art unreasonable, Constance. My duty to my lord shapes my outward
behavior; but I have weighty cares, nevertheless. Dost thou mind that
passage in the late duke our father's letter to his son and me?--that
we should live in a lower degree, and out of London and from the
court. Methinks a prophetic spirit did move him thus to write. My lord
has a great heart and a generous temper, and loves to spend money in
all sorts of ways, profitable and unprofitable, as I too well observe
since we have been in London. And the queen sent him a store of
messages by my Lord Essex, and others of his friends, that she was
surprised not to see him at court; and that it was her highness's
pleasure he should wait upon her, and she shall show him so much favor
as he deserves, and such like inducements."
"And hath my lord been to court?" I asked.
"Yea, he hath been," she answered, sighing deeply. "He hath been
forced to kiss the hand which signed his father's death-warrant.
Constance, it is this which doth so pain me, that her majesty should
think he hath in his heart no resentment of that mishap. She said to
my Lady Berkeley some days since, when she sued for some favor at her
hands, 'No, no, my Lady Berkeley; you love us not, and never will. You
cannot forgive us your brother's death.' Why should her grace think a
son hath less resentment of a father's loss than a sister?"
Willing to minister comfort to her touching that on which I did,
nevertheless, but too much consent to her thinking, I said, "In my
lord's case, he must have needs appeared to mislike {767} the queen
and her government if he stayed away from court, and his duty to his
sovereign compelleth him to render her so much homage as is due to her
majesty."
"Yea," cried my lady, "I be of the same mind with thee, that if my
lord do live in London he is in a manner forced to swim with the tide,
and God only knoweth into what a flood of troubles he may thus be led.
But I have prevailed on him to go to Kenninghall, and there to enjoy
that retired life his father passionately wished him to be contented
with. So I do look, if it please God, to happy days when we leave this
great city, where so many and great dangers beset us."
"Have you been to court likewise, dear lady?" I asked; and she
answered,
"No; her majesty doth deny me that privilege which the wife of a
nobleman should enjoy without so much as the asking for it. My Lord
Arundel and my Lord Sussex are mad thereon, and swear 'tis the gipsy's
doing, as they do always title Lord Leicester, and a sign of his
hatred to my lord. But I be not of their mind; for methinks he doth
but aid my lord to win the queen's favor by the slights which are put
on his wife, which, if he doth take patiently, must needs secure for
him such favor as my Lord Leicester should wish, if report speaks
truly, none should enjoy but himself."
"But surely," I cried, "my lord's spirit is too noble to stomach so
mean a treatment of his lady?"
A burning blush spread over the countess's face, and she answered,
"Constance, nobility of soul is shaped into action by divers motives
and influences. And, I pray thee, since his father's death and the
loss of his first tutor, who hath my lord had to fashion the aims of
his eager spirit to a worthy ambition, and teach him virtuous
contentment with a meaner rank and lower fortunes than his birth do
entitle him to? He chafes to be degraded, and would fain rise to the
heights his ancestors occupied; and, alas! the ladder which those who
beset him--for that they would climb after him--do ever set before his
eyes is the queen's majesty's favor. 'Tis the breath of their
nostrils, the perpetual theme of their discourse. Mine ears sometimes
ache with the sound of their oft-repeated words."
Then she broke off her speech for an instant, but soon asked me if to
consult fortune-tellers was not a sin.
"Yea," I answered, "the Church doth hold it to be unlawful."
"Ah!" she replied, "I would to God my lord had never resorted to a
person of that sort, which hath filled his mind with an apprehension
which will work us great evil, if I do mistake not."
"Alas!" I said, "hath my lord been so deluded?"
"Thou hast heard, I ween," my lady continued, "of one Dr. Dee, whom
the queen doth greatly favor, and often charge him to cast her
horoscope. Some time ago my lord was riding with her majesty and the
most part of her court near unto this learned gentleman's house at
Mortlake, which her highness, taking notice of, she must needs propose
to visit him with all her retinue, in order, she said, to examine his
library and hold conference with him. But learning that his wife had
been buried only four hours, her majesty would not enter, but desired
my Lord Leicester to take her down from her horse at the church-wall
at Mortlake and to fetch the doctor unto her, who did bring out for
her grace's inspection his magic-glass, of which she and all those
with her did see some of the properties. Several of the noblemen
thereunto present were greatly contented and delighted with this
cunning witchery, and did agree to visit again, in a private manner,
this learned man, for to have their nativities calculated; and my
lord, I grieve to say, went with them. And this cheat or wizard, for
methinks one or other of those names must needs belong to him,
predicted to my lord that he should be in great danger to be
overthrown by a woman. And, I {768} ween, good Constance, there was a
craft in this most deep and deceptive, for doth it not tend, whichever
way it be understood, to draw and urge onward my lord to a careful
seeking to avoid this danger by a diligent serving and waiting on her
majesty, if she be the woman like to undo him, or else to move him to
the thought that his marriage--as I doubt not many endeavor to
insinuate into his mind--should be an obstacle to her favor such as
must needs mar his fortunes? Not that my lord hath breathed so much as
one such painful word in my hearing, or abated in his kind behavior;
but there are others who be not slow to hint so much to myself; and, I
pray you, shall they not then deal with him in the same manner, albeit
he is too noble and gentle to let me hear of it? But since that day he
is often thoughtful when we are alone, and his mind ever running on
means to propitiate her majesty, and doth send her many presents, the
value of which should rather mark them as gifts from one royal person
to another than from a subject to his prince. O Constance, I would
Kenninghall were a thousand miles from London, and a wild sea to run
between it and the court, such as could with difficulty be crossed;
but 'tis vain wishing; and I thank God my lord should be willing to
remove there, and so we shall be in quiet."
"God send it!" I answered; "and that you, my sweet lady, may find
there all manner of contentment." Then I asked her ladyship if she had
tidings of my Lady l'Estrange.
"Yea," she answered; "excellent good tidings, for that she was a
contented wife to a loving husband. Sir Hammond," she said, "hath a
most imperious temper, and, as I hear, doth not brook the least
contradiction; so that a woman less mild and affectionate than
Milicent should not, I ween, live at peace with him. But her sweet
temper doth move her to such strict condescension to his humors, that
she doth style herself most fortunate in marriage and a singular happy
wife. Dost mind Master Chaucer's tale of the patient Grizzel, which
Phil read to me some years back, soon after our first marriage, for to
give me a lesson on wifely duty, and which I did then write to thee
the story of?"
"Yea, well," I cried; "and that I was so angered at her patience,
which methought was foolish, yea, wicked in its excess, that it did
throw me into a passion."
My lady laughed and said, indeed she thought so too; but Milicent, in
her behavior and the style of her letters, did mind her so much of
that singular obedient wife, that she did sometimes call her Grizzel
to her face. "She is now gone to reside with her husband," she said,
"at a seat of his not very far from Lynn. 'Tis a poor and wild
district; and the people, I hear, do resort to her in great numbers
for assistance in the way of medicine and surgery, and for much help
of various sorts. She is greatly contented that her husband doth in
nowise impede her in these charitable duties, but rather the contrary.
She is a creature of such natural good impulses and compassionate
spirit that must needs show kindness to all who do come in her way."
Then my lady questioned me touching Muriel and Mistress Ward, and Kate
and Polly, who were now both married; and I told her Kate had a fair
son and Polly a little daughter, like to prove as sharp as her mother
if her infant vivacity did not belie her. As to Muriel and her guide
and friend, I told her ladyship that few were like to have speech with
them, save such as were in so destitute a condition that nothing could
exceed it. Now that my two elder cousins had left home, mine uncle's
house was become a sort of refuge for the poor, and an hospital for
distressed Catholics.
"And thou, Constance," my lady said, "dost thou not think on
marriage?"
I smiled and answered I did sometimes; but had not yet met with any
one altogether conformable to my liking.
{769}
"Not Mr. Hubert Rookwood?" she said smiling; "I have been told he
haunts Mrs. Lacy's house, and would fain be admitted as Mistress
Sherwood's suitor."
"I will not deny," I answered, "but that he doth testify a vast regard
for me, or that he is a gentleman of such great parts and exceedingly
winning speech that a gentlewoman should be flattered to be addressed
by him; but, dear lady," I continued, opening my heart to her, "albeit
I relish greatly his society, mine heart doth not altogether incline
to his suit; and Mr. Congleton hath lately warned me to be less free
in allowing of his attentions than hath hitherto been my wont; for, he
said, his means be so scanty, that it behoveth him not to think of
marriage until his fortunes do improve; and that his father would not
be competent to make such settlements as should be needful in such a
case, or without which he should suffer us to marry. As Hubert had
never opened to me himself thereon in so pointed a fashion as to
demand an answer from me, I was somewhat surprised at mine uncle's
speech; but I found he had often ministered talk of his passion for
me--for so he termed it--to Kate and her husband."
"And did it work in thee, sweet one, no regrets," my lady asked, "that
the course of this poor gentleman's true love should be marred by his
lack of wealth?"
"In truth no, dear lady," I replied; "except that I did notice, with
so much of pain as a good heart must needs feel in the sufferings of
another, that he was both sad and wroth at the change in my manner.
And indeed I had always seen--and methinks this was the reason that my
heart inclined not warmly toward his suit--that his affection was of
that sort that doth readily breed anger; and that if he had occasion
to misdoubt a return from me of such-like regard as he professed, his
looks of love sometimes changed into a scowl, or something nearly
resembling one. Yet I had a kindness toward him, yea, more than a
kindness, an attachment, which methinks should have led me to
correspond to his affection so far as to be willing to marry him, if
mine uncle had not forbade me to think on it; but since he hath laid
his commands upon me on that point, methinks I have experienced a
freedom of soul and a greater peace than I had known for some time
past."
"'Tis well then as it is," my lady said; and after some further
discourse we parted that day.
It had been with me even as I had said to her. My mind had been more
at ease since the contending would and would not, the desire to please
Hubert and the fear to be false in so doing, had been stayed,--and
mostly since he had urged me to entertain him as a friend, albeit
defended to receive him as a lover. And that peace lasted until a
day--ay, a day which began like other days with no perceptible
presentiment of joy or sorrow, the sun shining as brightly, and no
more, at its rise than on any other morning in June; and the
thunder-clouds toward noon overshadowing its glory not more darkly
than a storm is wont to do the clear sky it doth invade; nor yet
evening smiling again more brightly and peacefully than is usually
seen when nature's commotion is hushed, and the brilliant orb of day
doth sink to rest in a bed of purple glory; and yet that day did
herald the greatest joys, presage the greatest anguish, mark the most
mighty beginnings of most varied endings that can be thought of in the
life of a creature not altogether untried by sorrow, but on the brink
of deeper waters than she had yet sounded, on the verge of such
passages as to have looked forward to had caused her to tremble with a
two-fold resentment of hope and of fear, and to look back to doth
constrain her to lay down her pen awhile for to crave strength to
recount the same.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
--------
{770}
From Chambers's Journal.
TERRENE PHOSPHORESCENCE.
It has been suggested that light, heat, magnetism, and electricity are
only the effects of motion among the molecules of matter. Our earth is
but an aggregation of atoms, and every substance upon which we lay our
hands is in like manner formed of infinitesimal particles, so small as
to baffle microscopic investigation. When we consider that animalcula
have been discovered so minute that it would take a million of them to
form a grain of sand, it is evident that motion _as_ motion among the
ultimate particles of matter is beyond man's powers of observation.
Physical investigations have led us to believe that these atoms have
an action or circulation of their own, and as this action of necessity
escapes our eye, it is not irrational, when looking for some evidence
of this disturbance, to attribute to it physical forces for which we
cannot satisfactorily account, yet which appertain to the earth. Thus
has arisen the hypothesis above stated; and intimately connected with
those forces (heat, electricity, etc.) is phosphorescence, a power on
which the examinations of twenty years have thrown little light, and
which still remains of doubtful origin.
The power in minerals, plants, and animals of producing light is
apparently a consequence of these objects being under the direct
influence, permanently, or for a time, of heat, light, or electricity,
as some substances become phosphorescent after insolation, or exposure
to the sun's rays; others, from heat: others, by having an electric
current passed through them; and lastly, some give forth a phosphoric
light of their own, without any appreciable warmth. Whatever may be
the cause of this property, it is found to pervade all parts of
creation: the atmosphere, the common stones by the wayside, the
flowers in cottage gardens, and the humble insects or worms crawling
at our feet, can shed around a faint glimmer of light. The earth
itself is occasionally, if not always, self-luminous, as are other of
the heavenly bodies. Venus, Jupiter, the moon, and comets, are
conjectured to have a certain portion of phosphoric light, which is
independent of and unborrowed from the sun. The luminosity of the
earth is made evident to us on starless, moonless nights. We may not
have thought of it, but still it is certain that light surrounds us
from some source or other in varying quantities, on such nights as are
above described; for our movements are very different, even when
walking in the open air on the darkest nights, from what they would be
in a cave, or when groping in a room with closed shutters. This phase
of phosphorescence, and also that of faint flickering clouds against
the horizon, is distinct from meteorological phosphorescence, which
branch of the subject includes luminous rain, fog, dust,
_ignis-fatuus_, northern and southern lights. A shower of dust which
fell during an eruption of Vesuvius in 1794, had a faint luminosity in
the dark, distinctly visible on the sails of vessels on which it had
fallen. Many instances are recorded of rain producing sparks as it
touched the ground, and Arago collected the authentic accounts of this
phenomenon. In June, 1731, an ecclesiastic near Constance described
the rain during a thunder-storm as falling like drops of red-hot
liquid metal; and it is observable that most of these sparkling
showers seem to have occurred during thunder-storms, or when the air
was highly charged with electricity.
But complete mystery still surrounds the cause of luminous fogs and
mists, {771} which are of rare occurrence. Of these there are few well
founded accounts, and the most recent instance of one was, we believe,
in 1859, continuing for a succession of nights. It lasted from then
18th to the 26th of November, and, in the absence of any moon, so
illuminated the heavens as to render small objects distinctly visible
in the sitting room of M. Wartenan of Geneva, whose description of it
will be found in the _Comptes Rendus_ of the Academy of Sciences,
Paris, for December, 1859. It was not a wet fog, but a sort of dry
mist, so impenetrable as to render invisible the banks of the river
Leman, but at the same time diffusing sufficient phosphoric light to
make small objects clear as on a moonlight night. This was also
testified by persons travelling on foot from Geneva to Annemasse,
between the hours of 10 and 12 P.M. Another famous instance was in
1783, when a dry fog, lasting for a month, covered the northern parts
of America, and Europe from Sweden to Africa. It resembled moonlight
through a veil of clouds, and was equally diffused on all sides,
making objects visible at a distance of six hundred yards. Being, as
it were, a deep mass of phosphoric vapor, reaching to the summit of
the highest mountains, no storms of rain or wind seemed to affect it;
but in Europe it was thought to emit an unpleasant sulphurous smell.
Another feature of meteorological phosphorescence is that of luminous
appearances at sea, quite distinct from the luminosity of the ocean
itself as produced by marine animalcula. Mrs. Somerville gives the
following interesting description of one of these phosphoric
phenomena: "Captain Bonnycastle, coming up the Gulf of St. Lawrence on
the 7th of September, 1826, was roused by the mate of the vessel in
great alarm from an unusual appearance. It was a starlight night, when
suddenly the sky became overcast in the direction of the highland of
Cornwallis country, and an instantaneous and intensely vivid light,
resembling the aurora, shot out of the hitherto gloomy and dark sea on
the lee-bow, which was so brilliant that it lighted every thing
distinctly, even to the mast-head. The light spread over the whole sea
between the two shores, and the waves, which before had been tranquil,
now began to be agitated. Captain Bonnycastle describes the scene as
that of a blazing sheet of awful and most brilliant light. A long and
vivid line of light, superior in brightness to the parts of the sea
not immediately near the vessel, showed the base of the high,
frowning, and dark land abreast; the sky became lowering and more
intensely obscure. Long tortuous lines of light showed immense numbers
of very large fish darting about, as if in consternation. The
sprit-sail-yard and mizzen-boom were lighted by the glare, as if
gas-lights had been burning directly below them; and until just before
daybreak, at four o'clock, the most minute objects were distinctly
visible. Day broke very slowly, and the sun rose of a fiery and
threatening aspect. Rain followed. Captain Bonnycastle caused a bucket
of this fiery water to be drawn up: it was one mass of light when
stirred by the hand, and not in sparks, as usual, but in actual
coruscations. A portion of the water preserved its luminosity for
seven nights. On the third night, scintillations of the sea
reappeared; in the evening the sun went down very singularly,
exhibiting in its descent a double sun; and when only a few degrees
high, its spherical figure changed into that of a long cylinder, which
reached the horizon. In the night the sea became nearly as luminous as
before; but on the fifth night the appearance entirely ceased. Captain
Bonnycastle does not think it proceeded from animalcula, but imagines
it might be some compound of phosphorus, suddenly evolved, and
disposed over the surface of the sea; perhaps from the exuviae or
secretions of fish connected with the oceanic salts, muriate of soda
and sulphate of magnesia."
{772}
Quite distinct from luminous mists is another species of phosphoric
phenomenon in the shape of luminous bodies of considerable size and
brilliancy. We find Arago saying, in 1838, "that great luminous
meteors, similar to lightning in their nature, show themselves
sometimes at the surface of the globe, even when the sky does not
appear stormy." An instance of this is given by a Mr. Edwards, as
having been seen by him when crossing Loch Scavig in a boat at night.
In this instance, a light swept rapidly over the face of the water,
resembling the light in a cabin window, but moving with great
rapidity. It passed near the boat, and caused much consternation among
the boatmen, who viewed it as something supernatural; but it was soon
out of sight, following a curved course. A far more startling
occurrence was seen by the ship _Montague_ when "a few minutes before
mid-day, and in perfectly serene weather, a large bluish globe of fire
rolled up to the ship, the _Montague_, and exploded, shattering one of
the masts. This globe of fire appeared as large as a millstone." This
appearance does not seem to have had the swiftness of motion we should
expect if it had been a species of globular lightning, but rather
resembled a gigantic _ignis-fatuus_, which sometimes takes a globular
form, and although generally attributed to the combustion of
phosphuretted hydrogen gas, may and does arise from certain electrical
conditions of the atmosphere. A remarkable _ignis-fatuus_ is described
by Dr. Shaw in his travels in the Holy Land. He observed it on Mount
Ephraim, and it followed him for more than an hour. "Sometimes it
appeared globular, at others it spread itself to such a degree as to
involve the whole company in a pale inoffensive light; then it
contracted itself, and suddenly disappeared, but in less than a minute
would appear again; sometimes running swiftly along, it would expand
itself over two or three acres of the adjacent mountains."
We will not dwell on other instances of _ignis-fatuus_, a phenomenon
so common as to be known to all. But although this form of
gas--phosphuretted hydrogen--has been long known as luminous, it is
only since 1859 that gases in general have been discovered to possess
phosphoric qualities when exposed to the sun's light. It is a
remarkable fact, but one which has been proved, that, with the
exception of metals, nearly all terrestrial bodies appear luminous
when taken into the dark after insolation or exposure to the sun. They
absorb so much light as to give it back again when removed from its
influence, and this property is opposed to electricity, for we find
that good conductors of that fluid are not liable to insolated
phosphorescence. The first discovery of this property was made by
Viscenzo Cascariolo, a shoemaker of Bologna, who, loving alchemy, and
seeking gold, found in his ramble a heavy stone, from which he hoped
and longed to produce the precious metal. Failing in this, he found
what till then was unknown, that sulphuret of baryta would "absorb the
sun's rays by day, to emit them by night." From him this substance has
received the name of Bologna stone; and this first discovery has been
followed by others, which prove that phosphoric light may be produced
by heat, friction, cleavage, and many other forces beside insolation.
Some diamonds shine in the dark after a few minutes' exposure to the
sun; others cannot be made phosphorescent by heat if uncut, but when
polished, or submitted to two or three electric discharges, easily
become luminous. So slight a heat is required to call forth this
light-giving property in some substances, that rare kinds of
clorophane shine in a dark room from the mere warmth of the hand; and
other substances are phosphorized by the slightest friction. Thus Dana
says: "Merely the rapid motion of a feather across some specimens of
sulphuret of zinc will often elicit light more or less intense from
this metal."
Several simple and amusing experiments may be made to show the {773}
phosphorescence of minerals. The power of cleavage to produce light is
seen when sugar is broken in a mortar. If a sufficient quantity is
ground rapidly in the dark, the whole will appear a mass of fire. If
phosphuretted hydrogen is evolved by throwing phosphuret of calcium
into water, each bubble as if rises will fire spontaneously on
combining with the air. But the most elegant production of light is
the result of an experiment by Professor Pontus in 1833: "He showed
that a vivid spark is produced when water is made to freeze rapidly. A
small glass, terminating in a short tube, is filled with water; the
whole is covered with a sponge or cotton-wool imbibed with ether, and
placed in an air pump. As soon as the experimenter begins to produce a
vacuum, the ether evaporates, and the sponge or cotton-wool descends,
the temperature of the water rises rapidly. But some instants before
congelation takes place, a brilliant spark, perfectly visible in the
daytime, is suddenly shot out of the little tube that terminates the
glass globe."
Before passing on to the consideration of animal phosphorescence, let
us glance at the luminosity of plants. This is found in many
phanerogams and cryptogams. In the latter, it is well known, from
being found frequently in mines, where the fungus _mycelium_ is seen
spreading its web-like growth, and diffusing a tranquil light,
sufficiently strong to read by, as some have affirmed. The most
beautiful instance of this is found in the mines in Hesse, where the
galleries for supplying air are illumined with this soft phosphoric
light. No example of phosphorescence among sea-weed has been known,
but the delicate little moss _Schistostega osmundacea_ is luminous.
Among phanerogams, or ordinary plants, are many examples of
phosphorescence. Several kinds of garden nasturtiums, sun-flowers,
French and African marigolds, yellow lilies, and poppies, have been
seen to emit either sparks or a steady light. By some it is thought
that it is produced when the pollen flies off and is scattered over
the petals, but it is invariably noticed on warm tranquil evenings,
when there is electricity in the atmosphere. It is observed that
nearly all the flowers proved to be phosphoric are of a yellow color,
but the cause of this has not been ascertained. The leaves of an
American plant (_OEnothera macrocapa_) have been seen, during a severe
storm of thunder and lightning, to emit brilliant flashes of light,
and this is, we believe, the only plant as yet discovered with
phosphoric foliage. M. Martins of Montpellier has noticed that the
juice of the _Euphorbia phosphorea_, when rubbed on paper, appears
luminous in the dark, or when heated. But the most remarkable instance
is that of the common potato emitting a brilliant light: Mr. Phipson
states that a soldier of Strasburg thought that the barracks were, on
one occasion, on fire, from the light which was found to proceed from
a cellar full of potatoes. It is a question whether they were in a
state of decomposition, and if so, it differs slightly from the
luminosity of decaying wood, which is usually caused by the presence
of phosphoric fungi.
To attempt to enumerate the animals of inferior organism which are
phosphoric would be impossible, as almost every known zoophyte is
possessed of this light-giving quality; and perhaps no branch of the
subject has received so much attention as that which concerns animals,
from the fact of the phosphorescence of dead animal matter and insects
being phenomena of daily occurrence. On the former, very early
observations were made. In 1592, Fabricius d'Acquapendente relates the
astonishment of three Roman youths who found the remains of their
Easter lamb shining like candles in the dark. Nearly a century later,
Robert Boyle described the phosphorescence of a neck of veal "as a
very splendid show," and in a paper in the _Philosophical
Transactions_ tried to {774} account for it. It is found that flesh
will continue luminous about four days.
Among the insect-world there are numerous light-giving members. The
common glowworm needs no description, and the _lantern_ flies of the
tropics are almost as well known. Tropical regions abound with these
fire-flies, seventy kinds of which are found in South America and the
southern states of the northern continent. Some of them emit the light
from the abdomen, others from the head. The famous _Fulgora
lanternaria_, or lantern-fly of Linnaeus, produces the light from the
long transparent horn or proboscis curving upward from the head. The
light of one of these is sufficiently bright to read a newspaper by,
and two or three of them in a bottle is the common form of lamp. The
natives also light their way on a dark night by tying one or two at
the end of a stick. The _Noctua psi_, a little gray night-flying moth,
is luminous, as also are some kinds of caterpillars; and the cricket
and "daddy long-legs" have the same property attributed to them by
some naturalists. The reader cannot fail to have noticed that there is
no instance recorded of any larger animal producing phosphoric light.
Invisible animalcula and insects are numerous, and of late years the
common earthworm, or _Lambricus_, has been proved beyond doubt to have
a phosphoric power; but beyond this, and the crawling centipede
(_Scolopendra_), there is no animal with light-giving power. The
gleaming light seen in the eyes of cats, dogs, and wild animals has
been called phosphoric; but this is doubtful, and more nearly
resembles some phase of reflected light. Humboldt, and later the
natural historian, Reuger, speak of a monkey, _Nyctipithecus
trivirgatus_ as having eyes so brilliant as to illumine objects some
inches off.
But this is the only case of at all probable phosphoric light.
Perhaps, in this very instance, it arose from some peculiar physical
condition of the animal; in the same way as the scintillation in the
eyes of one or two human beings was found connected with extreme
delicacy of constitution. The phenomenon of brilliant colors being
perceived on a person pressing his eye, or on the injury of the optic
nerve, is called by Mr. Phipson _subjective_ phosphorescence, but this
is only an undeveloped hypothesis.
Old dames and superstitious northerners speak of _Elf-candles_ as
preceding death; and of the fact of human bodies during life
exhibiting phosphoric light there is no doubt, but it also depends on
the state of the body, and does not signify the sure approach of
death. A lady in Italy is described by Bartholin as producing
phosphoric radiation when her body was gently rubbed with dry linen,
and more than one instance of pale light surrounding sick persons is
recorded on good authority. This portion of the science of
phosphorescence is involved in the same mystery as the previously
described branches; theories are suggested; but no real satisfactory
explanation is found for the different kinds of luminosity. We will
close this article with an account given by Dr. Kane of an
extraordinary case of phosphorescence on the human body which occurred
in the polar regions. It was on the night of January 2, 1854, that the
party sought shelter from an icy death-dealing wind in an Esquimaux
hut. Exhaustion, added to the intense cold, induced sleep, but as the
doctor was composing himself for the night, he was aroused by an
exclamation that the fire was out. To try and relight it was the
instant endeavor of Dr. Kane and his man. The latter failing, the
doctor, in despair, sought to do so himself. "It was so intensely
dark," says he, "that I had to grope for it (the pistol with which
they strove to produce a spark), and in doing so touched his hand. At
that instant, the pistol became distinctly visible. A pale bluish
light, slightly tremulous, but not broken, covered the metallic parts
of it--the barrel, lock, and trigger. The {775} stock, too, was
clearly discernible, as if by the reflected light, and to the
amazement of both of us, the thumb and two fingers with which Petersen
was holding it, the creases, wrinkles, and circuit of the nails
clearly defined upon the skin. The phosphorescence was not unlike the
ineffectual fire of the glowworm. As I took the pistol, my hand became
illuminated also, and so did the powder-rubbed paper when I raised it
against the muzzle. The paper did not ignite at the first trial; but
the light from it continuing, I was able to charge the pistol without
difficulty."
------
From The Month.
CIVILIZATION IN THE FIFTH CENTURY.
The name of Ozanam was already celebrated in the world of letters, and
he had published some portions of his historical course, when he died,
in the midst of his unfinished labors. His early death is a fresh
proof of the truth of the old adage, _Ars longa, vita brevis_, and the
interest of his short autobiography is intense. He tells us of
himself: "In the midst of an age of scepticism God gave me the
blessing of having a Christian father and a religious mother; and he
gave me for my first instructress a sister full of intelligence, and
devout, like the angels whom she has gone to join. But, in the course
of time, the rumors of an infidel world reached even to me, and I knew
all the horror of those doubts which weigh down the heart during the
day, and which return at night upon the pillow moistened with tears.
The uncertainty of my eternal destiny left me no repose. I clung with
despair to the sacred dogmas, and I thought I felt them give way in my
grasp. It was then that I was saved by the teaching of a priest well
versed in philosophy. He arranged and cleared up my ideas. I believed
from that time with a firm faith, and, penetrated with the sense of so
rare a blessing, I vowed to God that I would devote my life to the
service of that truth which had given me peace. Twenty years have
passed away since that time. Providence has done everything to snatch
me from business and to fix me in intellectual labors. The combination
of circumstances has led me to study chiefly religion, law, and
letters. I have visited the places which could afford me information.
The historian Gibbon, as he wandered on the capitol, beheld issuing
from the gates of the basilica of Ara Coeli a long procession of
Franciscans, who marked with their sandals the pavement trodden by so
many triumphs. It was then that, inspired by indignation, he formed
the design of avenging antiquity thus outraged by Christian barbarism,
and he conceived the plan of a History of the Fall of the Roman
Empire. I too have seen the monks of Ara Coeli tread the ancient
pavement of Jupiter Capitolinus, and I rejoiced at it, as the victory
of love over strength; and I resolved to write the history of progress
in those ages where philosophy finds only decadence; the history of
civilization in barbarous times, the history of thought escaping the
shipwreck of letters, _forti tegente brachio_" (Pref., pp. 2, 5.)
The professor relates himself, with all the vigor of his intellect,
the great and glorious plan of history which was the object of his
life, in a letter dated Jan. 25, 1848: "This will be the literary
history of barbarous times, the history of letters, and consequently
{776} of civilization, from the Latin decadence, and the first
beginning of Christian genius, to the end of the thirteenth century. I
shall make it the subject of my lectures during ten years, if it is
necessary, and if God prolongs my life. The subject would be
admirable, for it would consist in making known this long and
laborious education which the Church bestowed on modern nations." He
then marks the salient points of his picture--the intellectual state
of the world at the commencement of Christianity--the _monde barbare_
and its irruption into civilized society, and met by the labors of
Boethius, Isidore of Seville, Ven. Bede, and St. Boniface, who carried
the torch of learning from one country to another, and handed it down
to Charlemagne. Then follow the crusades, and then the three glorious
centuries of the middle ages, when St. Anselm, St. Bernard, Peter
Lombard, Albert the Great, St. Thomas, and St. Bonaventure achieved
for the world of intellect all that the Church and state acquired from
Gregory VII., Alexander III., Innocent III. and IV., Frederic II., St.
Louis, and Alfonso X. He gives a _resume_ of the events which
influenced modern history, and ends by saying, "My labors would be
completed by _la Divina Commedia_, the greatest monument of a period,
of which it may be called an abridgment, and of which it is the
glory." "This is proposed to himself by a man who was near dying, a
year and a half ago, and who is not yet wholly recovered. But I depend
entirely on the goodness of God, in case he is pleased to restore my
health and preserve to me the love for these noble studies with which
he has inspired me." (Pref., pp. 3-6.)
Such was the object and occupation of his life from the age of
eighteen, when he was an obscure student, to the time when he
pronounced, as professor, the lectures which contained the labors of
twenty years. Happily for himself, he had learnt early the result of
labor. When he was twenty years of age, he wrote, "We exist on earth
only to accomplish the will of God. This will is fulfilled day by day;
and he who dies, leaving his task unfinished, is, in the sight of the
divine maker, as far advanced as he who has had time to bring his to
completion."
It was at Pisa, April 23, 1853, that M. Ozanam wrote a prayer so
solemn, as well as so touching, that his friend, Father Ampere, seems
to hesitate whether it ought to be laid before the public. His
hesitation was conquered by the desire of making what is so excellent
known, and he publishes the soliloquy of the dying man:
"I have said, 'In the midst of my days I shall go down to the gates of
death,' etc. (Canticle Ezek.)
"This day is completed my fortieth year: more than half the ordinary
span of life. I am, however, dangerously ill. Must I, then, quit all
these possessions which thou thyself hast given me, my God? Wilt thou
not, O Lord, accept a part of the sacrifice? Which of my ill-regulated
affections shall I offer up to thee? Wilt not thou accept the
holocaust of my literary self-love, my academical ambition, my
prospects for study, in which, perhaps, there is mingled more pride
than zeal for truth? If I sold the half of my books and gave the price
of them to the poor, and if I restricted myself to fulfilling the
duties of my office, and consecrated the rest of my life to visiting
the poor and instructing apprentices and soldiers, Lord, would this be
a sufficient satisfaction, and wouldst thou leave me the happiness of
living to old age with my wife, and completing the education of my
child? Perhaps, O my God, this is not thy will. Thou wilt not accept
these selfish offerings. Thou rejectest my holocaust and my
sacrifices. It is myself whom thou requirest. It is written in the
commencement of the book that I must do thy will, and I have said, O
Lord, I come."
It is with a solemn interest that we turn to the fragments of that
work to which Ozanam devoted his life and {777} energies, and we find
it to be the history of modern Europe. He himself lays down the three
elements of history. "First, chronology, which preserves the general
succession of events; then legend, which gives them life and color;
and then philosophy, which fills them, as it were, with soul and
intelligence."
In the childhood of the world, when the desire of knowledge was fresh
and strong, all pagan histories began with the siege of Troy, and all
Christian histories from Adam and Eve. Authors gained fame by
chronicles of all past events, because it satisfied the natural
curiosity of man to know the antecedents of his country or race. As
time went on, history became the expression of popular feelings; and
what took place generally may be inferred from what we know of our own
country. The British monk, Geoffrey of Monmouth, wrote of Arthur, the
champion of the faith and the model of chivalry; and the Venerable
Bede wrote of the saints among his own Saxon countrymen; then came,
with the evils of the reformation, a reverence for what was ancient,
and Stow wrote of Catholic England with a fidelity which ranked him
among the benefactors of his country. But then also egotism began.
Each must think for himself, and appropriate the results of former
labors; each must analyze, or generalize, or criticise; and perhaps it
is true that the original writer is he who gives to the world his own
view of things, and not the things themselves. If he is unselfish and
loves truth for itself, he is a poet; if he subjects truth to his own
views, he writes of history, but he does not write history; facts
become subservient to theories, and he mentions only a few, as
necessary illustrations of his own system. The reader yawns over the
succession of kings and events, and chooses for his guide the infidel
Hume, the philanthropic Mackintosh, or the Hanoverian Macaulay. The
fashion of the present day is the idolization of nature. This has made
art pre-Raphaelite, and poetry euphuistic. History, too, is perhaps
becoming a laborious restoration of the past. With a taste for detail
which is truly Gothic, the popular historian must reproduce his
characters with their own features, costume, and _entourage_, and the
long forgotten personages, as if restored to life by the genius of Sir
Walter Scott, must walk about the stage in mediaeval garb. History has
gone through nearly the same phases on the continent until the period
of the reformation. Then in Catholic countries--as France, Spain, and
Italy--arose a more reasoning but a grave and instructive school of
history, which preserved past events as a deposit of the ages of
faith; and latterly, since excitement is become necessary to all, and
the speculations of German literature have taught almost all to think,
the French and German historians have adopted the philosophy of
history. The German school takes a naked problem and proves it by a
series of abstractions. We read Schlegel and Guizot, and we find,
instead of facts or dates or persons, a sort of allegorical
personification of civilization, liberty, progress, etc. This is
rather declamation than narration, and those among the learned who
value antiquity have found the art of realizing not the externals but
the spirit of the past. Thus when Ozanam, as the professor of foreign
literature at Paris, writes of the middle ages, the persons whom he
names are, for the moment, living, not petrified, as in the
stereoscope, but thinking, speaking, and acting, as if the writer
could open a bright glimpse into the eternal world, where St. Denys,
St. Bernard, St. Bonaventure, and St. Thomas still contemplate the
author and giver of all they knew. And when he speaks of the
succession of events, it seems as if we passed from the midst of a
crowded procession, jostling along the dusty highway, to an eminence
from which we see the points of its departure and arrival, the
distinguished persons, the great objects, and the direction of the
march, and that we {778} not only see but understand and sympathize
with the spirit of the undertaking. The thought is from above, but it
becomes our own. For he not only classifies and generalizes, but he
christianizes his glimpses into history. His pictures are indeed only
illustrative of his principles; but when he introduces a person or a
fact, he speaks of them with such intimacy of knowledge that it
creates a keen curiosity as well as a consciousness of ignorance in
the reader. But the reader of Ozanam must be already a historian
before he can appreciate the benefit of having his knowledge
classified and animated by a living principle, as well as vivified and
rendered distinct, as the objects in a dull landscape by a beam of
sunshine.
The mission of Ozanam seems to be the destruction of those errors as
to the value of the knowledge possessed in the middle ages, which have
existed since the renaissance.
It was natural that when the calamities of Europe were so far past as
to permit the development of the intellectual faculties, men should be
elated by their new powers, and undervalue the painful labors of men
interrupted by violence and crime. Maitland, by the evidence of his
own reading, saw the injustice of this, and said wittily, that "by the
dark ages were meant the ages about which we are in the dark." But he
could see only the outward face of mediaeval knowledge, and missed its
vivifying spirit--the faith of the Church. Ozanam had the gift of
faith, and traces with a firm hand the progress of human intellect,
often concealed and limited, but always advancing, and often breaking
out in power and glory when some sainted pope or doctor of the Church
explained the principles of religion and philosophy.
But it would be presumptuous to anticipate Ozanam himself, whose own
words as well as his very life itself have given a _resume_ of his
great object. It is at the conclusion of a lecture that he thus
addresses the students:
"It is not my intention to follow out into its minor details the
literary history of the fifth century. I only seek in it that light
which will clear up the obscurity of the following ages. Travellers
tell us of rivers which flow underneath rocks, and which reappear at a
distance from the place where they were lost to the view. I trace up
the stream of these traditions above the point where it seems to be
lost, and I shall endeavor to descend with the stream into the abyss,
in order to assure myself that I really behold the same waters at
their outlet. Historians have opened a chasm between antiquity and
barbarism. I have attempted to replace the connections which
Providence has never suffered to fail in time any more than in space,
etc. I should not brave the difficulties of such a study, gentlemen,
if I were not supported, nay, urged onwards, by you. I call to witness
these walls, that if ever, at rare intervals, I have been visited by
inspiration, it was within their circuit; whether they have given back
some of the glorious echoes with which they have formerly rung, or
whether I have felt myself carried away by your ardent sympathies.
Perhaps my design is rash; but you must share the responsibility. You
will make up the deficiency of my strength. I shall grow old and
gray-haired in the labor, if God permits; but the coldness of age
shall not gain upon me so far as that I shall not be able to return,
as this day, in order to renew the young vigor of my heart in the
warmth of your youthful days."
It is in his lecture on pagan empires that Ozanam lays down the
principle on which his views of mediaeval history are based: "Each
epoch has a ruin and a conquest--a decadence and a renaissance." The
greatest epoch of the world's history is that when all that was given
to man at his creation was exchanged for a better nature at his
redemption. This truth of destruction and regeneration is repeated
over and over again through all created things--the seed must die
before the {779} new grain can live. As each individual must be
changed from the excellence of what he is still by nature to a
heavenly model, so nations must be changed, and institutions perish
and revive, and the great republic of letters, founded before the
flood and perfected in Greece and Rome, must die and be regenerated in
the Christian Church. The first decadence is that of pagan Rome.
It is impossible to represent by quotations the grand but terrible
picture which Ozanam draws of paganism, in its glory, its worldly
splendor, and its spiritual darkness. He does full justice to the
excellence of every art and science which the heathens attained; but
he shows that while the court of Augustus was the model of refinement
and civilization, the altars were smoking with incense to devils, who
were the personifications of every vice, and the rites of the temples
were incantations and abominations. An audience of Christian students
could not bear the too revolting details.
His object was the same as that of the great author of
"_Callista_"--to destroy the prestige which still invests all that is
classical. Rome was in truth a majestic empire, and even St. Jerome
trembled at its fall: _"Elle est captive la cite qui mit en captivite
le monde."_
St. Augustin was not a Roman, and was less overpowered by the terror
of its fall. In the midst of the outcries which accused Christianity
as the cause of the ruin which involved the world by the evident
vengeance of heaven, the saint wrote his "City of God," and developed
from the creation of the world to the times in which he lived the
great Christian law of _progress_. A new empire--that of
conscience--was to rule all nations. In this new empire strength and
courage were of no avail, and women were as powerful as men in
converting the world. Clotilde converted the heathen Franks, and
Theodolind the Arian Lombards. The holy bishop St. Patrick converted
in his lifetime the whole Irish nation; and the holy monk St. Benedict
founded in the desert of Cassino the monastic armies of the Church;
while St. Gregory, from his bed of sickness, headed the battle of
civilization against barbarism. The victory was complete, and every
converted country sent forth its missionaries to form Christian
colonies.
Thus fell the _power_ of Rome, but not her _influence_, for the great
influence of paganism was the excellence of its literature. Though the
Augustan writers were no more, yet Ammianus Marcellinus wrote history
with the spirit of a soldier, and Vegetius wrote the precepts of the
art of conquering. Symmachus was thought to rival Pliny in his
letters; and, at the same time, Claudian, the last and not the least
of Latin poets, succeeded Lucan in those historical epics so popular
at Rome. He celebrated the war of Gildo and the victories of Stilicho
over the Goths in verses equal to the "_Pharsalia;_" and his
invectives against Eutropius and Rufinus, in defense of Stilicho his
patron, are still considered masterpieces. He ignored not only
Christianity but Christian writers, though St. Ambrose was at Milan
and St. Augustin at Carthage, and wrote gravely of mythology in an age
when few pagans believed its fables. He was an Egyptian by birth, and
trained in the schools of Alexandria, and was patronized by the
Christian emperor Honorius, who erected to him--as to the best of poets--
a statue in Trajan's Forum. Yet Claudian had truly pagan morals; he
praised the vices of his patron Stilicho, and when he was murdered he
wrote a poem to his enemy; "he misused both panegyric and satire, the
powers of a good understanding and a rich fancy and flowing
versification, which place him, after an interval of three hundred
years, among the poets of ancient Rome." But while Claudian celebrated
the conflict of Rome with the barbarians, he perceived not the mighty
war between Christianity and paganism; and while our Lord and his
blessed Mother {780} triumphed over the idols and their temples, he
wasted his poetry in their praise; and when he recited a poem in the
presence of Honorius and the senate, he spoke to them as if they
believed in mythology. Ozanam gives one remarkable proof of the hold
over men's minds retained by paganism. When Honorius took possession
of the palace of Augustus on Mount Palatine, he assembled the senate,
and in the presence of all these great persons, many of whom were
Christian, Claudian unrolled the parchment whereon his verses were
written in letters of gold, and addressed Honorius as resembling
Jupiter conquering the giants. And again, when he had the office of
showing the splendors of Rome to Honorius, when he visited it for the
first time (404), he spoke of the city as a pagan in the language of
idolatry. And the poet Rutilius, though born in Gaul, idolized Rome.
"Rome was the last divinity of the ancients. Mother of men and gods"
(he calls her, as he wrote his "Itinerary to Gaul"), "the sun rises
and sets in thy dominions; thou hast made one country of many
nations--one city of the world. Thy year is an eternal spring; the
winter dares not stay thy joy." So powerful was the influence of pagan
Rome over a foreigner; and that influence may be yet better perceived
in the Christian poet Sidonius Apollinaris, who, though brought up,
like Ausonius, in the Gallic schools, and sound in faith, could not
write hexameters without mythology. The only language of poetry was
pagan; and when he wrote to St. Patient, bishop of Lyons (who fed his
people in famine), he compared him to Triptolemus.
The first antagonist of the Church, in her task of regenerating
society, was paganism; the second, barbarism. Charlemagne constructed,
on the ruins of the Roman empire, an empire of enlightened
Christianity; but another decadence followed. The Normans sacked
monasteries, and burned the Holy Scriptures, together with Aristotle
and Virgil. The Huns destroyed the very grass of the fields. The
Lombards seemed to be sent for the destruction of all that was left of
human kind. Ozanam says, "Providence loves to surprise." The monks who
escaped the Norman pirates preached to them amidst the ashes of their
monasteries, and the Normans became Christians. Then arose the
basilicas of Palermo and Monreale in Sicily, and the churches of
Italy, Normandy, and England. St. Adalbert converted the Huns, and
they defended Christendom against the vices of Byzantium and the
invasions of Mohammedans. On the ruins of the Roman empire arose the
kingdoms of France, Germany, and Italy. Of this new empire, feudality
and chivalry were the opposite elements. Feudality was the principle
of division, chivalry that of fraternity; and these remodelled
society.
The calamities attending this final disruption of the empire
interrupted study, and learning was confined to the islands of Great
Britain and Ireland, from whence missionaries carried not only
religion but learning into the countries where they were almost
extinguished by the Goths. Germany had three great
monasteries--Nouvelle Corbie, Fulda, and St. Gall. At this last
monastery was preserved the classic literature. Monks studied grammar
and wrote AEneids. The royal Hedwige introduced the study of Greek at
St. Gull; and Ozanam relates it in one of those graphic incidents
which are worth volumes. A new period began with Gregory VII. When he
said, "Lord, I have loved justice, and hated iniquity; wherefore I die
in exile," a bishop replied, "You cannot die in exile, because God has
given you the earth for your jurisdiction, and the nations for your
inheritance." Then followed the crusades, that wonderful and
providential means by which the civilization of the East was brought
into the service of the Western Church. They destroyed feudalism; for
all who fought gained glory, whether serf or noble. {781} Chivalric
poetry arose. Germany had its Niebelungen, Spain its Cid. Then arose
the arts around Giotto and the tomb of St. Francis. Christian
architecture was not Roman. The small temples and large amphitheatres,
etc., were replaced by large churches, public halls, schools and
hospitals, a small town round a large cathedral. There were three
capitals: Rome, the seat of the Papacy; Aix-la-Chapelle, the seat of
empire; and Paris, of the schools.
How paganism perished is perhaps one of the most useful lectures in
the course, as it bears upon the doubts which are still felt by some
as to the use of pagan books in Christian education. Ozanam shows that
the monks preserved by transcribing the works of Seneca and Cicero,
and that St. Augustin brought Plato and Aristotle into Christian
schools; that St. Augustin, St. Jerome, and St. Basil preserved the
heathen poets till Christian poets had learnt their art; nay, how the
Church protected the Gallic bards and German scalds, and taught them
to sing the praises of God. St. Gregory preserved the Saxon temples,
and even adapted their rites and festivals to be used in Christian
worship, that what had been perverted to the service of devils might
be restored to God.
The contrast--the abyss--between the middle ages and the renaissance
has been exaggerated. There was literary paganism in the ages of
faith. The troubadours sang of mythology, and the language of idolatry
was purified by its application to the praises of the martyrs, as is
shown in the poems of St. Paulinus. When the Church emerged from
persecution, the Roman schools became Christian; and when the Lombards
threatened to plunge Christendom in darkness, there were two lamps
still burning in the night--episcopal and monastic teaching; and in
these, by degrees, the pagan books and pagan literature were replaced
by Christian works, in which, however, there were still abundant
traces of their pagan masters.
It is in a fragment that Ozanam speaks of the way in which the
valuable part of antiquity was preserved. "When winter begins, it
seems as if vegetation would perish. The wind sweeps away the flowers
and leaves; but the seeds remain. The providence of God watches over
them. They are defended by a husk against the cold, and have wings
which bear them to congenial places, where they spring again. So, when
the ages of barbarism came, the winter of human nature, it seems as if
poetry and all the vegetation of thought would perish; but it was
preserved in the dry questions of the schools through three or four
centuries; and when the time and place came, the man of genius was
raised up, and in his hands they grew again. Such was St. Thomas of
Aquin, the champion of dogmatism; and St. Bonaventure, of mysticism;
and Christendom had its own philosophy." Perhaps we do not realize
sufficiently the despair which was the lot of reflecting heathens.
They sought the aid of philosophy to console them "for hopeless
deterioration from a golden to an iron age; but philosophy could only
teach that the world was perishing, and that the pride of man must
preserve him from erring and perishing with its possessions. The
heathens knew not the idea of progress; but the gospel teaches and
commands human perfectibility, and says to each, Be ye perfect; and to
all, Let the Church grow into the fulness of Christ." It was faith,
hope, and charity which produced progress.
And, first, faith set free the human mind from the ignorance of God.
Idolatry was not only that men gave to devils the worship which they
owed to God; it was the love of what is mortal and perishable, instead
of what is spiritual and eternal; it sunk mankind into materialism and
sensuality. "Painters and sculptors represented only corporeal beauty:
there was no expression in the figures of Phidias or Parrhasius."
Ozanam shows how Christian art used what is material {782} only as
symbolism, and expressed by form and color what is invisible and
celestial; while poetry was rescued from degradation, and became what
it really is, the noblest aspiration after truth of which man in his
present state is capable. Philosophy was freed from the trammels of
false systems, and speculated securely and deeply on the divine and
human nature. "Origen formed in the Catechetical schools of Alexandria
the science of theology," and in "the golden age of this new science
St. Jerome taught exegesis, St. Augustin dogmatic, and St. Ambrose
moral theology. St. Anselm was tormented by the desire of finding a
short proof that God exists, and with him began metaphysics." These
were the rich treasures which lay concealed in the scholastic teaching
of the middle ages.
As theology and Christian philosophy had sprung from faith, so hope
extended knowledge, because men labored with fresh vigor in improving
science. "The course of ages offers no grander spectacle than that of
man taking possession of nature by knowledge." In the seventh century
the Byzantine monks pierced the steppes of Central Asia, and passed
the wall of China; monks took the message of the Pope to the Khan
before Marco Polo visited the East; and monks, in the eighth century,
visited Iceland and even America. It was the calculations of the
middle ages which emboldened Columbus to discover a new world and new
creation; and when Magellan sailed round the globe, "man was master of
his abode." He goes on: "When man had conquered the earth, he could
not rest; Copernicus burst through the false heavens of Ptolemy; the
telescope discovered the secrets of the stars, and calculation
numbered their laws and orbits in the abyss of heaven. Woe be to those
who are led away by such a sight from God! The stars told his glory to
David, and so they did also to Kepler and to Newton."
It was by the third and greatest of the theological virtues, charity,
that the moral as well as the intellectual nature of man was
regenerated, though the change was wrought, perhaps, by slower
degrees. Slavery of the most revolting kind--that slavery which
ignores the soul and the reason, as well as the social rights of the
slave, was replaced by liberty, oppression and injustice by laws which
are still based upon the letter of the Roman laws; but administered
with the equity of the Christian code. Cruelty and indifference to
human life, as shown in the national passion for gladiatorial games,
was replaced by gentleness and all good works; and the luxury of
palaces, baths, etc., was replaced by gorgeous churches and hospitals.
Education, which had been restricted to the few, was thrown open to
all by free schools and by Christian preaching. Above all, the
daughters of Eve, who were degraded below the condition of the very
slaves, were raised to be helps-meet for Christians, either by the
sacrament of marriage or by the holiness of virginity.
In speaking of the reconstruction of intellectual action in the
civilization of Western Christendom, Ozanam has a grand and striking
thought, that the first step to this was uniformity of language. The
confusion of tongues which began at Babel was silenced throughout the
world by the universal use of the Latin language, which was adopted by
the Church; and that language, which was formed to express all the
passions and vices, as well as the strength and intelligence of man,
conveyed, by the words of St. Gelasius and St. Gregory, the most
sublime devotion; by those of St. Jerome, the deep senses of the Holy
Scriptures; and when the Christian intellect was free to develop
itself, there arose that Christian eloquence in preaching the gospel
which influenced, for the first time, all ranks and all dispositions
of men.
The present edition of the author's works is conducted by friends who
understood and valued his object, and {783} who were able to fill up,
without blemishing, the unfinished parts of his lectures. Nothing can
be done more faithfully, or in better taste; but there are many blanks
too wide to be filled even by such skilful hands. Ozanam says himself,
that the two poles of his work are the "Essays on the Germans before
Christianity," and that on Dante. These form the third and fourth
volumes. In the fifth volume is his "Essay on the Franciscan Poets;"
and that on Dante closes the series. We have confined ourselves to the
subject-matter of the first and second volumes, which contain the
lectures on the civilization of the fifth century, and which suffice
to show the lofty Christian philosophy with which Ozanam beholds the
course of modern history. More than this it would be difficult to
show. The lectures themselves are fragments; ideas snatched from the
rapid flow of his eloquence, and that eloquence itself could feebly
express the thoughts which visited his mind, and the impressions of
glory which left no trace but sensation. There is no chronology, no
succession. He fixes his eyes on the fifth century--he penetrates its
mysteries, and the secret influences which it sends forth to after
times. He speaks of what he sees; and we learn that the world of
Christendom has had its decadence and renaissance, yet that progress
continues. The crimes of the middle ages conceal that progress, and so
do the troubles of the present time. _O passi graviora, dabit Deus hic
quoque finem_.
------
From Chambers's Journal.
THE BELLS OF AVIGNON.
Avignon was a joyous city,
A joyous town with many a steeple,
Towers and tourelles, roofs and turrets,
Sheltering a merry people.
In each tower, the bells of silver,
Bronze or iron, swayed so proudly,
Tolling deep and swinging cheerly,
Beating fast and beating loudly.
One! Two! Three! Four! ever sounding;
Two! Four! One! Three! still repeating;
Five! Seven! Six! Eight! hurrying, chasing;
Bim-bom-bing-bang merry beating.
All the day the dancing sextons
Dragged at bell-ropes, rising, falling;
Clanging bells, inquiring, answering,
From the towers were ever calling.
Cardinals, in crimson garments,
Stood and listened to the chiming;
And within his lofty chateau
Sate the pope, and beat the timing.
Minstrels, soldiers, monks, and jesters
Laughed to hear the merry clamor,
As above them in the turrets
Music clashed from many a hammer.
{784}
Avignon was a joyous city:
Far away across the bridges,
'Mong the vine-slopes, upward lessening,
To the brown cliffs' highest ridges,
Clamored those sonorous bells;
In the summer's noontide wrangling,
In one silver knot of music
All their chimes together tangling.
Showering music on the people
Round the town-house in the mornings;
Scattering joy and jubilations,
Hope and welcome, wrath and scornings;
Ushering kings, or mourning pontiffs;
Clanging in the times of thunder,
And on nights when conflagrations
Clove the city half asunder.
Nights and nights across the river,
Through the darkness starry-dotted,
Far across the bridge so stately.
Now by lichens blurred and blotted,
Came that floating, mournful music,
As from bands of angels flying,
With the loud blasts of the tempest
Still victoriously vieing.
Who could tell why Avignon
All its bells was ever pealing?
Whether to scare evil spirits,
Still round holy cities stealing.
Yet, perhaps, that ceaseless chiming,
And that pleasant silver beating,
Was but as of children playing,
And their mother's name repeating.
One! Two! Three! the bells went prattling,
With a music so untiring;
One! Two! Three! in merry cadence,
Rolling, crashing, clanging, firing.
Hence it was that in past ages,
When 'mid war those sounds seemed sweeter,
_La Ville Sonnante_ people called it,
City sacred to Saint Peter.
Years ago! but now all silent,
Lone and sad, the grass-grown city,
Has its bell-towers all deserted
By those ringers--more's the pity.
Pope and cardinal are vanished,
And no music fills the night-air;
Gone the red robes and the sable;
Gone the crosier and the mitre.
------
{785}
From The Lamp.
ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.
BY ROBERT CURTIS.
CHAPTER X.
It is not to be wondered at that two persons, equally clever in all
respects, and having a similar though not identical object in view,
should have pretty much the same thoughts respecting the manner of
carrying it out, and finally pursue the same course to effect their
purpose. But the matter involves some nicety, if not difficulty, when
it so happens that those two persons have to work upon each other in a
double case. It is then a matter of diamond cut diamond; and if, as I
have suggested, both are equally clever, the discussion of the subject
between them would make no bad scene in a play. Winny wanted to find
out something from Kate Mulvey, and at the same time to hide something
from her. Kate Mulvey was on precisely the same intent with Winny
Cavana in both ways; so that some such tournament must come off
between them the first time they met, with sufficient opportunity to
"have it out" without interruption.
You have seen that Winny had determined to sound her friend Kate, as
to how her land lay between these two young men. If Kate had not made
a like determination as to sounding Winny, she was, at all events,
ready for the encounter at any moment, and had discussed the matter
over and over in her own mind. Their mutual object, then, was to find
out which of the young men was the real object of the other's
affections; and up to the present moment each believed the other to be
a formidable rival to her own hopes.
Winny was not one who hesitated about any matter which she felt to
require immediate performance; and as she knew that some indefinite
time might elapse before an opportunity could occur to have her chat
out with Kate Mulvey, she was resolved to make one.
Her father's house, as the reader has seen in the commencement, was
not on the roadside. There was no general pass that way; and except
persons had business to old Cavana's or Mick Murdock's, they never
went up the lane, which was common to both the houses of these rich
farmers. It was not so with the house where Kate Mulvey resided. Its
full front was to the high-road, with a space not more than three
perches between. This space had been originally what is termed in that
rank of life "a bawn," but was now wisely converted into a
cabbage-garden, with a broad clean gravel-walk running through the
centre of the plot, from the road to the door. It was about half a
mile from Cavana's, and there was a full view of the road, for a long
stretch, from the door or window of the house--that is, of Mulvey's.
It was now a fine mild day toward the end of November. Old Mick
Murdock's party had ceased to be spoken of, and perhaps forgotten,
except by the few with whom we have to do. Winny Cavana put on her
everyday bonnet and her everyday cloak, and started for a walk.
Bully-dhu capered round her in an awkward playful manner, with a
deep-toned howl of joy when he saw these preparations, and trotted
down the lane before her. As may be anticipated, she bent her steps
down the road toward Mulvey's house. She knew she could be seen coming
for some distance, and hoped that Kate might greet her from the door
as she passed. She {786} was not mistaken; Kate had seen her from the
first turn in the road toward the house, and was all alive on her own
account. She had tact and vanity enough, however,--for she had plenty
of time before Winny came alongside of the house,--to slip in and put
on a decent gown, and brush her beautiful and abundant hair; and she
came to the door, as if by mere accident, but looking her very best,
as Winny approached. Kate knew that she was looking very handsome, and
Winny Cavana, at the very first glance, felt the same fact.
"Good morrow, Kate," said Winny; "that's a fine day."
"Good morrow kindly, Winny; won't you come in and sit down awhile?"
"No, thank you; the day is so fine, I'm out for a walk. You may as
well put on your bonnet, and come along with me; it will do you good,
Kitty."
"With all my heart; step up to the house, and I'll be ready in two
twos." But she was not so sure that it would do her good.
The girls then turned up to the house, for Kate had run down in her
hair to shake hands with her friend. Winny would not go in, but stood
at the door, ordering Bully-dhu not to growl at Captain, and begging
of Captain not to growl at Bully-dhu. Kate was scarcely the "two twos"
she gave herself until she came out ready for the road; and the two
friends, and the two dogs, having at once entered into most amicable
relations with each other, went off together.
Winny was resolved that no "awkward pause" on her part should give
Kate reason to suppose there was anything unusual upon her mind, and
went on at once, as if from where she had left off.
"The day was so fine, Kate," she continued, "that I was anxious to get
some fresh air. I have been churning, and packing butter, every day
since Monday, and could not get out. Biddy Murtagh is very clean and
honest, but she is very slow, and I could not leave her."
"It is well for you, Winny, that has the butter to pack."
"Yes, Kate, I suppose it will be well for me some day or other; but as
long as my poor father lives--God between him and harm!--I don't feel
the want of anything."
"God spare him to you, Winny _mavourneen!_ He's a fine hale old man,
and I hope he'll live to be at the christening of many a grandchild.
If report speaks thrue, Winny dear, that same is not unlikely to come
round."
"Report does not always speak the truth, Kate; don't you know that?"
"I do; but I also know that there's seldom smoke without fire, and
that it sometimes makes a good hit. And sure, nothin's more reasonable
than that it's right this time. Tom's a fine young fellow; an' like
yourself, sure, he's an only child. There wasn't such a weddin' this
hundred years--no, nor never--in the parish of Rathcash, as it will
be--come now!"
"Tom is a fine young man, Kate; I don't deny it--"
"You couldn't--you couldn't, Winny Cavana! you'd belie yoursel' if you
did," said Kate, with a little more warmth of manner than was quite
politic under the circumstances.
"But I don't, Kate; and I can't see why _you_ need fly at me in that
way."
"I beg your pardon, Winny dear; but sure everybody sees an' knows that
you're on for one another; an' why not?--wasn't he as cross as a bag of
cats at his father's party because he let 'that whelp' (as he called
him) Edward Lennon take you out for the first dance?"
"Emon-a-knock is no whelp; he couldn't call him a whelp. Did he call
him one?"
"Didn't you hear him? for if you didn't you might; it wasn't but he
spoke loud enough."
"It is well for him, Kate, that Emon did not hear him. He's as good a
man as Tom Murdock at any rate. {787} He didn't fall over the poker
and tongs as Tom did."
"That was a mere accident, Winny. I seen the fung of his pump loose
myself; didn't I help to shut it for him, afther he fell?"
"You were well employed indeed, Kate," said Winny sneeringly.
"You would have done it yourself if he axed you as he did me," replied
Kate.
"Certainly not," said Winny.
So far they seemed both to have the worst of it, in spite of all their
caution. What they wanted was to find out how the other's heart stood
between these two young men, without betraying their own--which latter
they had both nearly done.
There was a pause, and Kate was the next to speak.
"Not but I must admit that Emon-a-knock is a milder, better boy in
some respects than Tom. He has a nicer way with him, Winny, and I
think it is easier somehow to like him than to like Tom."
"Report says you do, Kate dear."
"But you know, Winny, report does not always spake thrue, as you say
yourself."
"Ay, but as you said just now, Kate, it sometimes makes a good hit."
"Well, Winny, I wish you joy at all events, with all my heart. Both
your fathers is anxious for your match; an' sure, when the two farms
is joined in one, with you an' Tom, you can live like a lady. I
suppose you'll hould your head too high for poor Kate an' Emon-a-knock
then."
There was a sadness in Kate's tone as she said this, which, from
ignorance of how matters really stood, was partly genuine, and, from
anxiety to find it out, was partly assumed.
But she had turned the key and the door flew open. Winny could fence
with her feelings no longer.
"Kate Mulvey," she exclaimed, "do not believe the reports you hear
about me and Tom Murdock. I'm aware of what you say about his father
and mine being anxious to unite the farms by our marriage. I don't
want to say anything against Tom Murdock; but he'll never call me
wife. There now, Kate jewel, you have the truth. I'll be well enough
off, Kitty, without Tom Murdock's money or land; and when I really
don't care for him, don't you think it would be much better and
handsomer of him to bestow himself and it upon some nice girl without
a penny" (and she glanced slyly at Kate, whose cheeks got rosy red),
"than to be striving to force it upon one that doesn't want it--nor
wish for it? And don't you think it would be much better and handsomer
for me, who has a nice little fodeen, and must come in for my father's
land,--God between him and harm!--to do the same, if I could meet with
a nice boy that really cared for myself, and not for my money? Answer
me them questions, Kate."
Kate was silent; but her eyes had assumed quite a different
expression, if they had not altogether turned almost a different
color. The weight of Winny's rich rivalry had been lifted from her
heart, and so far as that obstacle had been dreaded, the coast was now
clear. Of course she secretly agreed in the propriety of Winny's
views, and it was only necessary that she should now do so openly.
"You didn't answer me them questions yet, Kate."
"Well I could, Winny, if I liked it; but I don't wish to have act,
hand, or part in setting you against your father's wishes."
"You need not fear that, Kitty; my father won't force me to do what I
really do not wish to do. He never put the matter to me plainly yet,
but I expect it every day. He's always praising Tom Murdock, and
hinting at the business, by saying he wishes he could see me
comfortably settled; that he is growing old and is not the man he used
to be; and all that. I know very well, Kate, what he means, both ways;
and, God between him and harm! I say again; but he'll never see me Tom
Murdock's wife. {788} I have my answer ready for them both."
"Well, Winny, as you seem determined, I suppose I may spake; and, to
tell you the truth, I always thought it would be a pity to put them
two farms into one, and so spoil two good establishments; for sure any
one of them is lashings, Winny, for any decent boy and girl in the
parish; an' what's more, if they were joined together tomorrow, there
is not a gentleman in the county would think a bit the better of them
that had them."
"Never, Kitty, except it was some poor broken-down fellow that wanted
to borrow a couple of hundred pounds, and rob them in the end. And
now, Kitty, let us be plain and free with one another. My opinion is
that Tom could raise you--I won't say out of poverty, Kate; for,
thanks be to God, it is not come to that with you, and that it never
may--but into comfort and plenty; and that I could, some day, do the
same, if I could meet with a nice boy that, as I said, would care for
myself and not for my money. If Tom took a liking to you, Kitty, you
might know he was in earnest for yourself; I _know_ he's only put up
to his make-belief liking for me by his own father and mine. But,
Kitty dear, I'm afraid, like myself, you have no fancy for him."
"Well, Winny, to tell you the truth, I always believed what the
neighbors said about you an' him; an' I tried not to think of him for
that same reason. There's no doubt, Winny dear, but it would be a fine
match for me; but I know he's out an' out for you: only for that,
Winny, I could love every bone in his body--there now! you have it
out."
"He'll soon find his mistake, Kate dear, about me. I'm sure the thing
will be brought to a point before long between us, and between my
father and me too. When Tom finds I'm positive, he can't be blind to
your merits and beauty, Kitty--yes, I will say it out, your
beauty!--you needn't be putting your hand to my mouth that way;
there's no mistake about it."
"Ah, Winny, Winny dear, you're too lenient to me entirely; sure I
couldn't sit or stand beside you in that respect at all, an' with your
money; sure they'll settle it all between themselves."
"They may settle what they like, Kitty; but they can't make me do what
I am determined not to do; so as far as that goes, you have nothing to
fear."
"Well, Winny dear, I'm glad I know the truth; for now I won't be
afeard of crossing you, at any rate; and I know another that wouldn't
be sorry to know as much as I do."
"Who, Kitty? tell us."
"Ah, then now, Winny, can't you guess? or maybe it's what you know
better than I do myself."
"Well, I suppose you mean Emon-a-knock; for indeed, Kitty, he's always
on the top of your tongue, and the parish has it that you and he are
promised. Come now, Kitty, tell us the truth. I told you how there was
no truth in the report about me and Tom Murdock, and how there never
could be."
If this was not leading Kate Mulvey to the answer most devoutly wished
for, I do not know what the meaning of the latter part of the sentence
could be. It was what the lawyers would call a "leading question." The
excitement too of Winny, during the pause which ensued, showed very
plainly the object with which she spoke, and the anxiety she felt for
the result.
Kate did not in the least misunderstand her. Perhaps she knew more of
her thoughts than Winny was aware of, and that it was not then she
found them out for the first time; for Kate was a shrewd observer. She
had gained her own object, and it was only fair she should now permit
Winny to gain hers.
"Ah, Winny dear," she said, after a contemplative pause, "there never
was a word of the kind between us. {789} You know, Winny, in the first
place, it wouldn't do at all--two empty sacks could never stand; and
in the next place, neither his heart was on me, nor mine on him. It
was all idle talk of the neighbors. Not but Emon is a nice boy as
there is to be found in this or any other parish, and you know that,
Winny; don't you, now?"
"Kitty dear, there's nobody can deny what you say, and for that
self-same reason I believed what the neighbors said regarding you and
him."
"Tell me this now, Winny,--you know we were reared, I may say, at the
door with one another, and have been fast friends since we were that
height" (and she held her hand within about two feet of the ground, at
the same time looking fully and very kindly into her friend's face),--
"tell me now, Winny dear, did it fret you to believe what you heard?
Come now."
"For your sake, and for his, Kitty, it could not fret me; but for my
own sake--there now, don't ask me."
"No, _avourneen_, I won't; what need have I, Winny, when I see them
cheeks of yours,--or is it the sun that cum suddenly out upon you,
Winny _asthore?_"
"Kate Mulvey, I'll tell you the truth, as I believe you have told it
to me. For many a long day I'm striving to keep myself from liking
that boy on your account. I think, Kate, if I hadn't a penny-piece in
the world no more than yourself, I would have done my very best to
take him from you; it would have been a fair fight then, Kitty; but I
didn't like to use any odds against you, Kitty dear; and I never gave
him so much as one word to go upon."
"I'm very thankful to you, Winny dear; an' signs on the boy, he
thought you were for a high match with rich Tom Murdock; an' any
private chat Emon an' I ever had was about that same thing."
"Then he has spoken to you about me! O Kitty, dear Kitty, what used he
to be saying of me? do tell me."
"The never a word I'll tell you, Winny dear. Let him spake to
yourself; which maybe he'll do when he finds you give Tom the go-by;
but I'm book-sworn; so don't ask me."
"Well, Kitty, I'm glad I happened to come across you this morning; for
now we understand each other, and there's no fear of our interrupting
one another in our thoughts any more."
"None, thank God," said Kitty.
By this time the girls had wandered along the road to nearly a mile
from home. They had both gained their object, though not in the
roundabout _sounding_ manner which we had anticipated, and they were
now both happy. They were no longer even the imaginary rivals which it
appears was all they had ever been; and as this light broke upon them
the endearing epithets of "dear" and "jewel" became more frequent and
emphatic than was usual in a conversation of the same length.
Their mutual confidences, as they retraced their steps, were imparted
to the fullest extent. They now perfectly "understood each other," as
Winny had said; and to their cordial shake-hands at the turn up to
Kate Mulvey's house was added an affectionate kiss, as good as if they
swore never to interfere with each other in love-affairs.
CHAPTER XI.
Winny Cavana, as far as her own feelings and belief were concerned,
had not made a bad morning's work of it. Hitherto she had supposed
that Kate Mulvey had forestalled her in the affections of
Emon-a-knock. The neighbors had given them to each other, and she
feared that Emon was not free from the power of her charms. With these
doubts, or almost with this belief, upon her mind, she could not have
met her father's {790} importunities about Tom Murdock with the same
careless and happy determination which matters, as they now stood,
would enable her to do. Being assured, from her conversation with
Kate, that there was nothing between her and Emon, she could "riddle"
more easily some circumstances and expressions which, to say the least
of it, were puzzling, with a belief that these two persons were
mutually attached. Winny knew now how to reconcile them; and the view
she took of them was anything but favorable to her father's wishes or
Tom Murdock's hopes.
She could not hope, however,--perhaps she did not wish,--for any
interview with Emon just then, when her change of manner, emanating
from her knowledge of facts, might draw him out, for her heart now
told her that this would surely come. She had some fears that her
father might sound her about Emon, and she wished to be able to say
with a clear conscience that he had never spoken, or even hinted at
the subject, to her; but she was determined, nevertheless, to act
toward her father, and subsequently toward Tom Murdock, as if her
troth and Emon's had been already irrevocably plighted. She was in
hopes that if she had an interview with her father upon the subject of
Tom Murdock in the first instance, the unalterable dislike which she
would exhibit to the match might save her the horrible necessity of
going through the business with the man himself. But poor Winny had
settled matters in her own mind in an order in which they did not
occur; and it so happened that, although she thought her heart had
gone through enough excitement for one day, and that she would, for
the rest of that evening, hide beneath the happiness which was
creeping over her, yet she was mistaken.
Tom Murdock had seen her pass down the road; and hastily putting on
one of his best coats and his very best hat, he followed her,
determined to have good news in return for his father's advice; but he
was disappointed. Before he could overtake her, he perceived that she
had been joined by Kate Mulvey, and that they went coshering away
together. Of course he saw that it was "no go," as he said, for that
time; but he would watch her returning, when he could not fail to meet
her alone.
"Hang me," said he, as he saw them walking away, "if I don't think
Kate Mulvey is the finest girl of the two, and very nearly as handsome
as ever she was--some people say handsomer. If it was not for her
money, and that grand farm she'll have, I'd let her see how soon I
could get a girl in every other respect as good, if not better, than
she is. Look at the two of them: upon my faith, I think Kate is the
lightest stepper of the two."
Tom paused for a few moments, if not in his thoughts, at least in the
expression of them; for all the above had been uttered aloud. Then, as
if they had received a sudden spur which made him start, he muttered
with his usual scowl, "No, no; I'll follow it up to the death if
necessary. That whelp shall never have it to say that Tom Murdock
failed, and perhaps add, where he did not. I'll have her, by fair
means if I can; but if not, by them five crosses," and he clasped his
hands together, "she shall be mine by foul. Sure it is not possible
they are going to meet that whelp this blessed moment!" And he dogged
them at so long a distance behind that, even if their conversation had
been less interesting, they would not have been aware of his stealthy
espionage.
When they turned to return, he turned also, and was then so far before
them that, with the bushes and the bends in the road, he could not be
perceived. Thus he watched and watched, until, to his great
satisfaction, he saw them part company at Kate's house. Winny Cavana,
as we have seen, had still some distance to walk ere she reached the
lane turning up to her father's; and Kate having gone in and shut the
{791} door, Tom strolled on, as if by mere accident, until he met
Winny on the road.
Tom was determined to be as mild and as bland, as cordial and
good-natured, as possible. He felt there had always been a sort of
undefined snappish battle between him and Winny; and he had the
honesty of mind, as well as the vanity, to blame his own harsh and
abrupt manner for this. Perhaps it arose no less from a consciousness
of his personal advantages than from a belief that in his position as
an only son, and heir to his father's interest in a rich and
profitable farm, he had no great need of those blandishments of
expression so generally requisite in making way to a young and
unhackneyed heart. He resolved, therefore, upon this occasion to give
Winny no cause to accuse him of uncouthness of manner; neither was he
inclined to be uncouth when he beheld the glowing beauty of her face,
heightened, as he thought, solely by the exercise of her walk; but not
a little increased, without his knowledge of the fact, by the new
light which had just dawned upon the horizon of her hopes.
Her heart bounced in her bosom as she saw him approach.
"Good morning, Winny," he said, holding out his hand.
"Good morrow kindly, Tom," she replied, wishing to be civil, and
taking it. She knew she was "in for it," as she expressed it to
herself; but encouraged "by the hope within her springing," and
softened by the anticipation of its fulfilment, she was determined to
be kind but firm.
"Have you been walking far, Winny? Upon my life, it seems to agree
with you. It has improved your beauty, Winny, if that was possible."
"Tom, don't flatter me; you're always paying me compliments, and I
often told you that I did not like it. Beside, you did not let me
answer your question until you begin at your old work. I walked about
a mile of the road with Kate Mulvey."
"Kate Mulvey is a complete nice girl. You are not tired, Winny, are
you?"
"Ah, then, what would tire me? is it a mile of a walk, and the road
under my feet? I could walk to _Boher-na-Milthiogue_ and back this
minute."
By this time they had come to the end of the lane turning up to
Rathcash House.
"I'm glad to find you are not tired, Winny. You may as well come on
toward the cross; I have something to say to you."
"And welcome, Tom; what is it?"
Winny felt that the thing was coming, and she wished to appear as
careless and unconscious as possible. When she recollected all Kate
Mulvey had said to her, she was just in the humor to have it over.
Upon reflection, too, she was not sorry that it should so happen
before the grand passage between her and her father upon the same
subject. She could the more easily dispose of the case with him,
having already disposed of it with Tom himself. She therefore went on,
past the end of her own lane; and Tom, taking this for an unequivocal
token in his favor, was beginning to get really fond of her--at least
he thought so.
"Well, Winny, I'm very glad I happened to meet you, and that you seem
inclined to take a walk with me; for to tell you the truth, Winny, I
can't help thinking of you."
"Perhaps you don't try, Tom."
"True for you, Winny dear; I wouldn't help thinking of you if I could,
and I couldn't if I would."
"Is that the way with you, Tom?"
But Winny did not smile or look at him, as he had hoped she would have
done.
"You know it is, Winny dear; but I can keep the truth, in plain
English, from you no longer."
"See that now! Ah, then, Tom, I pity you."
And Tom could not tell from her manner, or from the tone of her voice,
whether she was in earnest or {792} only joking. He preferred the
former.
"Well, Winny Cavana, if you knew how much I love you, you would surely
take pity on me, my own _colleen dhass_."
"Faith, Tom, I believe it's in earnest you are, sure enough."
"In earnest! Yes, Winny, by the bright sky over me--and it is not
brighter than your own eyes--I am in earnest! It is a long day now
since I first took to loving you, though it was only of late you might
have picked it out of my looks. Ah, Winny dear, if you hadn't a
penny-piece but yourself, I would have spoken to you long ago. But
there was a great deal of talk among the neighbors about the joining
of them two farms together, and I was afraid you might think--"
"I understand. You were afraid I might think it was my money and the
farm you were after, and not myself. Was not that it, Tom?"
"Just so, Winny. But I am indeed in earnest, and for yourself alone,
Winny dear; and I'm willing to prove my words by making you my wife,
and mistress of all I have coming Shraftide, God willing." And he took
her by the hand.
She withdrew it at once, after a slight struggle, and replied, "Tom
Murdock, put such a thing totally out of your head, for it can never
be--never, by the same oath you swore just now, and that is the blue
heaven above me!" And she turned back toward the lane.
"I cross, Winny. Don't say that. I know that your father and mine
would both be willing for the match. As to what your father would do
for you, Winny _mavourneen_, I don't care a _boughalawn lui_; for I'm
rich enough without a cross of his money or his land. My own father
will make over to me by lawful deed, the day you become my wife, his
house and furniture, together with the whole of his land and cattle.
Your father, I know, Winny, would do the same for you, for he has but
yourself belonging to him; and although your fortune or your land has
nothing to say to my love, yet, Winny, dear, between us, if you will
consent to my prayer, for it is nothing less, there's few grandees in
the country could compare to you,--I'll say nothing for myself, Winny
dear, only say the word."
"No, Tom, I'll say no word but what I'm after saying; and you are only
making matters worse, talking of grandeur and riches that way. You
would only be striving at what you would not be able for, nor allowed
to keep up, Tom, and as for myself, I'd look well, wouldn't I? stuck
up on a new sidecar, and a drawn bonnet and feathers, coming down the
lane of a Sunday, and the neighbors thronging to mass,--aping my
betters, and getting myself and yourself laughed at. Devil a one, Tom,
but they'd call you Lord _Boher-na-Milthiogue_. No, Tom; put it out of
your head; that is my first and last word to you." And she hastened
her step.
"No, Winny, you won't leave me that way, will you? By all the books
that were ever shut and opened, you may make what you please of me.
I'll never ask to put yourself or myself a pin's-point beyond what we
always were, either in grandeur or anything else. But wouldn't it be a
fine thing, Winny dear, to have our children able to hold up their
heads with the best in the county, in a manner?"
"Ay, in a manner, indeed. No, Tom; they would never be anything but
the Murdocks of Rathcashmore--grandchildren of ould Mick Murdock and
ould Ned Cavana, the common farmers."
"And what have you to say against old Mick Murdock?" exclaimed Tom,
beginning to feel that his suit was hopeless, and flaming up inwardly
in the spirit which was most natural to him.
"Nothing indeed, Tom; you need not be so angry, I meant no offence; I
said as much against my own father as against yours, if there was
anything against either. But we must soon {793} part now, Tom, and let
us part friends at all events, living as we do within a stone's-throw
of each other." She held out her hand, but he took it coldly and
loosely. He felt that his game was up.
"Take my advice, Tom Murdock"--this was the second time she had found
it necessary to overcome her antipathy to pronounce the name--"take
my advice, and never speak to me again upon the subject. Sure, there's
many a fine handsome girl would be glad to listen to you; and I'll now
ask you one question before we part. Wouldn't it be better and fitter
for you to bestow yourself and your land upon some handsome young girl
who has nothing of her own, and was, maybe, well inclined for you, and
to rise her up to be independent, than to be striving to force
yourself and it upon them that doesn't want your land, and cannot care
for yourself? Why don't you look about you? There's many a girl in the
parish as handsome, and handsomer, than I am, that would just jump at
you."
Winny had no sooner uttered these latter words than she regretted
them. She did not wish Tom Murdock to know that she had overheard him.
She was glad however to perceive that, in his anger, he had not
recognized them as a quotation from his conversation with his father
at the gate.
There was a silence now for a minute or two. Tom's blood was 'up; his
hopes of success were over, and he was determined to speak his mind in
an opposite direction.
"Have I set you thinking, Tom?" said Winny, half timidly.
"I'm d--d but you have, Winny Cavana; and I'll answer your question
with one much like it. And would not it be better and fitter for
_you_--of course it would--to bestow yourself and your fortune and your
land upon some handsome young fellow that has nothing but his day's
wages, and was well inclined for you, and to rise him up out of
poverty, than to spoil a good chance for a friend by joining yours to
them that has enough without it? Why didn't you follow up your first
question with that, Winny Cavana?" And he stopped short, enjoying the
evident confusion he had caused.
Winny thought, too, for a few moments in silence. She was considering
the probability of Tom Murdock's having overheard her conversation
with Kate Mulvey from behind some hedge. But the result of her
calculations was that it was impossible.
She was right. It was a mere paraphrase of her own question to him,
and only shows how two clever people may hit upon the same idea, and
express it in nearly the same language. And the question was prompted
by his suspicions in the quarter already intimated.
"Yes, I see how it is," he exclaimed, breaking the silence, and giving
way to his ungovernable temper. "But, by the hatred I bear to that
whelp, that shall never be, at all events. I'll go to your father this
moment, and let him know what's going on--"
"And who do you dare to call 'a whelp,' Tom Murdock? If it be Edward
Lennon, let me tell you that his little finger is worth your whole
head and heart--body and bones together."
"There, there--she acknowledges it. But I'll put a spoke in that
whelp's wheel,--for it was him I called a whelp, since you must
know,--see if I don't; so let him look out, that's all."
"I have acknowledged nothing, Tom Murdock. A word beyond common
civility never passed between Edward Lennon and myself; and take care
how you venture to interfere between my father and me. You have got
your answer, and I have sworn to it. You have no right to interfere
further."
By this time they had reached the end of the lane again; and Winny,
with her heart on fire, and her face in a flame, hurried to the house.
Fortunately, her father had not returned {794} from the fields, and
rushing to her own room, she locked the door, took off her bonnet and
cloak, and "threw herself" (I believe that is the proper expression)
upon the bed. Perhaps a sensation novelist would add that she "burst
into an agony of tears."
CHAPTER XII.
Winny lay for nearly an hour meditating upon the past, the present,
and the future. Upon the whole she did not regret what had occurred,
either before or after she had met Tom Murdock, and she cooled down
into her accustomed self-possession sooner than she had supposed
possible.
One grand object had been attained. Tom Murdock had come to the point,
and she had given him his final and irrevocable answer, if she had
twenty fathers thundering parental authority in her ears. A spot of
blue sky had appeared too in the east, above the outline of Shanvilla
mountain, in which the morning-star of her young life might soon
arise, and shine brightly through the flimsy clouds--or she could call
them nothing but flimsy--now which had hitherto darkened her hopes.
What if Tom Murdock was a villain?--and she believed he was: what
dared he--what could he do? Pshaw, nothing! But, oh that the
passage-of-arms between herself and her father was over! "Then,"
thought she, "all might be plain sailing before me."
But, Winny, supposing all these matters fairly over,--and the battle
with your father is likely to be as cranky and tough upon his part as
it is certain to be straightforward and determined upon yours,--there
will still be a doubtful blank upon your mind and in your heart, and
one the solution of which you cannot, even with Kate Mulvey's
assistance, seek an occasion to fill up. Ah, no, you must trust to
chance for time and opportunity for that most important of all your
interviews. And what if you be mistaken after all, and, if mistaken,
crushed for ever by the result?
Let Winny alone for that. Women seldom make a bad guess in such a
case.
Winny's mental and nervous system having both regained their ordinary
degree of composure, she left her room, and proceeded through the
house upon her usual occupations. She was not, however, quite free
from a certain degree of anxiety at the anticipated interview with her
father. He had not in any way intimated his intention to ask certain
questions touching any communication she might have received from Tom
Murdock, together with her answers thereto; and yet she felt certain
that on the first favorable occasion he would ask the questions,
without any notice whatever. She had subsided for the day, after a
very exciting morning upon two very different subjects. Yes; she
called them different, though they were pretty much akin; and she
would now prefer a cessation of her anxiety for the remainder of that
afternoon at least.
So far she was fortunate. Her father did not come in until it was very
late; and being much fatigued by his stewardship of the day, he did
not appear inclined to enter upon any important subject, but fell
asleep in his arm-chair after a hasty and (Winny observed)
scarcely-touched dinner.
Winny was an affectionate good child. She was devotedly fond of her
father, with whose image were associated all her thoughts of happiness
and love since she was able to clasp his knees and clamber to his lap.
Even yet no absolute allegiance of a decided nature claimed the
disloyalty of her heart; but she felt that the time was not far
distant when either he must abdicate his royalty, or she must rebel.
{795}
"It is clearly my duty now," she said to herself, "not to delay this
business about Tom, upon the chance of his being the first to speak of
it: to-morrow, before the cares and labors of the day occupy his mind,
and perhaps make him ever so little a bit cross, I will tell him what
has happened. I am afraid he will be very angry with me for refusing
that man; but it cannot be helped: not for all the gold they both
possess would I marry Tom Murdock. I shall not betray his sordid
villany, however, until all other resources fail; but I know my father
will scorn the fellow as I do when he knows the whole truth--but ah, I
have no witness," thought she, "and they will make a liar of me."
If the old man could have ever perceived any difference in the kind
and affectionate attention so uniformly bestowed upon him by his fond
daughter, perhaps it might have been upon that night after he awoke
from a rather lengthened nap in his easy chair.
Winny had sat during the whole time gazing upon the loved features of
the sleeping old man. She could not call to mind, from the day upon
which her memory first became conscious, a single unkind or even a
harsh word which he had uttered to her. That he could be more than
harsh to others she knew, and she was now in her nineteenth year;
fifteen clear years, she might say, of unbroken memory. She could
remember her fifth birthday quite well, and so much as a snappish word
or a commanding look she had never received from him; not, God knows,
but he had good reason, many's the time, for more than either. And
there he lay now, calm, and fast asleep, the only one belonging to her
on the wide earth, and she meditating an opposition in her heart to
his plans respecting her--all, she knew, arising from the great love
he had for her, and the frustration of which, she was aware, would vex
him sore. "Oh, Tom Murdock, Tom Murdock, why are you Tom Murdock? or
Emon-a-knock, why did I ever see you?" was the conclusion to this
train of thought, as she sat still, gazing on her sleeping father.
Then a happier train succeeded, and a fond smile lit up her handsome
face. "Ah no, no! I am the only being belonging to him, the only one
he loves. The father who for nearly twenty years never spoke an unkind
word--and if he had reason to reprove me did so by example and
request, and not the rod--has only to know that a marriage with Tom
Murdock would make me miserable to make him spurn him, as I did
myself. As to the other boy, I know nothing for certain myself about
him, and I can fairly deny any accusation he may make; and I am
certain he has been put up to it by old Murdock through his son. Yet
even on this score I'll deny as little as I can."
Here it was her father awakened; and Winny had only time to conclude
her thoughts by wondering how that fellow dare call Emon "a whelp."
"Well, father dear," she said, "you have had a nice nap; you must have
been very tired. I wish I was a man, that I might help you on the
farm."
"Winny darlin', I wouldn't have you anything but what you are for the
world. I have not much to do at all on the farm but to poke about, and
see that the men I have at work don't rob me by idling; and I must say
I never saw honester work than what they leave after them. But, Winny,
I came across old Murdock shortly after I went out, and he came over
my land with me, and I went over his with him, so that we had rather a
long walk. I'll engage he's as tired as what I am. I did not think his
farm was so extensive as it is, or that the land was so good, or in
such to-au-op caun-di-shon." And poor old Ned yawned and stretched
himself.
Winny saw through the whole thing at once. The matter of a marriage
between herself and Tom Murdock, and a union of the farms, had
doubtless been discussed between her father and old Mick Murdock, and
a final arrangement, so far as they were concerned, had been arrived
at. A hitch upon her part she was certain neither {796} of them had
ever dreamt of; and yet "hitch" was a slight word to express the
opposition she was determined to give to their wishes.
She knew that if her father had got so far as where he had been
interrupted by the yawn when he was fresh after breakfast, the whole
thing would have come out. She was, however, a considerate girl; and
although she knew there was at that moment a good opening, where a
word would have brought the matter on, she knew that the result would
have completely driven rest and sleep from the poor old man's pillow
for the night, tired and fatigued as he was. She therefore adroitly
changed the conversation to his own comforts in a cup of tea before he
went to bed.
"Yes, _mavourneen_" he said, "I fell asleep before I mixed a tumbler
of punch, and I'll take the tea now instead; for, Winny, my love, you
can join me at that. Do you know, Winny, I'm very thirsty?"
"Well, father dear, I'll soon give you what will refresh you."
While Winny was busying herself for the tea, putting down a huge
kettle of water in the kitchen, and rattling the cups and saucers
until you'd think she was trying to break them, the old man wakened up
into a train of thought not altogether dissimilar to that which Winny
herself had indulged in over his sleeping form.
Winny was quite right. The whole matter had been discussed on that day
between the old men during their perambulations round the two farms;
the respective value and condition of the land forming a minute
calculation not unconnected with the other portion of their
discourse--settlements, deeds of conveyance, etc., etc., had all been
touched upon.
Winny was right in another of her surmises, although at the time she
scarcely believed so herself. Old Murdock, taking his cue from Tom,
told old Ned that if he found Winny at all averse to marrying Tom, he
was certain young Lennon would be at the bottom of it--at least Tom
had more than hinted such to him.
Old Ned was furious at this, declaring that if Tom Murdock was never
to the fore, his daughter should never bestow his long and hard
earnings upon a pauper like that, looking for a day's wages here and
there, and as often without it as with it; how dare the likes of him
lift his eyes to his little girl! But he'd soon put a stop to that, if
there was anything in it, let what would turn up. Every penny-piece he
was worth in the world was in his own power, and there was a very easy
way of bringing Miss Winny to her senses, if she had that wild notion
in her head.
Poor old Ned, in his indignation for what he thought Winny's welfare,
forgot that she was the only being belonging to him in the world, and
that when it came to the point he would find it impossible to put this
threat of "cutting her off" into execution.
Old Murdock was delighted with this tirade against young Lennon, whom
he looked upon as the only real obstacle to Tom's acquisition of land
and money, to say nothing of a handsome wife.
"Be studdy with her, Ned," said he, "she has a very floostherin' way
wid her where you're concerned; I often remarked it. Don't let her
come round you, Ned, wid her pillaverin' about that 'whelp,' as Tom
calls him."
"An' he calls him quite right. If he daars to look up to my little
girl, he'll soon find out his mistake, I can tell him."
"Nothin' would show him his mistake so much as to have Tom's business
an' hers settled at Shraft, Ned."
"I know that, Mick; an' with the blessing I'll spake to her in the
mornin' upon the subjict. I dunna did Tom ever spake to herself,
Mick?"
"If he didn't he will afore to-morrow night; he's on the watch to meet
with her by accident; he says it's betther nor to go straight up to
her, an' maybe frighten her."
"Very well, Mick; I'll have an eye to them; maybe it would be betther
{797} let Tom himself spake first. These girls are so dam' proud; an'
I can tell you it is betther not vex Winny."
Of course these two old men said a great deal more; but the above is
the pith of what set old Ned Cavana thinking the greater part of the
night; for the tea Winny made was very strong, and, as he said, he was
thirsty, having missed his tumbler of punch after dinner. He fell
asleep, however, much sooner than he would have done had the sequel to
his plans become known to him before he went to bed.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
------
From The Book of Days.
YOUNG'S NARCISSA.