent Irish wolf-dog was common. With the disappearance of

wolves the breed of wolf-dogs languished, and has ultimately become

extinct. As a matter of zoological curiosity many an Irish gentleman

would have desired to perpetuate this gigantic and interesting race of

dogs; but the operation, the tendency to vital equilibrium has been

over-strong to be contravened--the race of Irish wolf-dogs has fleeted

away. Speaking now of the huge Siberian mammoths, from which we

diverged, of these faith in nature's balanced adaptation assures us

that they died out so soon as they ceased to be necessary as a

compensation to some unknown force in the vital economy.

Spans and periods of time, such as those comprehended by the human

mind, and compared with the normal period of individual human

existence, dwindle to nothingness when attempted to be made the units

of measurement in calculations involving the duration of species.

Perhaps the data are not available for enabling the most careful

investigator to come to an approximate {529} conclusion as to the

number of years that must elapse before the race of existing

elephants, African and Indian, will become extinct, departing from the

earth as mammoths have departed. The time, however, must inevitably

arrive for that consummation under the rule of the present course of

things.

Without forest for shade and sustenance the race of wild elephants

cannot exist; and, inasmuch as elephants never breed in captivity,

each tame elephant having been once reclaimed from the forests, it

follows, from the consideration of inevitable results, that sooner or

later, but some day, nevertheless, one of two possible issues must be

consummated--either that man shall cease to go on subduing the earth,

cutting down forests and bringing the land into cultivation, or else

elephants must become extinct. Who can entertain a doubt as to the

alternative issue? Man has gone on conquering and to conquer from the

time he came upon the scene. Animals, save those he can domesticate,

have gone on fleeting and fleeting away. It is most probable,

nevertheless, that one proportionate aggregate of vitality has at

every period been maintained.

The most marked examples of the passing away of animal species within

periods of time, in some cases not very remote, pronounced of even in

a historical sense, is seen in the record of certain gigantic birds.

The largest individuals of the feathered tribes now extant are

ostriches; but the time was when these plumed denizens of the Sahara

were small indeed by comparison with existing species. Some idea of

the bulk of the epiornis--an extinct species--may be gathered from a

comparison of the bulk of one of its eggs with that of other birds.

According to M. Isidore Geoffroy, who some time since presented one of

these eggs to the French Academy of Sciences, the capacity of it was

no less than eight litres and three-fourths. This would prove it to be

about six times the size of the ostrich's egg, 148 times that of an

ordinary fowl, and no less than 50,000 times the size of the egg of

the humming-bird. The egg exhibited was one of very few that have been

discovered; hence nothing tends to the belief that it was one of the

largest. The first knowledge of the existence of this gigantic bird

was acquired in 1851. The sole remains of the species hitherto found

are some egg-shells and a few bones. These suffice, however, for an

ideal reproduction of the creature under the synthetical treatment of

comparative anatomy. The epiornis inhabited Madagascar. The creature's

height could not have been less than from nine to twelve feet, and the

preservation of its remains is such as to warrant the belief in its

comparatively recent existence.

Of a structure as large as the epiornis, probably larger, though

differing from the latter in certain anatomical particulars, according

to the belief of Professor Owen, is a certain New Zealand giant bird,

called by him the dinornis. As in the case of the Madagascar bird, the

evidence relating to this is very recent. Some few years ago an

English gentleman received from a relative settled in New Zealand some

fragments of large bones that had belonged to some creature of species

undetermined. He sent them to Professor Owen for examination, and was

not a little surprised at the assurance that the bones in question,

although seemingly having belonged to an animal as large as an ox,

were actually those of a bird. The comparative anatomist was guided in

coming to this conclusion by a certain cancellated structure possessed

by the bony fragments, a characteristic of the bones of birds. For a

time Professor Owen's dictum was received with hesitation, not to say

disbelief, on the part of some people. The subsequent finding of more

remains, eggs as well as bones, soon justified the naturalist's

verdict, however. Not the slightest doubt remains now upon the mind of

any zoologist relative to the past existence of the dinornis; nay, the

{530} impression prevails that this feathered monster may be living in

some of the more inaccessible parts of the southern island of New

Zealand at the present time. Be that as it may, the dinornis can only

have become extinct recently, even using this word in a historical

sense, as the following testimony will make manifest:--

A sort of mummification prevailed amongst the Maories until

Christianity had gained ground amongst them. The process was not

exactly similar to that by which Egyptian mummies were formed, but

resembled it, nevertheless, in the particular of desiccation. Smoking

was the exact process followed; and smoked Maori heads are common

enough in naturalists' museums. In a general way Maori heads alone

were smoked, certain principles of food economy prompting a more

utilitarian treatment for entire bodies. Nevertheless, as a mark of

particular respect to some important chief now and then, affectionate

survivors exempted his corpse from the oven, and smoking it entire,

set it up amongst the Maori lares and penates as an ornament. This

explanation is not altogether _par parenthese_, for it brings me to

the point of narrating some evidence favorable to the opinion that the

dinornis cannot have been extinct in New Zealand even at a recent

historical period. Not long ago the body of a Maori was found in a

certain remote crypt, and resting on one hand was an egg of this bird

giant. Contemplate now the bearings of the testimony. The Maori race

is not indigenous to New Zealand, but arrived there by migration from

Hawai. Not alone do the records of the two groups of Pacific islands

in question advert to such migration, but certain radical coincidences

of language lend confirmation. It is further a matter of tradition

that the migration took place about three hundred years ago. Now, even

if the recently discovered specimen of Maori mummy art had been

executed on the very first advent of the race, the period elapsed

would be, historically speaking, recent. The laws of chance, however,

are adverse to any such assumption; and, moreover, the degree of

civilization--if the expression may be used--implied by the dedication

of an entire human body to an aesthetic purpose, instead of devoting

it to one of common utility--could only have been achieved after a

certain lapse of time.

According to Professor Owen, there must have been many species of

dinornis. The largest individuals of one species, according to him,

could not have been less than four yards high. According to the same

naturalist, moreover, these birds were not remarkable by their size

alone; they had, he avers, certain peculiarities of form establishing

a link between them and the cassowary and apteryx: the latter a

curious bird still found in New Zealand, but very rare nevertheless.

Of colossal dimensions as were the dinornis and epiornis, the size of

both sinks into insignificance by comparison with another giant bird,

traces of which, and only traces, are discoverable in North America,

at the epoch when the deposit of the conchylian stage of Massachusetts

was yet soft enough to yield under the feet of creatures stepping upon

its surface. Footsteps, indeed, are the only traces left of these

giant birds, and they are found side by side with the imprints of

drops of rain which fell on the yielding surface in those early times.

Mostly the footmarks only correspond with three toes, but occasionally

there are traces of a fourth--a toe comparable to a thumb, only

directed forward, not backward. Marks of claws are occasionally found.

Every trace and lineament of the Massachusetts bird is marvellously

exceptional. The feet must have been no less than fifteen inches long,

without reckoning the hinder claw, the length of which alone is two

inches. The width must have been ten inches. The intervals between

these footmarks correspond evidently with the stride of the monster,

which got over the ground by covering successive stages of from {531}

four to five feet! When we consider that the stride of an ostrich is

no more than from ten to twelve inches, the application of this record

will be obvious. Here closes the testimony already revealed in respect

of this bird, except we also refer to it--which is apocryphal--certain

coprolites or excrementitious matters found in the same formation.

For the preceding facts naturalists are indebted to the investigations

of Mr. Hitchcock. The evidence adduced leaves no place for doubt as to

the previous existence of a giant bird to which the traces are

referable. Naturalists, however, were slow to come to this conclusion;

so extraordinary did it seem that a bird should have lived at a period

so remote as that when these geological formations were deposited. To

gain some idea of the antiquity of that formation, one has only to

remember that the conchylian stage is only the fifth in the order of

time of the twenty-eight stages of which, according to Alcide

D'Orbigny, the crust of the earth is made up, from the period of

primitive rocks to the present date. However, many recent facts have

tended to prove that several animals, mammalians and saurians amongst

others, are far more ancient than had been imagined; after which

evidence these giant bird footprints have lost much of the

improbability which once seemed to attach to them.

Pass we on now to the traces of another very curious bird, the

existence of which has been demonstrated by Professor Owen, according

to whom the creature must have lived at the epoch of the schists of

Sobenhofen. The name given by Professor Owen to this curious extinct

bird is _archeopterix_. Its peculiarities are so numerous that for

some time naturalists doubted whether it should be considered a

reptile or a bird; between which two there exist numerous points of

similarity. And now, whilst dealing with bird-giants, it would be

wrong not to make some reference to a discovery made in 1855, at Bas

Meudon, of certain osseous remains, referable to a bird that must have

attained the dimensions of a horse; that floated on water like a swan,

and poised itself at roost upon one leg. Monsieur Constant Prevost,

the naturalist who has most studied the bird, gave to it the name of

gastornis Parisiensis. The bony remains of this creature were found in

the tertiary formation in a conglomerate associated with chalk, which

refers the gastornis to a date more remote than any yet accorded to

any other bird.

From a bare record of facts contemplate we now our planet as it must

have been when inhabited by the monstrous birds and reptiles and

quadrupeds which preceded the advent of man. These were times when

animated forms attained dimensions which are now wholly exceptional.

That may be described as the age when physical and physiological

forces were dominant, as the force of moral agency dominates over the

present, and is destined, as appearances tend to prove, to rule even

more fully hereafter. Might it not seem that in nature an economy is

recognizable similar to the economy of human existence? Can we not

recognize an antagonism between the development of brute force and of

the quality of mind? Would it not even seem that nature could not at

one and the same time develop mental and corporeal giants? The

physiological reign has only declined to prepare the advent of moral

ascendancy. Giant bodies seem fading from the earth, and giant spirits

commencing to rule. Humanity is progressive; is not its progression

made manifest by these zoological revelations? The first bone traces

of human beings range back to an epoch posterior to the monstrous

quadrupeds entombed in the diluvium. Hereafter giants, probably, will

only be seen in the moral world, grosser corporeal giant forms having

become extinct. The physical gigantesque is not yet indeed banished

from the earth, but the period of its {532} banishment would seem to

be at hand.

The probability is that all the great birds to which reference has

been made were, like the ostrich, incapable of flight. This defect,

when contemplated from the point of view suggested by modern

classifications, seems one of the most remarkable aberrations of

nature of which we have cognizance. For a bird to be deprived of what

seems the most essential characteristic of bird-life--to be banished

from the region that we have come to regard as the special domain of

bird-life--bound to the earth, forced to mingle with quadrupeds--seems

to the mind the completest of all possible departures from established

type.

Thoughts such as these result from our artificial systems and

classifications. Apart from these, the conditions of giant walking

birds that were, and to a limited extent are, will be found to

harmonize well with surrounding conditions. Suppose we take the case

of the ostrich for example; this bird being the chief living

representative of giant bird-life remaining to us from the past. In

the ostrich, then, do we view a creature so perfectly adapted to

conditions which surround it that no need falls short and no quality

is in excess. A complete bird in most anatomical characteristics, it

borrows others from another type. The sum of the vital elements which

normally, had the ostrich been like flying birds, should have gone to

endow the wings, has been directed toward the legs and feet, and

thereupon concentrated. Bird qualities and beast qualities have

mingled, and, as we now perceive, have harmonized. If to the ostrich

flying is denied--if it can only travel on foot, yet is it an

excellent pedestrian. A quality of which it has been deprived we now

find to have been transmuted into another quality--the ostrich has

found its equivalent.

Reflecting thus, we cease to pity the ostrich; we begin to see that

nature has been supremely wise, our classifications only having led us

into error. A new thought dawns upon our apprehension; instead of

longer regarding the ostrich as furnishing an example of nature's

bird-creative power gone astray, we come to look upon this creature as

designed upon the type of ordinary walking animals, and having some

bird characteristics added. Assuredly this point of view is better

than the other; for whereas the first reveals nature to us through the

distorting medium of an abstraction, the other shows us nature

herself. It is not a matter of complete certainty that the bird-type,

as naturalists explain and define it in their systems, exists; but

there can be no doubt as to the existence of the ostrich. In this mode

of expression there is nothing paradoxical; and doubtless, when we

come to reflect upon it, the case will not fail to seem a little

strange that we are so commonly in the habit of testing the

inequalities of beings by reference to systems, instead of following

the opposite course, viz., that of testing the value and completeness

of systems by reference to the qualities of individuals they embrace.

Naturalists invent a system and make it their touchstone of truth;

whereas the real touchstone would be the creature systematized. The

ostrich simply goes to prove that the zoological types imagined by

naturalists are endowed with less of the absolute than philosophers in

their pride of science had imagined. Animal types are not the

strangers to each other that artificial classifications would make

them appear.

Nor is flexibility of bird-type only manifested by the examples

wherein a bird acquires characteristics of quadrupeds and other

walking animals. Wings may even become metamorphosed into a sort of

fins, thus establishing a connection between bird-life and fish-life.

This occurs in the manchot, a bird not less aquatic in its habits than

the seal--of flying and walking almost equally incapable--a bird the

natural locomotive condition of which is to be plunged {533} in water

up to the neck. Assuredly nothing can be more absurd than the attempt

to recognize, in these ambiguous organizations, so many attempts of

nature to pass from one type to another.

No matter what religious system one may have adopted, or what

philosophical code: the interpretation of nature (according to which

she is represented as making essays--trying experiments) is alike

inadmissible. Neither God omniscient, nor nature infallible, can be

assumed by the philosopher as trying experiments. There are, indeed,

no essays in nature but degrees--transitions. Wherefore these

transitions? is a question that brings philosophy to bay, and

demonstrates her weakness. It is a question that cannot be pondered

too deeply. Therein lies the germ of some great mystery.

Reverting to bird-giants, past and present, it is assuredly incorrect

to assume, as certain naturalists have assumed, that flying would have

been incompatible with their bulk. There exist birds of prey, of whose

bodies the specific gravity does not differ much from that of the

ostrich, and are powerful in flight nevertheless. Then another class

of facts rises up in opposition to the hypothesis, that mere grandeur

of dimensions is the limit to winged flying. Neither the apteryx nor

the manchot fly any more than the ostrich. Neither is a large bird,

nor, relatively to size, a heavy bird. As regards the epiornis, the

position is not universally acceded to by naturalists that the

creature was like the ostrich, the apteryx, and cassowary, a mere

walking bird. An Italian naturalist, Signor Bianconi, has noted a

certain peculiarity in the metatarsal bones of the creature which

induces him to refer it to the category of winged birds of prey. If

this hypothesis be tenable, then a sort of giant vulture the epiornis

would have been: one in whose imposing presence the condor of the

Andes would have dwindled to the dimensions of a buzzard. Further, if

Signor Bianconi's assumption hold good, then may we not have done

amiss in banishing the "roc" to the realms of fiction? Old Marco Polo,

writing in the thirteenth century, described the roc circumstantially,

and the account has been long considered as either a fiction or a

mistake. Signor Bianconi, coming to the rescue of his

fellow-countryman, thinks that the Italian traveller may have actually

described a giant bird of prey extant at the time when he wrote, but

which has now become extinct.

A notice of extinct birds would be incomplete without reference to the

dodo, the very existence of which had been lately questioned; so

completely has it fleeted away from the earth. Messrs. Broderip,

Strickland, and Melville, however, have amply vindicated the dodo's

claim to be regarded a former denizen of the world we live in. The

dodo was first seen by the Dutch when they landed on the Isle of

France, at that time uninhabited, immediately subsequent to the

doubling of Cape Horn by the Portuguese. These birds were described as

having no wings, but in the place of them three or four black

feathers. Where the tail should be, there grew instead four or five

curling plumes of a grayish color. In their stomachs they were said to

have commonly a stone as big as a fist, and hard as the gray Bentemer

stone. The boat's crew of the _Jacob Van Neck_ called them

Walgh-vogels (surfeit birds), because they could not cook them or make

them tender, or because they were able to get so many turtle-doves,

which had a much more pleasant flavor, so that they took a disgust to

these birds. Likewise, it is said that three or four of these birds

were enough to afford a whole ship's company one full meal. Indeed,

the sailors salted down some of them, and carried them on the voyage.

Many descriptions of the dodo were given by naturalists after the

commencement of the seventeenth century; and the British Museum

contains a painting said to have been copied {534} from a living

individual. Underneath the painting is a leg still finely preserved;

and in respect of this leg naturalists are agreed that it cannot

belong to any existing species. The dodo must have been a curious

bird, if Mr. Strickland's notion of him be correct; and Professor

Reinhardt, of Copenhagen, holds a similar opinion. The dodo, these

naturalists affirm, was a vulture-like dove--a sort of ugly giant

pigeon--but with beak and claws like a vulture. He had companions or

neighbors, at least, not dissimilar in nature. Thus a bird called the

solitaire inhabited the small island of Roderigues, three hundred

miles east of the Mauritius. Man has exterminated the solitaire, as

well as other birds nearly allied, formerly denizens of the Isle of

Bourbon.

The dodo will be seen no more; the race has fleeted away. Among birds,

the emeu, the cassowary, and the apteryx are species rapidly

vanishing; amongst quadrupeds, the kangaroo--the platypus: others

slowly, but not less surely. After a while they will be gone from the

earth wholly, as bears, wolves, mammoths, and hyenas have gone from

our own island. The _Bos primigenius_, or great wild bull, was common

in Germany when Julius Caesar flourished. The race has become wholly

extinct, if, indeed, not incorporated with the breed of large tame

oxen of northern Europe. The urus would have become extinct but for

the care taken by Russian emperors to preserve a remnant in Lithuanian

forests. The beaver built his mud huts along the Saone and Rhone up to

the last few generations of man; and when Hannibal passed through Gaul

on his way to Italy, beavers in Gaul were common. Thus have animals

migrated or died out, passed away, but the balance of life has been

preserved. Man has gone on conquering: now exterminating, now

subjecting. Save the fishes of the sea and the birds of the air, the

time will perhaps come when creatures will have to choose between

subjection and death. Ostriches would seem to be reserved for the

first alternative, seeing that in South Africa, in southern France,

and Italy, these birds have lately been bred, domiciled into tame

fowls, in behalf of their feathers. Very profitable would ostrich

farming seem to be. These giant birds want no food but grass, and the

yearly feather yield of each adult ostrich realizes about twenty-five

pounds sterling.

----

{535}

From Chambers's Journal.

A DINNER BY MISTAKE.

"Only one poun'-ten a week, sir, and no extras; and I may say you

won't find such cheap airy lodgings anywhere else in the place; not to

speak of the sea-view;" and the bustling landlady threw open the door

of the tiny sitting-room with an air which would have become a

Belgravian lackey. It certainly was a cosy, sunny little apartment,

with just such a view of the sea, and of nothing else whatsoever, as

is the delight of an inland heart, I was revolving in my mind how to

make terms on one most important point, when she again broke forth: "I

can assure you, sir, I could have let these same rooms again and again

in the last two days, if I had not given my promise to Mrs. Johnson

that she should have them next Friday fortnight, and I would never go

from my word, sir--never! though this month is our harvest, and it's

hard for me to have the rooms standing empty. As I told my niece only

yesterday, I won't let forward again, not to please anybody, for it

don't answer, and it worrits me out of my life. And I'm sure, sir, if

you like to come for the fortnight, I'll do my utmost to make you

comfortable; and I always have given satisfaction; and you could not

get nicer rooms nowhere."

"No," said I, taking advantage of her pause for breath; "these are

very nice. I--I suppose you don't object to smoking?"

The good woman's face assumed a severe expression, though I detected a

comical twinkle in her eye. "Why, sir, we always do say--but if it's

only a cigar, and not one of them nasty pipes"--

I smiled: "To tell the truth, it generally is a pipe."

"Is it now? Well, sir, if _you_ please, we won't say anything about it

now. We have a lady-lodger upstairs, and if she should complain, I can

but say that it is against my rules, and that I'll mention it to you.

And so, sir, if you please, I'll go now, and see to your portmanteau

being taken up;" and thereupon she vanished, leaving me in sole

possession.

I threw my bag and rug on to the sofa, pushed a slippery horsehair

armchair up to the window, and sat down to rest and inhale the

sea-breezes with a certain satisfaction at being in harbor. As I

before remarked, the prospect was in the strictest sense of the words

a sea-view. Far away to east and west stretched the blue ocean; and

beside it, I could see only a steep grass-bank just beneath my window,

with a broad shingly path running at its base, evidently designed for

an esplanade, though no human form was visible thereon. Away to the

right, I just caught a glimpse of shelving beach, dotted with

fishermen's boats; and of a long wooden jetty, with half-a-dozen

figures slowly pacing from end to end, while the dismal screeching of

a brass band told of an attempt at music more ambitious than

successful. It was not a lively look-out for a solitary man, and I

half wished myself back in my mother's comfortable house at Brompton.

However, I was in for it now; and I could but try how far a fortnight

of open air and exercise would recruit my wasted strength. I had been

reading really hard at Oxford through the last term, and my very

unusual industry had been followed by a languor and weariness which so

awakened my dear mother's solicitude that she never rested till she

had persuaded Dr. Busby to prescribe sea-air and a total separation

from my books. She could not come {536} with me, as she longed to do,

kind soul! but she packed my properties, and gave endless instructions

as to diet, all of which I had forgotten before I had accomplished the

first mile of my journey. I don't know why I came to that

out-of-the-way watering-place, except that I was too languid to have a

will of my own, or to care for the noisy life of country-houses full

of sportsmen. So, on the following morning, behold me in gray

travelling suit and wide-awake, strolling along the beach, watching

the pretty bathers as they dipped their heads under water, and then

reappeared, shaking the dripping tresses from their eyes. Then there

were the fishermen, brawny, bare-legged Goliahs, setting forth on

their day's toil, and launching their boats with such shouts and cries

as, to the uninitiated, might indicate some direful calamity. The

beach was alive now, for the whole visiting population, such as it

was, seemed to have turned out this bright September morning, and were

scattered about, sketching, working, and chattering. I scanned each

group, envying them their merry laughter and gay talk, and half hoping

to recognize some familiar face among those lazy lounging youths and

sun-burned damsels; but my quest was fruitless, and I pursued my

lonely way apart.

Really, though, the little place improved upon acquaintance. There

were fine bold cliffs, just precipitous enough to make a scramble to

the top almost irresistible; there were long stretches of yellow sand

and shallow pools glittering in the sunlight; and there was a breeze

coming straight from the north pole, which quickened my blood, and

brought the color into my sallow cheeks, even as I drank it in. I

bathed, I walked, I climbed, I made friends with the boatmen, and got

them to take me out in their fishing-smacks; but still, with returning

vigor, I began to crave not a little for some converse with more

congenial spirits than these honest tars and my loquacious landlady. I

inscribed my name on the big board at the library; I did all that man

could do to make my existence known, but nearly a week passed away,

and still my fellow-creatures held aloof. I had been out for the whole

of one windy afternoon tossing on the waves, watching the

lobster-fishing, and came in at sunset tolerably drenched with spray,

and with a terrific appetite. As I opened the door of my little

sitting-room, I beheld--most welcome sight--the white dinner-cloth,

and lying upon it a card--a large, highly-glazed, most unmistakable

visiting-card. With eager curiosity, I snatched it up, but curiosity

changed to amazement when I read the name, "Sir Philip Hetherton,

Grantham Park." Sir Philip Hetherton! Why, in the name of all that's

incomprehensible, should he call on me? I had never even heard his

name; I knew no more of him than of the man in the moon. Could he be

some country magnate who made it a duty to cultivate the acquaintance

of every visitor to Linbeach? If so, he must have a hard time of it,

even in this little unfrequented region. My impatience could not be

restrained till Mrs. Plumb's natural arrival with the chops; and an

energetic pull at the bell brought her at once courtesying and

smiling.

"I suppose," began I, holding the card with assumed carelessness

between my finger and thumb--"I suppose this gentleman, Sir Philip

Hetherton, called here to-day?"

"Oh yes, sir, this afternoon; not an hour ago."

"He inquired for me?"

"Yes, sir; he asked particularly for young Mr. Olifant, and said he

was very sorry to miss you. He's a very pleasant-spoken gentleman, is

Sir Philip."

"Ah, I see. Is he often in Linbeach? Does he know many people living

in the place?"

"Well, I don't think he has many friends here, sir; at least, I never

understood so; but he owns some of the {537} houses in the town, and

he is very kind to the poor. No one is ever turned away empty-handed

from his door, and I've a right to say so, sir, for my brother's widow

lives in one of the lodges at Grantham. He put her into it when her

husband was drowned at sea, and he's been a good friend to her ever

since."

All this was not what I wanted to find out, but I had learned by

experience that Mrs. Plumb's tongue must have its swing. I now mildly

brought her back to the point: "Does he see anything of the visitors?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir. He sometimes rides in of an afternoon, for

Grantham is only four miles from Linbeach; but I don't think he ever

stays long."

So it was not apparently an eccentric instance of universal

friendliness, but a special mark of honor paid to me. It grew more and

more mysterious. However, there was nothing to be gained by pumping

Mrs. Plumb further; and as I was discreetly minded to keep my own

counsel, I dismissed her. But meditating long and deeply over my

solitary dinner, I came at length to the unwelcome conclusion, that

Sir Philip Hetherton must have been laboring under some strange

delusion, and that I should see and hear no more of him. I was rather

in the habit of priding myself on my judgment and discrimination; but

in this instance they were certainly at fault, for within three days,

I met him face to face. I was strolling slowly along one of the shady

country lanes which led inland between cornfields and hedge-rows, when

I encountered a portly, gray-haired gentleman, mounted on an iron-gray

cob, and trotting soberly toward Linbeach. He surveyed me so

inquisitively out of his merry blue eyes, that the thought crossed me,

could this be the veritable Sir Philip? I smiled at my own vivid

imagination; but I must confess that before I had proceeded another

half mile, I faced round, and returned to Linbeach for more briskly

than I had left it. I had scarcely stepped into Mrs. Plumb's passage,

when that personage herself met me open-mouthed, with a pencil-note in

her hand. "Oh, Mr. Olifant, I wish you had come in rather sooner. Sir

Philip has been here again, and as he could not see you, he wrote this

note, for he had not time to wait. I was quite vexed that it should

happen so."

Evidently the good woman was fully impressed with the dignity of the

event, and not a little flattered at the honor paid to her lodger. I

opened the note, and it contained--oh marvel of marvels!--an

invitation to dinner for the following day, coupled with many warm

expressions of regard for my family, and regrets at having been

hitherto unable to see me.

"I told Sir Philip that I thought you had only gone down to the beach,

sir; but he laughed, and said he should not know you if he met you. I

suppose you don't know him, do you, sir?" Mrs. Plumb added

insinuatingly.

"No." said I; thinking within myself that the baronet need not have

been quite so communicative. However, this confession of his, at any

rate, threw same light upon the subject, and suggested a solution. He

might have known my father or mother. Of course, indeed, he must have

known them, or somebody belonging to me. His own apparent confidence

began to infect me, and I wrote off an elaborate and gracefully-worded

acceptance; and then sat down to my pipe, and a complacent

contemplation of all the benefits that might accrue to me through his

most praiseworthy cordiality. "After all," I reflected, "'tis no

matter where one goes; friends are sure to turn up everywhere;" and

thereon arose visions of partridge-shooting in the dewy mornings, to

be followed by pleasant little dinners with my host and a bevy of

lovely daughters. But on the morrow certain misgivings revisited me,

and I came to the conclusion that it would only be the civil thing to

ride over to Grantham in the afternoon, and get through {538} the

first introductions and explanations before appearing there as a

guest. Accordingly, I hired a long-legged, broken-winded hack, the

only one to be got for love or money, and set forth upon my way. It

was a fruitless journey; the fatal "not at home" greeted my ears, and

I could only drop a card, turn the Roman nose of my gallant steed

toward home, and resign myself to my fate.

Seven o'clock was the hour named for dinner, and I had intended to be

particularly punctual, but misfortunes crowded thick upon me. The

first white tie that came to hand was a miserable failure. My favorite

curl would not be adjusted becomingly upon my brow; and the wretched

donkey-boy who had solemnly promised to bring the basket-carriage

punctually to the door, did not appear till ten minutes after the

time. Last of all, when I had descended "got up" to perfection, and

was on the point of starting, I discovered that I was minus gloves,

and the little maid-of-all-work had to be sent fleeing off to the

corner shop, where haberdashery and grocery were picturesquely

combined. So it fell out that, despite hard driving, it was several

minutes past the hour when we drew up under the portico at Grantham. I

had no time to compose my nerves or prepare my opening address. A

gorgeously-arrayed flunkie appeared at the hall-door; a solemn butler,

behind, waved me on to the guidance of another beplushed and

bepowdered individual; and before I fully realized my position, I

stood in a brilliantly-lighted drawing-room, full of people, and heard

my name proclaimed in stentorian tones. The next moment, the florid

gentleman whom I had encountered on the previous day came forward with

outstretched hands and a beaming face, and a perfect torrent of

welcomes burst upon me.

"Glad to see you at last, Mr. Olifant, very glad to see you; I began

to think there was a fate against our meeting. Let me introduce you.

Lady Hetherton--my daughter--my son Fred. Come this way, this way."

And I was hurried along helpless as an infant in the jovial baronet's

hands. How could I--I appeal to any reasonable being--how could I

stand stock-still, and, under the eyes of all that company,

cross-examine my host as to the why and wherefore of his hospitality?

It will be owned, I think, that in what afterward occurred I was not

wholly to blame. Lady Hetherton was a quiet well-bred woman, with a

mild face and soft voice; she greeted me with a certain sleepy warmth,

and after a few placid commonplaces, resumed her conversation with the

elderly lady by her side, and left me to the care of her son, a

bright, frank young Harrovian, with whom I speedily made friends.

Really it was very pleasant to drop in this way into the centre of a

genial circle, and I found my spirits rising fast as we talked

together, _con amore_, of cricket, boating, hunting. A fresh arrival,

however, soon disturbed the party, and, directly afterward, dinner was

announced. Sir Philip, who had been busily engaged in welcoming the

last comers, led off a stately dame upon his arm, and we followed in

procession, a demure young daughter of the house being assigned to me.

We were slowly making our way round the dining-room, when, just as we

passed the end of the table, Sir Philip turned and laid his hand upon

my shoulder.

"I have scarcely had time for a word yet," he said; "but how are they

all in Yorkshire?"

I don't know what answer I gave; some one from behind begged leave to

pass, and I was borne on utterly bewildered. Yorkshire! what had I to

do with Yorkshire? And then, all at once, the appalling truth burst on

me like a thunder-clap--I was the wrong man! Yes; _now_ I recalled a

certain Captain Olifant, whom I had once met at a mess-dinner, and

who, as I had then heard, belonged to an old Yorkshire family. We

could count no sort of kinship with them {539} but here I was, for

some inexplicable reason, assumed as one of them, perhaps as the

eldest son and heir of their broad acres, and regaled accordingly. My

situation was sufficiently unpleasant, and in the first impulse of

dismay, I made a dash at a central seat where I might be as far as

possible from both host and hostess. But my manoeuvre failed. Lady

Hetherton's soft tones were all too audible as she said: "Mr. Olifant,

perhaps you will come up here; the post of honor;" and of danger too,

in my case; but there was no help for it, and I went. As I unfolded my

napkin, striving hard for a cool and easy demeanor, I mentally

surveyed my position, and decided on my tactics. I could not and would

not there and then declare myself an embodied mistake; I must trust to

chance and my own wits to carry me through the evening, and leave my

explanations for another season. Alas! my trials full soon began. "We

had hardly been seated three minutes, when Lady Hetherton turned to

me.

"We were so very glad you were able to come to-night, Mr. Olifant; Sir

Philip had quite set his heart upon seeing you here. It is such a

great pleasure to him to revive an old friendship; and he was saying

that he had almost lost sight of your family."

I murmured something not very coherent about distance and active life.

"Ah, yes, country gentlemen have so much to do that they really are

greatly tied at home. I think, though, that I once had the pleasure of

meeting a sister of yours in town--Margaret her name was, and she was

suffering from some affection of the spine. I hope she is better now?"

"Much better, thank you." And then, in the faint hope of turning the

conversation, I asked if they were often in town.

"Not so often as I should wish. Sir Philip has a great dislike to

London; but I always enjoy it, for one meets everybody there.

By-the-by, Olifant, the Fordes must be near neighbors of yours. I am

sure I have heard them speak of Calveston."

I did not dare to say they were not, lest inquiries should follow

which might betray my extreme ignorance of Yorkshire geography in

general, and the locality of Calveston in particular; so I chose the

lesser peril, and answered cheerfully; "Oh yes, quite near within an

easy walk of us."

"What charming people they are!" said Lady Hetherton, growing almost

enthusiastic. "The two eldest girls were staying here last spring, and

we all lost our hearts to them, they were so bright and pleasant; and

Katie, too, is growing so very pretty. She isn't out yet, is she?"

"No; I fancy she is to be presented next year," I responded,

reflecting that while I was about it I might as well do it thoroughly.

"She ought to make a sensation."

"Ah, then," said Lady Hetherton eagerly, "you agree with me about her

beauty."

"Oh, entirely. I expect she will be quite the belle of our country

balls." And then, in the same breath, I turned to the shy Miss

Hetherton beside me, and startled her by an abrupt inquiry whether she

liked balls. She must have thought, at any rate, that I liked talking,

for her timid, orthodox reply was scarcely uttered, before I plied her

with fresh questions, and deluged her with a flood of varied

eloquence. Races, archery, croquet, Switzerland, Paris, Garibaldi, the

American war, Mueller's capture, and Tennyson's new poem, all played

their part in turn. For why? Was I not aware that Lady Hetherton's

conversation with the solemn old archdeacon opposite flagged from time

to time, and that, at every lull, she looked toward me, as though

concocting fresh means of torture. But I gained the day; and at

length, with secret exultation, watched the ladies slowly defiling

from the room. Poor innocent! I little knew what was impending. The

last voluminous skirt had scarcely disappeared, when Sir Philip left

his chair, and advancing {540} up the table, glass in hand, seated

himself in his wife's place at my elbow. I tried to believe that he

might intend to devote himself to the arch-deacon, but that good

gentleman was more than half inclined to nod, and my left-hand

neighbor was deep in a geological discussion; so I sat on,

spell-bound, like the sparrow beneath the awful shadow of the hawk.

Certainly, there was not much outward resemblance between that bird of

prey and Sir Philip's comely, smiling visage, as he leaned forward,

and said cheerily: "Well, now, I want to hear all about them."

It was not an encouraging beginning for me, but I had committed myself

with Lady Hetherton too far for a retreat. Like Cortes, I had burned

my ships. Before I had framed my answer, the baronet proceeded: "I

don't know any of you young ones, but your father and I were fast

friends once upon a time. Many's the lark we've had together at

Harrow, ay, and at Oxford too; for he was a wild-spirited fellow then,

was Harry Olifant, though, I daresay, he has settled down into a sober

country squire long ago."

It was plain that Sir Philip liked to hear himself talk, and my

courage revived.

"Why, yes," I said; "years and cares do work great changes in most

men; I daresay you would hardly know him now."

"I daresay not. But he is well, and as good a shot as in the old

Oxford days?"

"Just as good. He is never happier than among his turnips." And then I

shuddered at my own audacity, as I pictured my veritable parent, a

hard-worked barrister, long since dead, and with about as much notion

of firing a gun as one of his own briefs.

"Quite right, quite right," exclaimed Sir Philip energetically, "and

we can find you some fair sport here, my boy, though the birds are

wild this year. Come over as often as you like while you are at

Linbeach; or, better still, come and slay here."

I thanked him, and explained that I was staying at Linbeach for the

sea-air, and that I must be in town in a few days.

"I'm sorry for that. We ought to have found you out sooner; but I only

chanced to see your name at the library last Friday. And so you are at

Merton?"

"Yes, I'm at Merton," said I, feeling it quite refreshing to speak the

truth.

"Ah, I'm glad your father's stuck to the old college; you could not be

at a better one. That boy of mine is wild for soldiering, or I should

have sent him there."

The mystery stood revealed. I had recorded my name on the visitors'

board as H. Olifant, Merton College, Oxford; and by a strange

coincidence, Sir Philip's former friend had belonged to the same

college, and owned the same initial. The coincidence was indeed so

complete, that it had evidently never dawned upon the baronet that I

could be other than the son of his old chum. He sat now sipping his

wine, with almost a sad expression on his honest face.

"Ah, my lad," he said presently, "when you come to my age, you'll look

back to your old college and your old friends as I do now. But what

was I going to ask you? Oh, I remember. Have you seen any of the

Fordes lately?"

I glanced round despairingly at the geologists, but they were lost to

everything except blue lias and old red sandstone, and there was no

hope of effecting a diversion in that quarter.

"Well, no--not very lately," I responded slowly, as though trying to

recall the exact date when I last had that felicity. "To tell the

truth, I don't go down into those parts so often as I ought to do."

"There's a family for you!" Sir Philip went on triumphantly; "how well

they are doing. That young George Forde will distinguish himself one

of these days, or I'm much mistaken; and Willie, too--do you know

{541} whether he has passed for Woolwich yet?"

I could not say that I did, but the good baronet's confidence in Forde

genius was as satisfactory as certainty.

"He's sure to pass, quite sure; never knew such clever lads; and as

for beauty--that little Katie"--But here the slumbering archdeacon

came to my aid by waking up with a terrific start and a loud "Eh!--

what! time to join the ladies."

There was a general stir, and I contrived to make my escape to the

drawing-room. If I could only have escaped altogether; but it was not

yet half-past nine. The tall footmen and severe butler were lounging

in the hall, and I felt convinced that if I pleaded illness, Sir

Philip would lay violent hands on me, and insist on my spending the

night there. After all, the worst was over, and in the crowded

drawing-room, I might with slight dexterity avoid all shoals and

quicksands. So I ensconced myself in a low chair, guarded by a big

table on one side, and on the other by a comfortable motherly-looking

woman in crimson satin, to whom I made myself agreeable. We got on

very well together, and I breathed and chatted freely in the

delightful persuasion that she at least knew no more of the Fordes

than I did. But my malignant star was in the ascendant. I was in the

midst of a glowing description of the charms of a reading-party at the

lakes, when Sir Philip again assailed me: "Well, Mrs. Sullivan," he

said, addressing my companion, "have you been asking after your little

favorite?"

"My little favorite?" repeated Mrs. Sullivan inquiringly.

She did not know whom he meant, but I did; I knew quite well.

"Katie Forde, I mean; the little black-eyed girl who used to go into

such ecstasies over your roses and ferns--you have not forgotten her

yet, have you?"

No, unluckily for me, Mrs. Sullivan had not forgotten her. I was

charged with a string of the fond, unmeaning messages which ladies

love to exchange; and it was only by emphatically declaring that I

should not be in Yorkshire for many months, that I escaped being made

the bearer of sundry curious roots and bulbs to the fair Katharine.

But Sir Philip soon interrupted us: "There's a cousin of yours in the

next room, Mr. Olifant," he said, evidently thinking that he was

making a most agreeable announcement: "she would like to see you, if

you will let me take you to her."

I heard and trembled. A cousin. Oh, the Fordes were nothing to this!

Why did people have cousins; and why, oh why, should every imaginable

evil befal me on this disastrous evening! Such were my agonized

reflections while with unwilling steps I followed my host to

execution. He led me to a young lady who was serenely examining some

prints. "I have brought him to you, Miss Hunter; here's your cousin,

Mr. Olifant."

She looked at me, but there was no recognition in her eyes. How could

there be, indeed, when we had never met before! What would she do

next? What she _did_ do was to hold out her hand with a good-humored

smile, and at the same time Sir Philip observed complacently: "You

don't know one another, you know." Not know one another; of course we

didn't; but I could have hugged him for telling me so; and in the joy

of my reprieve, I devoted myself readily to my supposed cousin, a

bright, pleasant girl, happily as benighted regarding her real

relatives as I was about my imaginary ones. The minutes slipped fast

away, the hands of the clock pointed at ten, the guests were beginning

to depart, and I was congratulating myself that the ordeal was safely

passed, when, happening to turn my head, I saw Sir Philip once more

advancing upon me, holding in his hand a photograph book. My doom was

sealed! My relentless persecutor was resolved to expose me, and with

diabolical craft had planned the certain {542} means. Horrible visions

of public disgrace, forcible ejection, nay, even of the pump itself,

floated before my dizzy brain, while on he came nearer and ever

nearer. "There!" he exclaimed, stopping just in front of me, and

holding out the ill-omened book--"There! you can tell me who that is,

can't you?"

It was a baby--a baby of a year old, sitting on a cushion, with a

rattle in its hand, and it was of course unlike any creature I had

ever beheld. "Hm, haw," murmured I, contemplating it in utter

desperation; "children are so much alike that really--but"--as a

brilliant idea suddenly flashed on me: "surely it must be a Forde!"

"Of course it is," and Sir Philip clapped me on the back in a

transport of delight. "I thought you would recognize it. Capital!

isn't it? The little thing must be exactly like its mother; and I

fancy I see a look of Willie in it too."

I could endure no more. Another such victory would be almost worse

than a defeat; and while "my cousin" was rhapsodizing over the

infantine charms so touchingly portrayed, I started up, took an abrupt

farewell of my host, and despite his vehement remonstrances, went off

in search of Lady Hetherton, and beat a successful retreat. As I

stepped out into the portico, the pony-trap which I had ordered drove

up to the door, and jumping in, I rattled away toward Linbeach,

exhausted in body and mind, yet relieved to feel that each succeeding

moment found me further and further from the precincts of Grantham.

Not till I was snugly seated in the arm-chair in Mrs. Plumb's parlor,

watching the blue smoke-wreaths wafted up from my best beloved pipe

--not till then could I believe that I was thoroughly safe, and begin

to review calmly the events of the evening. And now arose the very

embarrassing inquiry: What was next to be done? Sir Philip's parting

words had been an energetic exhortation to come over and shoot, the

next day, or, in fact, whenever I pleased. "We can't give you the

grouse of your native moors," he said as a final thrust, "but we can

find you some partridges, I hope;" and I had agreed with a

hypocritical smile, while internally resolving that no mortal power

should take me to Grantham again. Of one thing there could be no

doubt--an explanation was due to the kind-hearted baronet, and it must

be given. Of course I might have stolen off from Linbeach still

undiscovered, but I dismissed the notion instantly. I had gone far

enough already--too far, Sir Philip might not unnaturally think. No; I

must write to him, and it had best be done at once. "Heigh-ho," I

sighed, as I rummaged out ink and paper, and sat down to the great

work; "so ends my solitary friendship at Linbeach." It took me a long

time to concoct the epistle, but it was accomplished at last. In terms

which I would fain hope were melting and persuasive, I described my

birth and parentage, related how I had only discovered my mistaken

identity after my arrival at Grantham, and made a full apology for

having then, in my embarrassment, perpetuated the delusion. I wound up

by the following eloquent and dignified words: "Of course, I can have

no claim whatever to continue an acquaintance so formed, and I can

only tender my grateful thanks for the warm hospitality of which I

have accidentally been the recipient." The letter was sealed and sent,

and I was left to speculate how it might be received. Would Sir Philip

vouchsafe a reply, or would he treat me with silent contempt? I could

fancy him capable of a very tolerable degree of anger, in spite of his

_bonhomie_, and I blushed up to my brows when I pictured quiet Lady

Hetherton recalling my remarks about Miss Katie Forde. The second

day's post came in and brought me nothing; and now I began to be

seized with a nervous dread of encountering any of the Grantham Park

party by chance, and this dread grew so {543} unpleasant that I

determined to cut short my visit, and return to town at once. My

resolution was no sooner made than acted on. I packed my portmanteau,

settled accounts with Mrs. Plumb, and went off to take my place by the

next morning's coach. Coming hastily out of the booking-office in the

dusk, I almost ran against somebody standing by the door. It was Sir

Philip, and I stepped hastily back; but he recognized me at once, and

held out his hand with a hearty laugh. "Ah, Mr. Olifant, is it you? I

was on my way to your lodgings, so we'll walk together;" and not

noticing my confusion, he linked his arm in mine, and continued: "I

got your letter last evening, when I came in from a long day's

shooting, and very much amazed I was, that I must own. I did not

answer it at once, for I was half-dead with walking, and, beside, I

always like talking better than writing, So now I have come to tell

you that I think you've behaved like an honest man and a gentleman in

writing that letter; and I'm very glad to have made your acquaintance,

though you are not Harry Olifant's son. As for the mistake, why, 'twas

my own fault for taking it for granted you must be the man I fancied

you. My lady is just the least bit vexed that we should have made such

geese of ourselves; but come over and shoot to-morrow, and we'll give

you a quiet dinner and a bed in your own proper person; and she will

be very glad to see you. Mind I expect you."

After all my resolutions, I did go to Grantham on the following day;

and my dinner by mistake was the precursor of a most pleasant

acquaintance, which became in time a warm and lasting friendship.

------

From All the Year Round.

NOAH'S ARKS.

In Kew Gardens is a seldom-visited collection of all the kinds of wood

which we have ever heard of, accompanied by specimens of various

articles customarily made of those woods in the countries of their

growth. Tools, implements, small articles of furniture, musical

instruments, sabots and wooden-shoes, boot-trees and shoe-lasts, bows

and arrows, planes, saw-handles--all are here, and thousands of other

things which it would take a very long summer day indeed even to

glance at. The fine display of colonial woods, which were built up

into fanciful trophies at the International Exhibition of eighteen

hundred and sixty-two, has been transferred to one of these museums;

and a noble collection it makes.

We know comparatively little in England of the minor uses of wood. We

use wood enough in building houses and railway structures; our

carriage-builders and wheelwrights cut up and fashion a great deal

more; and our cabinet-makers know how to stock our rooms with

furniture, from three-legged stools up to costly cabinets; but

implements and minor articles are less extensively made of wood in

England than in foreign countries--partly because our forests are

becoming thinned, and partly because iron and iron-work are so

abundant and cheap. In America, matters are very different. There are

thousands of square miles of forest which belong to no one in

particular, and the wood of which may be claimed by those who are at

the trouble of felling the trees. {544} Nay, a backwoodsman would be

very glad to effect a clearing on such terms as these, seeing that the

trees encumber the ground on which he wishes to grow corn crops.

The wood, when the trees have been felled and converted into boards

and planks, is applied to almost countless purposes of use. Of use, we

say; for the Americans are too bustling a people to devote much time

to the fabricating of ornaments; they prefer to buy these ready made

from Britishers and other Europeans. Pails, bowls, washing-machines,

wringing-machines, knife-cleaning boards, neat light vehicles, neat

light furniture, dairy vessels, kitchen utensils, all are made by the

Americans of clean, tidy-looking wood, and are sold at very low

prices. Machinery is used to a large extent in this turnery and

wood-ware: the manufacturers not having the fear of strikes before

their eyes, use machines just where they think this kind of aid is

likely to be most serviceable. The way in which they get a little bowl

out of a big bowl, and this out of a bigger, and this out of a bigger

still, is a notable example of economy in workmanship. On the

continent of Europe the wood-workers are mostly handicraftsmen, who

niggle away at their little bits of wood without much aid from

machinery. Witness the briar-root pipes of St. Claude. Smart young

fellows who sport this kind of smoking-bowl in England, neither know

nor care for the fact that it comes from a secluded spot in the Jura

mountains. Men and women, boys and girls, earn from threepence to four

shillings a day in various little bits of carved and turned work; but

the crack wages are paid to the briar-root pipe-makers. England

imports many more than she smokes, and sends off the rest to America.

M. Audiganne says that "in those monster armies which have sprung up

so suddenly on the soil of the great republic, there is scarcely a

soldier but has his St. Claude briar-root pipe in his pocket." The

truth is, that, unlike cutties and meerschaums, and other clay and

earthen pipes, these briar-root productions are very strong, and will

bear a great deal of knocking about. The same French writer says that

when his countrymen came here to see our International Exhibition,

some of them bought and carried home specimens of these pipes as

English curiosities: not aware that the little French town of St.

Claude was the place of their production.

In Germany the wood-work, so far as English importers know anything of

it, is mostly in the form of small trinkets and toys for children. The

production of these is immense. In the Tyrol, and near the Thuringian

Forest, in the middle states of the ill-organized confederacy, and

wherever forests abound, there the peasants spend much of their time

in making toys. In the Tyrol, for example, there is a valley called

the Groednerthal, about twenty miles long, in which the rough climate

and barren soil will not suffice to grow corn for the inhabitants, who

are rather numerous. Shut out from the agricultural labor customary in

other districts, the people earn their bread chiefly by wood carving.

They make toys of numberless kinds (in which Noah's Ark animals are

very predominant) of the soft wood of the Siberian pine--known to the

Germans as ziebelnusskiefer. The tree is of slow growth, found on the

higher slopes of the valley, but now becoming scarce, owing to the

improvidence of the peasants in cutting down the forests without

saving or planting others to succeed them. For a hundred years and

more the peasants have been carvers. Nearly every cottage is a

workshop. All the occupants, male and female, down to very young

children, seat themselves round a table, and fashion their little bits

of wood. They use twenty or thirty different kinds of tools, under the

magic of which the wood is transformed into a dog, a lion, a man, or

what not. Agents represent these carvers in various cities of Europe,

to dispose of the wares; but they nearly all find their way back again

{545} to their native valleys, to spend their earnings in peace.

Many of the specimens shown at the Kew museums are more elaborate than

those which could be produced wholly by hand. A turning-lathe of some

power must have been needed. Indeed, the manner in which these

zoological productions are fabricated is exceedingly curious, and is

little likely to be anticipated by ordinary observers. Who, for

instance, would imagine for a moment that a wooden horse, elephant, or

tiger, or any other member of the Noah's Ark family, could be turned

in a lathe, like a ball, bowl, or bedpost? How could the turner's

cutting tool, while the piece of wood is rotating in the lathe, make

the head stick out in the front, and the ears at the top, and the tail

in the rear, and the legs underneath? And how could the animal be made

longer than he is high, and higher than he is broad? And how could all

the ins and outs, the ups and downs, the swellings and sinkings, be

produced by a manipulation which only seems* suitable for circular

objects? These questions are all fair ones, and deserve a fair answer.

The articles, then, are not fully made in the lathe; they are brought

to the state of flat pieces, the outline or contour of which bears an

approximate resemblance to the profile of an animal. These flat pieces

are in themselves a puzzle; for it is difficult to see how the lathe

can have had anything to do with their production. The truth is, the

wood is first turned into _rings_. Say that a horse three inches long is

to be fabricated. A block of soft pine wood is prepared, and cut into

a slab three inches thick, by perhaps fifteen inches in diameter; the

grain running in the direction of the thickness. Out of this circular

slab a circular piece is cut from the center, possibly six inches in

diameter, leaving the slab in the form of a ring, like an extra thick

india-rubber elastic band. While this ring is in the lathe, the turner

applies his chisels and gouges to it in every part, on the outer edge,

on the inner edge, and on both sides. All sorts of curves are made,

now deep, now shallow; now convex, now concave; now with single

curvature, now with double. A looker-on could hardly by any

possibility guess what these curvings and twistings have to do with

each other, for the ring is still a ring, and nothing else; but the

cunning workman has got it all in his mind's eye. When the turning is

finished, the ring is bisected or cut across, not into two slices, but

into two segments or semicircular pieces. Looking at either end of

either piece, lo! there is the profile of a horse--without a tail,

certainly, but a respectably good horse in other respects. The secret

is now divulged. The turner, while the ring or annulus is in the

lathe--a Saturn's ring without a Saturn--turns the outer edge into the

profile of the top of the head and the back of a horse, the one flat

surface into the profile of the chest and the fore legs, and the other

flat surface into the profile of the hind quarters and hind legs, and

the inner edge of the ring into the profile of the belly, and the deep

recess between the fore and hind legs. The curvatures are really very

well done, for the workmen have good models to copy from, and long

practice gives them accuracy of hand and eye.