THE BRETONS AT HOME.

BY CHARLES W. WOOD, F.R.G.S., AUTHOR OF "THROUGH HOLLAND," "LETTERS FROM

MAJORCA," ETC. ETC.

Amongst the many advantages possessed by Morlaix may be mentioned the

fact of its being a central point from which a number of interesting

excursions may be made. It is one of the chief towns of the Finistère, a

Department crowded with churches, and here will be found at once some of

the best and worst examples of ecclesiastical architecture in Brittany.

Of the churches of Morlaix we have said nothing. Interesting and

delightful as it is in its old houses, it fails in its churches. Those

worthy of note were destroyed at the Revolution, that social scourge

which passed like a blight over the whole country, leaving its traces

behind it for ever.

[Illustration: A BRETON CALVARY.]

The church of St. Melaine is the only one deserving a passing notice. It

is in the third Pointed style, and, built on an eminence, is approached

by a somewhat imposing flight of steps. A narrow thoroughfare leads up

to it, and the nearer houses are inhabited by the priests and other

members of the religious community.

The porch and windows are Flamboyant, and a little of the stained glass

is good. The interior is divided into three naves by wooden partitions,

consisting of pillars without capitals supporting pointed arches. The

wall-plates represent monks in grotesque attitudes: portraits, perhaps,

of those who inhabited the Priory of St. Melaine of Rennes, to which the

church originally belonged. The basin for holy water between the porches

has a very interesting cover; but still more remarkable is the cover to

the font, an imposing and elegantly sculptured octagonal work of art of

the Renaissance period, raised and lowered by means of pulleys. The

organ case is also good; and having said so much, there is nothing left

to record in favour of St. Melaine. The general effect of the church is

poor and mean, and the most vivid impression left upon the mind is that

caused by the sharp climb up the narrow street and flight of steps, with

little reward beyond one's trouble for the pains of mounting.

But other churches in the neighbourhood of Morlaix are well worth

visiting; churches typical of the Finistère, with their wonderful

calvaries, mortuaries and triumphal arches.

"These," said Monsieur Hellard, our host of the Hôtel d'Europe, who had,

by this time, fully atoned for the transgressions of that one and almost

fatal night--"these must on no account be neglected. Morlaix, more than

any other town in the Finistère, as it seems to me, is surrounded by

objects of intense interest; monuments of antiquity, both secular and

religious."

"Yet you are not the chief town of the Finistère," we observed.

"True," he replied; "Quimper is our chief town; we are only second in

rank; but in many ways we are more interesting than Quimper."

"You are partial," cried H.C., but very amiably. "What about Quimper's

wonderful cathedral? Where can you match that architectural dream in

Morlaix?"

"There, indeed, I give in," returned our host, meekly. "Morlaix has

nothing to boast of in the way of churches, thanks to the revolution.

But in the neighbourhood, each within the limits of a day's excursion,

we have St. Thégonnec, Guimiliau, St. Jean-du-Doigt--and last and

greatest of all--Le Folgoët. Besides these, we have a host of minor but

interesting excursions."

"The minor must be left to the future," we replied; "for the present we

must confine ourselves to the major monuments."

"One can't do everything," chimed in Madame Hellard, who came up at the

moment. "I never recommend small excursions unless you are making a long

stay in the neighbourhood. It becomes too tiring. We had a charming

English family with us last year; a milord, very rich--they are all

rich--with a sweetly amiable wife, who made herself in the hotel quite

one of ourselves, and would chatter with us in my bureau by the hour

together. Mon cher"--to her husband--"do you remember how they enjoyed

the regatta, and seeing all the natives turn out in their Sunday

clothes; and how Madame laughed at the old women who fried the pancakes

upon their knees in the open air; and the boys and girls who took them

up hot and buttery in their fingers and devoured them like savages? Do

you remember?"

Monsieur Hellard apparently did remember, and shook with laughter at the

recollection of that or of something equally droll.

"I shall never forget Madame's look of astonishment," he cried, "as the

pancakes were turned out of the poële, and disappeared wholesale like

lightning." 'Ah, madame,' I said, 'you have yet to learn the capacious

appetites of our Breton boys and girls. It is one of the few things in

which they are not slow and phlegmatic.'

"'And have not improved in,' laughed Madame. 'These habits are the

remains of barbarism.'

"'Madame,' I replied, 'you must not forget that we are descended from

the Ancient Britons.' Ah! that was a clencher, Madame laughed, but she

said no more."

"Until she returned," added our hostess. "Then she whispered to me:

'Madame Hellard, those pancakes looked extremely good, and as they are

peculiar to Brittany, you must give us some for dinner. I must taste

your _crêpes_.'

"'Madame la Comtesse,' I returned, 'Brittany has many peculiarities; we

cannot deny it; would that they were all as innocent as these crêpes. My

chef is not a Breton, and he will not make them, perhaps, quite à la

manière des nôtres; but I will superintend him for once. You shall have

our famous dish.' And if you wish to know how she liked them," concluded

Madame, laughing, "ask Catherine, là-haut. Three times a week at least

we had pancakes on the menu. But nothing delights us more than when we

please our guests. We like them to be at home here, and to feel that

they may do as they please and order what they like."

To the truth of which self-commendation we bore good testimony.

"Now about the excursions," said M. Hellard. "I recommend you to go

to-morrow to St. Thégonnec and Guimiliau, the next day to St.

Jean-du-Doigt and Plougasnou, and the third day to Landerneau and Le

Folgoët. The two first by carriage, the last by train."

So it was arranged, and we were about to separate when in came our

hostess of that little auberge by the river-side, _A la halte des

Pêcheurs_, carrying a barrel of oysters. She had walked all the way, and

though the sun shone brilliantly, she was armed with a huge cotton

umbrella that would have roofed a fair-sized tent.

"Madame Mirmiton!" cried M. Hellard; "and with a barrel of oysters, too!

You are welcome as fine weather at the _Fête-Dieu_! But why you and not

your husband?"

"Ah, monsieur!" replied Madame Mirmiton: "Figurez-vous, my husband was

running after that naughty girl of mine, stumbled over the cat and

sprained his ankle. He will be quite a week getting well again."

"And the cat?" asked our host, comically.

"Pauvre Minette!" answered Madame Mirmiton, with tears in her voice.

"She flew up the chimney. We have never seen her since--two days ago."

"Well, whether you or your bon homme bring them, these oysters are

equally à propos. I am sure ces messieurs will enjoy our natives for

déjeuner. I have it!" he cried, striking his forehead. "You shall have

an early déjeuner, and start immediately after for St. Thégonnec,

instead of delaying it until to-morrow. You will have plenty of time,

and must profit by the fine weather. I will order déjeuner at once, and

the carriage in an hour."

So are there times when our days, and occasionally the whole course of

our lives, are apparently changed by the turning of a straw.

Having mentioned the oysters, we ought also to record their excellence.

Catherine flew about the salle à manger, served us with her own hands,

and gave us her whole attention, for we had the room to ourselves. She

was proud of our praise.

"There is nothing better than our lobsters and oysters," she remarked.

"I always say so, and Mirmiton always brings us the best of the good.

But to-day it was Madame who came in. Ah! _the Cat_!" laughing

satirically. "The cat comes in for everything, everywhere. She is a

domestic animal invented for two reasons: to catch mice and to furnish

an excuse for whatever happens. I dare affirm it was a glass too much

and not the cat that caused the bon homme to sprain his ankle."

But we who had heard Madame Mirmiton's chapter and verse, were of a

different opinion. Every rule has an exception, and the cat is certainly

in fault--sometimes.

We started for St. Thégonnec. Monsieur packed us into the victoria, a

heavy vehicle well matched by the horse and the man. We should certainly

not fly on the wings of the wind.

"Take umbrellas," cried Madame Hellard, prudently, from the doorway.

"Remember your drenching that day, and what fatal consequences _might_

have happened."

But we saw no necessity for umbrellas to-day, for there was not a cloud

in the sky.

"Still, to please you, I will take my macintosh," said H.C.; "it is

hanging up in the hall."

But the macintosh had disappeared. A traveller who had left by the last

train had good-naturedly appropriated it to his own use and service. It

was that admirable macintosh that has already adorned these pages, with

the cape finished off with fish-hooks for carrying old china, brown

paper parcels and headless images; and as the invention was not yet

patented, the loss was serious. H.C. lamented openly.

"I only hope," he said, "that the man who has taken it will put it on

inside out, and that all the fish-hooks will stick into him." The most

revengeful saying his gentle mind had ever uttered.

"C'est encore le chat!" screamed Catherine, who was leaning out of a

first-floor window of the salle à manger, quite undaunted by Madame

Hellard's reproving "Voyons, voyons, Catherine!"

But Catherine was loyal, for all her mild sarcasm, and we knew that if

ever the delinquent turned up again he would have a mauvais quart

d'heure at her hands, whilst M. Hellard would certainly enforce

restitution.

Some months later on, at a subsequent visit we paid to Morlaix, we asked

after the fate of the macintosh and its borrower.

"Ah, monsieur," cried our host, sadly, "his punishment was even greater

than we could have wished; two months afterwards the poor fellow died of

la grippe."

But to return. We started for St. Thégonnec. It was a longish drive; the

road undulated a good deal, and the horse seemed to think that whether

going up hill or down a funereal pace was the correct thing. It took us

half our time to rouse our sleepy driver to a sense of his duty. At last

we tried a severe threat. "If you are not back again by table d'hôte

time, you shall have no pourboire," we said, in solemn and determined

tones. The effect was excellent. We had no more trouble, but the

unfortunate horse had a great deal of whip.

There was very little to notice in the country we passed through. The

most conspicuous objects were the large stone crucifixes erected here

and there by the roadside or where two roads met: ancient and beautiful;

and throwing, as we have remarked, a religious tone and atmosphere over

the country. It was wonderfully picturesque to see, as we occasionally

did, a Brittany peasant kneeling at the foot of one of these old

crosses, the pure white Brittany cap standing out conspicuously against

the dark grey stone: a figure wrapped in devotion, apparently lost to

the sense of all outward things. It all adds a charm to one's wanderings

in Brittany.

St. Thégonnec at last, announced some time before we reached it by its

remarkable church, which is very visible in the flatness of the

surrounding country. The small town numbers some three thousand

inhabitants, but has almost the primitive look of a village. Many of the

people still wear the costumes of the place, especially on a Sunday,

when the interior of the church at high mass looks very picturesque and

imposing.

The dress of the women is peculiar, and at first sight they might almost

be taken for nuns or sisters of mercy: a dress which leaves scope for a

certain refinement rather contradicted by the physical appearance of the

women themselves. Men and women, in fact, belong for the most part to

the peasantry, and pass their simple lives labouring in the fields,

beating out flax, cultivating their little gardens, so that such an

official as the gravedigger becomes an important personage amongst them.

We came across him, at his melancholy work, but could make no more of

him than we made of the people of Roscoff. He understood no word of

French, but spoke his own native tongue, the language of la Bretagne

Bretonnante, as Froissart has it, in contradistinction to la Bretagne

douce. Nothing, certainly, can be softer and more beautiful than the

pure French language; but that of Brittany is hard and guttural, without

beauty or refinement of any sort.

The men of St. Thégonnec dress very differently from the women, but the

costume is also very characteristic. It is entirely black, and consists

of wide breeches, pleated and strapped at the knee; a square tunic; a

scarf tied round the waist, with loose ends; a large hat, and shoes with

buckles.

[Illustration: OLD HOUSE ST. POL DE LÉON.]

To-day few inhabitants were visible. We seemed to be in possession of

the place, together with the old gravedigger, who stopped his work and

escorted us about, but was too stupid to understand even the most

intelligent signs.

The church is very elaborate and fanciful, cruciform and sixteenth

century, in the Renaissance style, much decorated with sculptures in

dark Kersanton stone. The word _Kersanton_ is Breton for St. Anthony's

House; therefore we may suppose that the Saint had his house, and

possibly his pig-stye, built of this same stone. For, as we know, St.

Anthony had a weakness for pigs, and was famous for recovering one of

his favourites from the devil, who had stolen it: recovered it not quite

undamaged, as the animal was restored with his tail on fire: a base

return for the Saint's politeness, who had offered his petition in

poetical terms to which his audience could scarcely have been

accustomed.

"Rendez-moi mon cochon, s'il-vous-plait,

Il faisait toute ma félicité,"

chanted the Saint, and to restore the pig with his tail on fire was

conduct worthy only of fallen spirits.

But let us leave the Saint's pigs and return to our sheep.

The Kersanton stone, of which so many churches in Brittany are built,

possesses many virtues, but one great drawback. It defies the ravages of

time, yet is admirable for carving, yielding easily to the chisel. But

time has no influence upon it. Centuries pass, yet still it remains the

same: ever youthful, ever hard and cold. It knows nothing of the beauty

of age; it does not crumble or decay, or wear away into softened

outlines; it takes no charm of tone; no lights and shadows. A dark

grey-green it was originally, and so it remains. Thus, in point of

effect, a church built of Kersanton stone two centuries ago might, as

far as appearance goes, almost have been built yesterday. This is a

great defect; and interferes very much with the charm of some of

Brittany's best churches. It is hard, cold and severe, without

refinement, poetry or romance.

In some cases it atones somewhat by its richness and elaborateness of

sculpture, as in the case of St. Thégonnec. The west front of this

church is Gothic, of the fourteenth century. One of the turrets has a

small, elegant spire, and at the S.W. angle there is a very effective

domed tower bearing the date 1605.

You enter the churchyard by a triumphal arch, in Renaissance dated 1587.

It is large and massive, with a great amount of detail substantially

introduced, its summit crowned by a number of crosses. On the frieze St.

Thégonnec is represented conducting a waggon drawn by an ox: a facsimile

of the waggon that is said to have assisted in carrying the stone to

build the church. St. Thégonnec is the patron saint of all animals, and

to him the peasants appeal for success and good-luck in such matters.

Adjoining the triumphal arch is a Flamboyant ossuary or mortuary chapel,

dated 1581, richly gabled, in perfect preservation, and of two storeys.

The first consists of semicircular arches supported by small pillars

with Corinthian capitals. A short staircase within leads to a crypt

converted into a small chapel, in which is an entombment formed of

life-size figures carved in wood, gilded and painted, bearing date 1702.

The calvary in the churchyard, a remarkable monument, completes the

history, by a multitude of small statues representing all the principal

episodes of the Passion. Its date is 1610. Even the crosses are

surmounted by statuettes, as if the designer had not known how to heap

up sufficient richness of ornamentation. The carved pulpit in the

interior of the church is also remarkable.

We could only devote an hour to St. Thégonnec; Guimiliau had still to be

seen, and we wished to be back in Morlaix by a certain time, for "the

night cometh." Fortunately the drive was not a long one.

Guimiliau is a village not half the size of St. Thégonnec, and is even

less civilized. Into the inn, which no doubt is respectable, but was

rough and primitive, we did not venture. The driver and the landlord

were apparently on excellent terms, and whilst they fraternised over

their glasses, we inspected the church.

The place takes its name from Miliau, a king of the Cornouaille, who was

treacherously murdered by his brother Rivod, who then proclaimed himself

king about the year 531. The church and the people canonised him, and he

has become the patron saint of many a Breton village.

The church of Guimiliau dates chiefly from the sixteenth century. The

aisles and the south porch are Renaissance, richly ornamented by

delicate sculptures representing scenes from the Old and New Testament;

statues of the Apostles. The triumphal arch and ossuary are very

inferior to St. Thégonnec, but the calvary is a magnificent monument,

unequalled in Brittany, richly sculptured and ornamented. It rests on

five arches, and you ascend to the platform by a short staircase in the

interior. Here are crosses bearing the Saviour, and the thieves,

quaintly carved, but with a great deal of religious feeling. The

Evangelists, each with his particular attribute portrayed, are placed at

the angles: and the whole history of the Life of Christ is represented

by a countless number of small figures or personages dressed in costumes

of the sixteenth century. The effect is occasionally grotesque, but very

wonderful. A procession armed with drums and other instruments precedes

the _Bearing of the Cross_; and another scene which does not belong to

the Divine Life, but was introduced as an accessory, represents Catel

Gollet (the lost Catherine) precipitated by devils in the form of

grotesques into the jaws of a fiery dragon emblematical of Purgatory.

Catel Gollet was one who concealed a sin in confession, was condemned to

suffer, and returning miraculously in 1560 announced her condemnation to

her companions in these terms:

Voici ma main, cause de mon malheur,

Et voici ma langue détestable!

Ma main qui a fait le péché,

Et ma langue qui l'a nié.

The bas-relief represents the Adoration of the Magi, and bears date

1588, whilst the upper part bears that of 1581.

The interior of the church possesses some wonderful and almost matchless

carved wood, which surprised and delighted us. There were sixteenth

century statues, full of expression, of St. Hervé and St. Miliau; an

elaborate and beautiful pulpit, a font with a canopy supported by

twisted columns, magnificently carved and thirty feet high, dated 1675;

a matchless organ case, with three bas-reliefs, representing David, St.

Cecilia and a Triumphal March, the latter reproduced from one of

Alexander's battles by Lebrun.

In short, Guimiliau was a treasury of sculptured wood, which alone would

have made it remarkable amongst churches. It was almost impossible to

leave its fascination, and I fear that we more than envied the church

its possession. It also came with a surprise, for we had heard nothing

of this treasure of refined carving, and had anticipated nothing more

than the wonderful calvary. It still lives in our imagination, almost as

a dream; a dream of beauty and genius.

We lingered as long as we dared, but knew that we should not travel back

at express speed, and that our coachman, after his indulgence in Breton

beer or spirit, would probably be more sleepy than ever.

The sun was declining as we left Guimiliau, the church and its monuments

forming a very singular composition against the background of the sky as

we turned and gave it a farewell look. One scarcely analysed the reason,

but there was almost an effect of heathendom about it, as if it dated

from some remote age, when visible objects were worshipped, and the sun

and the moon and dragons and grotesques took a prominent place in

religion.

The sun was declining and twilight was beginning to creep over the land.

It threw out in greater relief the wayside crosses that we passed on the

road, solemnising the scene, and insensibly leading the mind to

contemplation; all the beauty, all the mystery of our faith, the lights

and shadows of our earthly pilgrimage, so typified by the days and

nights of creation; and the "one far-off divine event" which concerns us

all.

When we entered Morlaix the sun had set; table d'hôte was not over, and

we knew that Catherine had our places and our welfare in her special

keeping; and the driver having done his best on the road, and having

fallen asleep not more than five times on his box, we forgot our

threat, and dismissed him with a _pourboire_, for which he returned us a

Breton benediction.

[Illustration: BRITTANY PEASANTS.]

Once again the next day was kindly, the sun shone, the sky was

unclouded. These are rare days in Brittany, which, surrounded on three

sides by water, lives in an atmosphere that is always damp and too often

gloomy and depressing.

Mindful of our host's wise counsel to profit by the fine weather, we

started for St. Jean-du-Doigt.

This time our drive lay in a different direction. Yesterday it had been

inland, to-day it was towards the sea-coast. The country for some time

was sad and barren-looking, but as we approached St. Jean and the coast

it became more interesting and fertile.

Lanmeur, a small town not far from St. Jean, lies in a rather sad and

solitary plain, and is said to occupy the site of a city of great

antiquity. Here runs the river Douron, a small stream that, considerably

higher up, separates the Department of Finistère from Les Côtes du Nord.

The ancient city was named _Kerfeunteun_, and possessed a wonderful

church which was destroyed by the Normans in the eleventh century, but

of which the crypt still remains. In the centre of this crypt springs a

fountain or well, dedicated to St. Melar, a Breton prince put to death

in the year 538, by that same Rivod who murdered his brother Miliau, and

then had himself proclaimed king. The crypt also contains a statue of

St. Melar of the fourteenth century, representing him minus a hand and

foot, which Rivod had had cut off before putting him to death, in order

that he should not be able to mount a horse or use a sword. Of the

church built in the eleventh century only a few arches in the nave and

the south porch remain. The rest of the existing building is modern.

The coast beyond Lanmeur is extremely broken, rugged and rocky, full of

small bays and sharp points of land jutting out into the sea. The whole

neighbourhood is interesting. Especially remarkable is the Pointe de Beg

an Fri, the fine and rugged rocks of Primel and of Plougasnou; whilst on

the land the pointed roofs of many an old manor rise above the trees.

St. Jean-du-Doigt is four miles from all this. It is a very pretty and

fertile village watered by the Dounant, which passes through it on its

way to the Bay of St. Jean, where it loses itself in the sea.

The village lies between two high and barren hills, which shelter it

from the cold winds, and make the valley laughing and fertile. Here you

find well-grown elm trees, and hedges full of the whitethorn,

honeysuckle and wild vines; hedges surrounding rich and productive

orchards, amongst which, here and there, you will see rising the

thatched roof of the small cottages inhabited by the Breton peasantry.

As at Roscoff, so the moment we reached St. Jean-du-Doigt, we felt its

fascination. Its situation between the hills is extremely picturesque.

Approaching, its rich gateway, leading to the churchyard, stands before

you with fine effect; and beyond it rises the church.

The gateway is Flamboyant gothic, of great beauty and refinement. The

church is fifteenth century gothic. Its wooden roof is beautifully

carved and painted. The interior has no transept, but is composed of

three naves under one roof. The west aisle has been shortened to make

room for the tower; and in the north nave is a closed-up pointed

doorway, which must have belonged to the earlier chapel dedicated to St.

Mériadec. The apsis is terminated by a straight wall. The three naves

are separated below the choir by prismatic pillars supporting light and

bold arches.

The tower is pierced on the four sides by two long, narrow lancet

windows, ending in a platform bearing a Flamboyant balustrade, above

which rise four bell-turrets in lead, supporting a tall leaden spire.

The churchyard contains two remarkable objects: a mortuary chapel of the

date 1577, open on three sides, with a stone altar at the end. The other

is an exquisite Renaissance fountain of lead, with admirable figures,

the goal of many a pilgrimage. It is a rare work of art, composed of

three trenchers or shallow basins united by a slender column, of which

the base enters a large reservoir in the form of a basin resting on a

pedestal, the water issuing from lions' mouths. The overflow from the

upper basins is discharged into the larger basins below by means of a

cordon or garland, consisting of angels' heads, full of grace and

beauty. The summit of the fountain is crowned by an image of the FATHER

ETERNAL, leaning forward to watch the Baptism of the SON by John the

Baptist. These figures are all in lead, as also are the innumerable

heads of the angels pouring out water from the three upper stages. The

exquisite composition is said to have been the work of an Italian

artist, and was given by Anne of Brittany.

The whole village scene is picturesque and striking. You feel at home at

once; it is marked by a certain refinement, a delicious quietness and

repose in which there is something singularly soothing. Lying in a

hollow, it seems to have carefully withdrawn from the outer world. It is

warm and sunny, and marked and beautified by a wealth of flowers.

Surrounding the churchyard are some of the small houses of this mediæval

village.

The inn opposite the gothic gateway looks the very picture of

cleanliness and quiet comfort. Through an open window you see a table

spread with a snow-white cloth, a capital ensign for an inn, promising

much that is loyal. The whole of the exterior is a wealth of blossom,

roses and wisteria covering the white walls, framing the casements,

overflowing to the roof.

[Illustration: ST. THÉGONNEC.]

On the churchyard walls sat some of the village girls knitting; and as

we took them with our instantaneous cameras, some rushed shyly across

the road and disappeared in the small houses; whilst others, made of

bolder material, placed themselves in becoming attitudes, and looked the

very image of conscious vanity. The men came and talked to us

freely--an exception amongst Breton folk; but it was often difficult to

understand their mixture of languages. They were rather less rough and

sturdy-looking than the ordinary type of Breton, and had somewhat the

look of having descended from the mediæval days of their village,

becoming pale and long drawn out in the process. Probably the sheltered

position of the village has much to do with it.

[Illustration: ST. JEAN-DU-DOIGT.]

St. Jean-du-Doigt takes its name from the fact of the church possessing

the index finger of the right hand of St. John the Baptist, carefully

preserved in a sheath of gold, silver and enamel, a work of art executed

in 1429. The church considers it its greatest possession, and it has

been the object of many a pilgrimage. The treasures of St. Jean-du-Doigt

are unusually rich and beautiful.

The chief village fête of the year, that in Holland and Belgium would be

called Kermesse, in some parts of France Ducasse, is in Brittany called

_Pardon_. These are the occasions when the little country is seen at its

best, and when all the costume that has come down to the present day

exhibits itself. The Bretons take their pleasures somewhat sadly it is

true, but even owls sometimes become excited and frivolous, and the

Breton, if ever gay and lively, is so at his Pardon.

The Pardon of St. Jean-du-Doigt is, however, not all merriment. It is in

some ways one of their saddest days, and it is certainly not all

picturesqueness.

On the 23rd June, the day of the Pardon, many of the beggars of

Brittany, the extreme poor afflicted with lameness and all sorts of

unsightly diseases, make a pilgrimage to the church. A religious service

is held, during which they press forward and crowd upon each other that

the priest may touch their eyes with the finger of St. John, which is

supposed to possess miraculous powers of healing.

Before this, they have all crowded round the fountain in the cemetery,

to bathe their eyes and faces in the water, which also has miraculous

charms. Then a procession is formed, and begins slowly winding its way

to the top of one of the hills: a long procession, consisting of

inhabitants, beggars, afflicted, and priests of the church carrying

banners, crosses and other signs and symbols. The scene is best seen

from the platform of the tower, where you may escape contact with the

crowd and enjoy the lovely surrounding view, listen to the surging

multitude on one side, and--rather in imagination--the surging of the

sea in the Bay of St. Jean on the other.

The object of this procession is a stake or bonfire that has been placed

on the summit of one of the hills. This is in communication with the

steeple of the church by means of a long wire--and the distance is

considerable. At a given signal a firework is launched from the steeple,

runs along the wire, and sets light to the stake. As soon as the flames

burst forth there is a general discharge of musketry, drums in the

fields beat loudly, the smoke of incense, mingling with the smoke of

gunpowder, ascends heavenwards, and the priests sing what is called the

"Hymn of the Holy Finger."

_Les Miraclou_--as those are called who have been miraculously cured the

previous year by bathing in the water of the fountain, or touching the

finger of St. John--of course play an important part in the procession.

To-day it was our fate to see a very different but hardly less effective

ceremony. As we were sitting quietly near the beautiful gateway, the

hills in front of us, contemplating the sylvan scene and waiting for

our driver, suddenly a small procession appeared coming down the road

that wound round the hill out into the world. It was a funeral, and

nothing could have been more striking than this concourse of priests and

crosses and mourners, some carrying their sad burden, thrown out in

conspicuous relief by the green hills and valleys around.

Mournfully and sadly the little group approached. First the priests,

then the sad burden, then the women, the chief mourners wearing long

cloaks, with hoods thrown over their heads, which made them look like

nuns, and followed by quite a large company of men walking bareheaded.

Absolute and solemn silence reigned everywhere, broken only by the

measured tread of the men carrying the coffin, which grew more and more

audible as they approached; that measured tread that is one of the

saddest of sounds. At the gate of the cemetery they paused a moment,

then slowly defiled up the churchyard, and disappeared into the church;

the chief mourner, who was the widow of the dead man, weeping silently

but bitterly.

We were ready to leave, and when the last mourner had disappeared within

the church, followed by some of the village people, we turned to our

driver and gave him the signal for departure. We left St. Pol very

reluctantly. There was an indescribable charm about it, as there is

about certain places and certain people. St. Thégonnec, Guimiliau--as

far as the villages were concerned, we were glad to turn our backs upon

them; nothing attracted us; we had nothing in common with them; the

charm was wanting. But at St. Jean-du-Doigt it was the very opposite; we

longed to take up a short abode there, and felt that the days would be

well spent and full of happiness. But time forbade the indulgence, as

time generally forbids all such luxuries to the workers in the world.

Only those whose occupation in life is the pursuit of pleasure can, like

Dr. Syntax, go off in search of the picturesque, and wander about at

their own sweet desire like a will-o'-the-wisp. Such luxuries were not

ours; and so it came to pass that, very soon after we had seen the sad

procession winding down the hill, we were winding up it; looking back

with "long lingering gaze" at the lovely spot which was fast

disappearing from view.

"I knew you would be charmed with St. Jean-du-Doigt," said Madame

Hellard; "everyone is so. _Le paysage est si riant_. A pity you could

not be there for the _Pardon_."

We hardly agreed with her.

"I assure you," she continued, "seen from the tower, where you are

removed from the crowd and the beggars and the sick folk, it is most

interesting and picturesque. Am I not right, cher ami?" turning to her

husband.

"You are always right," replied Monsieur gallantly.

"Oh, that is prejudice," laughed Madame. "But le Pardon of St

Jean-du-Doigt, with its procession winding up the hill, its bonfire, its

religious observances, is quite exceptionally interesting. I am sure

when I saw the _dragon_ go off from the tower and set fire to the

_bûcher_, and heard the charge of musketry and roll of drums, I could

have thrown myself off the platform with emotion."

"A mercy for me you did not," replied our host, who was evidently in a

very amiable mood that morning. The fair was over and many had left the

hotel, and he had more time for repose.

"I hope monsieur has come back with an appetite," said Catherine,

referring to H.C., when we had taken our seats at the table d'hôte. We

were early, and the first in the room. "It is of no use running about

the country and exhausting our fresh air if one is to remain as thin as

a leg of a stork and as pale as Pierrot."

[Illustration: MAKING PANCAKES AT THE REGATTA.]

"Where is our vis-à-vis?" we asked, pointing to the empty chair opposite

and the very conspicuous vacuum it presented.

"He is gone, thank goodness--with last year's swallows," cried

Catherine. "But, alas, he will come back again--like the swallows. Some

people bear a charmed life."

"You will find him improved, perhaps."

"_Enlarged_," retorted Catherine, "and with a more capacious

appetite--if that be possible; that will be the only change. They say

there are limits to all things--I shall never believe it now."

And then the few who were now in the hotel came in, and dinner began;

and Catherine's presence filled the room, cap streamers seemed floating

about in all directions; and her voice was every now and then heard

proclaiming LÂ SUITE.

And later on, in the darkness, we went out according to our custom, and

revelled in the old-world streets, the latticed windows, still lighted

up, waiting for the curfew--real or figurative, public or domestic. For

we all have our curfews, only they are not proclaimed from some ancient

tower; and, alas, they are, like Easter, a movable institution; whereby

it comes to pass that we too often waste the midnight oil and burn the

candle at both ends, and before our time fall into the "sere and yellow

leaf."

ACROSS THE RIVER.

Here we sat beside the river

Long ago, my Love and I,

Where the willows droop and quiver

'Twixt the water and the sky.

We were wrapped in fragrant shadow,

'Twas the quiet vesper time,

And the bells across the meadows

Mingled with the ripple's chime.

With no thought of ill betiding,

"Thus," we said, "life's years shall be

For us twain a river gliding

To a calm, eternal sea."

I am sitting by the river

Where we used to sit of old,

And the willows droop and quiver

'Gainst a sky of burning gold;

But my Love long since went onward,

Down the river's shining tide,

To the land that is far sunward,

With the angels to abide;

And in pastures fair and vernal,

In the coming by-and-bye,

Far across the sea eternal

We shall meet--my Love and I.

HELEN M. BURNSIDE.

AN APRIL FOLLY.

BY GILBERT H. PAGE.

April 1, 1890. 58A, Lincoln's Inn Fields.--I execrate my fellow men--and

women! To-day I was over at Catherine's. Not an unusual occurrence with

me, but on a more than usually important mission. I needn't note down

how I achieved it. Am I likely to forget my impotent speeches? Still,

she had given me plenty of excuse for supposing she liked me, and I said

so. And then Catherine laughed her exasperating little laugh that always

dries up all sentiment on the spot, and makes my blood boil with anger.

"I _like_ you?" she repeated mockingly; "not at all! not in the least!

What can you be dreaming of?"

I did for a moment dream of rolling her elaborately curled head in the

dust of the drawing-room carpet; but I restricted myself to saying a few

true and exceedingly bitter things, and departed without giving her time

to reply; and herewith I register a vow on the tablets of my heart: "If

ever again I make a single friendly overture to that young woman, may I

cut off the hand that so betrays me!"

By-the-bye, it is April Fools' Day, an appropriate date by which to

remember my folly.

April 2.--My feelings are still exceedingly sore. Oh for a cottage in

some wilderness--some vast contiguity of shade--whither I might retire,

like a stricken hart from the herd, and sulk majestically! The very

thing! There rises before me an opportune vision of a certain lonely

farm-house I wot of down by a lonely sea. I discovered it last summer

while staying at Shoreford. I had ridden westward across the marsh lands

of Windle, over the cliffs that form the coastline between this and

Rexingham; and being thirsty, had followed some cows through a

rick-yard, in the hopes of obtaining a glass of milk.

There, behind the hayricks, I had come upon my first view of Down End

Farm; and the picture of its grey stone, lichened walls, red roof, cosy

kitchen and comely mistress, had remained painted on my brain. So, too,

I retained a scrap of my conversation with Mrs. Anderson, and her casual

mention of the London family then occupying her best rooms. "We don't

have many folk at Down End, it being so out of the way, sir; but the

gentleman here now says he do like it, just on account of the solitude

and quiet."

There was no particular reason at the time why these words should have

so impressed me. Solitude was the last thing I desired then, having gone

down to Shoreford for my holiday, merely because Catherine was spending

the summer there too. But now that everything is over between us, the

solitary farm comes as balm to my wounded spirit. Let me see; to-day is

Tuesday the 2nd. Good Friday is the day after to-morrow; I could get

away to-morrow evening. All right! I'll go out and telegraph to Mrs.

Anderson, and pay for her reply.

April 4. Down End Farm.--I reached this last night. At seven o'clock I

found myself driving up from Rexingham station, with the crimson flaming

brands of the sunset behind me, and the soft mysterious twilight closing

in on all sides. It was almost dark when we got to the top of Beacon

Point Hill, and quite dark for a time as we began to descend the other

side, for the road here is cut down between steep red gravel banks,

crowned with sombre fir trees. When these were passed and we reached the

remembered stack-yard gate, there was clear heaven again above my head,

its exquisite ever-darkening blue already gemmed with the more brilliant

stars. The Plough faintly outlined above, and beautiful spica hanging

low over Windle Flats. A cheerful glow-worm of red earth-light gleamed

from the farm-house windows as we drove round to the inner gate, while

at the sound of the wheels the kitchen door opened, and my hostess came

down the flagged pathway between the sleepy flowers to bid me welcome.

How delightful the first evening in country quarters always is. How

comfortable the wood fire that flamed and sputtered on the parlour

hearth, how inviting the meal of tea, new-laid eggs, homemade breads and

jams, honey and hot scones spread out upon a spotless cloth around a

centre piece of daffodils and early garden flowers. For a rejected

suitor I felt singularly cheerful; for a blighted being I made a most

excellent meal; and for the desperate misogynist I had determined on

becoming I surely felt too much placid satisfaction at Mrs. Anderson's

homely talk.

But it was really pleasant to lie back in the capacious leathern chair,

while this good woman cleared away the tea-things, and lazily eyeing the

fire, listen to the history of herself and her family, of her husband,

her children, her landlord, of her courtship, her marriage, her

troubles, of the death of her mother in the room overhead the year

before last, and of the wedding of her eldest boy Robert which is to

take place this summer as soon as the corn is carried.

Such openness of disposition, so often found among people of Mrs.

Anderson's class, is very refreshing, and it is convenient too. You know

at once where you stand. I wish it were the custom in society. I should

then have learned from Catherine's own lips how many fellows she had

already sent to the right-about, and I should have given her no

opportunity of adding to their number.

I came down very late to breakfast this morning--my first breakfast in

the country is always luxuriously late--and I found a tall and pretty

young girl busy building up the fire in my sitting-room. I guessed at

once she was the "Annie" of whom I heard a long and pleasing account

last night. Annie is the image of what her mother must have been twenty

years ago. She has the same agreeable blue eyes, the same soft straw

coloured hair. But while Mrs. Anderson wears hers in bands at each side

of the head, Annie's is drawn straight back to display the smoothest of

white foreheads, the freshest of freckled little faces in the world. She

is about seventeen, and a sweet girl, I feel sure. Could no more play

with a man's feelings than she could torture one of the creatures

committed to her care. She has charge of the poultry, she tells me, and

is allowed half the profits. Mem.--I shall eat a great many eggs.

April 5.--I have done an excellent thing in exchanging the hollow shams

of society for the healing powers of nature. I shall live to forget

Catherine and to be happy yet. And there was after all something

artificial about that girl. Pretty, certainly, but with the beauty of

the stage; now little Annie here is pretty with the beauty of the sky

and meadows.

I am delighted with this place. There is nothing like the country in

early spring. Suppose I were never to go back to town again, but stay

with the Andersons, see them through the lambing season, lend a hand at

tossing the hay, swing a scythe at corn cutting (and probably cut off my

own legs into the bargain), drink a health at son Robert's wedding, and

then during the winter--yes, during the long dark winter evenings when

the wind raves round the old house and whistles down the chimneys, when

the boom of the sea echoes all along the coast as it breaks against the

cliffs--then to sit in the cosy sitting-room, with the curtains drawn

along the low windows, a famous fire flashing and glaring upon the

hearth, one's limbs pleasantly weary with the day's labour, one's cheeks

tingling from exposure to the keen air; would not this be an agreeable

exchange for the feverish anxieties and stagnant pleasures of London

life?

After a time, a considerable time no doubt, it would possibly occur to

Catherine to wonder what had become of me.

April 6.--Easter Sunday. I am writing in my sitting-room window. I raise

my eyes and see first the broad window-sill, whereon stand pots of musk

and geranium, not yet in flower; then through the clear latticed panes,

the bee-haunted garden, descending by tiny grassy terraces to the

kitchen-garden with its rows of peas and beans, its beds of lettuce and

potatoe, its neat patches of parsley and thyme; then a field beyond. I

note the double meandering hedge-line that indicates the high road, and

beyond again the ground rises in sun-bathed pastures and ploughed land

to the gorse-covered cliff edge with its background of pure sky; a

little to the right, yet still in full view from my window, is an abrupt

dip in the cliff, which shows a great wedge of glittering sea. It is

here that my eyes always ultimately rest, until they ache with the

dazzle and the beauty, and then by a natural transition I think

of--Catherine.

At this moment she is probably dressing to go to church, and is

absorbed in the contemplation of a new hat. I should think she had as

many hats on her head as hairs--no, I don't mean that; it suggests

visions of "ole clo'es"--I mean she must have almost as many hats as

hairs on her head.

How inexpressibly mean and petty this devotion to rags and tags and

gewgaws seems when one stands in the face of the Immensities and the

Eternities! Yet it would appear as though the feminine mind were really

incapable of impression by such Carlylean sublimities, for I saw Annie

start for church awhile since in a most terrible combination of maroon

and magenta. Her best clothes evidently, cachemire and silk, with two

flowers and a feather in her hat, her charming baby prettiness as much

crushed and eclipsed as bad taste and a country town dressmaker could

accomplish. What I like to see Annie in is the simple stuff gown she

wears of a morning, with the big bib apron of white linen, and the

spotless white collar caressing her creamy throat. I would lock her best

clothes up in that delightful carved oak chest that stands upstairs on

the landing and throw the key into the sea; and little Annie would let

me do it; she is evidently the most docile of child-women. Catherine,

now, had I ever ventured on adverse criticism of her garments, would

have thrown me into the sea instead.

April 7.--Bank holiday, and wet, of course. The weather is never

propitious on the feast of St. Lubbock. The old Saints apparently owe a

grudge to this latest addition to the calendar. How beastly it must be

in town, with the slushy streets and the beshuttered shops! How

depressing for Paterfamilias who arose at seven in the morning to set

off with his wife and his brats and the family food-basket to catch some

early excursion train! How much more depressing for him who has no train

to catch, and nothing at all to do but worry through twelve mortal

pleasure hours!

St. Lubbock's malevolent influence doesn't fortunately extend down here,

where everything seems to work in time-worn ruts. I walked over the

fields opposite. There were a great many new-dropped lambs in the second

meadow. They didn't appear to mind the drizzle, but kneeling with their

little front legs doubled under them, they sucked vigorously at their

mothers, while their long tails danced and quivered in the air.

There was one lamb lying quietly on its side. The ewe stood by, staring

down at it with a sort of quiescent curiosity from her brown, stupid,

white-lashed eyes. When I went over to her I saw the lamb was dying; its

lips moved incessantly, its little body kept rising and falling with its

laboured breath, now and then it made a violent effort to get up, but

always fell back in the same position. I passed back through the same

field about an hour after. There was the lamb still dying, still

breathing painfully, still moving its lips as before, but the mother,

tired of the spectacle, had walked off, and was calmly munching

mangel-wurzel in another part of the field.

I sentimentalised and moralised--naturally; and naturally, too, I

thought of Catherine. Strange there should be that vein of hardness

running through the entire female sex.

As the rain still continued this afternoon, I proposed to Mrs. Anderson

she should show me the house. The excellent creature, busy with the

dairy, offered me Annie as her substitute. We went from cellar to

garret, and the child's companionship and her ingenuous prattle

successfully beguiled a couple of hours. The house in reality consists

of two houses placed at right angles to each other. The older part,

built between two and three hundred years ago, is inhabited by the

Andersons themselves. It consists of a long, low kitchen, with an

enormous hearth-place, an oaken settle, smoke-browned rafters, and a

bricked floor.

In the centre of the room is a massive but worm-eaten table, capable of

seating twenty persons at least. It was built up in the kitchen itself

some two hundred years ago, since no earthly ingenuity could have coaxed

it through the low windows or narrow door.

Two of these, latticed like those of my sitting room, with the door

between them, face west; but long before the sun is down the wooded

eminence opposite has intercepted all his beams. Outside is also a

garden, full of forget-me-not, daffodil, and other humble flowers. Here

Scot, the watch-dog, lies dreaming in his kennel, and beyond the gate

the cocks and hens lay dolefully in the rain, or bunch themselves up,

lumps of dirty feather, under the shelter of the wood shed.

Upstairs are three sleeping rooms, and the attics, with curious dormer

windows, still higher. We come down again to the first floor. A long

matted passage runs from one end of the house to the other. It sinks

half a step where the newer portion is joined on. This part, containing

in all four rooms, two here and two below, was built in July, 1793, as a

rudely scratched tablet on the wall outside informs me.

I sit with Annie on the carved chest at the southern end of the passage.

The window behind us gives an extensive view of grey rain and grey sea.

But I prefer to look at the smiling, freckled face that speaks so

eloquently of sunny days. The wet, trailing fingers of the briar-rose

climbing over the porch tap at the casement, the loose branch of the

plane-tree creaks in the wind, the distant sea moans and murmurs; but I

prefer to listen to my little friend's artless and occasionally "h-less"

English, as she tells me how the Andersons have always been tenants of

Down End since her great-grandfather came to the county and added on the

living-house to the farm-house for his young wife.

"July, 1793." The date takes my fancy. I can see the Anderson of those

days, large-boned, sinewy, stooping, with a red, fiery beard, like his

present representative, stolid, laborious, contented, building his house

here facing the coasts of France, nearly as ignorant of, and quite as

indifferent to, the wild work going on over there in Paris town as

little Annie herself can be. King, Dictator, Emperor, King, Emperor,

Commune, have come and gone, but the sturdy race of farmers sprung from

great-grandfather Anderson still carry on the same way of life in the

same identical spot.

"But I'm not amusing you," says Annie, regretfully. "If only it would

leave off raining we might go out and have a ride on the tin-tan." It

takes me some little time, and a closely-knit series of questions, to

discover that tin-tan is Southshire for see-saw; and I think how

Catherine would laugh at the spectacle of my bobbing up and down on one

end of a plank and this little country damsel at the other. Her

detestable laughter; but, thank Heaven! I need never suffer from it

again.

April 8.--Gloomy again to-day. Ink-coloured rain clouds hanging close

over the hills, their fringe-like lower edges showing ragged across a

pale sky, against which the hills themselves rise dark and sharp. Now

and again a shower of rain falls, but not energetically; the wind blows,

the clouds shift, the rain ceases, and the sky darkens or gleams with a

watery brightness alternately. Looking over the wide landscape and

leaden sea, here and there a patch of sunshine falls, while I myself

walk in gloom; now the sails of a ship catch the radiance, now a

farmstead, now a strip of sand over by Windle Flats.

I feel slightly bored. Annie went into Rexingham this morning with

Robert and the early milk cart. She is to spend the day with an aunt,

and return with the empty cart this evening. Twice a day the Andersons

send in their milk to Rexingham, and winter and summer son Robert must

rise at 3 a.m. to see to the milking, harness Dolly or Dobbin, and jog

off his seven miles. Seven miles there, and seven miles back, morning

and evening; that is twenty-eight miles in all, and ever the self-same

bit of road in every weather. So that a farmer's life has its seamy side

also. But then, to get back of a night! To find a good little wife like

Annie waiting for you at the upper gate or by the house door. To eat

your supper and smoke your pipe, with your feet on the mantel-piece if

you pleased, and no possibility of being ordered into dress clothes to

go to some vile theatre or idiotic dance--above all, to know that

Catherine knew you were perfectly happy without her--by the bye, I

wonder she has not written to me! Not that I want her to, of course.

This would entail a few frozen conventional lines back by way of answer.

But I am surprised she can endure thus easily the neglect of even the

most insignificant of her subjects. I felt sure she would write to ask

why I did not call on Sunday. She trusts, no doubt, to the greatness of

my folly to bring me again, unasked, to her feet. Her confidence is for

once misplaced.

April 9.--A great improvement in the weather. I was awakened by the sun

pouring in at my window, and looked out on to a light, bright blue sky,

full of white cumuli that cast down purple shadows upon a grey-green

sea. I draped myself in the white dimity window curtain, and watched

Annie making her way up between the lettuce rows, with her hands full of

primroses. She came from the orchard, where the green tussucked grass at

the foot of the apple trees is starred with these lovely little flowers.

I must have a talk with Annie in the orchard one day. It would be just

the background to show off her particular style of beauty. I like to

suit my scenery to the drama in hand. Catherine would be quite out of

place in an orchard, where she might stain her gown, or a harmless

beetle or spider terrify her into fits.

There appears to be only one post a day here; but Mrs. Anderson tells me

that by walking up to Orton village I might find letters awaiting

to-morrow's morning delivery. I was ass enough to go over this

afternoon, and of course found nothing.

As I passed the barn on my way in, my ear was saluted by much laughter

and shouting. I came upon Annie giving her little brothers a swing. Both

great doors of the barn were turned back upon the outside wall and the

swing hanging by long ropes to the rafters, and holding two chubby

urchins together on the seat, swung out now into the sunshine, now back

into the gloom, while Annie stood and pushed merrily. Three tiny calves,

penned off in a loose box at one end of the building, stared over the

low partition with soft, astonished eyes. It was a charming little

picture.

"There, Tim! I can only give you six more!" cries Annie. "I've got to go

and make the puddings" (she said "puddens," but what matter?). Before

she goes she pulls a handful of grass from the threshold and offers it

to the calves. While they tug it this way and that to get it from her

hand, she endeavours to plant a kiss on the moist black muzzle of the

smallest, but he promptly and ungallantly backs and the grass falls to

the ground. At the same moment the children discover me, and an awed

silence succeeds to their chatter. Not to embarrass them, I move off and

fall a-musing as to whether Catherine could make a pudding to save her

life? It is pretty certain it would cost a man his to have to eat it;

does not even her violin playing, to which she has given indubitable

time and attention, set one's teeth on edge to listen to?

Yet why this bitterness? Let me erase Catherine and her deficiencies

from my mind for ever.

April 10.--Again no letter! Very well! I know what I will do. I am

almost certain I will do it. But first I will go down to the beach and

give it a couple of hours' sober reflection. No one shall say I acted

hastily, ill-advisedly, or in pique.

I cross over to the cliff edge. Here the gorse is aflame with blossom;

the short dry grass is full of tiny insect life. Various larks are

singing; each one seems to sing the same song differently; perhaps each

never sings the same arrangement twice!

I go down the precipitous coastguards' stairs. At every step it grows

hotter. Down on the beach it is very hot, but there is shade to be

found among the boulders at the cliff's base. I sit down and stare along

the vacant shore; at the ships floating on the sea; at the clouds

floating in the sky; there is no sound but the little grey-green waves

as they break and slosh upon the stones.

I think of Catherine and Annie, and I remark that the breakwaters are

formed of hop-poles, twined together and clasped with red-rusted iron

girdles; the wood has been washed by the tides white and clean as bones.

I wonder whether I shall ask Annie to be my wife, and I wonder also

whence came those--literally--millions of wine bottle corks that strew

the beach to my right. From a wreck? from old fishing nets? or merely

from the natural consumption of beer at the building of the breakwater?

Coming back to Down End, I find a travelling threshing machine at work

in the rick-yard. I had heard the monotonous thrumming of its wheels a

good way off. The scene is one of great animation, the machine is drawn

up against the conical-shaped haystack, its black smoke stretches out in

serpentine coils against the sky. A dozen men are busy about her: those

who work her, old Anderson, son Robert--a dreadful lout he is too, quite

unlike his sister--various other louts of the same calibre, the two

little boys, very much in everyone's way, and Mrs. Anderson and Annie,

who have just brought out jugs of ale. I naturally stop to say a few

words to Annie and watch the threshing. Anderson is grinding out some of

last year's oats for the cattle.

Son Robert comes to take a pull out of Annie's jug. "That's prime,

measter, ain't it?" he says to me, and wipes his mouth with the back of

his hand. I go in thoughtfully. Is son Robert exactly the sort of man I

should care to call brother-in-law?

April 11, 12.--These two days I have been casting up the pros and cons

of a marriage with Annie. Shall it be--or not be? I suffer from a

Hamlet-like perplexity. On the one hand I get a good, an amiable, an

adoring little wife, who would forestall my slightest wish, who would

warm my slippers for me, for whom I should be the Alpha and Omega of

existence. She would never argue with me, never contradict me, never

dream of laughing _at_ me; would never laugh at all unless I allowed

her, for she would give into my keeping, as a good wife should, the key

of her smiles and of her tears. But of course I should wish her to

laugh. I should wish the dear little creature to remain as merry and

thoughtless as possible. Dear Annie! what surprise and delight will

shine in your innocent blue eyes when I tell you my story! Your

childlike gratitude will be almost embarrassing. Last, and perhaps most

weighty pro of all--when Catherine hears of it she will be filled with

regret; yes, she may act indifference as gaily as she pleases, I am

convinced that in her heart of hearts she will be sorry.

Now for the cons; they, too, are many. As I said before, I should not

like son Robert to call me brother. I should find honest old Anderson

père rather a trial with his red beard, his broken nails, the yawning

chasm between his upper teeth; even Mrs. Anderson, so comely and

pleasant here in her own farm-house, would suffer by being transplanted

to Lincoln's Inn. So might little Annie herself. A lapsed "h" in a

country hay-field has much less significance than when lost at a London

dinner-table. How is it, I wonder, that while the dear child generally

speaks of 'ay and 'ouse, she invariably besmirches with the strongest of

aspirates the unfortunate village of H'Orton? Still, it would be easy to

correct this, delightful to educate her during our quiet evenings, to

read with her all my favourite prose writers and poets! And, even

supposing she couldn't learn, is classical English in the wife an

infallible source of married happiness? Let me penetrate below externals

and examine into the realities of things.

I spend most of Friday and Saturday in this examination without making

any sensible progress until supper on Saturday night, when I casually

mention to Annie, who is laying the table, that I am bound to leave Down

End on the following Monday, as term begins on the 15th.

"Must you really go? Well, we shall miss you, surely," says Annie. And I

am not mistaken; there is a wistfulness in her blue eyes, a poignant

regret in her voice that goes to my heart.

No, Annie! that decides me; I have suffered too much from blighted

affection ever to inflict the same pangs on another. I am too well read

myself in Love's sad, glad book to mistake the signs written in your

innocent face. Without vanity I can see how different I must appear in

your eyes to all the farm hands and country bumpkins you have hitherto

met; without fatuity I can understand how unconsciously almost to

yourself you have given me your young affections. Well, to-morrow you

shall know you have won back mine in exchange.

If Catherine could but guess what is impending!

April 13 (Sunday).--Annie in the maroon and magenta gown, carrying a

clean folded handkerchief and a Church Service in her hand, has gone up

to church.

The bells are still ringing, and I am wandering through the little Copse

on the right of the farm. This wood, or plantation rather flourishes

down hill, fills up the narrow, interlying valley, and courageously

climbs the eminence beyond. As I descend, it become more and more

sheltered. The wind dies away and the church bells are heard no longer.

I am following a cart-track used by the woodcutters. It is particularly

bad walking. The last cart must have passed through in soft weather, the

ruts are cut so deep, and these are filled with water from the last

rains. The new buds are but just "exploding" into leaf; here and there

the Dryades have laid down a carpet of white anemone flowers to dance

on; trailing brambles lie across the track, with October's bronze and

purple-green leaves, still hale and hearty, making an exquisite

contrast with the young, brilliant, fan-folded shoots just springing at

their base.

I will find an opportunity to speak to Annie this very afternoon. She is

likely to be less busy to-day than at other times. I need not trouble

much as to how I shall tell her. She is sure to listen to me in a sweet,

bewildered silence. She will have no temptation to laugh at the most

beautiful and sacred of earthly themes. There is, to my mind, something

incurably frivolous about a woman who laughs when a man is in earnest. I

have tried over and over again to impress this upon Catherine, but it

never had any other effect but to increase her amusement. She is a young

woman entirely without the bump of veneration, and _this_, I should say,

far more than an elegant pronunciation, is the desideratum in a wife.

Sunday evening. I am in the mental condition of "Truthful James." I ask

myself: "Do I wake? Do I dream?" I inquire at set intervals whether the

Caucasian is played out? So far as I represent the race, I am compelled

to reply in the affirmative. This is what has happened. I was smoking my

post-prandial cigar in the terraced garden, lying back in a comfortable

basket-chair fetched out from the sitting-room, when a shadow fell upon

the grass, and Mrs. Anderson appeared in her walking things to know if

there was anything I was likely to want, as she and "Faäther" and the

little boys were just starting for _H_'Orton.

"Don't trouble about me," said I; "go and enjoy yourself. No one better

deserves it than you, Mrs. Anderson." And I add diplomatically: "Doesn't

Miss Annie also go with you?"

"Annie's over Fuller's Farm way," says the good woman smiling; and I

smile too, for no particular reason. "She mostly walks up there of a

Sunday afternoon."

I know Fuller's Farm. I have passed it in my rambles. You skirt the

copse, cross the sunny upland field, drop over the stile to the right,

and find yourself in Fuller's Lane. The farm is a little further on, a

comfortable homestead, smaller than Down End, but built of the same

grey, lichened stone, and with the same steep roof and dormer windows.

I gave the Andersons ten minutes start, then rose, unlatched the gate,

and followed Annie. I reached the upland field. It was dotted with

sheep: ewes and lambs; long shadows sloped across it; a girl stood at

the further gate. This was Annie, but alas! someone was with her; a

loutish figure that I at first took to be that of son Robert. But as I

came nearer, I saw it was not Robert but his equally loutish friend, the

young fellow I had seen working with him by the threshing machine. That

day, in his working clothes, he had looked what he was, a strong and

honest young farmer. To-day, in his Sunday broadcloth, with a brilliant

blue neck scarf, a brass horseshoe pin, and a large bunch of primroses

in his button-hole, he looked a blot, an excrescence, on the sunny

earth. Personally, he might have been tall, but for a pronounced stoop;

fair, but that he was burnt brick colour; smooth-faced, but for the

multitude of lines and furrows, resulting from long exposure to the open

air. His voice I couldn't help admitting was melodious and manly, yet

the moment he caught sight of me he shuffled his feet like an idiot, and

blushed like a girl. He whispered something to his companion, dropped

over the stile like a stone from a catapult, and vanished from view.

Annie advanced to meet me, blushing sweetly. She had put a finishing

touch to the magenta costume by a large pink moss rosebud. She looked at

it with admiration.

"Me and my young man have changed nosegays," she remarked simply; "he

asked me to give him my primroses, and he gave me this. They do grow

beautiful roses up at Fuller's."

"Your what?" said I dismayed. "Who did you say?"

"My young man," repeated Annie; "Edward Fuller, from the next farm. He

and me have been keeping company since Christmas only, but I've known

him all my life. We always sat together in school; he used to do my sums

for me, and I've got still a box full of slate pencil ends which he had

touched."

So my card castle came to the cloth. Here was a genuine case of true

idyllic boy and girl love, that had strengthened and ripened with mature

years. Annie had no more given me a thought--what an ass, what an idiot

I am! But really, I think Catherine's cruelty has turned my brain. I am

become ready to plunge into any folly.

And it would have been folly. After the first second's surprise and

mortification, I felt my spirits rise with a leap. I was suddenly

dragged back from moral suicide. The fascinating temptation was placed

for ever beyond my reach. And it was Edward Fuller who thus saved me!

Good young man! I fall upon your neck in spirit, and kiss you like a

brother.

I am still free! who knows what to-morrow may bring.

April 14.--To-morrow is here and has brought a letter from Catherine. I

find it lying by my plate when I come down to breakfast. I take it up,

look at the superscription, partly in Catherine's well-known writing,

partly in my landlady's spider scrawl--for it had gone first to my

London rooms. I turn it over, feel it, decide it contains one sheet of

paper only, and put it resolutely down. After breakfast is time enough

to read it; nothing she can say shall ever move me more.

I pour out my coffee; my resolutions waver and dissipate themselves like

the steam rising from my cup. I tear the letter open, and find myself in

Heaven straightway. And these are the winged words that bore me there:--

"Why do you not come and see me? Why are you so blind? It is true I do

not _like_ you! But I love you with all my heart. Ah! could you not

guess? did you not know?"

"PROCTORISED."

What a ghostly train from the forgotten past rises before me as I write

the word that heads this sketch! The memory dwells again upon that

terrible quarter of an hour in the Proctor's antechamber, where the

brooding demon of "fine" and "rustication" seemed to dwell, and where

the disordered imagination so clearly traced above the door Dante's

fearful legend--Abandon hope all ye that enter here.

How eagerly each delinquent scanned the faces of his fellow-victims as

they came forth from the Proctorial presence, vainly trying to gather

from their looks some forecast of his impending fate; and how jealously

(if a "senior") he eyed the freshman who was going to plead a first

offence!

And then the interview that followed--not half so terrible as was

expected. The good-natured individual who stood before the fire, in

blazer and slippers, was barely recognisable as the terrible official of

yesterday's encounter; while the sleek attendant at the Proctor's elbow

seemed more like a waiter than the pertinacious and fleet-footed

"bull-dog." What a load was raised from the mind as the Proctor made a

mild demand for five shillings, and the "bull-dog" pointed to a plate

into which you gladly tossed the half-crowns. And then you quitted the

room which you vowed never again to enter, feeling that you had been let

down very easily. For you knew full well that beneath the Proctor's

suave demeanour lurked a sting which too often took the painful form of

rustication from the University.

But let us accompany the Proctor as he makes his nightly rounds with his

faithful body-guard, and look once more upon the ceremony of

"proctorisation."

What an imposing figure he is! The silk gown adorned with velvet

sleeves; the white bands round his neck denoting the sanctity of his

office; his sturdy attendants: are they not calculated to overawe the

frivolous undergraduate?

Following him through the streets, into billiard-room and restaurant,

one moralises on the sad necessity that compels this splendid dignitary

to play the part of a common policeman. But there is little time for

thought. On we go, on our painful mission. Suddenly the keen-eyed

"bull-dog" crosses the street, for an undergraduate has just come forth

from a tobacconist's shop. He is wearing cap and gown, and--oh, heinous

offence--he puffs the "herba nicotiana."

The Proctor steps forward (for smoking in Academical dress is sternly

forbidden) and, producing a note-book, vindicates thus the dignity of

the law.

"Are you a member of this University, sir?" The offender murmurs that

he is. "Your name and college, sir. I must trouble you to call upon me

at nine a.m. to-morrow." Then, with raised cap and ceremonious bow, the

Proctor leaves his victim to speculate mournfully on what the morrow

will bring forth.

Forward! and we move on once more in quest of offenders against the

"statutes." What curious reading some of these statutes afford! We seem

to get a whiff from bygone ages as we read the enactment condemning the

practice of wearing the hair long as unworthy the University; and

equally curious is the provision that forbids the student to carry any

weapon save a bow and arrow.

But let us continue our journey. Tramp, tramp, tramp! No wonder we find

the streets empty: our echoing footsteps give the alarm. But soon we

make another capture. This time the undergraduate seeks refuge in

flight, but in vain. "Fast" though he is, the bull-dog is faster; and

the Proctor enters another name in his note-book. Let him who runs read.

On we go; now visiting the railway station--favourite hunting-ground of

the Proctor--now waiting while the theatre discharges its contents; for

there the gownless student abounds and the Proctor's heart grows merry.

Here a prisoner states that he is Jones, of Jesus. Vain subterfuge!

Though there be many Welshmen at Jesus College, and many of its alumni

bear the name of Jones, yet are you not of their number. So says the

Proctor, a don of Jesus; and the pseudo Jones wishes that he had not

been born.

Twelve o'clock now strikes, and our nightly vigil draws to a close.

Still we move forward, amid the jangling rivalry of a thousand bells.

Soon the Proctor adds yet another to the list of victims. This one leads

us a pretty dance from Carfax to Summertown, and then declares he is not

a member of the University. The Proctor smiles as a vision of Theodore

Hook flashes across his mind; but, alas! the "bull-dog" recognises the

prisoner as an old offender.

Unhappy man! Your dodge does not "go down," although beyond a doubt you

will; for the Proctor will visit your double offence with summary

rustication.

F.D.H.

UNEXPLAINED.

BY LETITA MCCLINTOCK.

"All ghost stories may be explained," said Mrs. Marchmont, smiling

rather scornfully, and addressing a large circle of friends and

neighbours who, one Christmas evening, were seated round her hospitable

hearth.

"Ah! you think so? Pardon me, if I cannot agree with you," said Mr.

Henniker, a well-known Dublin barrister, of burly frame and jovial

countenance, famed for his wit and flow of anecdote.

The ladies of the party uttered exclamations in various keys, while the

men looked attentive and interested. All that Mr. Henniker pleased to

say was wont to command attention, in Dublin at least.

"So you think all ghost stories may be explained? What would Mrs.

Marchmont say to our old woman in the black bonnet, Angela?" And the

barrister turned to his quiet little wife, who rarely opened her lips.

She was eager enough now.

"I wish I could quite forget that old woman, John, dear," she said, with

a shiver.

"Won't you tell us, dear Mrs. Henniker? Please--please do!" cried the

ladies in chorus.

"Nay; John must tell that tale," said the wife, shrinking into herself,

as it were.

No one knew how it happened that the conversation had turned upon

mesmerism, spiritualism and other themes trenching upon the

supernatural. Perhaps the season, suggesting old-fashioned tales, had

something to do with it; or maybe the whistling wind, mingling with the

pattering of hail and rattle of cab-wheels, led the mind to brood over

uncanny legends. Anyhow, all the company spoke of ghosts: some to mock,

others to speculate; and here was the witty lawyer prepared to tell a

grave tale of his own experience.

His jovial face grew stern. Like the Ancient Mariner, he addressed

himself to one in company, but all were silent and attentive.

"You say all ghost stories may be explained, Mrs. Marchmont. So would I

have said a year ago; but since we last met at your hospitable fireside,

my wife and I have gone through a very astonishing experience. We 'can a

tale unfold.' No man was better inclined to laugh at ghost stories than

I.

* * * * *

"Well, to begin my true tale. We wished for a complete change of scene

last February, and Angela thought she would like to reside in the same

county as her sisters and cousins and aunts--"

"Dorsetshire, I believe, Mrs. Henniker?" interrupted the lady of the

house.

Angela nodded.

"I intended to take a house for my family, leave them comfortably

settled in it, and run backwards and forwards between Dorsetshire and

Dublin. Well, it so happened that I did leave them for a single day

during the three months of my tenancy of the Hall. I had seen a

wonderful advertisement of a spacious dwelling-house, with offices,

gardens, pleasure grounds--to be had for fifty pounds per annum. I went

to the agent to make inquiries.

"'Is this flourishing advertisement correct?' asked I.

"'Perfectly.'

"'What! so many advantages are to be had for fifty pounds a year?'

"'Most certainly. I advise you to go and see for yourself.'

"I took the agent's advice, and Angela was enchanted with the

description I was able to give her on my return. A charming little park,

beautifully planted with rare shrubs and trees--a bowery, secluded spot,

so shut in by noble elms as to seem remote from the world. The

house--such a mansion as in Ireland would be called Manor-house or

Castle--large, lofty rooms thoroughly furnished, every modern

improvement. My wife, as surprised as myself that a place of the kind

should be going for a mere song, begged me to see the agent again, and

close with him. It was done at once. I would have taken the Hall for a

year, but Mr. Harold advised me not to do so. 'Take it by the quarter,

or at longest by the half-year,' he recommended.

"I replied that it appeared such a desirable bargain that I wished to

take it by the year. His answer to this was a reiteration of his first

advice. I can't tell you how he influenced me, for he really said no

more than I tell you; but I yielded to his evident wish without knowing

why I did so, and I closed with him for six months, not a year."

"Glamour, Mr. Henniker!"

"It would seem so, Mrs. Marchmont. We went to the Hall, and Angela was

delighted with it. The snowdrops lay in snowy masses about the

grounds--the garden gave promise of beauty as the season advanced. How

the children ran over the house! how charmed we were with every nook and

corner of it! Our own bed-room was a comfortable, large room, opening

into a very roomy dressing-room, in which my wife placed two cribs for

our youngest boys, Hal and Jack--"

"Don't forget to say that our bed-chamber opened from a sitting-room,"

interrupted Mrs. Henniker.

"Well, for three weeks we all slept the sleep of the just in our really

splendid suite of apartments. Not a grumble from our servants--nothing

but satisfaction with our rare bargain. I was on the eve of returning to

dear, dirty Dublin and the Four Courts, when--"

"When? We are all attention, Mr. Henniker."

"Angela and I were sitting in the drawing-room under the bed-chamber I

have described, when a loud cry startled us, 'Mother, mother, mother!'

"The little boys were in bed in the dressing-room. Angela dropped her

tea-cup and dashed out of the room, forgetting that there was no light

in the rooms above us.

"I caught up a candle and followed her quickly. We found the children

sobbing wildly. Jack's arms were almost strangling his mother, while he

cried in great excitement, 'Oh, the old woman in the black bonnet! The

old woman in the black bonnet! Oh--oh--oh!'

"I thought a little fatherly correction would be beneficial, but Angela

would not suffer me to interfere. She tried to soothe the little

beggars, and in a few minutes they were coherent enough in their story.

A frightful old woman, wearing a black bonnet, had been in the room. She

came close to them and bent over their cribs, with her dreadful face

near to theirs.

"'How did you see her?' we asked. 'There was no candle here."

"She had light about her, they said; at any rate, they saw her quite

well. An exhaustive search was made. No trace of a human being was to be

found. I refrained from speaking to the other children, who slept in an

upper story, though I softly entered their rooms and examined presses

and wardrobes, and peeped behind dark corners, laughing in my sleeve all

the while. Of course we both believed that Hal had been frightened by a

dream, and that his little brother had roared from sympathy. 'Don't

breathe a word of this to the servants,' whispered Mrs. Henniker. 'I'm

not such a fool, my dear,' I replied. 'But pray search the lower

regions, and see if Jane and Nancy have any visitor in the kitchen,' she

continued. 'She came through your door, mother, from the sitting-room,'

sobbed Hal, with eyes starting out of his head.

"'Who, love?' asked his mother.

"'The old woman in the black bonnet. Oh, don't go away, mother.'

"So Angela had to spend the remainder of the evening between the

children's cribs.

"'What can we do to-morrow evening?' asked she. 'I have it! Lucy shall

be put to bed beside Jack.' Lucy was our youngest, aged two.

"All went well next night. There was no alarm to summon us from our

papers and novels, and we went to bed at eleven, Angela remarking that

the three cherubs were sleeping beautifully, and that it had been a good

move to let Lucy bear the other two company. I was roused out of sound

sleep by wild shrieks from the three children.

"'What! more bad dreams? This sort of thing must be put a stop to,' I

said; and I confess I was very angry with the young rascals. My wife was

fumbling for the match-box. 'Hush!' she whispered, 'there _is_ somebody

in the room.' And _I_, too, at that instant, felt the presence of some

creature besides ourselves and the children. The candle lighted, we

again reconnoitred--nothing to be seen in dressing-room, bed-room, or

_the drawing-room beyond_, the door of which was shut. But the curious

sense of a presence near us--stronger than any feeling of the kind I had

ever previously experienced--was gone. You have all felt the presence of

another person unseen. You may be writing--you have not heard the door

open, but though your back is towards the visitor, you know somehow that

he has entered."

"Quite true, Mr. Henniker--but there is nothing unnatural or unpleasant

in that sensation."

"Nothing, of course; I merely instance it to give you some idea of what

we felt on that occasion. We were astonished to find the sitting-room

untenanted. Meanwhile poor Hal, Jack and Lucy shrieked in chorus 'Oh,

the old woman in the black bonnet! Oh, take her away!'

"Poor Angela, trembling, hung over the cribs trying to soothe the

children. It was a good while before they could tell what had happened.

'She came again,' said Hal, 'and she came close, close to me, and she

put her _cold_ face down near my cheek till she touched me, and I don't

like her--oh, I don't like her, mother!'

"'Did she go to Jack and Lucy too?'

"'Yes, yes; and she made _them_ cry as well.'

"'Why do you not like her? Is it the black bonnet? You dreamt of a black

bonnet last night, you know,' said I, half-puzzled, half-provoked.

"'She's so frightful,' cried Hal.

"'How could you see her? There was no candle.'

"This question perplexed the little boys. They persisted that she had a

light about her somewhere. I need hardly say that there was no comfort

for us the rest of the night. 'If anyone is trying to frighten us out of

the place, I'll be even with him yet,' said I. My wife believed that a

trick had been played upon the children, and she was most indignant.

"Next day the cribs were removed to the upper story, and Charlotte and

Joanna, our daughters of twelve and fourteen, were put to sleep in the

dressing-room. We predicted an end to the annoyance we had been

suffering. The nurse was a quick-tempered woman, who would not stand any

nonsense, and Hal's bad dreams would be sternly driven away. We settled

ourselves to our comfortable light reading by the drawing-room fire.

Suddenly there was a commotion overhead; an outcry--surprised more than

terrified, it sounded to us. Angela laid her book down quickly and

listened with all her ears. Fast-flying footsteps were heard above; the

clapping of a door; then--scurry, scurry--the patter of bare feet down

the staircase. We hurried across the hall, and saw Charlotte in her

nightgown returning slowly up the kitchen stairs, with a puzzled

expression on her honest face.

"'What on earth are you doing, child?' cried Angela.

"'I was giving chase to a hideous old woman in a black bonnet, who chose

to intrude upon us,' panted Charlotte. 'I saw her in our room; I jumped

out of bed and pursued her through your room and the sitting-room. Then

I saw her before me going downstairs, and I ran after her; but the door

at the foot of the kitchen staircase was shut. She certainly could not

have had time to open it, and I really don't know where she can have

gone to!'

"This was Charlotte's explanation of her mad scurry downstairs. Her

downright sensible face was puzzled and angry.

"'So you see the little ones must have been tormented by that old

wretch, whoever she is. They didn't dream it, father, as you thought.

Wouldn't I like to punish her!'"

"What a brave girl!" cried Mrs. Marchmont.

"Brave? Oh, Charlotte's as bold as a lion! She went back to bed; and

when we followed her, in a couple of hours, she was sleeping soundly.

But I can't say either of _us_ slept so well. If a trick was being

played upon us, it was carried out in so clever a manner as to baffle me

completely. I need not say that I made careful search of every cranny

about the handsome house and offices; and if there was a secret passage

or a door in the wall anywhere, it escaped me. We had peace for a

fortnight, and then the annoyance recommenced.

"Angela's nerve was shaken at last, and she began to whisper, 'There are

more things in heaven and earth, Horatio'--"

"John, you are making a story!" interrupted Mrs. Henniker.

"It is every word true. I am coming to an end. Angela, in spite of her

disclaimer, _did_ believe in a ghost in a black bonnet. Charlotte

believed in her, but did not care about her ghostship. The nurse and

cook and housemaid declared they were meeting the horrible appearance

constantly; and they were all three in a mortal funk. As to the

children, they would not leave off clinging to their mother, and

fretting and trembling when evening came. The milkman, the baker and the

butcher, all told the servants that we would not be long at the Hall,

for nobody ever remained more than a month or two. This was cheerful and

encouraging for me!"

"But you had never seen the charming old woman all this time?"

"No; but I saw her in the broad daylight. I had a good long look at her,

and a more diabolical face I never saw--no, not even in the dock. I was

writing letters in the study about twelve o'clock one morning, when I

suddenly looked up, to see the appearance that had excited such a

turmoil in my family standing near the table. A frightful face--a

short-set woman dressed in black--gown, shawl, bonnet--this was the

impression I received. But she looked quite human--quite everyday--there

was nothing ghostly in her air--only the evil face curdled one's blood.

I stared at her, and then I took up a folded newspaper and threw it at

her. My motive in so doing was to frighten her who had frightened my

wife so much. Courtesy such a creature need not expect from me, being,

as her villainous countenance proved, one of the criminal class. The

newspaper fell upon the floor, after apparently going through the

figure, and there was a vacuum where it had been. I was not much shaken,

however, although my theory of a human trickster dressed like a woman

seemed overturned."

"Did you tell Mrs. Henniker what you had seen?"

"Naturally I did. At this period we talked of nothing else. She saw the

apparition twice herself. Once she entered our dressing-room and saw the

figure bending over a sleeping child (it faded as she looked); another

time she was with me in the drawing-room, when she laid down her book

and whispered, 'See, see, near the door!' There, sure enough was the

appearance that had visited me in the study in clear daylight. I did not

make her out quite as distinctly now because our candles did not light

up that end of the long room, or my older eyes were not as good as

Angela's."

"What did Mrs. Henniker do?"

"She started up and ran to catch the old woman in the black bonnet."

"And did she catch her?"

"She caught a _shiver_--nothing more!

"After this I resolved to give up the Hall at once, sacrificing four

months' rent for the sake of my wife and children, whose nerves would

have soon become shattered had we remained. I went to Mr. Harold and

told him how disagreeable the place was to us. He was grave and very

guarded in manner, confessing that no tenant stayed more than a couple

of months at the Hall--that his client certainly made considerably in

consequence--that he had done his utmost to find out what was wrong with

the house, but all in vain. Mr. J---- would not speak about it, and when

strenuously urged to explain, replied emphatically--'_I shall never tell

you the story of that house._'

"We dismissed the servants with handsome presents at once on our return

to Dublin, so desirous were we that the children should never be

reminded of their terror. I think they have not heard the old woman in

the black bonnet spoken of since we left the Hall, and the younger ones

have probably forgotten her. As to us, we can only say that the mystery

is unexplained."