walk from her house to the top of Mount Harry, but the old woman was
longing to see her son again, so she started in good time, and reached
the spot a quarter of an hour before he did, though he was punctual.
The fog was rolling up again, as the old wool-gatherer had predicted,
and, accustomed as her black eyes were to piercing the mists which so
often wrap those rounded hills like a damp clinging garment, her son
was close upon her before she saw his form, looming like a gigantic
grey figure close beside her. It was twelve years and a half since
they had met, and George Hursey was very much altered in appearance
since, in the character of John Smith, carpenter on board the French
yacht Hirondelle, he had laid the baron’s little daughter on John
Shelley’s doorstep; but for all that his mother declared she would have
recognised him in a crowd.
“You’ll come home and have a cup of tea and a chat, George, after all
these years, won’t you?” said the old dame, gazing with pride and
affection on her ne’er-do-well son.
“No, mother, no; I might be recognised, and I don’t want to be arrested
for making off with a child, before I go back to my own wife and
children.”
“The child is safe enough, if you mean the child you left on John
Shelley’s doorstep thirteen years ago come next June.”
George Hursey gave a sigh of relief, for many a nightmare had that
innocent baby, which, for aught he knew to the contrary, might have
perished from cold or exposure through his fault, given him.
“John Shelley took it in then, as I thought he would?”
“Yes, and a beauty she is, and no mistake. George, tell me who the
child is, will you, honey?” said Dame Hursey, in a wheedling tone.
“That’s what I have come here for chiefly, that and to see you once
again, for when I say good-bye to England to-morrow it will be for good
this time; I am going to give up the sea, and live at home now.”
“Well, you know your own affairs best; but about the lassie, George;
whose child is she? No poor person’s, I’ll be bound,” said Dame Hursey,
whose curiosity about Fairy exceeded even her interest in her son’s
family affairs.
“She is the niece of my late master, a French gentleman, and it was
by his wish I took her to John Shelley, only instead of going in as I
pretended I had done, I left her on the doorstep, and went off with the
purse; and if ever I cursed in my life I have cursed that money, which,
for aught I knew till a few minutes ago, had made me a murderer, though
for that matter I may be one still, for the baroness may have fretted
herself into her grave for her baby.”
“The baroness, did you say, George? Sure, I was right, she is no common
child, no fit wife even for gentleman Jack,” exclaimed the old woman,
opening her umbrella, partly to keep the fog off, partly as a sort of
screen to shut in the secret she had yearned so long to learn. But
George was following up his own train of thought, and went on, heedless
of her interruption—
“Though, as true as I stand here, I never knew till last week that
Monsieur Léon was drowned, and the Hirondelle lost a day or two after
I left her. Likely as not the baron thinks the child was drowned too,
since they have never found her. I might never have known, only I
happened to ask at Yarmouth if they had ever had a French yacht named
Hirondelle over there, and some of the fishermen remembered all about
the wreck. When I heard that I determined to come and see if the child
was safe, and now I know it is, I want to do the rest, mother.”
“Yes, honey, what is it? You may trust me. I guessed the night I met
you you knew all about the fairies’ child, and I have kept your secret
and watched the child ever since, for your sake, George.”
“Well, I want you to go to John Shelley, or to the parson if you like,
or both, and tell them the child belongs to the Baron de Thorens, of
Château de Thorens, near Carolles, in Normandy. Shall I write it down
for you?”
“No, no, I can’t read it if you do; I shall remember fast enough—Baron
de Thorens, Château de Thorens, near Carolles, Normandy. I shall think
of Christmas carols, De Thorens, Château de Thorens,” repeated Dame
Hursey.
“Never mind château, it only means castle, but don’t forget the name,
De Thorens. Here, I’ll cut that word on your umbrella handle with my
knife in printed letters. You can read print, I know.”
“All right; and what else am I to tell them?”
“Why, that my master and the baron gave me the child twelve years and
a half ago to put out to nurse with an Englishwoman. I went ashore at
Brighton in a little boat with Pierre Legros, one of the sailors, and I
walked across the downs with the child, and left it on John Shelley’s
doorstep; then I told Monsieur Léon John had taken it in and promised
to look after it. He took the address, and the only person I thought I
had robbed was John Shelley, though I knew the baron would make it up
to him when he heard of it.”
“Are they rich, George?” asked the old woman, taking a pinch of snuff
as she peered at her son through the fog.
“Yes, I think so. The château is a beautiful place, and stands in a
park.”
“Is that all I am to say?”
“Yes, leave the rest to the parson to decide; he will write to the
baron in French very likely. You may tell them as soon as you like, for
I shall be out of the country to-morrow.”
“I shall wait till you are gone; one day more can’t make any
difference, and it is best to be on the safe side, then if they want
to know where you are, I can say on your way to Australia, so there’ll
be no fear of their catching you, though it is so long ago there isn’t
much danger of that now.”
“Please yourself, and now I must be off. Here are five sovereigns for
you, mother; they are honestly earned, so you need not be afraid to
take them, and now I must say good-bye. How thick the fog is; there is
no danger of anyone seeing me this evening; it is as much as I shall do
to find my way down to the Brighton Road without breaking my neck in
a chalk pie. Take care of yourself, mother; but you know these downs
better than I do,” said George Hursey, kissing his mother.
“Ay, ay, lad, never fear for me; I have been out in worse fogs than
this. Good-bye, God bless you,” and the old wool-gatherer strained her
eyes till her son’s figure disappeared, as it very quickly did, in the
fog.
She stood still for a minute or two after he had gone, gloating over
the secret she had at last discovered, and muttering to herself again
and again, “Baron de Thorens, Carolles, Normandy,” and then she too
turned and walked slowly off through the fog in a different direction.
It was quite true she had been out in worse fogs than this, but whether
it was that she was too much occupied with her own thoughts to think
of where she was going, or whether the fog, which gradually increased,
was worse than she fancied, she suddenly, after wandering about for
half-an-hour, awoke to the conclusion that she did not know where she
was. If she had come right she ought to have been at the bottom of the
hill by now, whereas she was still on flat ground, and had not begun
the descent.
She had been so absorbed in wondering what the Shelleys, particularly
“gentleman Jack,” as she always called Jack, would say to her news,
and in picturing to herself the amazement on learning that Fairy was
the daughter of a French nobleman, perhaps a baroness herself or a
countess, for Dame Hursey had very vague ideas on the subject of
French titles; and in thinking how pleased Fairy would be to hear she
was a rich lady, that she forgot all about the fog and where she was
going. Loving gossip as she did, the secret George had put in her
power was dearer to her than the five sovereigns tied up in the corner
of her pocket-handkerchief; it would add to her importance in the
neighbourhood more than the gold. Moreover, it might lead to a reward
for her, since she had had no part in leaving the child to the care
of the shepherd, and Fairy she was sure would not suffer her to be
forgotten when the Shelleys came to be rewarded.
“Why, but for me Fairy might never find her parents after all; if I
were to keep this secret to myself she would never know for certain she
was a lady born, perhaps a countess. I shall make them understand that
before I tell them. Or, if anything was to happen to me now before I
have told them, why they’d like to never know it. Bless me, where am
I? This fog is worse than I thought; I ought to have been home by now,
and here I am still on the top. De Thorens, Carolles, Normandy,” and so
muttering to herself Dame Hursey disappeared in the fog.
That same afternoon, Fairy, little thinking her name and birth were
so soon to be revealed, and her happy life in the shepherd’s cottage
exchanged for a very different one in a French château, had gone for a
walk with Charlie, and, to Mrs. Shelley’s great anxiety, at half-past
five o’clock, when her husband and Jack came in to tea, they were not
home. The fog now was so dense that you could hardly see your hand
before you, and even with a lantern you could not discern anything a
yard or two in advance of you, and Mrs. Shelley was intensely relieved
when John and Jack came home safe.
“Thank God you are both back safely; it is an awful fog, isn’t it,
John?” asked Mrs. Shelley, as John stood wiping the fog from his beard
and face.
“Yes, it is a bad one; luckily both Jack and I saw it was coming on and
got the sheep home before dark, or we might have been half the night on
the downs.”
“Isn’t it tiresome? Charlie and Fairy went out for a walk soon after
dinner, and they are not back now; I have been in such a fright about
them,” said Mrs. Shelley.
“What, mother? Fairy out in this fog? Good heavens! the child may be
killed! What on earth does that little idiot mean by taking her out in
a fog? He deserves a sound thrashing,” burst out Jack.
“Hush, Jack; Charlie may be in danger as well,” said Mrs. Shelley.
“Serve him right too,” muttered Jack, as he went in search of a lantern
without another word.
“Fairy and Charlie out, wife? Dear me, we shall have to go and look for
them; why, they may fall into a chalkpit and break their necks. Where
have they gone?” asked John, leisurely putting on his hat and scarf.
“I don’t know, but I fancy to Mount Harry; I heard Fairy talking about
it.”
“Here, Jack, we shall have to go and look for them children, I think,”
called out the shepherd to Jack.
“Of course we shall; I am lighting the lantern; let’s be off at once,
father,” said Jack, who had made the necessary preparations for the
search while his father was taking in the fact that the children were
lost, and now stood with the lantern in his hand and his dog by his
side at the open door.
“Where are we to go, father?” said Jack as they started.
“Well, your mother says they are gone to Mount Harry, so if we were to
go along the Oatham-road and search those chalkpits as we go, that is
the only place they are likely to have fallen down. If they are not
there, and God forbid they should be, we shall know they have not come
to much harm beyond a fright. When we have passed the chalkpits we can
climb up Mount Harry and come back by the jail; I have my compass, we
can’t go far wrong with that.”
Jack fell in with this plan at once; it was by far the best thing
they could do; but then John Shelley, in his slow, methodical way,
invariably hit upon the wisest plan of action in an emergency, as Jack
very well knew. Accordingly, off they started, each with a lantern and
the shepherd’s dog leading the way. Jack’s own dog was younger and not
so steady as Rover, so he kept him at home. This Rover was a son of
the Rover who had first discovered the fairies’ baby on his master’s
doorstep that midsummer evening, but John Shelley called all his dogs
Rover, and was rather scandalised when Jack insisted on naming his dog
Bruce; it was an innovation, and the shepherd disliked anything new;
however, in this he was persuaded to yield, Mrs. Shelley and Fairy
taking Jack’s part, and saying two Rovers in one family at the same
time would never do.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration: MILAN CATHEDRAL.]
OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY.
BY TWO LONDON BACHELORS.
After leaving Lugano, the train enters two tunnels, shortly after
which it crosses the Lake at Bissone, by means of a most hideous stone
bridge. Bissone is a very picturesque village. The little steeple of
the church rises romantically from the luxuriant foliage, and numerous
cottages are scattered on the side of the lake. The charm of the scene,
however, is much marred by the aforementioned bridge.
After leaving Bissone, the train goes directly south to Mendrisio, the
station for Monte Generoso, the view from which is said to be equal (if
not superior) to that from the Rigi. We had intended to climb Monte
Generoso, but it being a very misty day, there would, of course, have
been no view, so we continued our journey, passing Chiasso and Como. At
Chiasso the luggage is examined, for, strange to say, one is in Swiss
territory until arriving at Como.
We did not stay at Como, as we had decided to see that city and its
beautiful lake on our return journey. The route from Como to Milan
interested us, from the variety it afforded to the mountainous
districts we had recently visited. There is, indeed, a great charm in
the dead level of this huge Lombard plain; for apart from its cities,
so interesting, historically and archæologically, we felt a certain
sense of relief in getting again into a flat country, luxuriantly
fertile and productive.
We made a mistake in not staying at Monza, a very ancient city
containing, amongst other interesting buildings, a cathedral, founded
by Queen Teodolinda in the sixth century, and a Broletto, or town
hall, attributed to Frederic Barbarossa. We arrived at Milan early in
the afternoon, and immediately drove to our hotel, through one of the
magnificent gates which guard the approaches to the city.
On entering this, the first great Italian city which we had seen, many
thoughts crowded into our minds. Here we were in a country the very
cradle of European art, where through all times, even down to the
present, art seems a vital necessity to the people. In other lands art
has been an ornament or a luxury, but in Italy it seems to enter into
the very life of the inhabitants, and nothing seems to have been able
to wean them from their devotion to the beautiful creations of the
hand of man. We find them revelling in art when foreign armies were
overunning the country and decimating the population. We find it under
tyranny and oppression of the most galling description—surrounded by
acts of horror and infamy of the most despicable kind. We find it often
in combination with ignorance and folly that are simply contemptible.
We find it existing when liberty was utterly suppressed. Thus during
all the Middle Ages and the period of the Renaissance, whether
the Italians were slaves or free, whether they were conquered or
victorious, whether they were united or divided, still this marvellous
spirit of art seems to have pervaded everything from their religion
down to the most ordinary acts of everyday life.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF MILAN CATHEDRAL.]
Another thought which naturally suggests itself on entering Milan is
that of the two noble characters whose lives stand out like brilliant
meteors amongst the gloom, horror, wickedness, and folly, which stain
so much of her history. We refer to her two Archbishops—St. Ambrose,
the light and glory of her early history; and Charles Borromeo, the
bright star which illumined her deepest gloom. And one cannot help
thinking of the good and great man pursuing his mission of charity
amongst the sick and dying of the plague-stricken city.
Our first thought was to find our way to the cathedral, the second
largest Gothic church in Europe, about which probably more has been
written, and a greater number of conflicting opinions as to its merit
expressed, than about any building in the world, with the exception of
St. Peter’s, Rome. As it is impossible to say anything new about this
wonderful cathedral, we shall principally confine our remarks to our
own individual impressions and opinions.
To commence with, the first view of the interior struck us as far finer
than the more popular exterior. Indeed, so great an effect had it
upon No. 2, that he turned as white as a sheet, and seemed completely
overcome with the wonder of the buildings. The enormous proportions
of the church, the great height of the pillars, with their canopied
niches over the capitals, and the rich religious effect of the whole,
formed a picture, in comparison to which (in our eyes) the blazing but
meretricious glory of the exterior, with its 4,000 or so niches and
vast masses of carving, was not to be compared. It is said that an
intimate acquaintance with both exterior and interior will fall far
short of one’s first impressions.
Now this did not strike us with regard to the interior. No, not even
after we realised the tracery of the roof to be painted, and the
tracery of the windows to be somewhat straggling and unmeaning. But it
is a different matter from the exterior; after the first astonishment
is over, one sees at once the great over-elaboration and the general
“spikiness” of the effect, though No. 1 thought the admixture of the
Renaissance style in the façade saved this portion of the cathedral
by supplying that solidity and “sobriety of line” which the building
otherwise so painfully lacks.
Even before we heard that the architect was supposed to have been
a German, we recognised the Teutonic character of the cathedral,
especially of the interior, which seemed to be not entirely unlike that
of Cologne.
To enter more into detail, the plan is a Latin Cross, terminated by
an apse, and divided into a nave and four aisles. The interior is 477
feet in length, by 183 in breadth, exclusive of the transepts, and is
supported by fifty-two pillars, which are eighty feet in height and
twelve feet in diameter. The before-mentioned niches, which crown the
pillars, are a great feature, each niche being of different design,
and all remarkably beautiful. The roof is elaborately painted in
imitation (so it is said) of tracery. Street calls this an “abominable
device, which never ceases to offend and annoy the eye more and more
every time it is observed.” The effect did not seem to No. 1 at all
disagreeable; quite the contrary. He thought it added great beauty and
richness to the design, and does not believe that it was ever intended
to deceive the beholder into the idea that it is real tracery. “Why
not believe it to be mere decorative painting, and beautiful art as
such?” he asked. But No. 2 was really deceived into believing that the
imitation of tracery was actually what it represented, particularly
as the design, which is in dark-brown colouring upon a light ceiling,
represents carvings of beautiful patterns and filigree work, very much
like the Gothic screens of some of our English cathedrals, only fixed
upon the ceiling instead of being on the line of sight. But when, after
investigation, he found the paint obliterated here and there by damp
and other causes, showing blotches of brown and white, he was disgusted
beyond measure, and began to look upon other work with suspicion.
“Why,” cried he, “should a Christian church impose on the unwary, or to
the wary preach affectation and artifice?”
There is no triforium, and the pavement is a mosaic of various coloured
marbles. There is a great quantity of old stained glass in the windows,
which, though not equal to our old English glass, yet gives the
building a very religious effect, which is still more enhanced by the
colour of the stonework, which has the appearance of old ivory. The
interior is well filled with ancient monuments; but we have no space
to describe them, and will simply add that the most remarkable are
those of Gian Giacomo and Gabriele de Medici, attributed to Michael
Angelo; of Cardinal Caracciolo, in black marble, by Bambaja; and of
Ottone Visconti, Archbishop of Milan, which is earlier in date than
any portion of the cathedral. In the north transept is the bronze
candelabrum for holding seven lamps, constructed in imitation of that
which existed in the Holy Temple of Jerusalem—a magnificent work
erected in the thirteenth century. And in the south transept is a
famous statue of St. Bartholomew being flayed alive.
St. Charles Borromeo, the great Archbishop of Milan, is buried below
the dome in a subterranean chapel. It may interest our girls to know
that he was the originator of Sunday-schools in Europe.
The Duomo of Milan is like no other building in the world, it belongs
to no distinct style of architecture, and in art it had neither parents
nor children. Nothing was ever built like it before, and nothing
will ever be built like it again. We do not say that it is the most
beautiful church ever built, nor do we deny that, architecturally
speaking, it possesses many grave faults, but what we mean is this:
Of all other churches we say they are built in such and such a style,
or are of such and such an order of architecture. But of this we say
simply, it is the Duomo of Milan.
When this vast structure, with its countless pinnacles of pure white
marble glittering in the sun, and backed-up by a dark blue sky, breaks
upon our astonished gaze, the mind is absorbed with wonder.
Is it a vision? What have we seen before like it—possibly only one
thing—the snow-clad peaks of the Alps. One cannot get rid of the notion
that some kind of relationship exists between the two. We begin almost
to suspect that some mighty Alp, with its snow-clad peaks, must have
been its mother—so much is it like the kind of architecture that would
have sprung from the mountains.
It was after leaving the Duomo that the two bachelors had their
first quarrel. This is how it came about:—The older bachelor, who is
impressionable and of a poetical and non-technical turn of mind, enjoys
an undisturbed first sight of a magnificent building, without first of
all inquiring into its structural and architectural details; and if
there is one thing more than another which annoys him, it is to have
the “dry bones” of workmanship dinned into his ears and thrust before
his mental vision when the complete building should rather impress on
him all that it has to say of great achievement and power.
Now the younger bachelor is technical and fond of dates, so seized the
opportunity of showing off his knowledge of history and archæology
at the very moment when his friend was first gazing at the religious
splendour of the interior of the cathedral. This made No. 2 insist
on a judicial separation, at any rate for the first hour, so the
greater part of the building was explored in “single blessedness.”
The quarrel, postponed, of course, until we had left the Duomo, was
happily of short duration, and the two bachelors compared notes, and
came to the conclusion that, after all, more permanent unity is created
by contradictory temperaments. Whether this would apply in the case
of man and wife they unfortunately could offer no opinion founded
on experience, so they wended their way through some very narrow,
uninteresting streets to the church of St. Ambrose, at the west of the
city.
St. Ambrogio, founded in the fourth century, is full of ancient
epitaphs and early Christian antiquities, notwithstanding that it
was very much repaired in the seventeenth century. The walls of the
“atrium,” or open court, in front of it, contain fragments of frescoes,
ancient inscriptions, etc., which, backed up by the Romanesque red
brick church (dating from the ninth century), form one of the most
picturesque scenes in North Italy.
The interior of St. Ambrogio is, if possible, more interesting than
the exterior; it is of grey stone, with arches of red brick, a quaint
effect of colour. There are no transepts, and the building terminates
in an apse.
It would take pages to describe all that is remarkable in the interior
of St. Ambrogio, so we shall only mention some of the interesting
features. On first entering the nave we noticed two pillars, on one of
which is a brazen serpent, said to be the brazen serpent of Exodus. The
vaulting of the apse is very ancient, and is covered with mosaic work
as fine as anything in St. Mark’s, Venice. Below we noticed the old
chair of St. Ambrose. The high altar is interesting, as being the place
where some of the German emperors received the iron crown of Lombardy;
a baldachino or ciborium covers it.