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1. THE EYEWITNESS. By Charles 5 . MY LADY LUDLOW . By Mrs .

Al l ston Collin s . 55 . Gaskell. 5s .

2 .

“

ANTONINA . By W i lki e Collins . 6 . CROSS COUNTRY. By Wal ter5s . Thornbury . 5s .

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SAMPSON LOW , SON, CO.,47 , LUDGATE HILL .

C R O S S C OUNT RY.

M1

WALTER THORNBURY,

AUTHOR OF“BRITISH ARTISTS FROM: HOGARTH TO TURNER .

L ON DON

SAMPSON LO\V ,SON CO.

,47, LUDGATE HILL.

1 861 .

PREFACE.

THE fol lowing chapters are chiefly reprints they represent

a campaign of some ten years in periodicals .

The s cenes I have sketched are to me pleasant remini scences

of artist tramp s in various English counties (especially

W’iltshire,my foster mother), of many enjoyable rides and

walks on the coast of Antrim and round the arbutus-woods

that fringe With evergreen the beautiful sh ores of Killarney.

As for the Somersetshire Rambles, they carry me back to som e

ten years ago, When I was a reporter and sub- editor of Felix

Farley’ s Bristol Journal , 3. paper now dead

,but which in

its time had nursed the genius of Chatterton, and of nearly

all the Lake Poets,and to my connection With Which I look

back With pleasure.

This volume preserves many memories that are dear to

me of green English hedge-rows, n ow wildernesses of

flowers and labyrinths of sweets—of Irish lakes, mirror-clear

and ever fairy-haunted— of old castles not untenanted by

PREFACE .

grim Puritan ghosts, shrouded Banshees rocking them

selves to and fro— money-hiding dwarfs and cluriehaun s

ever busy at their magic shoes— of lonely m oors where the

Grey Man walks— of White sea-shore cliffs , pale through the

gloom of storms of silent mountains,on whose top s

forsaken Druid altars in the sun and rain gather moss— but,

above al l , of a certain pleasant stone cottage, n ot a hundred

miles from Salisbury,up to whose mullioned Windows the

roses of York and Lancaster I1 0W climb with offerings of

perfume— and above whose doorway by day in the flu id gol d

of sunshine,and by n ight in the molten silver of the moon

shine,the well -remembered dial still holds out its old monastic

legend as the warning shadow passes over it— f zfa vita.

WALTER THORNBURY.

F ONTHILL, VVILTSHIRE .

CONTENTS.

CHAPT ER PAGE

I . THE POETRY OF RA ILWAYS

1 1 . ON THE WILTSHIRE DOWNS

11 1 . A DAY W ITH A WI LTSHIRE GAMEKEEPER

IV . THE BUCKINGHAM SHIRE MAN

v . OPENING A WI LT SIIIBE BARROW

MY F IRST AND LA ST RA ILWAY COLLISION

VII . A RIDE TO STONEHENGE

V 1 1 1 . A BATHING-PLA CE ON THE SOUTH COA ST

T IIE SQUI BE’S PEW

x . CROMWE LL ’

S HOUSE m LONDON

XI. THE OLD MULBERRY GARDEN,NOW ST . JAMEs

’

s

PARK

XII . IRISH FAIRIES

XIII . DRIVER MIKE

XIV . THE 1 3 1 3 11 JAUNTING CAR

xv .

‘

PADDY AND 1

XV I . B OATING IN KILLARNEY

XVII . A. N IGHT AT KILLARNEY

C ONTENTS .

C HAPT ER PAGE

XVIII . THE BANSHEE ’

S CA STLE

XIX . THE SEVEN CHURCHES

TALES IN AN INN-KITCHEN

XXI . THE C OUNC IL CHAMB ER AT BRISTOL

XXII . THE DRUIDS’TEMPLE AT STANTON DREW ,

NEAR

BRISTOL .

XXIII. A SOMERSETSHIRE WALK

XXIV. A WALK OVER THE MEND IPS

XXV . THE SUBURB S OF BRISTOL

XXVI . A WALK fro TAUNTON

xxvn . BRISTOL AND ITS SIEGES— NO. I .

XXVIII . BRISTOL AND ITS SIEGES—NO. II.

XXIX. A DAY’

s F ISHING AT KILLARNEY

’

GROSS COUNTRY.

CHAPTER I .

THE POETRY OF RA ILWAYS .

POETRY used to sing in the hedge and on the roof-top—nowit hisses in the boiler of Number Thr ee engine, Slough station,and is audible even in that demon scream ,

terrible as the shriek ofdeath to tardy poin tsmen and blunderin g old men, With shakyhands or rusty swi tches . Voices of steam ,

”I burst out

,as

I un consciously seiz ed an angry stoker’ s hand at the Didcot

junction the other day, ye are many-tongued prophecies of a

coming age—perhaps a golden one, perhaps , rather, one dyedall crimson wi th the blood of nations I might have gonefurther, had not my sable friend

’s Darn your nonsense,here’ s

the three-fifteen starting l” -cut me short .If my friend had remained , I shoul d have questioned himof many things of much importance to transcendental poets

,

but not much so to the railway share market. However,di s

gusted wi th the world in general , and stokers in particular, Iran for a ticket

,Which the angry tooth of the clerk ’s cork

presser onl y bit a hole through,and tumbled

,meditative and

poetical, into the stuffed and wadded chair of a first-classcarriage .Before me sat an old port-wine-coloured gentleman

,With a

bow-Window stomach , and a bunch of wat ch-seals as large as ababy’s head ; said old gentleman being wrapped up as if for a

n

2’

CRo s s C OUNTRY .

north-pole voyage,and having an apoplectic voice that forbadfi

all conversation as at once presumptuous and dangerous . Aftera treaty of legs

,I fell a-musing again onfpoetry, bygone and pre

sent . You may talk as you l ike, I said to myself, I believe it is allhere

,just as much as ever it was for look you , call the world

a box,and the poetry so much gold, it doesn

’t matter WhetherI have it in gold or copper or paper— it i s stil l the same five

pounds ten,and of the same value ; or call it, mind you, a

close drawer and the poetry a grub I put into it ; Whether it i scocoon

, Chrysalis, or black and yell ow moth,still there’ s the

thing safe . It’s like a plant, this poetry—now leaves , nowmist and gases— now away in the clouds

,now down again to rain .

It can’t escape, there’s the same amount of matter . An d so

in poetry . The poetry’s here still and i f I were to cut opena hole in the floor of my friend A tkins ’s shop and show himErebus

,he woul d believe it ; as for volcan ic sun sets and colour

feasts of sunrises, he doesn’t see much in them . So it is Wi th

railways . Men see no poetry in bein g shot as from a cannon,

or passin g from Bath to Bristol With the speed of a planet ona tour

,or a fallen star bent on pleasure .

Listen,friend of the port-wine countenance and the redun

dant stomach .

O that noise, I want to go to sleep . Here ’s theTimes ; wonderful article on Palmerston I— great man

,Pal

merston — great age, Palmerston —great man of a great age 1”

Very well , go to sleep . 0 snore as thou wert wont tosnore ! But know,

0 insensate man,that that sound of the

engine is li ke the champ and trample of a thousand horse it

might be Tamerlane ridin g to conquest ; it mi ght be A lariethun dering at the gates of Rome.Dear me, that shutting off

"

steam,do you kn ow, sir, always

suggests to me the sudden hi ssing simmer of a piece of coldlard in a hot frying-pan. It may be I am hun gry

,but deuce

take me if I thought of anythin g else but a tremendous stewin a gigantic pan . Look out now

,friend of the exuberant

bowels,and tell me what thou seest .

“ A confounded ugly country and six iron rails,like six

black lines rul ed in my ledger .”

THE POETRY or RAILWAYS . 3

Behold,then

,the vi sion of the son of faith . We are gliding

on golden rail s that the sunset shines ou , and we are just aboutto thread an arch . When we lean back , and the great smokeclouds that roll round u s grow crimson in the sunl i ght, weshal l seem as if we were in the aerial car of the Indian mythology

,and were gl iding away to Paradise .

My friend suggests that I am a Londoner,and that the fresh

country air has rather got into my head .

Insul ted at this, I leave him to _apoplexy and the Tim es

newspaper,and at the next station change to a coupé—carriage

close by the stoker,to watch him stab the red furnace till

it roars again . I mark,when he opens the door with a sudden

,

rough has tiness,the great orange flame shine out upon his

Othello-l ike face, and turn him into the semblance of a mini stering demon stirring up a kettle of stewed stock-brokers ina purgatory kitchen ; I like to see him roll in the coals ,and turn and twi st those taps

.

as if they were as many organkeys .Away wi th a battling tramp , and scurry , and whistle, andwhiz

,we go, past astonished labourers in green meadows, past

telegraph-wires,on which as on interminable washing-l ines

sit wry-necked sparrows, who look at u s as we fly past, as muchas to say

,that’s an odd sort of bird

,but I don’t think much

of hi s plumage for critics who praise,have generally som e

compensating clause by which to make up for their moment ofgood-nature. Like a white banner flies the engine’ s smoke

,

—and away it roll s—stooping to j oin the great white fog thathas no win gs

,and sits and broods yonder about the clamp

autumn fiel ds . Through dark caves of tunnels— through dul lbarrennesses of high and bare embankments we rush with theforce of a steam-catapult or a huge case-shot that is neverspent— like a battering-ram— in a long race

,for this steam

horse, with fire for blood, never wearies , never tires . Swiftroun d curves

,and swift up l ow hills— swift past vill age

church and park,and farm-house

,and wood— over river

along moor—past fat and lean,rich and poor—rock and

clay—meadow and street ; for this mad horse never wearies .—never tires .

4’

CRos s C OUNTRY.

I try the second-classes,an d findmuch eating and much merri

ment . They are more easily amused than the more conceited first,

and are less afraid to show their honest feelings . Perhaps theyhave more feeling—who knows ? Do they see more of thep oetry of the railroad ? are they listening with rapt ears , orgazing with steadfast eyes— not a whit ! No

,a gentleman

with a brick-red colour on his high cheek-bone,a hard pincher

mouth,red hungry whiskers

,and a strong whining Aberdeen

accent,reads of a “ Dreadful rai lway accident near Lewes

fourteen lives lost—list of sufferers .” I look out and wonderat the horizontal lightnin g-fashion in which we tear into thetunnel and dig into the viaduct ’s doorways .First-class

,ma’am

,this way . No

,second-class .

Why did you say first,then

There’ s the bellO my box -where’ s my luggage ? Porter — (in a tone

of hysterical anguish) give me my box .

”

“ Too late, marm— next train at —five hours to wait,marm . Waiting—room — yes

,this way.

”

That is a lady’s ideal of railway poetry.

Damp seats ! oh clear,—why don’t they wipe the seats ?

this a carriage—it’s a horse-box . Here,guard ! do you call

this a carriage ? Infernal line— give me the broad gauge !Window won ’t go up. D —n the window—door won’t shutcurse the door ! whish ! here’ s a draught enough to cut yourhead off. Guard ! what does the company m ean by thisdraught ? Won

’

t let a man smoke —give me coach travelling,

say I .

That is the commercial gentleman’s ideal of the poetry oi

railroads .O Lor ! such a hissing, and squeaking, and clatter, and

then that whistle— like a devil’s baby ! 0 dear,law

,it went

through my poor head . An d then the getting out at thewrong station to wait five hours for the next train. What Isay is , Betty, give me a good j ogging market-cart .

”

That is a country-woman’s ideal of railway poetry .

Why, I remember, sir, when I was a boy, being three daysand nights on a j ourney that you do now in four hours . Those

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6’

C Ross C OUNTRY.

cowslip-cup,at a dark green fairy ring

,or the dead men’ s flesh

that has turned to mushrooms . A s for Dryads , you can stillhear their voices in windy nights

, [even in Kensin gton Gardens, —when the rooks caw restlessly in their sleep , as if aworm had turned cold on their stomachs

,and when the black

leaves of the Hyde Park elm s flutter and talk of what they shalldo in the merry autumn time

,when they once get loose from

their governors,and start in life on their own accoun t, these

young things,not yet beli eving in winter, —not they.

What do we believe in ? Look you here, friend, great on’Change

,—three weeks hence

,you’ll drop down at the Mansion

House turtle-feast,and the alderman next you

,absorbed in

green fat,wi l l not observe you taken out when he call s for a

clea n plate and a cold chair,to give him a zest for his sixth

course . You will soon after.when a certain black gentleman

shakes his head,turn pale

,and in fact die. A week later, after a

week’s silence in a room with the blinds down,you will be car

ried out after a j ostle down stairs to that dull Kensingtonchurchyard

,where an epitaph recording your mayoral ities is

already cut,to put over your head . Of what use

,then

,the

snug detached vill a,the crusty port

,and the natty phaeton

olive green picked out With white— Answer, fool, of what useHad it not been better to have done good , and been kindlyand open-hearted

,and to have seen some poetry in life, and

not called the air blue fog,and the rose a vegetable ? Why

,

if that railway whistle could have been interpreted to you by anangel you might have known that it had a meaning prophetic anddreadful as the Judgment trumpet . That nettle your Malaccacane cut in two yesterday was a beautiful thing God made .Nb

,man ! ’Change is not the end of life

,gold is not the old

road-dust of Eden, and by no mean s the thing Apollyonlost Heaven for . Wake up , then ! unlock your cellar, send adozen of port to poor old Bin ns

,the poor old head-clerk

,who

i s so weak and threadbare . Release the orphan from Chancery, do something for the widow

’s son you ruined,—above

all,look reverently henceforth at stokers and at all humanity

,

-and peace be with you at the last .

CHA PTER II.

OH THE WI LT SHIRE DOWNS .

DOWN SHIBE,in the map of England

,stands in a quiet neigh

hourly 1mobtru sive way,next to Ramshire

,with Hill shire and

Hogshir e north and south of it.Like Ramshire, it is a great sheep-breeding coun t and itsannual sheep fair i s the largest held in Great Britain . I loveevery inch ofDown shi re its dun -coloured and emerald down s

,

its lanes walled with honeysuckl es in summer,and starred with

primroses in spring . I like the way the white roads cl imb ,with straightforward boldness

,up the steep shoulders of the

sloping prairie country. I like the floating blue’

of the distance,I like its lines of soldiery firs

,I like its very weeds

,I love

even its molehi ll s,the warts and wens

,as it were

,on its broad

,

honest,sun ny face .

I write from Down shi re now,for I am chasing Health, at a

han d gallop,all over the tawny downs where the grizzled

scorched grass is but a mere dry hide over thewinter-chilledearth . The saddle is not cold yet upon which I have beenscouring al l this end of Down shire

,from C rockerton Furze to

Stanton Corner. Jinglin g over the little grey bridge oppositemy country inn

,j olts one of those country tilt-carts

,with

strain ed whi te awn ings over them,which look like eggs

,in the

centre of which,having first scooped out the yolk and the

white, sits the crimsoned-faced driver, whistling a countrytune, almost as pleasant as that of the blackbird

’s that sits on

Ethe apricot-tree at my window. That is the carrier (I know

3him well) , for he passes here every morn ing at ten, and is onhis way from Spireton to Deverton St. Mary’s .Oh, that cart and its sin ging blithe driver have had apleasant trip of it since sunri se

,passin g fields all of a trans

parent emerald flicker wi th the thi n curlin g tender blades ofsprin g wheat

,among which strut

,and plume themselves

,and

hover,and flutter

,the rooks

,who are engaged in entomological

8’

eRoss COUNTRY.

researches, and large and glossy as black kittens They have

stirred lazily as the car t approached, have thrown out their pendent legs behind them

,have worked up and down their win gs.

ragged at the edge,and have then resumed their studi es almost

before the cart has well j ogged past the milestone, orange andblack with twenty years’ lichens . Young orchards

,where tiles

are hung to the top boughs to bend them over to a basket shapefields spotted with flint heaps ; folds full of the voices of sheepwaiting to be fed

,has the old cart passed by. Many long pro

cessions of waggons,baled with hay

,or dark with faggots , has it

passed; many horses proud of the crimson and yellow shavingbrushes on their heads

,and of the sharp tinglin g bells upon

their harness that chime far along the glarin g white road alongwhich they trample smokingly, the boil i ng dustclouds fol lowi ngthem as if the roads were on fire .

But let the egg- shell jog on the pleasant road, dappled as itpasses under the Deveril Park trees , and let me sketch aDown shire vill age wi th its russet thatch roofs, and here andthere

,at the post-ofli ce or the farrier’s , a blue slate or a red

tile one,for the t hin blue plumes of wood-fire smoke to feather

over . There is something to my mind specially sheltering andcozy in the look of thatch

,cut away over the win dows, level

yet spiky like a rustic’ s hair on a fair-day or holiday ; nor do Ilike it the less if it b e sponged and padded here and there withgreen crystall ed moss . Greek and Roman workers are all verywell

,but they seem fools

,in my Down shire mind, to the brave

souls that devised those hearty lovable Tudor cottages,built of

stone,warm and lasting, scornful of the weather, that mellows

them to the exact tone and crustiness of the outside of a

Stilton , ,

and covers them with lichens all in orange blots, andfrosty patches

,and grey scales and shadings up to the top ridge

of the breathing chimney where the starlings chatter and twisttheir glistening necks in a coquettish and fantastic way. Ihonour those wise and comf ortable thinkers in ruffs anddoublets

,who devised the Tudor cottages of Ramshi re, with

their porches so hospitable and kindl y in cold and rain, and.

their strong mull ioned wi ndows so free to the air and light .

yet so lordly-looking,so good for children to look out of, and.

ON THE WILTSH IRE DOWNS . 9

old men to bask in . I like to see the little cottage beehives inthe gardens

,among the cloves

,carnations

,and roses

,with their

li ttle bee merchants dragging down all the flowers around. Ilike too to hear

,in the eveni n gs when the moon has a golden halo

round it,as if it were melting into shapeless brightness , the

dr ag and tin kle of the spades at work in the cottage gardens ,just beyond the vicar’s laurels

,where the thrushes are re

hearsin g for their daybreak concert .The high down s

,moreover

,are my special delight not those.

that rise in broadgreen shoulders on either side the road, shuttingout all horizon ; not those, though they are in places as high assea cli ffs

,sown and bun ched wi th thousands of primroses ,

and pendent with long deer’s -tongue or the branching feathersof fern

,where the twisted beech-roots are velveted with green

moss , and where the violets carpet the ground under the piedhazel-boughs which just now are tasselled with catkins . Nothose are the low downs that rapidl y turn into the trim fiel ds

and cattle-dappled pastures of ordinary civilisation, and from

them , down in the low country, you may in the distance seethe train

,which four hour s hence will be in London, passing

al ong, with a running smoke of steam like fire running along atrain of gun powder. I myself like the high downs where thehori zon is a dim blue one of twenty miles’ di stance

,far as a ship

can be seen at sea . I like the prairie grasp and comprehension ofthose high Ram shire Downs

,black with furze

,lin ed wi th plan

tati on s , studded with sheep , alive wi th rabbits their keen, thinblue air vocal with plovers

,and bl ithe choruses of larks .

You are not in soli tude or un cheered there,for on the high

roads you meet the Au tolychu s tramp on his eleemosynaryprogress from Deveril to Todmin ster ; now and then , somesoldiers on leave

,wi th their wallets behind them ; carriers and

fioun waggon s , and that scarlet-run ner, the reckless mail cart ;not to mention chance travellers

,clergymen on their rounds ,

and,often in the season

,red scuds of fox-hunters on their way to

covert— to Railton-Spinney,or Waterdyke Corner. Nor can

you go half a mile without some dozens of rabbits chargingwith timid temerity across the road, so swiftly that you seel ittle but a flirt of white tail near a furze-bush , as they

l o C ROSS C OUNTRY .

disappear like Roderick Dhu’s clansmen. You know thatevery thorn—bush you pass is peopled . Then the blackbirdsrun like rats about the thorn-bushes

,or break out with a chink

and flu ster,as if in their conceit each bird thought the whole

world Specially in pursuit of him . Or perhaps,i f you tread

softly on the turf,you will be amused by com ing on one of

those blind diplomatists,the mole

,like a little roll of black

velvet . Then,on the fallows beyond the down s

,you will surely

see the crested plover,with his white bell y and dark wings

,

swooping about,andmakin g signals of distress with that strange

“ peewit note which I think I coul d imitate exactly on theviolin ; and then, like a dark star, falls the lark from heaven,or rises

,trembling

,to the cloud ; while the new-come cuckoo

echoes his own Indi an nam e in the fir wood that pulses with thelul l ing murmur s of the wild doves

,where the squirrel curls in

his nest,and the great black raven tolls out his sullen croak

,

as if a friendly lamb were seriously ill in the neighbourhood,and his (raven

’s) benevolent mind were troubled by his friend’s

indisposition .

But these are all episodical pleasures of the high downs, forthe standin g di sh of delight there is the incomparable glory of thefar di stance

,with its heavenly radiance of cloudy blue, and its

softened glimmer of pearly colour,neither grey, nor blue, nor

opal,but a union of all

,with its many inner depths and glori es

to be wrought out only by the patient and lovin g eye .I am no great believer in the poetry of sheep (uncooked) ,nor in lamb (without mint-sauce) , but in Ramshi re the sheepdo throw themselves about the landscape as if they were trainedto group themselves efi

'

ectively— as my friend Mediochre, R .A . ,

says . They sprinkle down the dun slopes, they cascade downthe sides of the lanes

,they come smoking along the dusty

roads,they bleat in great multitudes . They are seen meltin g

away in little yellow and brown Spots , into the fairy azur e ofthat magical distance through which glimmer pieces of green

corn, brown fallows, golden stacks, white veins of chalks, greystone patches, emerald pastures , dun moun ds of firs , and dark

thickets of almond-scented furze, that, gradually gettingthinner and thinner

,break at last into single specks and dots

ON THE WILTSH IRE DOWNS . l l

of bushes which variegate the down as with an eruption ofm olehill s .Add to these variations of surface

,some firs in the foreground,

even as the teeth of a small tooth-comb some round chalk basinscut by the shepherds to catch water ; some grassy mounds ofan old Roman camp

,rising in triple terrace one above the

other ; and you have some idea of the higher downs taken intheir general ities . To describe them ,

indeed,in detail woul d

take a year : for the beauty of their atmospheric changesalone are infini te and wonderful .But can I leave the Down country

,with its qui vering blue

horizon,out of which the eye gradually evolves long funeral

processions of fi rs ; li ttle toy farm -houses,so small in the

distance that they are no bigger than a giant coul d carry onthe palm of his hand (I mean a smal l giant, because, of course,a great giant like B randyborax or Al deboron has a palm to hishand as big as Salisbury Plain) ; grey spires, sharp and small

as darning-needles ; black specks of fur ze and bramble ; andlesser specks

,where glossy crows feed

,or vibrate their wings

must I,I say

,leave the hi gh downs without describing the

little stone tea-caddy of a Down shire church,bui lt by that

worthy but noseless man whose battered mummy of an effigystill lies

,in a pati ent but ill-used way, on a flat tomb in the

chancelI like the simple church

,with the dial over the porch, erased

by time . It is old as the Normans,I shoul d think ,

that squaretower

,so massy and low it is firm as the rock

,so phalanxed and

soli d is its imperturbable immovabil ity. The sunshine wanders over i t

,the rain beats it

,the wind torments it

,but it still

remains as it has stood for centuries . The green waves of thatdead sea around the yew-tree

,rise and fall

,century after

c entury,but the tree is fixed as the good ship ’s mast : and

daily casts its moving shadow in to the chancel to flicker aboutthe latticing sun and shade

,as from the movement of pass

ing wings .There are many country moments when the songs of birdssound sweet from their very strangeness

,and arrest the attention

from their intrusion on scenes with which they have never been

1 2 CROSS C OUNTRY

associated . I like to lie abed early on a spring morning,and

hear all the sounds of life outside the window that cheer butdo not disturb you , so that you fall into a doze of spring-timethoughts, as you are tryingito listen, until you are roused broadawake by the fuller chorus of young thrushes in the laurels

,

who seem to be practising in a B ull ah class,perpetually put

right by the fuller voices of the parent birds ; but, best of all,I like to hear on Sunday

,in the Down shire church

,between

the pauses of the psalm and the bushes in the Litany,the

response of the vicar’s blackbirds comin g in as if they hadbeen trained, like little choristers , in God

’s great open-aircathedral .Your contemplative Jacques can '

find pretty employmentin the oak coverts that here and there strew the surface ofDown shire

, very aviaries of song in the pleasant May-time,when even at noonday the n ightingale may be heard gurglingout rich soprano passages . There

,the negro blackbird, with

the orange-bill,repeats his musical monotones

,and the thrush

fiings forth his lavish, careless carolling upon the blue springair. There

,the robin

,with breast stain ed ever since that

dreadful murder ” of the Childr en in the Wood , bides histime

,when in autumn he shall flaun t it on the Down shire

lawns . Let u s enter the covert through a fir wood,where

,

between straight rough-scaled stalks,that ooze balmy tears

,spots

of moving sunlight flicker about on the dry pal e leaves of lastyear

,here and there brightened where an angel ’s visit of clear

light from Heaven pours through and irradiates som e churlishbramble

,for all the world like woman’s love hal lowi ng some

un worthy obj ect : some Cali ban of a husband, some Quilp,some rude Cymon .

From these delights,I stroll botanising to the fretful nettles

—their white flowers soon to be black with bees—that edgethe outer skirts of the fox covert, where the waterproof budsof the ' chesnut are throwing ofi

’

their mackintoshes, and thebeech is unrol ling his sharp -spiked buds where the pied hazelis flutterin g its green-winged rods , and the banks are strewn

wi th primrose s— those daylight stars , soft green where thetransparent leaves hood them in like nuns

,soft gold in the

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14’

eRos s C OUNTRY .

the Thames Tun nel , or you emerge in a small glade, with aview through oak boughs, barred with sun and shadow,

of agreat slope of down

,mil es away

,wi th a long slate roof shining

in the sun,a cascade of sheep

,and in front a green square of

meadow where som e cows are on their knees in flowers , thatlook from here like a gold carpet

,woven without seam

,perfect

from the top throughout .It has been a glorious day in Down shire ; the merry winddrivin g about the cool wavering shadows ; the cuckoo echoingin the woods at Colonel Hanger’s, where the pheasants cluckand strut

,proud of their fat, of their market yalue, and of the

brazen lustre of their fiery and emeraldi ne plumage— no greatthings at a poulterer’s door

,but here

,in the l iving sunshine

,

flashing past u s exquisitely. The wind has been blowing thedust along the glarin g white roads in smokin g simooms

,the

swallows have been gl immering and crescenting about thewater meadows

,like so many wi ld horses

,and now I am

standing on the dewy lawn ofmy little country inn— the ThreeCrows—L in the evening, watchin g the stars light up their littlediamond illum ination lamps in honour of a youn g May moon,that is just at the full .

“ Now,the moon

,

” says the landl ord,coming out with his

white yard of clay and a burning Waterloo charge of bird’s-eye,to be sociable wi th his guest, seem s to me to-night like a bitof butter that is beginning to melt on a hot toastess .

CHA PTER III.

A. DAY WITH A WILT SHIRE GAMEKEEPER .

It is my fervent belief that the natural history of England wil lnever be written properly till it is taken in hand by the Englishgamekeepers given to those sinewy

,stalwart m en addicted

to velveteen shootin g jackets and leather splatterdashes , andt aken from the ink-stained hands of those pale, weak-legged,purblind men in spectacles

,who review everything second hand .

A DAY WITH A WILTSHIRE GA M EKEEPER . 1 5

I maintain that old Targett,the gamekeeper at my friend

Colonel Hanger ’s , who spends all day waiting for verm in, trapping

,an d shooting, and all ni ght watching for poachers , in

Redl and Woods , must kn ow more about the habits and custom sof the fox

,the badger, the marten, the rat, and the rabbit, than

Professor Mole of St . John’s Wood,who never goes into a

field,never rode after a fox in his life

,was never present at the

drawin g” of a badger, never fired off a gun,never dug out a

dog-rat,and never bit the tip of a bull-dog’s tail to make him

st0p fighting ; who does not know how pheasants roost, could notcatch a weasel asleep

,or otherwise

,is

,in fact

,a poor

,respect

able,over-civilized

,rheumatic

,narrow-chested Professor ; very

great with his books and lamps,but a mere ignoramus down

beside our tough friend Targett,who cannot write (who , in fact ,

I caught the other day tearing up an old volume of Cuvi er tomake waddin g of the covers) , but who has spent his life, notin readin g other men’s thoughts

,but in observin g living things

,

and studying their ways . He has never heard the word Mam

malia,but he knows the indi viduals of the class

,knows how to

feed ’em, snare’em

,and generally circumwent

’em . Yet infact

,al l he knows is merely how they live, eat, drink, and sleep ;

what they feed ou ,to what extent their in stin ct goes how far

they can be tamed their times of breeding,and haun ts

thin gs whi ch Professor Mole merely writes about .It is a sad thing, as I often observe to my friend Mr . Fox

,of

Great St. Andrew Street, who stuffs birds and sells them,that

men who know a subject generally, cann ot write , and those whoknow nothing about it, but only think they do, can . Here

,

down in Wiltshire,we have Targett

,who knows more about

Engli sh natural history than all the F .Z .S .s and presidents ofsocieties in the world, yet he cann ot sign his name, and alwaysputs a cross to his sharp son’s weekly regi ster of game killedthat is sent in to Colonel Hanger. Professor Mole

,who does

not know a polecat from a ferret when it flashes across a countryroad

,yet compiles his naturalist ’s l ibrary

,

”&c. &c .

,the only

books where an Englishman can learn anything about the animals of his own country, though he may go to the Regent

’sPark and make faces at the l ion

,or throw a bun to the bear

1 6 C ROS S C OUNTRY .

with impunity . In fact,the more I read Cuvier

,and Jardine

,

and the whole bilin’ of ’m

,

” the more I feel that Englishnatural history is yet unwritten

,and is to be compiled from

the half-century wi sdom of earth- stoppers and gam ekeepers . Owoe be to the infant science if we stop till these old men go toearth

,or death makes game of our gamekeepers . A s the Dodo

and the Mammoth have perished ; as the Great Sea Serpentof the Indi an Seas , and gigantic Kraken of the NorthernOcean

,have passed into myths, so wil l pass the English badger,

the wild deer,and the corncrake . The wild cat is almost

gone,the fox in time will follow

,and where wi ll be their his

toriesOur children of the year two thousand and fifty, dressed incrim son silk breeches and satin and cloth-of-gold night-gowns

,

going out to dinner in steam balloons,and using electric tele

graphs to ring the bell with,will

,perhaps

,some day

,want to

know what the fox people hun ted in one thousand nine hundr edon steam-engin e horses

,was like . This student goes to his

cupboard of thirty thousand books,and runn ing roun d the

tramroad lin ed with shelves on a velocipede,he takes down a

dusty French book , Dictionnaire Classique, or l’Hi stoire Natu

rell e,and finds to his delight that the Renard is a Cani s Vulpes

of the order man .

” He i s also overj oyed— thi s enthusiast forantiquarian knowledge— to find that Renarde is the female ofRenard .

” The food of the almost forgotten animal and its habitswas too trifling a fact for scien tific men to give . But still he is

gratified and comforted to learn , on the conj oint testimony ofMM . Bourdon

,Pierrot

,De Candolle

,Delafosse, and others,

that the fox is a species of the genus dog,and that it is a cun

ning and greedy an imal , that its odour is unpleasant, and itsfur of a reddi sh brown colour .Stop the historian gluts our enthusiast with information .

Here is more news : The tail of the Renard is bushy and ofconsiderable magni tude .” 0 these valuable and laboriousFrench writers what years of watching be side damp fox earths

,

under ash roots and behind tight-rinded oaks they musthave spent in accumul ating all this in formation, in addi tion towhat A dam observed, as the great procession of birds, beasts,

A DAY WITH A WILTSHIRE GA M EKEEPER . 1 7

and fishes passed to the baptism . If A dam had written naturalhi story, then we shoul d have known if we have yet classified

half the existin g creatures, or have settled the question ofthat troublesom e sea-serpent who keeps puttin g in alibisin different degrees of latitude

,and whose existence (you

need not go and mention it) I fervently and persistently believe in .

It is my fervent beli ef also—and I love heterodoxy,because

it keeps one moving— that no one can paint a th in g which is notbefore him as he paints ; that no man can describe a place buton the Spot ; that no one can write on an imals till he haschased, and shot, and petted, and watched them . Natural history is not to be written by professors in spectacles— tim id

,

twi tterin g,un sophisticated men— from stuffed anim als and

bleached skeletons . What we want is open-air natural history,

such as Audubon,and White of Selbourne

,and Gould wrote

m ore of it and deeper of it . WVhat we want is gamekeeperssocieties

,and discussions dul y reported : Leatherstockin gs pre

s ident, Shotpou ch corresponding secretary (if he coul d onl ywr ite)—but no Mon oclu ses and Moles

,thank you . Then we

might have something like natural hi story,and know where we

were,and what to beat . When fishare bred and brought up in

aquariums,and bu tterflies and reptiles in Vi variums

,then we

shall know something about them . Till then,under the head

English Natural History,write Chaos ; which , being inter

preted, means blackness and old night, for it is the land ofRoshen and of fog .

Let me turn to the word “ fox,and see what these dull

,

un advan cin o' pedants say—men who ought to discuss andO

chronicle every newspaper paragraph relating to wi ld or tamefoxes

,and examine the very length and breadth of their subj ect .

t at does Professor Mole say Here is his book, with adauby

,inaccurate

,burnt sienna drawing of a fox , that a whip

per-in woul d laugh at . The text occupies about two pages itcould be read in five minutes, yet it was on ly last November

I had a burst of forty minutes after a fox that broke awayfrom the Blackmoor Vale hounds

,near Windwhistle Inn

,and

every minute of that time,I can assure you

,furnished some

0

1 8’

cno ss COUNTRY .

fresh instance of this incomparable animal’s instinct . Ridinghome, the old whip told me enough stories about the fox

’

shabits to fil l a large volum e of the Professor’ s works . And

this is history Shall I be ever driven to bring out that great

exposure of mine,called The History of Historians

Well ! let u s get to Mole’s book . Here it is : Fox— vulpisvulgaris— supposed to be indigenous to England—traditionsays it was taken over to Am erica by the Pilgrim Fathersmeasures two feet five inches (I have known some hundredexceptions) tail cylindrical

,one foot three inches ; head

broad,snout sharp

,eyes oblique

,nose and forehead rectilinear .

Ou the colour of this little known animal the Professor is verym inute

,stating the fur to be yellowish red

,shading off to a

paler yellow (few naturalists can describe colours , never usingsim iles

,the onl y way to express clearly and vividly subtle dis

t in ction s) ; thi s malt colour, or ripe corn colour, i s mixed, itappears

,with grisly white and black hairs or ash colour breaks

out on the forehead,rump

,and hams ; the lips , cheeks, and

throat are white,and there are white lines on the inner surface

of the legs the breast and belly are whitish ; the ears and feetblack the tail is tipped with white

,and sometimes ringed

with black . The Welsh foxes,wishing for heraldic difference

,

and being probably of old Pen dagon blood, and of a richer andstronger smell

,leave out the black ring .

The Professor having here exhausted his limited palette ofcolours

,branches o i l? to the Syrian fox

,that Samson caught

and tied firebrands to,to the silver fox

,&c . The Professor’ s

mode of writing,however

,is sometimes rather confused

,for he

describes an Indian fox that is so agile that it can turn ninetimes within the space of its own length— agility that even ourEnglish M .P .s could scarcely rival . More wonderful still, itfeeds on field m ice and white ants

,with tails like squirrels .”

What a terrible thing an ant with a squirrel’s tail must beThe great delusion of historians seems to be that they mustwrite about nothing but the crimes of kings . The delusion ofProfessor Moles seems to be that their special mission is todescribe in conventional language (generally second-hand) thecolours of animals . This done

,their task is over. Give me

A DAY WITH A WILTSHIRE GAMEKEEPER . 9

an old poacher ; you take Jardin e . Give me Targett then , youtake Mole . I believe in few things

,but the one thing I do

beli eve in is the value of personal observation . Al l secondhand things are bad ; for second-hand in formation is generallyfirst-hand ignorance .A s for fish, I give up all hope of ever knowing anything

about them . The tu rtle, turbot, cod, and sole I have di ssected ,and I think know pretty well ;

'

but who i s to spend monthsoff the Doggerbank

,the Knock

,or the Silver Pit sands

,to

study the habits of the tabbied mackerel and the pearl -coatedwhitin g ? who will go and live in a diving-bell and see themplay and dance, and feed and fight, and make love and go towar .But the fox . Is it not dreadful to a progressive mind to

hear that stagnant old Mole,surrounded by his glass-cases and

stuffed deaths,potter on in this vein

“ Upper shades of the body red fulvous ; muzzle dark ru

fous ; on the back waves of whitish chest grey ; anteriorline of the fore-legs deep black ; tail mixed fulvous andblack .

”

What is fulvous and rufous ? Why,Mole

,do you not go to

the colour-seller and learn the names of colours,for are not

maroon and burnt sienna more intelligible than your gabble offul vou ses and rufouses And perhaps all this time

,thou one

eyed wr iter for bli nd people, thou art onl y describin g an except ional fox

,n o more like the average foxes than anA lbino is like

an ordinary man,or a Yankee like an Englishman :

Foxes have the lateral crests of the skul l,which serve to

attach the chrotaphite muscles in the shape of an angle, butslightly prolonged before they unite on the frontal suture .

”

Is not this throwing a stone at u s when we ask for bread ?Is not this pelting u s wi th barbarous Latin and dog-Greekwhen we ask to know something about foxesAnother quarrel of ours with Mole is that he is the dog inthe manger— he does not write natural history himself, and hebarks at any one else who wants to . And singular

,although

half his science seems to consist in the mere classification ofanimals, he always gives u s careless daubs of thcm- rude

,raw,

0 2

20’

C ROSS C OUNTRY .

and impossible in colour . Here, for instance , is the tr i-coloured‘

fox of Virgin ia,in an expensive work on natural history,

coloured as barbarously as if it was a Cupid holding a pincushion heart in a penny valentine . Silver-grey” i s represented by a wash of lead-colour, and rufous

” by raw sienna,which also daubs up the eyes . Surely no colour is better thanwrong colour

,any day in the week .

But Mole has not yet exhausted his handbook to the fox .

Under the head Canidae he kindl y tell s u s —Sub -Grenus 3 ,Vulpes— the foxes— that the pupils of their eyes are ell ip

tical,or contractile into a vertical slit- tail long, bushy— lower

on the legs in proportion to the body—fur fin er— habit noc

turn al .

And,wonderful to relate

,I also find

,under the head Im

portant to Fox-hunters,

” the following interesting bit of al

gebra

0

1 -1 6-61 11 018 . earn . cheek

,

Which looks more like a calculation in arithm etical cypher ofthe Professor’ s incom e than anything else ; but at last I get ondry ground

,and read

,as an alchemist ’s boy might read his

absent master’s secret : V q z le elongated— nostrils naked,

b in ul ar,and open at the sides— tongue soft— ears erect— feet

anterior pentadactylu s, posterior tetrodactylu s , walk on thetoes—mammae both pectoral and ventral . This is

,indeed

,

knowledge— something like knowledge !Why is not this printed in a cheap form

,placed between an

oran ge-tawny cover, il lustrated with a Flying Dutchman foxhun t

,and sold on railway stall s for the use of young fox-lovers

who run about England after a bad smell when they might getit in full perfection in the Tham es without running at all ?

W hat a fin e sight it would be to see a band of scarlet youths,while waiting at the covert side some biting January morni ng,instead of idle smoking

,and scandal and gossip

,improving

their minds by studyi ng Profes sor Mole’s (un)natural Historyof the British Fox .

An d fancy,too

,in that golden age

,when all fancies become

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22 CROSS C OUNTRY .

shire Leatherstocking lives . I love the deep greenness of the

old plantations,where the ferns are high enough for a stag to

pass under,without his antlers touching the keystone of the

arch,and the honeysuckles wind so close together that they

seem like chains twin ed with flowers . Here were glades , too,quite dry

,and coated with the red brown aromatic dead

needles of the fir ; and, up in the tall beeches, whose greytrunks threw quite a light around me

,I could see the bush of

the squirrel ’s nest .A t last I got to the break looking down on the stubble-fieldwhere the keeper’ s cottage was . It was bosomed in woods

,an d

down below,and before it

,was a stile grown round with clocks,

and a blue Gainsborough glimpse of a church tower with theweathercock on it glitterin g in the sun like a burning diam ond .

A great white setter lay at the door ; it had been too muchwith gentlem en to bark at seeing me . I entered . There wasthe old gun on the rack over the fireplace, and a stuffedwhite owl staring at you with glassy unblin king eyes fromabove the American clock . There was Targett busy chopping up rabbits for the young pheasants

,while a nice old

woman,with all the blandness and ease of a duchess, wiped a

chair clean for me, and then smiling welcome, went on stirringthe oatmeal over the fire. As for the younger Targett, he wasstufli ng a hawk to nail up over the window .

We first discussed the wonderful skill and readiness ofpoachers ; how they bewitch trout

‘

with quick lime,and so send

the three-pounders floating down the stream from under theweeds ; how they use cherries with the stones out, and younggrasshoppers and wasp-grubs

,and salmon ~roe

,and all sorts of

unl ikely things for trout that the fish could never have tastedor heard of

,yet always brin g the poacher’s creel home heavy .

On moonli ght nights,when they could see the hares

,these

gentry” were sure to be about . He told me, too, that theherons had an oil in their legs that attracted the fish roundthose medi tative birds as they stood in the shallows

,and that

poachers, it was said, about the Trent, extracted this oil, andused it with great advantage to dip their bait in ; this was oneof those things

,he thought

,that gents as wrote on natyral

A DAY WITH A IVILTSHIRE GA M EKEEPER 23

’istory and were wide awake,should in quire in to . He had

no time to do it ; it was quite enough for him to see the dogswere fed

,and the vermin kil l ed

,and the rabbits snared to feed

the pheasants with . A s for all those bright varnished rodsand expensive reels gents brought down with them

,and won

derful fli es with mouse ’s bodies and peacock’s win gs,he would

wager any night to catch a basket of perch with one gudgeon’ seye on the hook— ay, even with mere line and no rod at all .Then about foxes— they were cunnin g sure ly. Many a nightwatching he had seen them in the hare runs

,practising how

far they could leap from a certain bush so as to be sure of theirprey

,to the very inch

,and off before the best of shots coul d

get hi s gun up . Didn’t they eat too,and spoil m ore than they

eat ? He had kn own a dog-fox, when it had cubs in an earthhard by, kill thirty ducks one night ; and, a week after, thirtypheasants . Couldn ’t eat half of them

,of course

,but (lug

holes in ditches and buried the overplus . It often happenedFox forgot where he buried them

,or at least never dug them

up again . Why,he had seen them down in the water -meadows

try a plank that crossed a brook , try it a dozen times , beforethey would go over ; and he had marked them dip their tails inurine

,and then drag a trail from a stone-heap in a field to

where they lay hid . Presently,out ran the mice

,followed the

trail, and were instantly pounced upon . He had met them ,too

,

wi th geese thrown over their backs,and the gooses’ necks in their

mouths . A s for trapping them,it was difficu l t . Why, if you

put a gin at the mouth of the earth,they would scratch out

above it,or scratch out backwards

,and so make the thrown

out earth sprin g the trap . Even when caught,they wou ld

sometimes bite off their broken leg and escape .Did they really read the newspapers to see where the

hounds met next morning 79”

Well,that was a woundy good ’

un (Here Targett beathis thigh joviall y .) N0

,but he thought the varmint did every

thin g but that . They had been known to breed on the top of achurch

,gettin g up every day by the ivy boughs, and had been

at last killed by the hounds on the very church roof. Theyhad been found with their cubs in the hollow top of pollard

24 C ROS S C OUNTRY .

trees,they had been known

,when chased

,to take to the

water and hang on by their teeth am on g the osiers to a willowbough

,their body being invisible. A s for their cubs

,the Vixens

will carry them any distance any di sturbance or noise near ahole will make the vixen and cubs change their hole . A s forthe mange

,that scourge of dogs

,they have it dreadful

,

” andhave been foun d as bare as an old trun k

,and without a hair

in their tails . Foxes woul d run twenty miles straight withoutturning ; even foxes hid in sea cl ifi

’

that seldom ramble far,

perhaps living on fish ; and I must remember, too, the fox wasalways taken at a disadvantage

,generally ful l in stomach and

tired with the night’ s prowl ; an evenin g fox fresh from theday ’ s sleep few dogs could catch .

Here Targett,junior

,who had qbeen burning to put in his

oar,and was dancing round me with a half-stufied hawk in his

hand,broke in to tell me how last night, outside the warren ,

he had heard a dreadful shr iek,as of a woman bein g murdered

,

round the corner of a wall . He looked and saw a hare,its

head sopped wet crimson with blood,tearing along

,and a stoat

riding on its neck,sucking like a demon at the spin e . A s he

got up the hare fell dead,and the stoat slid away .

I don’t know what I might not have heard to enrich ourmeagre natural history

,had not at this m oment the squire ’s

di nner gong boomed out an imperious summons for me,which

even my zeal for science was not strong enough to induce meto disobey .

CHAPTER IV .

THE BUCKINGHAM SHIRE MAN .

A BULLET that had really killed a man at Waterloo, was oneof my playthings when a boy.

That bullet was as terrible in my eyes , and as much a fetish ,as the spotted snake that had reall y kill ed a man in India,that we kept in spirits in a long bottle on the top of a bookcase . A s that snake represented in mine eyes the whole India

THE BUCKINGHAMSHIRE M AN . 25

of snakes; cane brakes , jungle clumps, plain an d m oun tain,

Deccan and Punjab,from Cashmere to Cape Com orin, so was

that dul l li ttle battered leaden bull et a sort of a little spherewhich became transparent as I looked at it, and disclosedembattled nations

,in all the shock and grapple of mortal con

test, or pouring along in headl ong rout, with torn colours,broken weapons

,and shattered gun-carriages .

My next step,after a personal taste of single combat at

s chool,was to discover a man who had really been in a battle .

I found him in no less a person than our old gardener,who di d

not seem to be especially proud of it, and took it very much asa matter of course . There was nothing specially divi ne aboutthe man as he leant on his spade

,cleaned it with a wooden

scraper,and put a fresh plug of tobacco in his cheek ; no

special lustre lit hi s eye : yet he had been “ baptised in fire,

”

as Napoleon called it . I saw no special result produced bysuch a ceremony

,but it is all in him

,I thought

,full of my

Thermopylms and Marathons , Bannockburns and Zutphen s ,and my shocks of spears and clouds of arrows— it is all in him .

He is as a cask of very precious liquor,and I am the spigot

that is to let it out . I shall now know what I have longthirsted to know— the feel in gs of one’ s first battle

,and the

details of what is actually done .Ranger,

” said I,with all the earnestness of fourteen

,

t alking to him as i f he was on oath,

“ di d you ever shoot a mani n battle

This I thought was quietly breaking the ground,and laying

i t open for innumerable tales of bloodshed . He spoke,after a

m inute, during which he looked down at the fresh moul d, thenup at the blue sky.

Well , said he, Master Joe,not as I exactly knows on ;

but I’

ve fired into the thick on ’em a score of times .I was disappointed at the time

,and began to suspect there

was no poetry in life if it was not to be found in a battle yetwhen I began to turn it over

,I think the answer was not

so bad .

Yes , in to the thick on’em . I can see ’

em now— rows ofbroad-topped shakos and red side-plumes

,fierv eyes and mouths

26’

CRoss C OUNTRY .

fierce,black with biting the cartridges . Twist and ram the

grape . Fire ! one man falls on his knees— another staggerstwo amore hide their eyes ; for, they are shot in the face .Closing up to the front

,fresh men step in their places . Charge !

away goes the level line of bayonet with three cheers . The

French reel— they break . The colours are taken— they flyvictory— VICTORYTrue

,I have ludicrous images of the Finsbury volunteers ,

of their ramshackled march,their interm ittent fire

,the ravages

they made of poul try in their marches,of their general

cumbrous and inefficien t look. No wonder the local militiaused to be called The Locusts, for they cleared the country .

Then the Yeom anry,and their dusty triumphal entrance once

a year into Diddl eton,shall I ever forget N0 charge of

Cromwel l ’s coul d have emptied more saddles than a wheelingmanoeuvre used to on field—days and as for the fat maj or

,how

his hat used to blow OE"

,and how the colonel ’s horse

,if he ever

dismounted,used always to break away ! How hot and dusty

they always were,how they seemed bursting through their

dragoon bob-tail j ackets,how those hu ge! swords used to

chink about the streets,how the gall ant men used to brag

and drink The city,while the Yeomanry were there

,seemed

always as if it had just been sacked in a most comfortableway.

A good old country gentleman I on ce'

kn ew used to tell threetimes a day for forty years his adventures when he served in theCityLightHorse Volun teers

,a gallant corps

,indeed

,of Citymen ,

light perhaps on horseback,but I should think unsurpassably

heavy in conversation,to judge by my friend . He lived in his

early heroism,left his sword and sabretasche hung up in hi s

study to provoke remarks,had regular traps and means to lead

on to his stories,and always began them by swellin g out hi s

chest,perkin g up his chin, and saying, I once drew my

sword in defence ofmy country.

” His forced march to Ealin g

(like Maj or Sturgeon’ s) surpassed Napoleon

’

s attack of Lodi,

and the return to Hackney was som ethin g like the retreatfrom Moscow

,only shorter

,and in the summer. If that gal

lant corps— and I say it advi sedl y—had had the opportunities

THE BUCKINGHAMSHIRE M AN . 27

the regular s had, they woul d have done gall ant things— butthey hadn ’t .The other day I chanced to meet an old mi litiaman who wasgreat about the old days

,and in the bygone glories of Stowe

and the Duk es of Buckin gham . I met him in a railway carriage thus :I was on my way to Ireland

,to establish a company for

Draining the Bogs of Al lan in search of a Dani sh Treasure,”

which had been recommended to me as a good thing to investmoney in .

I had refused to buy an “ Illustrious Noose ; I had beendriven at by your leave” by ploughin g perambulating trucksfull of luggage ; I had had my ticket ni pped by somethin gbetween a dentist’s key and a cork-presser ; I had at last takenmy seat in a second-class carriage, arran ged my plaid, laidmy Times in a sort of Freemason’s apron over my knees, andwas gettin g all ataut . The day was burn ing and golden, thesky blue and spotless

,except where the white clouds bill owed

and toppled about like poised avalanches . The bell rang, theguard waved his red flag , we were off with a hiss and trample,and a pul sation as of som e angry giant’s heart.I settle myself down in the spare box of a carriage, I establisha treaty and all iance of legs with the Buckingham shire man

,

who I find has been a m iliti aman,which is a tie between u s .

Lady’

s maid, sal l ow and waxy with sitting up late at night,

cheerless,for ladi es coming home from gay parties

,subsides

into a stupor of rest,in the corner. The drummer— such a

drummer — a little pink-faced boy,say about fourteen

,frank

,and

at his ease, wi th his great white bufi’

belt,with brass scutcheoned

buckle, lying before him on a vacant seat,beside his knapsack

,

onl y numbered with name,No . of company

,and detachment .

How firm and disciplined,and almost gentlemanli ke, he looks

with his black trousers lined with red cord,and hi s little

scarlet frock, fringed white at the shoul ders , and striped andepaul etted with white lace , and studded with blue fleur-de- li sreminiscences of Cressy and Agincourt

,and our old French

claim .

The Buckinghamshire man, in an energetic and robust way,

28 CROSS C OUNTRY.

announced himself to me as having been for thirty-five yearswatchman of Olney parish

,sheep-shearer

,brewer

,and guide to

Cowp er’

s cottage, where the poet kept his tame hares andwrote the hymns, and other cur iosities . He was a cheery,ruddy, large-made man, with eyes of washed-out blue, big,round, and staring ; in his gestures demonstrative, stampin g,an d redundantly energetic .But I must go back to the starting . Ching

,clang ! ching,

clang ! ching, clang ! went the Euston- square bell . Whew !whew ! whew ! went the guard’s whistle . Another drumm erboy, with two m edals at the breast of his scarlet coat, and whohad come to see his younger comrade off

,thrust his hand in at

the window to give him a last shake .

G‘rood-by, Tom ,

” said the rough,kind stripling

,take care

when you get to the station to go straightn

home,and don’t let

any blackguard wheedle your money out of you ; get to yourfather and mother

,then you are all right . Think of the

regiment . Mind and write to the drum-major .A demon—thirsting scream gave the signal .Good-by, Tom,

” said the lad .

Good-by, Jack , said the boy .

The little fell ow would have liked to cry,but he was a sol

d ier, and a soldier’s son

,and he didn’t

,but he gave a rather

rueful look at the blank ,square wi ndow— no kind

,sturdy face

there n ow—and to hide his faint heart set to work buckling upan d arranging the great

,squar e

,b lack knapsack

,on which his

name, Thomas Wil son,Scots Fusiliers

, 27, 3rd Company,”

was inscribed in great white letters . Then he shi fted hi s linenbag

,or haversack

,whi ch was slung at his side by a lin en belt

passin g over his shoulder ; he adjusted his smart foragingcap

,with the strap on his lip

,and loosened

,just to feel he was

out of Trafalgar- square barracks,his white buckskin belt with

the brass badge of a buckle . He was not goin g to compromisethe character of the army among civil ians .We passed out of the great shadow of the station tunnelthat fell on the white page of the book I was reading li ke thebroad shadow of some evi l angel ’s hand . Champ , champ ! rattle,rattle ! like the roar of a milli on of Parthian cavalry chafing at

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0 C ROS S C OUNTRY .

Bucks relapsed into silence after this simple homily on virtue,

and proceeded with his staring blue eyes to take a careful inven tory of the drummer

’ s fantastic dress from top to toe : hisscarlet coat, a little purple and faded in places , its long stripesof dull white lace worked with blue fleur-de-lis (strangetradition of the old Agincourt quarrel), his stiff collar, with itsrufi

'

of blue and white lace,his neat belt and shini ng brass

,and

his soldierly trousers of black,corded down the seams with red .

Bucks never seemed to have enough of it .

This is the stuff to make a soldi er,said he suddenly

,with

intense enthusiasm,such as men who remember the old French

wars and volun teerin g days can onl y feel n ow it is the fashionto be so phi losoPhi c and cosmopoli tan . Wert in the Crimear

,

lad,eh ? Did ’st box the Rooshian s , lad ?N said Tom

,stoutly and honestly

,but that comrade

of mine,who you saw shake hands with me, was, and was

wounded,too . The band

,you tkn ow,

have to carry off thewounded .

Look at this lad now i” said Bucks,addressin g every one

,

and proudly,as if he were his father

,with stentorian voice

,

hittin g his cordur oyed thigh violently with his clenched fist,

I saw,last week as ever was

,a regiment pass through Tring

with a drummer-boy no bigger than him ,and they stopped at

the public-house the Malt Shovel,in Trin g

,where I was brewing .

Lor’ bless you ! what a stir the farmers made with t’ lad . Ido believe if he could have eaten gold they'd have given it thelittle lad . (Al l this our honest friend Spoke as if he waschewing every word

,forte e molto staccato .) Bread and

cheese,good Lord ! I should think so ; good strong ale (six

bushels to the barrel) , and rattling good double Gloucester tillhe could not eat any more . I thought they ’d have made himdead drunk

,but the brave boy (he was the bugler) pushed

back the glass at last,and said

,as stout as a lion

,

Thankee,gentlemen

,all the same

,but I ’ll take no more

,or

I shall not be abl e to do my duty to-morrow— thank you all

the same . ’ And HE DID NOT , for all the pressing . AhI’twas

a brave bugler lad,that was .

”

The drummer was intensely interested,and unconsciously

,as

THE BUCKINGHAMSHIRE MAN 31

Bucks spoke,kept unbuckling his knapsack by a nervous rest

lessness of fingers .

“Well,next day

,went on Bucks

,I saw this bugler go

up to the sergeant,who had stopped his week ’s money to pre

vent his spendin g i t . It was all kindness of the sergeant,

but sti l l he had no business to do it .

”

“ No sergeant had no busin ess,said Tom

,determ inedl y ;

a sergeant can’t interfere with the boy ’s pay unl ess he hasbehaved bad .

”

Well,

” continued Bucks,encouraged

,

“ the bugler boywent up to him

,B RAV E A s A L ION (roars so that the lady

’ smaid drops the limp novel , thinking there is a collision, andhenceforward li stens like a wise woman),

“ ‘Why have yous topped my pay, sergean t said he .

The sergeant said,Never you mind

,boy .

’

But he said,

‘ I wi l l mind . I ’ll have my fair money.

’

Then the sergeant said,

‘ I ’ll report you .

’

But the drummer went on sayin g,If you don

’t give methe money

,I’ll report you , sergeant .

’

Then the sergeant,in hi s burning rage and furious spite

,

call ed out to another boy to sound the bugle,and he did it

sounded a sound,but rather weak and poor like

,and the men

who were by, laughed, and tapped their muskets on the floor .

Then the boy stood up again as bold as a hero,and said

,Is

that the way you sound a sound ? Give it me An d he tookthe bugle

,and blew such a soun d

,so clear and true

,it was

good indeed to hear . He said,That is the way, sergeant, to

blow the bugle-call ! ’ Imagine this story told in a j ovial,

unflin chi ng crescendo of voice, endi ng with a complete burstof laughter that stunned u s .

We all laughed,which encouraged Bucks

,and made him ten

times noisier and redder. His face n ow was a burning coalhe must have been drinking . He n ow amused himself by goingover all the boy’s accoutrements . This

,

” says he,i s where

you put your clean shirts in for hom e,your pipeclay

,and your

bru shes ; this is for your prog ;” and so on

,touching each

article like a showman as he went ou .

32 CROSS C OUNTRY .

Did you ever put your head in a beehi ve P” said Bucks,

turning sharp round on me.

N said I,sm il ing

,and watchin g his light blue Saxon

eyes and inflammatory face .Well, then, that

’ s just the feeling I have in my ears afterbeing a bit in London—dang

’

d,dirty

,noisy place ! How

glad I shall be to get back to Oln ey ! I ’ve worn this,said

he, touching the boy

’ s red uniform,though you wouldn ’

t

thin k it .

”

You have said I,with an expectant surprise

,whi ch was

as good as saying,Let u s hear

,then

,all about it .

”

Bucks began by clenchin g both his red fists,and placing

them firmly on his two knees then, putting his head on oneside , he opened fire thus :

“ I was in the Bucks Militia myself when I wor eighteen— yes , I wor— eighteen as never comes agin, when one doesn

’tcare for the king on his throne

,not u s l’ (Violently, though

no one interrupted him,but his nature was combative .) I

remember when the old Dook of Buckingham,father of the

present dook (he’s not worth a bad farthing now) , reviewed

eight hundred of u s in the great park at Stowe . He was a bigman , he was , a rattlin g good waggon-load of stuff, he was .

(Laugh ) Seventeen stone,if he weighed a hounce

,gentle

men . He used to come in his open yellow barouche everyparade day

,and have his two greys (he always drove greys)

drawn up with their two noses exactly opposite the two bigdrum s (digs his two hands into two typical places on his twothighs) , so as to accustom ’

em to the noise,so as they

shouldn’t never shy. Yes,I remember as well as if it was

yesterday the speech he made to u s the last revi ew day— ah,as

well as if it was yesterday ! I was only eighteen then .

”

(Tone of manly regret not incommen dable.) This is whathe said

,said the dook : Ofii cers and men of the regiment of

the Royal Bucks militia,I thank you heartily for the adm irable

manner you have conducted yourselves under arms ’ (so we had-we had all presented arm s when the dook came on thegroun d) , and I invite you all to dinner this afternoon in atent in my park ; and all those who have fathers , mothers ,

THE BUCKINGHAMSHIRE M AN . 33

sisters,or sweethearts

,let them brin g them wi th them .

Officers and men of the Royal Bucks Mi litia, I wish you farewel l and good appetite

“ Bravo !” said I .

Ah,bravo

,indeed said Bucks . That was acting like a

king— ay, he was a king ! -and we all went . Every manjack of us had as much roast-beef and plum-pudding as

he coul d eat : good streaky beef,too

,j olly good puddin g,

plenty of plums,and a quart of strong ale— Bur ton— that

woul d stand by itself ; and every one had a pound and a halfof it to his own cheek

,besides a large three-corner cocked-hat

slice to take home for one’s friend or sweetheart . I took minehome to a sick brother .”

Good said I,that showed the heart in the right place

,

that did . Drummer’s eyes kin dl e at the memory of pudding,

— pudding being a sort of divinity with boys . Then,ashamed

of being caught worshipping puddin g, he l ooked at his redcorded trousers

,and arranged his belt .

Bucks continued stormier than ever . Well,and every five

of u s militia had a sort of flower-pot thing to put hi s grub .

in,and a cup—a new tin cup— to each one for his malt

li quor .Much speaking I threw in .

Lor’ bless you said Bucks,

“ I should think so—toastessesand cheering and stampin g. How I got home to Bucks I don’tknow

,but I did it in time

,by zigzagging all through Stowe

Park and the long avenue.“ Lor’ ! to hear the speech-making in the red-striped tentand in the house

,both at the same time

,two or three ris ing at

once . It was darned good fun,I can tell ye. (Slaps his knee,

the nap of which many thousand previous slaps have altogetherremoved

,and doubli ng up with a colicky chuckl e that was

almost too much for him,at which the limp

,pale lady’s maid

sm iled dolefully,and in a way that implied sm iles were irreli

giou s , unbeseeming, and ungenteel) . Speech-making ! Ishould rather think there was

,plenty of it, all under the

flags in the marquis,as they called the tent set up on pur

pose for u s to dine i n,near the Playing House

,as it was.

D

34 CROSS COUNTRY .

called, where the deer killed in the park used to be preparedand every tim e a toast was drun k the yeomanry guns firedthree times” (shakes hi s head) yes they did . Then the dockgave the best men prizes for running in sacks , grinnin g througha collar

,shooting at a target

,dipping for sixpences in treacle,

and all sorts of pastime,for the gentry likes to see the

tenantry busy about in these gala days .”

That was doing it like a king,

” said I .

What fun I” cried Drummer Tom .

It was doing it like a king,said Bucks ; and he wor a

king : m ore than another dook I know of was ; he who waspelted with what I should not li ke to mention (dreadfull ymysterious) , in the streets ofBuckingham ,

and who then sworehe would do for the place

,and make the grass grow in the

streets .“ An d so it did

,

” said I ,“ when I last saw it ; it was fast

asleep was Buckingham,and snoring .

“ Yes,the dook he moved the ’sizes

,said Bucks

,fiercely,

and all that, to Aylesbury, to pay them out . Dear me, whata grand place Stowe was in the old days ! It was a reg’larlittle kingdom

,was Stowe

,shut in with ‘ a ring fence— south

front n ine hundred and sixteen feet from east to west— I’vepaced i t a thousand tii n es—massy stone lions

,and Corinthian

statuaries,and all that

,pieters

,and hun dreds of weight of

books,and water

,and green turf

,and bushes

,and a flight of

thirty-one steps from the entrance to the lawn . It wor beautiful . You never clapped eyes ou—no

,that ?you didn

’t“ I suppose you know Bucks well said I .

Ah that I do,” said Bucks

,and en ough,

'

too , Risborough ,and Leighton Buzzard

,and Berkhampstead

,and Wendover

,

and High Wycombe (good ale there) , and Beaconsfield, andWoburn

,and Newp ort Pagnell . Bucks , too ! You should see

the gilt swan in the Town-hall how it used to shine on marketdaysWhat after the fall of Stowe I inquired .

No,

” said Bucks,

“ no,no

,sur , long ago and I knows

Olney,too

,well

,that I do . I ’ve been watchman there

,man

THE BUCKINGHAMSHIRE MAN 3 5

and boy, thirty years . You ’ve heard of Muster Cowper, thepoet

Of course I have,and his Olney Hymns

,too

,said I .

Bucks (enraptured) cried , Yes,yes

,and Mrs . Unwin, and

the pet hares,and all on ’

em ! Well,I show gentlemen and

ladies the house and summer-house where he used to write,

md the garden,and where the Throckmortons

,who were his

friends , used to live . The Ouse,you know

,runs through

Olney .

”

It was a melancholy,dull place

,for a melan choly man to

go to , said I .

Bucks took no notice of this remark,but broke fresh ground .

We have had a powerful lot of fires lately,

” said he in cen

diary fires— in Oln ey : a dozen cottages or more burnt downi n a year or two .

”

That ’s a bad j ob,said Drummer Tom .

It i s a bad job,said Bucks . How they goes and breaks

out I don’t know,and nobody knows ; but we must try and

get at the bottom of i t,we must . There is no ill-will between

master and men,not as I know of —(stops amoment and slaps

hi s knee) the whole thin g is a mystary, a perfect mystary.

F’r’aps it’ s the gipsies .”“ You ’ve seen hard work

,I shoul d say

,to judge by your

face,said I .

Ay l that I have , sir . I tell you what, s ir , I have stood atsheep-washin g every day for three weeks

,from six in the morn

ing till eight at night,and hardly taken bit or sup from week

’

send to week’s end—hadn ’t taste for it—nothing but drink forme then .

”

Well,but one farmer’s sheep would never last three

weeks I inquired innocently,knowing no better .

One farmer I” said Bucks,contemptuously ; why, I washed

for half the county,so much the score . Tell you how I di d it.

I stood up to my lines in water,ready to take the ship then

my matej1 passes me the ship, I takes him head and tail ,

rubs him well all over,back and belly ; then ducks him , and

passes out to the mill tail . A l l the wool as comes off in myhands goes to me for parqu is ites— it does , true as I sit here,

1) 2

36’

C Ross C OUNTRY .

gen’

lemen . Terrible hard work,cramping work too

,worse than

salmon-fishing . Of course you come out now and then for adrop to mix with all the water you’ve sopped up, he said

,

sympathisingly. Bucks winked,clenched his teeth

,and rubbed

his eyes,like the maddened gambler in Hogarth I tell you

what,muster, I

’

ve drunk as much as nine or ten quarts of

strong ale a day,besides spirits

,and it had no more effect on

me at the time than mere water,believe me but afterwards

I had a raging,burning fever, as they called the del iddl eum

trimm ings,orful bad it was— no that worn ’

t the name,it was

somethin g li ke deleerium screamen s,I know there was rum in

i t. But now,thank God (God be thanked l) , I have not touched

ale or spirits for these six months ; and look here”

(tremendousenergy ; invites me to pin ch him ; and pinches the frostyhealthy reds and purples of his cheek) —

“ you’ d think I ’

d

been just flushed with gin,wouldn ’t you 1° Didn ’t you ?

I confess I thought you had been taking a farewell glass,

said I .

N0,not a drop , said Bucks , evidently exhilarated . Feel

this arm : this colour is all nateral colour,and if it wasn’t

for a little ailment and sourment occasionally, I don’t know

now,at seventy

,whether I was ever better in my life .”

So you have been up , I suppose, to have a day’s holi day in

London— to see St . Paul’s, the British Museum ,and Madame

Tussaud’s wax-works said I .

Bucks whispered, putting his face close to m ine, I’ll tell

you al l about it , for you and I put our horses together verywell

,and I feel quite neighbourly towards you

,though you ’re

a gentleman and I a poor working man.

”

Guard cries,

“ Stafford ! Stafford !” Bing, bang, goes the

bell .Here’s how it is : George— my son George—is in London ,

his going came about thus : he had been a long time without work

,and he and his wife were li ving on me

,and that

preyed on George,so he got silent and moody like

,and sat

alone and said nothing,and mumped so that one would have

thought he had fallen out with me (my missus, poor dear old’ oman

,you must know

,has been dead these five year) . Well ,

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38’

CRos s COUNTRY .

so good morning to you,sur ! I wish you a pleasant j ourney

and every excess .Thus the Buckinghamshire man and I parted .

CHAPTER V .

OPEN ING A WILT SHIRE B ARROW .

WHEN a friendl y letter cam e to me one bright day last spring,from Oldbuck

,a country squire down in Ramshire

,that great

sheep-breedin g country,begging me to come and assist at the

Opening of one of the great Ramshi re tumuli,I lost no tim e

in at once packing up my portmanteau and settin g oif by theS .W . R . to visit my old antiquarian friend

,my chum at Eton

,

and my comrade in the huntin g field.

There is a charm in opening anything,whether it b e a

parcel from the country,or a box of books . I like the first

analytic cut at a Stilton,the first ride over a new line of

country,the first dip of the line in a new stream . There is a

hope and expectancy about it,coupled with a mystery in the

unsounded depths of the un tried,which I suppose produces the

pleasure .But here the mystery sets one’s antiquarian imagination indeed on the burn and on the boil . We might find a skeleton inarmour

,one ofDeath’ s sentinels

,with spear and sword laid ready

besides its fieshl ess hands . We might for all I knew,dig

up Caractacus himself,or B oadicea’

s first cousin , or some silentBriton who had seen Caesar, and drawn a c

bow at the legionaries . We might see through the fresh , dark earth a greatgold torque

,one of those collars of twisted bullion that the

ancient British kings wore,or one of those tiaras of gold plate

that the arch-Druids donned on great mistletoe-cutting festivals?when the men with the white and blue robes and the goldensickles rehearsed Norma on the most tremendous scale in theoak forest

,or round the sacred circles of grey stones .

A dog-cart, steered swiftly by Oldbuck, bore me from the

OPEN ING A WILTSHIRE BARROW . 39

station to the pretty Ramshire cottage, where my antiquarianbachelor friend hoards his fiin t-axes

,elk-horns

,torques

,old

coins,an d bronze spear heads. Al l I remember that night was

a drive under a mile or two of black-boughed elms,among which

the star s seemed to hang l ike fruit,or li ke the little tapers that

twinkle in a Christmas-tree,a door Opening into a glowin g

room,a supper

,some seething grog, and a plunge into a

feathery ocean of best bed . I dreamed of Caradoc and Yorti

gem ,of Boadi cea in Bloomer dress and pink parasol , on a

velocipede leading a charge of perambul ators on the XLegion

,Colonel Bibo commander. I remember a large modern

dinn er party, with Oldbuck wavin g a knife and fork at oneend of the table

,and swearing because the servants did not

bring the saddle of moun tain and,when the j oin t did appear

,

10 ! it was a great tumul us that covered all the table, and atwhich we all began diggin g and scratching as if we were somany rabbits .When I awoke next morning, I thought at first I was in acathedral

,and was starin g through a great crimson stained

window,but it proved only to be the sun-light shining through

the red curtains . They were not angels as I had dreamed inthe choir

,but the thrushes and blackbirds sin ging in the

laurels outside,boasting of their blue eggs

,and their thrivin g

fam il ies,and runnin g off such roulades and fiorituras for

all the world like a set of angeli c music-masters practisin g,

or a little choir of cherubim out for a holiday. When Ien ched myself from bed and looked out at the sky, the colourof a forget-me-not

,and saw the sun actually blazin g on the

glossy laurel leaves,and the swallows studying entomology like

so many transmigrated Kirbys and Spences and Rev . Mr .

White’ s of Selborne,I felt quite ashamed of myself in not

having been up to watch the pyrotechnics of a Ramshire sunrise

,the onl y thing which Oldbuck acknowledges to be as good

as it was in the thirteenth century.

I was busy down stairs watchin g a monster of a speckledthrush pul li ng a worm out of the lawn, which he did with a

give and take,pull-baker pull-devil principle

,l ike a sailor boy

at a rope a li ttle too heavy for him,when the breakfast gong

40’

cnoss C OUNTRY .

went off and Oldbuck appeared instantly,like Zadkiel at the

s ame summons,in high spirits—with Colt Hoare’s Wiltshire

u nder his arm . It lay on the side table beside the frill ed ham,

and was occasionall y referred to during our mea l by my enthus iastic friend .

Breakfast done,the dogs loosed

,in case of a rabbit

, off wes et to Peterwood

,a fir plantation about a mile away on the

downs,where the resting-place of the ancient Briton we were

going to wake up, lay. The keepers were to meet u s on theupland with pickaxes

,spades

,and other resurrectionary appa

ratus .Oldbuck was great upon the pugnacious

,illogical Celt

,on

the boat-headed Pict,on the long-headed Scot

,on the Belgae

,

and the All obrogae, and the Cangi, on the slow struggle thatthe Romans had for Ramshire

,winning it red-inch by inch

,and

dyking back the blue-pain ted deer-slayers with trenched campand palisade and mound : for the eagle was no dunghill cock ,and never turned back to its eyrie till it had driven its beakclean into the brain and heart of its enemy .

It was such a day of soft burning blue,with now and then a

triumphal arch of rainbow for Queen April to pass under, weepin g like a bride in mingled joy and pleasur e . The roadsidebanks were starred with cowslips

,weighed down by tax -collect

ing bees , and under the tasselled hazels the royal purple of theviolets formed a carpet fit for the foot of Venus . A s for thebosom in g white clouds

,their edges were so round and sharp

cut that,had they been so much white paper cut out and

stuck against the sky, they could not have looked harderedged but they perpetually changed shape so often, andfolded

,and lhted, and scattered so much like snow turned into

vapour,that they relieved the inquisitive and un sati sfied mind .

In the farm-yards that we passed,the pigs were

,as usual

,

wallowing in the straw jungle,or lyin g on their sides in the

sun ,in sleeping ecstacy ; while the cock, his crest trans

parent crim son,Su ltan i sed on the sunny side of the rick,

where the elder boughs were buddin g fresh and free as A aron ’srod .

Now we reached the grizzled down,speckled with furze,

OPEN ING A WILTSHIRE BARROW . 41

churlishly blossoming yellow ami dst its thorns , and strikin g upan old Roman road

,called the 01: Drove

,we m ade straight for a

white board,with its legend warning off trespassers who could

not read,just on the skirts of the fir plantation, where the

barrow was . A long l ine of tumuli, the labours of that modern barrow-maker

,the mole

,pointed our way. A shout from

the interior of the wood showed u s we were right , as Oldbuck ,

quoting Chaucer, a sure sign of his being in the highest spirits,anade a plun ge am ong the firs

,and I followed him .

Here was the Briton’s burying-place— a low mound, covered-with scanty grass

,and brown fir needl es

,and resinous scaly

n‘ir cones , and just a violet or two, such as sprang from thetears of the children in the wood . It had been ni bbled awayby time, and rain s , and heat, and the friction of winds , andrabbits ’ feet

,and foxes’ scratching

,till it was now a mere small

wen of earth,half hidden among the coppery fir-trees it was

very many centuries since that mound was soft, fresh earth,and since the warm tears fell fast upon its surface . He has sleptlong enough . Very ancient Briton

,it is tim e for you to rise .

It is a fin e morning. You will find the country improved .

Steam , s ir, that wonderful invention, has revolutionised theworld . I will lend you Pinnock’s Catechism

,and you shall

read the History of the Norman Conquest,my good man .

These late habits never led to good .

”

The two keepers , who look like the sextons in Hamlet, areof a coppery, winter-apple colour, and are of a strong build,well adapted for grappling with poachers . They both wearvelveteen jackets

,stained with hare ’s blood

,and smeared with

fish slime, and their legs are cased in hard leather gaiters , thatlook like greaves of rusty iron . To it they go, as if theywere digging for treasure

,paring off the pads of turf

,chopping

at the clawing roots of the firs,and picking out the broken

bones of mother earth,that men call flints

,and geologists

sponges .

Oldbuck advised strongly at once cuttin g to the centre ofthe mound on the Colt Hoare principle

,in order to reach the

central burial chamber,which is generally found constructed

of four square stones . We opened,therefore

,two trenches

,one

42 CROS S C OUNTRY .

in a perpendicular,and the other in a horizontal direction

,so

as to meet in the centre.Oldbuck took a shovel

,I a spade

,and we worked as well as

the best no navigators ever earned their wages more satisfactori ly than we did . The elder keeper

,with the white m oth

trout-flies round his rusty hat , toiled after u s in vain . Wesoon came upon the remains of bodies

,at first merely small

finger bones, brown ,and not unlike the m outhpieces of pipes

,

then the ends of ribs,protrudin g like roots from the slab s of

clay,then empty boxes of skulls, men

’s and women’s,then

puzzle-pieces of disjointed vertebrae. Oldbuck was in raptures .Some bits of rude

,black

,unglazed pottery were next thrown

up , and the brown bones, pil ed up at the foot of a fir-tree ,began n ow to grow- into a heap that

,when put together

,would

have been sufficient to build up six or seven human beings .But bronze spear head

,or brooch

,or Celt axe

,we found not,

much to Oldbu ck’

s mortificati on .

I coul d not help thinkin g that as for the glazed pottery itlooked wonderfull y like the fragment of a modern Briton ’ sblack teapot ; but I dared not say so to Oldbuck , who washanging over it as Romeo might have done over Jul iet’ s glove .It was certainly the base of some culinary vessel

,rudely

fashioned in to a round shape, and totally without ornament,not even that toothed edge

,which so resembles the decoration

round the edge of a beef- steak pie,and which the modern cook’ s

kni fe so readily executes .A s for the leg-bones, which had left moul ds of themselves inthe clay they had so long been imbedded in , they were sadlycrumbly and porous

,white thread-l ike roots of bent grass had

crept in to their socket s , the blue poisonous fibres of couchgrass had grown through their tubes

,and matted round the

caps of the thigh bones . But the skul ls,some m ale and some

female,sent Oldbuck into paroxysms of theories and into pro

phetical utterances of new ethnological system s .They were certainly curious

,and adapted to set one thinkin g

about the dwellers in the wattled houses,and the blue- stained

men who had trod the pleasant down s of Ramshire so manycenturies ago . Oldbuck declared violently that they served to

OPEN ING A WILTSH IRE BARROW .

establish ingeni ous Mr . Wright ’ s theory about the deformedskul l s foun d at Uricon ium where the Roman swords hadoperated upon them .

They were of a mean ape-like character, l ow,flat

,and with

scarcely an inch of forehead,though the bones over the eyes

(where the perceptive faculties are situated) were coarselyprom inent. They might have belonged to a sort of aborign alrace

,scarcely of greater m ental capacity than the Bushman

,

that had been destroyed by the Celt. The bones of the malesku ll s were of enormous thi ckness

,twice the thi ckness of skull s

of our own day ; so thick that a bronze axe coul d hardly havespli t them ; while the female skul ls were thin as terra-cotta,and fragile as deli cate pie-crust . Oldbuck suggested that themen

,bareheaded

,were out all day in the fen and forest ; while

the women remained in their huts , so that their bones rem ainedfin er and softer . I remindedhim of the old story in Herodotusof the battle fiel d, when it was easy to tell the Persian

’s fromthe Egyptian’s skul l

,because the one that had always been

kept coddl ed in a turban was soft, and could be cracked by a

stone,while the other

,that had been ever exposed to the sun

and wind,resisted the utmost degree of violence . Oldbuck

kneadi ng some clay out of the cavity of a Briton’ s skull withhi s fin ger and thumb, said the story was

“ very well indeed,

”

and he woul d make a note of it for his paper on the subj ect ofthis barrow .

Some teeth,too

,thatwe found set Oldbuck off again. They

were of a curious, low, animal kind , very narrow and long, morelike the front incisor teeth of a beaver than a man’s . They hadbe longed to a young man in the age before dentists they werestil l covered with beautiful white enamel

,and their edges were

not the least worn—only ju st a little deer’ s flesh the owner

had gnawed ; then, the struggle of swords , the blazing huts ,the glare of the advancing eagle— then darkness

,and this

long sleep under the mound .

All thi s while that we mused and ravelled out our dimtheories

,the fir wood was pulsing with the brooding

,motherly

note of the innumerable wood pigeons,the leaping squirrels

eyed u s from above,the little birds , perpetually thanking God,

44 CROS S C OUNTRY .

sang their secrets to each other among the bristling fir-apples ,and over the golden floor of moss and the last year’s leavesraced the rabbits

,frightened

,yet purposely and unrestrainably

inquisitive .And here

,then, cried Oldbuck , puttin ghimself in a Hamlet

p osition, with a skull of the low barbaric type in the palm of'his thin

,pale

,intellectual hand

,under these draughty trees

,

with the surf soundi ng ever through their prophesyi ng branches,“

must this Bushman tribe of hun ters and fishermen have dwelt,long centuries ago . Here their women must have cooked thed eer ’ s flesh

,and plaited the wattled huts

,and spread the fern

leaves for the beds,and prepared the arrows

,and nursed

the children ; here the sinewy men, with the low brows andblue-stained limbs

,must have wielded the fiin t-axe

,darted

the spear,and raced with naked feet over the springy down ,

wi th no thought of Rome, or of the swift-win ged eagle, til l on ebrooding day came the legionaries in close phalanx

,with a

bl aze of gold and purple,with a cloud of stones from the slings

heralding their approach,and stinging showers of arrows from

the light arm ed . They circle the wood,there is a crash of axes,

a jar of swords,a burst of groans and curses

,keen flames start

up in a sudden volcano of vengeance ; then a great silence, andthrough the twilight I see grassy mounds rising on the skirtsof the wood

,looking towards the lower country.

”

Here the keeper wiped his forehead,and threw out some

more bones,with a reflection that they were mortal old

,

"

whi ch seemed to cover all he thought upon the subj ect,thong

he did go on to tell u s that the barrow we were opening was ira li ne with two others

,some di stance off

,and that the trenel

from which the earth was taken for the barrow then speciallyunder consideration

,was still to be seen a few hun dred yard

off. It was his kippur’

s opinion that the large fl in ts foundimmediately over the bones were trod in upon them for securityand with mal ice aforethought . The kippur also was 0

opinion that the black particles here and there among the cartwere wood ashes

,whether placed there on purpose or not h

could not tell,not he.

Oldbuck here remarked that it became me to observe that

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46’

CRo ss C OUNTRY .

errands , and the blackbirds chinked and shot to and fro likepall-maker’s black shuttles .The shadows raced before u s along the broad white road

,

putting out the sunshine with di tful extinguishment,havin g the

efi'

ect of an Opening and closing eye perpetually on u s as wewalked . Even the old battered milestones

,grey with lichen

and spotted orange here and there,cheered u s by their les

sening numbers,and soon the brown thatched roofs and white

walls of Chalkton appeared before u s in a vision of sun light .Hearty red faces were on the platform ,

and round hats andpleasant eyes under them ; and just as the train cam e champingand snorting up , slewing round its vertebrated back and tail,Oldbuck shook my hand warmly

,and slipped into it the brain

pan of an ancient Briton,as a remembrance of the opening of

a Ram shir e barrow .

CHAPTER VI .

M Y F IR ST AND LA ST RA ILWAY COLL ISION .

TE you moun t the steps leadi ng to No . 3,Upas-tree Court

,

Inner Temple (thir d floor, left hand) , you will fin d on the outerdoor

,in white letters

,black rimmed

,on an oak ground

,my

name .On a foggy morning on the twenty- second November

,that

gentleman (myself) had resolved to go down on important legalbusin ess (first brief) to Wiltshire, my native county.

I was deep in a legal dream,and wanderin g through a cloudy

Westminster,where di ificu l ties entangled me

,and getting into

a sort of Castle-in the-A ir Chancery, when I was knocked backinto life by Mrs . Du stal l

,my laun dress, call ing out,

Seven o’clock , sir, and such a nasty morning.

”

(She needn’t have said that .) Thump went my boots . In

a moment I was splashin g in my bath like a tame mermanlearning swimming . But something troubled me, and hun gabout me

,like a damp shirt . What was it ?

IT WA s A PRE SENTIMENT .

A forebodi ng of evil it was, and I wi ll say it to the day my

MY FIRST AND LAST RAILWAY C OLLI S ION . 47

death,and would have said so even if nothing had happened .

It was as a nail in my boot , as a whitlow on my hand ; as aninvisible m ill stone it hun g about my neck ; and I coul d notfind the strin g that tied it on ,

so that I might cut it.Breakfast . Butter in pats

,clean-stamped as Greek cameos

,

bread fioury whi te, toast warm and absorbent, tea balmy andfragrant as Nepenthe—which some suppose it was—muttonchop juicy as a peach .

Mrs . Du stall,tie on that di rection . See if that barrel of

oysters has come . There ! bless me ! I ’ve forgotten my bootj ack ! Strap up that portmanteau . Thank you

,Mrs . Dustal l .

N ow call a cab .

” The laundress run s to St. Clement’ s cabstand

,soured at being driven out in curling papers into the

cold and wide,wide world . She calls the seven-caped cabman

readi ng aloft, upon hi s aerial seat, his reeking Daily Telegraph .

But I take five minutes more to glance at the Times .French Invasion. Leader on Thames Drainage . Anotherleader—Aboli tion of the Lord Mayor’s Show

, 850. A bottomparagraph

,at the bottom of the third column of the fifth

page :TERRIB LE RAILWAY A C C IDENT .

Let me skim it . Carelessness of pointsman— red signalm istaken for blue . Old story— foggy weather . Onl y threemen killed— stoker mortall y injured .

” Cambridge line,of

course . Old story—Why not hang a di rector P Who cares toread railway accidents ?

Oh,cab ! Thank you, Mrs . Dustall . Call the Gabby up for

my trunk and hat-box . Mind and send my letters on . Keepmy door safe shut. Good

-byI longed to breathe on the Wil tshi re downs

,where the strong

limbed hares enj oy a vacation uninterrupted by the opening oflaw courts

,and where rabbits are regardl ess of Westminster.

Tidd is on my hat-box , a neat little book on Real Property in my

great-coat pocket . I was off. I passed through the blackj aws of Temple Bar, but for one trifling regret, a free andhappy man . I knew that in less than an hour I should pass

,

as out of a cave,

’

from the tawny city fog into the bright autumnair, with just a dash of ice in it, so that the streams which b i

48’

CROSS C OUNTRY .

sect our partridge stubble-fields down in Wiltshire will looklike iced sherry and water .But there’s always a somethink,

as my laundress , Mrs .Du stal l, who is given to forming proverbial lozenges from herlife experiences

,says and there was “

somethin now . Weall of us have Damocles ’ swords hangin g over our turtle-soupdishes. There is always (if I may use the homely but mostpowerful sim ile) a button off the shirt of our temper . Thereis always a corn twitching upon the m ental foot ; so that ourperfect balance of health

,temper

,and wealth is not very long

together maintained .

A fretful presentiment of a key lost, or a desk left un locked ,buzzed about me like a l ittle mosquito demon . In and out itwent

,almost visible

,through thi s cab window and out at the

other. What was it ? I locked my dressing-case,my studs

are all right in my shirt-front,my desk I put away in a fire

proof cupboard . What was it‘

P There’s indeed always asomethink,

” philosophical Mrs . Du stal l !

I crane out of window : yes,trunk with the red star all right

,

parchment label fluttering prettily in thewind hamper, Glasswith care ; all chain ed to the rail on the roof of the cab hat

box,plaid

,umbrell a in oilskin case all right . Yet stil l that mos

quito of evi l . Still the dem on gnat flying over my nerves .What can it be that pinches me like a tight boot

,and yet has

no name ? I have i t. I t was that rai lway acci dent I was

reading , falling upon that prev ious presentiment ; it was thatwhich

,finding some unguarded loophole of my nerves, had got

in,disagreed with me

,and done the m ischief. Strange that I

,

who have skimmed over hundreds of railway accidents, to getquickly to the end and see the total deaths, shoul d be movedby the loss of three men on the famous Eastern Counties !I arrive at the station . A slammin g of doors, the wave of ared hand-fiag, a smother of white steam under the station roof,and we are off : shot out into the fog, that wraps u s at oncein its di ngy arms : rattle

,battle— that is the brick walling by

the engine sheds"

; clamp , champ— that is the great fire-horse,

striking out its brave limbs j olt, rattle ! j olt, battle —that i scrossin g the turn tables : that fellow in the green corduroy

MY FIRST AND LAST RAILWAY COLLIS ION . 49

j acket,bendin g on the low crank-handl e

,is,I believe

,the

pointsman .

“ Pointsman —something bit me,as i f a flea had got into

my mind . Why, that is what they call ed the fellow kil led yesterday at Splashread Bridge, on the Eastern Counties li ne. Whatmalicious demon is it puts these things into a nervous man’shead just as he is settling himself comfortably in the corner ofa railway carriage ,with Tidd on the seat before him,

and a neatl ittle book onReal Property fastened to it by a strap I suppose it is that special small demon whose pecul iar province itis to disturb men’ s equil i brium, and generally unchristianiseone by bluntin g one ’s penknife, spoiling one

’ s pen,ironing

o ff one’s shi rt-buttons, mislaying one’ s studs, making one

’sboots pinch

,and renderin g it impossible to arrange one’s white

tie with the bow anywhere but at the back of the neck . Thefog thi ns it is getting positively bright, though we are not atKingston yet ; fiel ds wi den, trees and hedges flow by u s as ifan in undation was bearin g them away, or as if we were in theark

,and were drifting on fast past them .

Thr ee stations soon distanced . Whiz , faster —whiz, faster !sl ide like a bull et through a gun barrel . Whiz — that

’s a viaductarch . Whish — click I— clack that’s another station and someshuntin g rails .Flight of white telegraph washing-lines

,miles of signal posts

,

and split red and white targets,and dul l red and green lamps

,

like prize jewels . Faster,till it takes the breath away

.Out

with the repeater and time it . Fast as the pul se—one,two

,

three l— fi fty miles an hour if it is a yard .

Slower ! slower ! now we slacken ! I thought we could nothold the pace . Slower ! My opposite friend gets anxious andlooks out of window . We can’t b e going to st0p at Farnborough station ?

C RA sn ! sMA sn ! BASH !Here imagine the end of the world . Fancy yourselves animaleulee

,shut up by accident inside a huge Brobdignag farmer’s

watch with a hizz , whiz , and centrifugal railway ru sh, whensnap goes the mainspring. Imagine those small creatures’

feelings of horror, surprise, and astonishment, and you

E

50’

cnoss C OUNTRY .

have ours,minus the fear . I felt no n erve shaken, though

my head was giddy and my spine was numbed . Imagine asoli tary man in a factory when a boil er bursts in the roomabove

,and the mill falls to pieces like acard house suddenl y

round his ears . Imagine a quiet man looking out of his bedroom window

,accidentally

,as he is shaving

,and seeing the de

luge coming up to the front door for a morning visit. Imaginea Pompeian just home from A thens

,and awoke by the red

lava stealing under his bedroom door . 3? t?

Bang ! shiver ! smash ! bash ! then an awful lull and deathst0p as of a mainsprin g run out . It was as if the train hadbeen struck full butt by a successful A rmstrong shot . Itwas as if we had been riding inside a battering ram

,and had

at last come full smash on a wall which had been too muchfor u s . I never rode on a cannon-ball

,and don’t want to do

so ; but an eighty-pounder when it beats in a French ship’

s

bulwarks could scarcely, I think, hit harder than this .Open fly the doors , some dozen white-faced men sprang

through the windows like harlequins in a practising class,out

poured the frightened people, lately so red and j olly ; but amin ute ago flirti ng, dogmatising, sneerin g, scandalising ,

frowning

,di sputin g, now al l full of one thought of terror

,all become

,

in that one terrible moment, as brothers and sisters : so levelling is misfortune . We were lately in a good ship

,all sail set

,

flags flying , no danger aft or fore or on the lee . Suddenlywe had struck on a reef ; we were leaking fi we were sinkingwe were a total wreck . Heaven knew only what still was leftfor u s . It might be but a moment to live for some of u s .

Perhaps already bleeding men were groaning their last un derthat pile of rui n where the red flame rose from .

The guards, white as wood ashes, were running about, flags

in hand, like the fuglemen of a scattered regiment . Far awayto the left

,at the end where the charge had been

,the engine

,

a heap of broken metal,was roaring like a lion taken in the

toils,and sending up waving pillars of flames ; its wood-work

had taken fire,and was spreadi ng to the fragments of the next

carriage .As for the passengers embracin g, or silent in staggered

MY FIRST'

AND LAST RAILWAY C OLLISION . 51

groups, they were unani mously white in the face . One strongfaced man was bein g helped from a carriage

,his face seeming

to ooze everywhere wi th blood. A lady was carried away,

cut,bruised, and nearly insensible , to the li ttle shed of a station .

A youn g farmer, seated on his striped carpet bag, was coveringhis face with his hands to squeeze out a jarrin g brainache

,pro

du ced by hi s being driven against a man opposite . Othersstunn ed

,shaken, and brui sed, were consoling, or being con

soled,or running to see what damage had been done to the

train,and what danger stil l existed . There were messengers

racing to Farnborough, three mi les off“

,to telegraph to

London for help ; there were guards and porters running upand down the line to put up danger signals

,and keep trains

nearly due from heaping more ruin on u s .

My presentim ent had then come true .My first bu siness, on seein g no help was needed, was to wrapup my plaid and books

,and run to the rui n of the engine and

the actual spot of the smash . I found that we had driven,at

ahn ost express speed, in to a ponderous goods train , laden withtimber and blocks of asphalte

,massive and unyi eldin g as stone .

This we had partly driven back and stove in , pounding theguard carriage behind to rags and pul p . Ou thi s bulwark our

own engine had beaten itself to pieces, by a series of leans,j olts

,and charges : it lay a wreck

,the funnel torn to pieces

and scattered about the platform,the iron plates j ammed in

,as

i f they were deal wainscotin g ; the buffers broken to morselsthe giant wheels dismounted and bur ied in the earth ; thewhole crushed and powerless as a silenced battery.

Beyond,and some yards further

,lay the timber-truck

,its

roof torn off at a distan ce lay the planks Splintered ; as forthe guard-carri age, it was torn to pieces as a band-box mightbe when a drunken man has stamped on it and trod itto bits . It lay in pulpy shreds and fragments as of rottenwood

,without shape and void

,and out of the pounded mass

reduced as in a pestle and mortar, in a desperate attempt of

ome starving apothecary to make deal soup—we picked a tornrag with a fragment of the stoker ’s bread-and-cheese, and two

E 2

52 C ROSS C OUNTRY .

j ammed and squeezed red books of by-laws,which looked as

if they had been disinterred at Pompeii .But the torn planks and broken iron

,and snapped-ofi

'

wheelsand rods

,were as nothing to u s— though they rose

,like the ruin s

of a cottage destroyed by a hurricane,on the rails—when the

fire of the engine began roaring up in a smoky red and yellowpyramid

,with a bellow and troubled roar as if howling for v ic

tims . There,busy amid the ruins

,the scared fireman and black

faced stoker were shovell ing in gravel to prevent the boilerbursting or the flame spreading. Before the great leapin g-outviolence we all fell back like the Babylonians in the old printswhen the furnace doors were opened to swallow up the childrenof Israel , and the furnace was heated seven times hotter thanit was wont to be heated z” we were al l then

,I suppose, in

that unconscious state of excitement,that if the earth had sud

den ly opened and swallowed u s all up, train, wreck, passengers,we should hardl y have made a remark .

Having once seen the pi le of débris,carriage roofs , iron bars ,

planks,and wheels

,I employed myself

,in accordance with old

habits,in beating slowly over the whole scene of the disaster,

determined by graphic observations,fresh as I was to such

scenes,to realise fully the horror and danger of such accidents .

A s I walked along the li ne of carriages,here and there crushed

or sprung,the fi rst thi ng I stepped on was a round bar of iron

or steel,thicker than my wrist when my two coats are ou ; it

had been,I imagine

,part of the un der work of the engine, and

was snapped short in two . The next thing I picked up was ajagged piece of the funnel, still black and smoking : it n ow

stands on my mantelpiece,a lively record of my escape . I also

foun d and handled a huge screw made of iron, bound wi thbrass

,which

,perhaps

,had formed the inner socket of one of

the buffers . It was cleft in two,as a sharp knife would ch0p

an apple at one stroke .Under the carriages

,blocks of iron

,like the fastenings of

sleepers, were strewn for thirty or forty yards ; and in one ofthe carriages ten or twelve from the engine, the floor plankswere torn up in great jags , protruding three or four feet, showing beneath them (between them and the ground) broken

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54 CROSS C OUNTRY .

an eye witness of the late collision or duel of the trains . Thushe put it to the friend he met

,pointing with a shake of his fat

head at the wreck . I was a long way from him,but I have the

keen,practised ears of a hunter

,and the air was clear and

resonant, so, puttin g my head on one side, I caught it all as in

a netLookun here

,Friend Jackson

,I was just crossing this

bridge when th’ express passed,and by the time I got up to

yon,where the lady and children are coming, I sees the other

train on the same line . I knew there would be somethinghappen

,so I push the old mare to a gal lop and got up just as

ur run in to nu .

”

He was n ot a graphic man,and seemed to have no further

thought of the accident .One thing was quite apparent

,and formed my moral of the

affair — that it is the uni versal custom in railway collisions tohush up everything as much and as s oon as possible . The brokeniron was spirited away

,the doors of the carriages where the

floors were crushedwere closed, the bruised persons led away, theru ins patched up, and the earth smoothed over the might-havebeen grave as craftily and quickly as possible . Every momentthe memory of the guards became more and more indi fferent .A fog every moment opaquer rose between u s and the accident .

N0 one was hurt, nothing was in jured . The engin e,worth two

thousand pounds,was a trifle

,and might be repaired . The

stoker was unharmed . The line would soon be cleared . Weshould be sent on to Basin gstoke

,where the Sali sbury train was

waiting u s . It was no one ’s fault ; no guard present had everbeen in more than two collisions before . The head porter atFarnborough thought it better not to speak ; it was not hisplace

,you know

,

” and the company did not like speakin g .

You never,from anybody

,could have gathered that we

,the

express train,had run into a goods train that ought not to have

been on the line,that they were shunting to get out of our way

a bad ten minutes too late ; and lastly, that danger signals ,both at station and on train

,if up, had been utterly useless,

and had been disregarded . One would really never have

MY FIRST AND LAST RA ILWAY C OLLIS ION . 55

thought that thr ee hundred Engli shmen had just been dr ivenover a place of graves and escaped by a miracle .The next morning, as I sat at a quiet rectory window inWiltshire, I opened the Times and read the following

FR IGHTFUL A C C IDENT ON THE L ONDON AND SOUTH

WESTERN RA ILWAY .—A_n accident of a very alarmin g character

,

and which might have been attended by a most fearful sacrificeof human l ife, occurred on Tuesday at mid-day at the Fleetpond station of the London and South-Western Rai lway . Itappear s that the 1 1 express train left the Waterloo terminus at the fixed tim e

,and proceeded with safety

,n otwith

stan din g the density of the fog which prevail ed,until within a

few mil es of its first stoppage,Basingstoke

,where it was due

at The F leetpond station is a very small place, and theofficial s there having a goods train in charge

,proceeded to shunt

it,in order to allow the express train to pass . To prevent any

accident the usual signals were displayed at the station and bythe goods train

,but it woul d appear that

,owin g to the fog or

some other cause,the driver of the express train could not see

them nor were the men at the station aware of the approachof that train

,for without any warning the express rushed

through past the station at a rapid rate,and crushed the back

portion of the goods train . The colli sion was most fearful,and

i t i s nothing short of a miracle that the lives of a large number of people were not sacrificed. The locomotive belongingto the express train- a verymagn ificen t engine , worth upwardsof £2000—was almost broken to pieces the tender and guard’ svan of the express train were also destroyed

,as were likewise

a number of the trucks belonging to the goods train . Theshrieks of the passengers were awful

,and it was feared at first

that several were kil led ; as soon, however, as the first shockwas over

,an investigation was made

,and it was found that ,

although the passengers had received a terrible shaking, andseveral were more or less bruised

,yet no loss of life had occur

red . It may be a matter of surprise how the driver and stokerof the train escaped with their lives

,considering that the engine

was destroyed ; but we are informed that these two men, on

56’

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seeing the imminent danger they were in,threw themselves

down, and thus escaped injury . Information of the catastrophewas at once forwarded to the Waterloo station

,and a number

of men were immediately despatched to render what assistancethey could, and to clear the line, but, fortun ately, the lin e hadbeen cleared before their arrival

,so that the traffic on the rail

way was not impeded .

”

Al l the evenin g of the day of the colli sion I felt l ike a manwho has been thrown heavily out hunting

,not bone-broken

,

but jarred from top to heel,with brow headache and general

sense of di sturbance . Now I began to un derstand why timi dmen shut the carriage window when a black tunnel swallowsthem : why, when a train slackens speed or stops, a dozenstarin g

,a nxiou sheads emerge like tortoises from carriage win

dows . Now I know why fretful men thrust the reekin g Timesinto your hands just as you leave a station

,and with fore

fingers jammed on a small paragraph about a collision, ask youangrily if it isn

’t shameful,sir

CHAPTER VII .

A RIDE TO STONEHEN GE .

Wi ere lapped in a rose-coloured cloud the last five milesfrom Sali sbury to Wilton

,as the train that bore m e towards

the breezy Wiltshire downs drove thr ough the sunset whichtinged red the white vapours that drifted on either side of u sfrom the wide black cannon-mouth of the engine funnel . Iimagined myself in tha shi p of the gods

,

” or divin e bal loon,

so famous in Hin doo mythology. I was rushing through theclouds at the rate of forty mil es an hour : did the old Pagan.

di vin ity travel faster than our modern Chr istian mortal ity —Itrow not.Need I say what I noted down as interestin g from the square ,

window of my padded carriage Fancies not worth the noting,

A R IDE TO STONEHENGE . 57

the reader may perhaps think stubbles bristling like yellowhair-brushes ;

” “green weeds wavering on the brook l ike drownedOphelia’s hair

,or a mermaid ’s emerald tresses the shy

slant,shuntin g off the rooks as they cross the train’s double

columned path — Verse-notes,such as a crow song

Wi th a flapping, flap , flap , flap .

At len gth I,a knight-errant of literature free for a day from

the smoky ri ot and the swampy mud of Babylon,shut up my

note book, pocket my pencil , and lie back to hear the gossip ofthe carriage ; a second-class carriage, full of damask-cheekedcoun try people

,hearty

,honest

,and un troubled by fears and

suspicions . There is a large farmer,whose broad stomach is

tapestried by a huge flowered waistcoat,whose seals are as big

as a child’s fist ; and som e youn g country chaps ” out for aholi day. Their eyes converse in kindly exchange

,b ut their

tongues are not fluent . Listen to them for a moment, just as

if you put your ear to a counting-house speakin g tube . WellJim

,how was you ?” Well

,I be nicely . How ’s mother

Thankee,she be purely . An d how’s Harry 9” Fust rate .

That’ s right . Where be you going T’ old folks .

That’ s bravely .

Here I cork up the tube . After some discussion on wool, asharp little man in the corner

,with starin g blood-shot eyes and

a droll mouth,informs u s generally that there was a capital

card in the carriage with him from Warminster a good’

un,

sure-Zg/ he had a bottle of port and a bottle of brandy,had

the good’

un . It appeared he had distributed the flu id largely,parti cul arly to the little tailor with the tell-tale eye-balls hewas volubly enraptured with the wit and vivacity of the

good’

un,who seemed to have been a returned di gger ; for at

the stations where he got out for beer to wash down the portand brandy

,he had always called to them to make haste, for

the big smoke ”

(the train) was just going on”

. The littletailor was (episodically) severe against the modern bankruptcylaws

,and advised any one who was going to fail to do it for a

large sum while he was about i t. He was also satirical on theseverity of rich men on poor men’s delinquencies, particularly

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drunkenness (here he innocently smiled). If poor So-and-Sogot drunk at his club -feast and missed work next morning, Mr.

So-and-So was astonished,and stopped the day out of his wages

but if Mr. So-and-So was the worse for liquor,lord he was at

his own house,and could get from under the table without bein g

s een, steal off to bed, and tell every one next day he had beenconfined with a cold . Oh

,I know all their tricks

,

” said he ,

and his eyes grew redder and funnier than ever.A shclifi

'

,cries the guard

,and the little tailor

,rolling out

a small avalanche tied up in a blue handkerchief from underthe s eat, wishes all the gentlemen a very good mornin g. Thedoor slams— the whistle sounds— and we are away.

Then, to break the silence, a mu iii ed-up man with a weakvoice, and a wrapper round his m outh to give him stil l more ofa conspirator effect

,begins about America. He was on board

the Ar ab ,” going to America

,when Mrs . Trollope was writing

her impressions of a country she had not yet seen . He

wondered where Catlin was gone to —Catlin,whom he had

t ravelled with down the Yel low Stone River,when the Black

feet were on the banks looking for buffalo . He had complaintsof the arrogan ce of John Fenimore Cooper . He had laughedwith Sam Sli ck at hisNovia Scotia stories . He had seen Irvin gat A stor House . He chatted about Barnum ’s ploughing withelephants, and starting an exhibition of photographs of all theunmarried beauties in America . He had been in the theatrethe night when the papers were to be read

,in competition for

the prize of one hundred guineas , offered by the Editor of theNew Orl eans Picayune for the greatest lie that could be invented. The hotel di nners in America

,were they good ? He

should rather thin k so . Once,at Cin cinnati, a man cried to

him ’cross the table,Why

,stranger

,we began together

,yet

you ’ve got down to prair ie turkey,and I am only at my

roast meat . I guess,if you carry on busin ess half as smart as

you do eating,you’ll lick every tarnation soul in this darned

great city .

” The fact was,the poor fellow had thought it

necessary to eat his way right through the bill of fare . TheIndi an element in the Yankee blood

,the effect of a subtle

climate on the Saxon brain,and the resul t of the junction of

A RIDE TO STONEHENGE . 59

Irish an d A meri can fun ,kept u s talking till the guard cried

Wilton,

” and I had to shake Mystery by the hand, and wishhim good-bye .I was soon in the Wiltshire Inn

,where the landlady, a portly

dame wi th the softest bloom of rose possible upon her cheek,received me with due formula . In sheets well blanched andlavendered I rehearsed my burial

,and lowered myself down

into a temporary grave of sleep . Next morning,directly after

breakfast,I had my horse saddl ed, to start for Stonehenge .

While the horse is preparing,and his stable toil ette is com

pleting, I go into the inn -

yarcl . The stable-door was a sort ofFamily Bible to the ostler . It was a genealogical tree

,a bundle

of Fasti, a Ragman’s Roll

,a Doom sday Book

,all in one

,to the

sporting landl ord . It was nailed on the inside wi th four orfive tiers of racers ’ shoes

,inside each of which semicircles was

a narrow slip of parchment,in scribed with the horse’s name

and deeds . Such names,and such deeds ! suggestive of glossy,

satin -coated ( chestnuts flea-bitten greys pepper-speckledblacks ; white-nosed j et mares ; strong-chested and sur e-limbedfiery roans, to whom rails were mole-hills, and seventeen-feetwi de brooks petty obstacles to snort and fly over ; all dul yrecorded in broad

,clumsy

,or fairy shoes .

The inn was a pleasant little WV il tshire cottage, with a pendant bird’s nest of an oriel window hanging over the porch ;j ust such a one as you might expect Benedict

,in slashed blue

hose and carnation-coloured cloak,to serenade with theorbos

in the dead of night . The grey thatch looks neat and grave asthe combed-down hair of a rustic on Sunday . There is a sortof Sabbath peace in the air ; a truce of God is in the sky,those larks going up through the blue are its heralds . Godbless them ! The laurels glitter in the sun like so many li ttleemerald mirrors ; the standard roses struggle with the bassbandages that imprison their young beauties to the old deadsticks , their withered husbands . I can read the titles on theircurled and sodden parchment labels

,as they flutter with gay

promises in the January sun,La Reine Margot

,

” La bell eDuchesse .” The crisp sharp grass glitters with a rain bowblossom of dew that

,out of the sun

,lies on it in a grey plush

60 C ROS S C OUNTRY .

gloss,l ike the nap on new cloth of silver . I can see the foot

prints, dul l er and deeper in colour, where the landl ord haspassed this morning

,to go and pick Brussels sprouts . They

trend round by that empty pond, where the dimple which isthe sprin g is candied over with ice, just as you would spreadcandied silver paper, not less thin, crystall ine, and transparent ,over a pot of new-made jam . Winter would pot u s all if hecould

,like this spring but we will not rem ain potted

,though

he does paint our windows with ice-fiowers,and fur our palings

with crystal ermine fur . I observe with a pain ter’s relish thelittle whi te trench the drippings have made under the eaves

,

the little net of blood-drops that dark-leaved creeper is spreadingover the wall

,and especially the stars of whi te and yellow

lichen black and savage Time is writing his ciphers in,in hi s

own di fficul t language, over the stones . I remark with n ewdelight that burnin g-bush of the holl y-tree

,that burns but does

not consume,its b erries red and glossy as sealing-wax kisses .

on February love-letters ; I marvel now to see it with leavesas of gilt transparent to the sun

,so that a sanctity and con

secrating halo seem to surround the tree which old legendmakers

,marking its thorny leaves and blood-drop berries

,

declared was the bush that furnished the crown of thorns forour Savi our’s sufiermg head. A s for the windows

,they shine

and sparkle like so much gold plate, so that the meanest cottage seems now to be the residence of some ostentatious goldsmith

,lavish in his display .

With a largesse to the ostler and the boots,and cheered by

their ostentatious blessin g as they give a last pull at my horse ’sbell y-band

,so that now no lady in the land is laced one half so

consumptively tight,I push forth

,humming over my scraps of

"

rhyme hammering at this one’s rivets,soldering up that one ’s

leaky j oint,or weldin g together two stray but congruous verses

,

li ke any wandering troubadour of the good old times, whennobody grumbled, and everybody in sisted, from sheer goodnature

,on paying double taxes . I ride by navvies with brick

red cheeks,heavy

,clay-clogged boots, tucked-up trousers, and

smocks knotted across their bul l -chests . I think of the Berseker Norsemen striding to their shi ps

,and almost expect to see

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petuall y advancing b illow leaping and moving, with me ridingon its crown, and hear the pad, pad, of the holl ow turf under herrin ging hoofs , I troll out a care-defying song, half-memory,half improvise

O tin kl e wen t the bridl e rings,0 pad, pad, wen t the hoo f,

The m erry soun d made the heart of me glad,An d the blue dev il s keep al oof

They’d houn ded me l ong, bu t I left them behin d

A s I tracked the sun an d hun ted thewin d.

Chink wen t the stirrup -steel and spur,

Chink wen t the gold i n my purseI gall oped on with n o thought in the world ,Happy as chil d at nurse.

After m e flew the bul l yi ng blast,Before me the whi te cl oud flew fast, fast.

Ting , ting, chorused the bridl e chain s,Talkin g to on e an other ;

As I gall oped over the down and moor

The blue sky, like a m other,

Watching me stil l with un swerving eye,Chi ded me because I tried to fly .

Tink, tin kl e wen t the chattering bi t,An d pad, pad, wen t the shoes

Both stri v ing strong wi th an equal songIn time to my caroll ing mu se.

The blue-dev i l s raced,and gall oped, and ran ,

B ut they coul d n ot catch the laughin g man .

I dash past numberless fir plantations,where the thick green

crystals of the firs contrast with the silver stripings of thebirch

,and the tight dull silver of the beech-bark . What is

that white board on a pole that stands out sharp and keenagainst the dark wood —a kn ightly challenge to al l comersfrom some golden statue of an elfin who is livin g in the greendarkness of this dim wood No ! the usual game-laws ’

churlish threatALL PERSONS FOUND TRESPASSING

WILL BE PROSECUTED WITH THE UTMOS’

I‘

rigour of the law,probably : but here some sturdy poacher

’sknife had split off the rest

,and left it as a laughing-stock .

A RIDE TO STONEHENGE . 63

Away I go past water-meadows , through villages, throughWinterbourne Stoke, where I bent to the long up-and-downAmesbury road, that leads to the higher down , where is theGiants’ Dance

,as Stonehenge is called by Geoffrey of Mon

mouth, who, lying wi th his usual dignity, declares that all the

stones were brought from Kildare by the enchanter Merlin ;the Emperor Ambrosius

,who had put Hengist the Saxon to

death,wishin g to commemorate hi s Victory

,and celebrate the

great massacre of Kin g Vort igern and the 460 Britons,by a

suitable monument .That side of the sun shone only that shone the way to Stonehenge

,whither the long gold-rul ed lines of sunbeam poin ted

me as with golden rods in the distance I could look back andsee the weathercock of Winterbourne Stoke church shining likea burning di amond in the sunshine

,wherein the tower seemed

to float like a great ark, for then the morning’s fog had all burnt

into blue of a li quid sapphire colour,and the white clouds were

swoll en out like the sails of angel-manned vessels . Flyingclouds

,woul d I could mount you

,and so get quicker to the

old Drui d’s temple ! But as thi s, I suppose, i s hardly possible

,I dig my spur s into Red Nancy, who answers the appeal

with a leap like a deer,and away we go at a pace that is a

caution to livery- stable keepers,printin g the dry

,dun hide of

the down turf with Greek omegas,and spurning out the blunt

parallel lines that the wheels of the tur f-waggons have m adesoon rising over the left -hand bank of down ,

I see the hugewide stones which form the old Temple of the Sun

,that Dio

dorus Sicu lus mentions : that is to say, he mentions thatthere was a sacred temple of Apollo in Britain, which i squite enough for your imaginatively hot though grey-headedantiquarian .

This is that ring of vast pill ars of hewn-out sandstone ,brought from somewhere near Marlborough

,that wrong-headed

Inigo Jones woul d have it was a Roman temple, about whichthere has been more ink than enough shed . This i s the Stoneedge

,or rather Stone-hang, the Saxon hanging-stones , that ,

according to those twaddling fairy-book old chroniclers,came

first from Africa to Ireland, and then from Ireland to Wilt

64 CROS S C OUNTRY .

shire ; which, considering that Pickford and his vans were thenin chaos , must have been rather an expensive transportationthan otherwi se . Old Caxton wrote about them

,and that addl e

pated gossip,Aubrey, too, who compares them to the celebrated

Grey-wethers near Marlborough . They look very wild andgrey as I ride up to them on Red Nancy

,who paws and snorts

as if I were Spurring her to do battle with a ring of giants . Idraw up under one of the great Egyptian doorways, my headcoming but half way up the grey shaft

,which

,as it is twenty

feet high,i s no wonder. A s I stand chipping at one of the

plinths,which

,though tufted with a grey hair of moss

,and

much starred and crusted with dusky grey and orange lichens ,breaks red and fine in the grain

,as if just from the quarry

,a buzz

as of a tremendous organ-pipe strikes up a hymn of peace andChristian civili sation from the little trim farm on the neighbouring slope , where those new barns and gates stand . Christianmen dwel l now wi thin hail of the old Pagan-work . Twenty ofthe forty stones of the outer circle remain , and some eleven ofthe inner nineteen . The outer still stand in threes

,or door

ways,two stones supporting the j oinin g one that li es across the

top under which great slab you can, b y changing your pointo f view,

get all sorts of strange combinations,

- fall en pill arsfgl impses of down and intersecting lines of sloping tur f,while you look either towards the Amesbury and Wiley road

,

or the Heytesbury and Warminster way. This great Druidi caltemple lies stranded on a small turf triangle on the Open down

,

between these two roads , and though once a lonely place enoughfor the win ds to whistle round, and the plovers to dip andc ircle over, is now almost frayed by the wheels of passing carts,and is not a greyhound’s breathings from the park-palin gs ofthe old Duke of Queen sbury

’

s property (now Sir Edmund AJ1trobus

’

s) , not a g im shot from a n ew farm,and wi thin two miles

of the vill age of Amesbury.

A s for Camden, he notices the great mortised stones hanging on each other

,twenty-eight feet high, and seven feet

broad ; but he half supposes they were made of some cement,exaggerates the height

,and reduces the four circles

,of which

traces exist,to three . So much for Camden ! Inigo Jones

,

A RIDE TO STONEHENGE . 65

whom that slobbering schoolmaster,James I .

,set writing upon

these wonders,runs quite astray : he calls it a Roman-Tuscan

temple, built about the time of Vespasian, who conquered theBelgic tribes of Wiltshire

,and thr ew up enormous ramparts

and earthworks— those huge rude hills,overgrown with gras s

,

at Amesbury and Yarebury adj oining. Indeed he falls into allsorts of blunders (all the worse for being learned) : call s theinner circle a hexagon

,falsely describes the entrances as three

,

and m issupposes that the ring is built on higher ground thanthe neighbouring down . A few years later, Mr. Charleton

,a

physician,refutes Inigo ’ s theory

,and plunges himself ten times

deeper into the ink-pot . He attributes it to the Danes duringAl fred ’s retirement in the Somersetshire marshes . The nextchampion of these never very clear writers isMr. Sammes

who hands it over scot and lot to the Phoeni cians . He i s followed by Mr. Keysler, a Hanoverian, who equall y resolutelypasses it to the Anglo-Saxons . In 1754, however, aroseMr . Wood

,a Bath architect

,who finally all but ended the

contest by agreein g wi th the eloquent and erudite Dr . Dummelthat the whole work was palpably Druidi c and British, andprobably erected about a hundred years before the Christianera . Since that

,the Welsh

,fierce in their charge upon Celtic

remains,have laid vi olent hands on these ruins , and hav e spun

all sorts of astronomical theories about these stone circles . Iti s certain that the Welsh triads do allude to whole tribestoilin g at pilin g up mounts , liftin g stones , and building worksand the Egyp tian antiquities prove to u s

,that at a very early

time,by means of earth-propping

,rollers , and the use of the

lever,the carriage of such stones was not impossible . A s for

the Druids’ doctrines,I am not going to bewilder my readers

wi th telling them how the old logans are types of the ark, orhow their night sacrifices were telegraphed across the countryby waved torches and fiery signals .

80 I will get back to Stonehenge, with its circles of greygateways gapped out here and there, and especially levelled onthe Wiley side

,as if destruction had come specially from

that corner . A s for the great outer circle and rampart, single

entrance,and walled avenue

,all that the purblind unantiqua

r

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rian eye can see now is but an 1rregu lar rising and falling o f”

the ground til l you come to the F r iar’

s Heel,a single leaning

stone, sixteen feet high, grey like the rest, except wherehollowed out by the rain-drops of centuries

,or scooped in

notched ladders for the shepherd boys to watch their flocksfrom . N0 flowers ever grow from their chinks .The stones are not

,as might be imagined

,Colt Hoare says

,

of the same strata and character . The fallen slaughteringstone,

” the outer cir cle,and the five trilithons of the grand

oval, are Sarsen stones, that is, silicious sandstone, drawn fromthe quarry in their rude state probably from nearAbury

,where

three such stones,perhaps dropped in trans i tu

,are to be seen

,two

in the fields and one in a river . The modern geological theory is,

that in some great water-change the strata of sand contain in gthese stones was washed away

,leaving them stranded on the

lower chalk, n ow tufted over with downs . The altar-stoneis fifteen feet high

,of a micaceous fine-grain ed sandstone .

Others are of hornstone or sili cious schist, —“ most probablyfrom Cornwall or Devon

,says one antiquarian.

An d n ow to turn surveyor for distances . I was told thatthe inside diameter of the circle is one hundred feet the widthof the entrance into the inner cell from the trilithons

,forty

three feet. Industrious men,digging for treasure

,have at

various times found in the grassy area,

-where uninvestigating,but still antiquarian-looking

,thoughtful sheep nibble about

heads of oxen,pieces of our British and Roman pottery,

charred wood,and an iron arrow-head . They say that in

the old ox-road and Roman bridle-paths and waggon-roadsround Stonehenge you still find chippings of the templestones .So much for the blin d « leaders of the blind

,whom we can

only follow,as we do moles

,by the heaps of dirt they throw up

from their sunl ess subterranean workings and dull books .There are the great stones bearded with moss , still clingingtogether

,doing their long

,patient

,juggling tricks, and support

ing each other in derision of poor weak m ortals, and for theuntiring amusement of the sun and moon . Here is that greatdi sj ointed stone puzzle that no man can again put together, but

A RIDE 'ro STONEHENGE . 67

onl y stares , eats hi s sandwiches round, makes notes on , andrides away from

,wondering.

Is that an old British MS . blowin g about in and out thestone doorways

,where the white-robed Druids

,crowned with

oak,once paced ? No it is onl y a Times supplement

,the relic

of a yesterday’s picn ic— for we,poor mortals

,are here to-day

and gone to-morrow ; but these stones are like the sure-setmountains, and remain . Is that a war-car of the ancientBritons

,with scythes ti ed to the wheels No that is a yellow

postchaise,wi th a party of wandering German travell ers from

the Whi te Hart” at Salisbury. Is that Boadicea ? Nothat is Mrs . Al derman Rogers

,of Portsoken Within

,with her

pretty daughter sketchin g. Is that one of the ancient Belgaeturn ing up the soil yonder N0 : Lord bless ye ! that is JohnGiles

,who works for Farmer Smith

,of the Down Farm ,

withhi s master’ s new patent plough—Mechi

’

s patent—very good,onl y it won’t work qui te well at first, and that

’s why it creaksso

,and why Giles uses so many loud adj ectives

,wishi ng Mechi

would stick to hi s brown-paper tea-caddi es .So I bow to the great stone ring

,and the Egyptian doorways,

the fall en altars and blood cups,and the little stone posts

,and

the circles that want so much humouring in ground plansbefore—even to an imaginative antiquarian eye—they assum eany reasonable and harmonious shape ; I take a last lookat the German travellers and the ladies in the blue ugli es

,

and the watchful,cackling hen of a mamma

,who wonders why

the ancient Britons painted themselves with Prussian blue, inpatterns like the corazza fancy shirts

,di g my spurs into Red

Nancy,and am off.

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CHAPTER VIII .

A BATHING-PLACE OH THE SOUTH COAST .

WHO invented sea-bathing ? Chaucer’ s wife, of Bath, saysA 1 . A 2 says it is a sham

,a fancy not fifty years old, and

means only idl eness,exercise

,pure air

,and unlimited washing .

Men,before nerves were invented

,never bathed men who did

not use umbrel las for the sun—who,

‘ in fact,di d not use

umbrellas at all— never bathed . A 2 goes on to say that halfof those who do bathe

,bathe injudiciously

,and

'

do themselvesharm ; and he asks, with a wicked Wilkes-and-45 look, do theinhabitants of Dippington , where we are n ow,

bathe ? I trownot . I never saw them . What first sent all of u s, when thedog-days set in

,rushing down steep places into the sea ? - I

don’ t know,yet here I am

,somebody tel ling me

,You want

bracing .

” It takes a good many gu ineas to brace me , I cantell you

,and guineas rhym e to “

n im1i es .

” I came down byrailway

,was sucked into dark pea-shooters of tunnels

,spat out

again into the sunshin e,and was first aware of my propinquity

to the sea by fin ding the trees diminish, and the fields getlarger and wilder. Suddenly the great grey shield of the seadisplayed itself.A philanthr opic grocer

,who afterwards touted for my custom

,

showed me lodgings . I contracted final ly for rooms with twoold maids— one deaf

,the other with a wax nose . I looked out

on the sea.The first thingDippington mothers seem to tell their childrenabout the sea is to learn to get something out of it. They areat it all day

,dipping into it as if it were a lucky-bag , and had

'

never swallowed their fathers or brothers . There they are now,

hooking out star-fish,j ellies

,crabs

,shrimps

,parchmenty rib

bons of seaweed,purple strips

,pink roots

,yell ow shells

,rubbed

down pebbles,cuttle-fish

, shreds of liquid glue, green slimyweed

,roun d bits of slate

,and other scraps and trifles from the

great marine store shop and lottery. They never leave the

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sanguine imagination might think had been tossed up theresome stormy night by the sea down below there

,for there is

onl y a road,a rail ing

,a grass-plot

,an esplanade

,and a cliff and

the sands between my balcony and the Poluphlosboyo .

Besides staring yourself into idiotcy,wal king your legs to

pieces , and getting your feet wet, I see nothing to be done atD ippin gton . A little flirting , a great deal of tea and shrimps ,billiards

,novels

,and talking to the sailors

,that is our l ife

that is the creed and constitution of Dippington . Do anythi ngelse

,and you become a Crusoe on a deserted isle .

“ I assure you that last night,

” said Wiggle to me,as we

were on our way to the billi ard-table for a game of pyramidsthat last night

,as I stood by the brink of that mighty ocean

,

and looked out over its changeless fimmen sity— its great burialground of fleets and navies— its miser hoards of treasure thatshall never see the sun—its millions of unrecorded and forgottendead— I feltLike a shrimp

,a stale whitin g

,a dr ied haddock I

suggested.— I felt a mere insect—a transitory creature of less value

than the spray that roll ed white at my feet . I returned to myhotel

An d call ed for sherry and soda PBe quiet ! for my bed-candl e ; and retired to my couch a

better and a wiser man .

”

More wr ecked-looking men goin g home from bathing . Thengreat lull— that is breakfast . Breakfast at Dippington is asolemn thing

,so is dinner

,so is tea .

The sirens still haunt the sea- side,I think

,only they have

taken to a more respectable dress,and no longer sit rasping

their fin gers sore on Erard’

s harps . The sirens n ow are fascin ating wi dows, with becoming grief in their beautiful eyes ;and bewitching maidens

,just budding into womanhood

,with

round hats and azure “uglies .” The siren widow passed just n ow,

looking down,thinking either of the last wedding breakfast or

the one that is to come,with violet ribbons fluttering about

her black shawl—poetical grief—shr oud, with a touch of hope

A BATHING-PLACE ON THE SOUTH COAST . 71

t rimming it . Violet,or was it mauve —b eautiful compromise

th despairWonderful air of Dippington ,

that,smelling of nothing

,i s

yet so odorous of that nothin g ; so fresh, yet never cold ; sobalmy

,so summerful

,so fiower-kissin g

,so health-giving !

Blessed air,unpolluted by the fetor of cities air that number

less interjection s can alone describe,and then onl y by showing

a redundant s ense of pleasure—a freer pulse,a full er heart

,a

brighter eye ! Let the old writers say what they wil l of theunsuccessful voyages in the time of Columbus to discover themiracul ous “ Fountain of Youth

,

” here it i s

THE BAT H ING-MA CHINE .

The first thing,of course

,I did when I got settled at Dip

p ingtou was to inqui re about the baths . In the true spirit ofa discoverer

,the very night I arrived I foun d my way by

slopin g paths to the beach,attracted by the shi p lights

,the red

signal at the pier-head,and the sharp clear sound of the ship

bells . I saw nothing before me but the boundl ess, thei ll imi table

,the delight of the hardy Norseman

,the terror of

the squeami sh,the sil ent highway

,the green bank whose lock

no burglar can pick,the unfil lab le graveyard, &c. The waves

raced in,white-maned

,many -trampling, and swift . They roll ed

i n,twenty thousand abreast

,and faded away like a charge of

fairy Norsemen . I looked round : there stood the machines,

s olemn in the twil i ght,hooded-like sibyls, mysterious as the

Pythonesses or the Fates,looking like the gi gantic gho sts of

the Titan bathin g-women of the earlier ages .Do you want a machine to-morrow said a voice .It was the disgusting voice of materialism and commonsense

,whose brutal foot (excu se the transition of metaphor)

will trample on the fairest spots,and dissolve the spell of all

the enchantments of even the strongest imagination .

N0,said I

,with all the severity, but less of the truth

than the occasion demanded .

I write at a window,so you must pardon side-notes of

digression . A moving tulip bed , or rather a flower bed of

p arasols, is floating by to take an airing . It is just meridian

72’

CRoss C OUNTRY .

ought I not to say so many bells Last ni ght,sleep wrestled

with, and threw me at an early hour With the crescendo of'

the surge in my ears I went to bed (0 divine snowiness ofcountry beds I) , desiring to be called at half-past six for

'

bathing ; the consequence ofwhich, of course, was, that I wokeat six

,and lay grumbling till a quarter to seven, when a voice

dropped my boots with a double clump at the door . Gettingup for a first bath is

,to a nervous , imaginative man, like

Twi tter,the epic poet

,a dr eadful thing .

Podgers , the cheesemonger in Fetter Lane, has just passedwith his six children

,who all seem to have been born on the

same day . Query : C an you call six chil dren twins ? oughtnot threeto be called trin es

,and so on Podgers wears a high ,

brown, fiower-

‘

pot hat,and

,of cour se, black trousers . His

crafty hole-and-corner face jars on the broad, fl ank, impatientsea . N .B . He has brought his day-book down to amuse hims elf with to-morrow (Sunday) whi le the Sextines are gone inprocession to church

,each with a large Common Prayer-Book

folded in a clean white handkerchi ef.To return : I got up , trying to thi nk it was very delicious ,which it wasn’t . I roped on my necktie, sloughed on myoldest boots and buttoned up like a spy

,a crimp

,or an escaped

smuggler,walked down towards the sea, now a laughing

glitterin g green in the early sunlight—the shining opal coll arthat nature placed round a dove ’s neck was nothing to it . A t

the corner of the j etty a band of half-sail ors,half-fishermen

,

beleaguered me with pul ls at their forelocks .Want a machi ne

,sir said one .

Just look at thi s towel,fine white di aper, said another,

wi th a white slab of a towel balanced on his hand .

No . 802 was already out . No . 910 was having the horseput to . Screams and laughter were pouring from 605

,and

from under the hood of 703 there was a splashin g as i fKempenfel t and all his men were going down together in theRoyal George with one consent . At the door of 320 a res

pectable City tradesman, well known on the Corn Exchange,was combin g his hair inside the machine, and lookin g wet and .

bedraggled into the glass .

A BATH ING-PLACE ON THE SOUTH COAST . 73

No . 450was mine . A man they call som ethin g like Lollerhands me three dirty-whi te tickets to frank me for thr eemornings’ admission to the ocean—as yet un al lotted or parkpal ed— one shill ing . Then he asks me for one of the three

,and

takes it just as a man does who i s teaching you a game ofcards , and is playing both sides . I am introduced as a victimto a brother in red-plush breeches and jack waterproof boots

,

who is the driver . I am handed two towels— sent up the stepsof the cairywan ,

and shut in . I am shouted to that whenI have had enough of it I am to open the door and call .I am scarcely in it before the machine begins to j olt . I feel

like Jon ah inside the whale . We go out to sea . There is achink of chains—a crack of a whip— a shout—lower— lower .I try to keep my footing, I feel myself in a cart and yet ina ship . I undress and hook up everything to the nails roundthe wall . I don’t know how it is

,but I never in my life went

down to the sea in a bathin g-machine but I compared myself”

to Pharaoh entering the Red Sea in hi s chariot in hot pursuitafter the Israeli tes . Suppose

,

” I say to myself,there was

a leak in this crazy hut ? suppose it broke away from thewheel, and drifted out to sea, to be nosed and bumped bywhales , and sniffed at by sharks Supp oseHere a tremendous wave thumped at the door

,as much as

to say, Come out and let u s look at you, m iserable creatureof clay I am

'

now without the cloak that shadowed Borgiain A dam’s livery—a poor forked

,pale creature

,shivering as

if for charity ; tremblin g like Andr omeda when the great seaserpent approached. The floor is gritty

,the small slab of

carpet is sodden and briny . I undo the door and look out,

kicking down the tilted hood,and clinging to the rope that is

fastened to the outside of the m achine,and which

,l ike every

thing else belonging to it, is crisp and salt . With crippled,crumpled feet

,I descend the steps ; a wave lashes up, and al l

but washes me off— surfin g me up against the hood, and all butwhippin g the rope from me . A singular creeping feeling ofthe blood as I step in waist high— a pull at my heart

,as if

the blood were driven back to the citadel,then rallied

,and

spread Victoriously through my veins— a taste of sal t surf in

74’

cRo ss C OUNTRY .

my mouth—now a duck under. I emerge,blinded and drip

pin g, and wade out beyond the hood . I come out as from acave

,and am in the wide

,wide sea . The horizon towards the

North Foreland is a lin e of tremblin g sil ver— the junction of skyand sea— the welding line—the tenderest grey blue

,which is

neither opaque nor transparent—a soft apricot-coloured bloomin the eastward

,Dover way— is here and there a sail catches

the sun,and shines 'the colour of a light wall-fiower . The

chalk cliffs,cleft i n horizontal lines

,and bushed with wild

m ign ionette and wild geranium ,look blocks of Opaque silver .

But I don’t come here to study landscape,but to tear health

from the jaws of the sea : and health I will have— so here goes !How soft the sand feels under my naked feet ! I wade outto meet the waves—one

,two

,three . Here comes a huge one,

cresting and combing over with a metalli c shine,but without

foam : it laps over me and lifts me off my feet . I stagger ondefian t . Here comes one twice as high— the froth already outthere rises high above my head . Nearer

,firm

,prepare to

receive cavalry ! form square ! bang ! wash ! splash ! It beatsme over

,it foams over my head

,and passes on to lash and

rage up the steps of my machin e,as if it were looking for me .

I am cuffed and slapped warm,I am in high spiri ts— braced

an d nerved . Now I understand what Dr . Bleadon meant byalways saying to my wife

,He (meaning me) wants bracing

he must have bracing .

” Here I am bracin g—hard at i t iHere comes another rol ling monster . Hurrah ! Brace away '

I leap at it, but it has me down, and tramples on me ina moment .I am back under the hood . I got into the wrong machine

first fl they are so very much alike—and found myself in thepresence of the Rev . Mr . Bellow

,rector of the celebrated

church of St. Barabbas . But then did I not see swimmingnear me just now

,like a Ceylon diver going al l naked to the

shark,fast young Latitat

,of the Middle Temple, swimming

as if he were flying from the baili fi'

s, or as if Grinder andCrusher

,the great attorneys

,had sent for him to their

chambersAs I waded up the steps I met Bell ow coming down . I

A BATHIN G-PLACE ON THE SOUTH COAST . 75

bowed and he bowed—he laughed ; I laughed , and splashed

off, like a merman who has been paying a morning visit . Iemerge from the wave and climb my steps . Delicious glowwarmth of heal th and life

,enough to revi ve a dying man— rosy

glow of invigorated and purified blo od ! I begin a Norse hymnto the sea

,such as Harold of the Blue Eyes” might have ad

dressed to his sword,the Land-giver

Heal th-

giver , I hai l theeMan -slayer, I fear thee !Hope-bringer, I greet thee !D irge-singer, I fear thee !

I gave the signal for being restored to land . The horse isput to .

Right you are cries a voice,and a jerk nearly sends me off

my legs . I leap down into the soft ancle-deep sand,wished

good mornin g” by the “ two noble kinsmen,

” and departto punish my breakfast ; my chest expanded, my heart larger,my eyes brighter

,my moral nature improved

,my physical na

t ure padded out and developed .

N IGHT AT DIPPINGTON .

Night at Dippington is mighty pretty to behold,” as Pepys

would have said . You can see the red light on the pier castinga quivering column of liquid ruby

,like so much burning sea

,

below it in the harbour . Far away in the di stance,starlike

over the waters,twinkles the North Foreland l ight

,answered

right and left by corresponding guardians of the coast . Throughthe dusk you hear from your open window the buzz of abeetle,tellin g by association of the thundery warmth of the summernight

,and of the hush that must be away there in the fields

that lead down to the cliff,in the dense dark clumps of elms , and

in the light feathering ashes . The ship ’s bells tel l the hour withtheir monotonous but clear and decisive cling-clang, in the harbour where they are m oored near the red light

,and everywhere

—whether in the high streets,between the rows of lamps by

the market-place where the fisherb oys stand, in the sea-sidebilliard-room

,on the cliffs by the white lighthouse, or by the

platform (as like a quarter deck as possible) where the coast

76’

caoss C OUNTRY.

guard man in white trousers,and the eternal battered telescope

un der his arm, paces— you hear the roll, and surge, and lash,and chafe

,and splashing drag

,and tumble of the breakers

,that .

spread whi te through the night . Now,one by one

,on Terrace

,

and Parade,and Esplanade

,and Side-street

,and C l iff-crescent ,

the pleasur e-seekers put out their lamps,and as they close like

so many closing eyes,I turn in

,and put out min e likewise .

MORN ING AT DIPPINGTON .

One hour ago,by this repeater

,and I was up to my chin

in the green sparklin g waves,feelin g a little anxious as the

sand seem ed suddenly to recede from the extended half of thegreat toe on my left foot

,and I looked back

,and I saw I was

fifty yards from No . 68 machine,and seemed bearing out every

moment imperceptibly a little further from the white cliffs,and

that man who,shin ing white through the waves

,is floating on

his back,calml y

,some twenty feet off. Now

,I am here

,calm

as Cato,at my tea and prawns , divesting those mollusca of

their pink armour,and looking out

,delighted at the diamond

sparkle of the mornin g sea,the m ile-long bars of purple cloud

shadows , the broad green field of opaque emerald, and the longdim blue li ne of land

,that seem s but consolidated cloud

,yes

terday cloud turned solid, yet barely soli d . It is a sight tomake an old man young again ; The line of foam that breaksalong the shore glitters li ke quicksilver ; a dancing diamondtwinkle and restless glimm er is on the sea ; and the brownsands, where the sea washes , are transparent and luminous as iftheywere covered with a thin glazing of ice . Children laughon the balconies and on the terraces— they hop up and downin the water like so many chickens round the old mother henof the machine . Bathing-women

,witch-like and hideous , in

sodden blue flannel bathing-gowns,float about like stale mer

maids or water ogresses seeking their prey. The sands areone immense laundress’s drying ground

,with strings of coloured

bathing-dresses,towels

,and other apparatus of sani tary ablu

ti ons . The machines in the water rem ind one of a French vi llage durin g the inundations ; those on shore, of the first en

campment of a fair. The machines echo with screams and

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78’

CRos s C OUNTRY .

a dark gallery cut in the chalk,with loopholes here and there

,

letting in the clear daylight .Dull li fe this

,isn’t it

Yes .” So he was on board a man-of-war— petty ofli cer,

too— thirteen years,and wouldn ’t be here now but for an acci

dent four months ago . He had been on the coast of A frica,

passed Gibraltar a dozen times didn’t care for any sort of'

weather purwided there was plenty of sea room ,which there

was not when he once was in a sou-wester in the Mo z ambiqueChannel . No

,a tornado was not sudden ; con trairy, it always

gave you thr ee quarters of an hour to take down sail,and get

all square . No captain,if he was really captain in his own

ship,and not a sort of foster-child of the first lieutenant

,had

any right to let any of hi s men get wet in a tornado ; therewas time enough to put all under cover afore the tornado broke .Some of them white squalls was twice as bad . A captain asreally was a captain in his own ship

,such a man as Captain

Rood as the Amphitrite buried when she was taking in m oneyat Chil i

,was the captain as he liked to serve under. Did he

carry pistols ? Yes,one by day and two by night, for signals

rockets too . Dippington was a troublesome station, beause they wanted watches on the pier night and day to seeeverything as came in

,right or wr ong

,rigler or un rigler. He

wished me a very good night . That was eight o ’clock he wasoff duty n ow

,and came on again at four in the mornin g. He

wished me a very good night Good night,sir.

”

A gorgeous flame tableau was in the sky, wrangling witha pile of electric ash-grey clouds . The sea was rose-coloured—the sky deepened to purple h i t was dark before all the starsl it their lighthouse lamps

,and so did the North Foreland

,

which shone out like a small sun among them . Here myfriend Mac-Hanno, who prides himself on his Carthaginian descent, would quote Horace , but I will not, on any account ;a truism not seeming to me anything wiser b ecause it is inLatin.

I had need of a barber. I found one who kept the circulating li brary. He requested my name. He told me it gave himthe greatest trouble to get distinguished visitors’ names cor

A BATHING-PLACE ON THE SOUTH C OAST . 79

rectly. Would I bel ieve i t, only that morning aMr. De Friezehad come and complained he was put down De Sneeze. Nameswere always getting into knots .My friend was a perfect specimen of the poor watering-placebarber . The weather was very catching (short or long, siralways observed it was so after a long prevalence of the eastwi nd (hair very dry , sir do you u se any pomade Now itwas first the win d, then the weather, got the upper hand—weather and wind, wind and weather (short over the ear ? Yes,sir) glad to see I wore beard and moustaches, advi sed everygent to do so acted as respirator, protected the tonsil s ,kept out the dust ; had a brother, a fine tenor

,yes

,sir

, who

coul d get up to A and B with the greatest ease ; he held outagainst heard for a long time, very long time ; left for threemonths

,came back wi th a swin geing pair of moustaches (look

in the glass,and see if that is short enough) had a dread now

of their bein g sandy ; advi sed him a certain wash that tingedwithout dyeing it was a secret

,but he di d not care mention

ing it ; he told him— it was the very thing he ordered a fiveand-s ixpenny bottle from London

,and the effect was astoni sh

ing . Had I ever had excavation of blood on the head ? Sometimes the effect of injudi cious bathing. Coul d he recommendme any wash for the head ? Certainly he could . Had I neverheard of his celebrated Golden O il Agents all over London— cases sent away every day— surprised ! Desk ful l of letters

-sent off that morning a case of six to Hon. Mr . Foozle,

Whi tewash Vill a, Worcester. A letter yesterday from Captain O’

Toole,some castle near Dublin, coul dn

’t remember thename of the castle ; letter from Dr . Hardbox, mentioning as .ton i shin g effect of oil on Mrs . Blackl ine, who had evincedsymptoms of baldness in lateral regions of the scalp— at onceton i c

,cleanser

,and strengthener. The miserable London po

mades left a deposit,and turned acid— that was the end of i t

turned acid . This was what he lived by, making the GoldenO il . Dippington season only three months ; couldn

’t livewithout patent for Golden O il. Did I see that transparentbottle ? that was the beautiful and nutritious Golden Oi l . DidI see that dark liquid ? that was the Royal Odoriferous Fluid

80’

cnos s C OUNTRY .

expressly made to be used with it,and which

,shaken together

,

formed a mellow and invaluable cream .

My personal friend Coxen,who calls his boat by the apho

n i stic name of Help me,and I ’ll help you

,is a good type of

the Dippington boatmen . He has not a qui ck imagination,nor

is he lightning-quick at repartee,but he is a brave

,honest

,

stolid,u nflin ching, faithful, crafty old sailor, and I respect him ,

though he does hammer for half an hour at the same idea,and

leave it at the end of this time rather brui sed, di storted, andmisshapen . His craft (I don

’t refer to the Friend in Needsailin g-boat) consists in simply trying to charge you twice asmuch per hour as any one else

,and in scudding you out to such

a distance from any known land,that no canvas wing, or flying

j ib,or any shaking out of canvas

,wil l get you in at the time

you expected and intended to pay for ; otherwise he is a rareold Neptune, and his stories of diving, smuggling, and wrecking

,throw great light on the manners

,customs

,and moral stan

dard of Dippington ,which

,with its golden and emeraldine sea

,

and its chalky ramparts of cliff,I take to be quite a typ e of

Cockn ey sea-side places .It is a sight to see him Wi th the massy red braces

,a foot wide

each,crossing his indigo-col oured Jersey

,that fits his brawny

chest and arms like a Norse body-suit of mail,his enormous

full -bodied breeches,reaching up almost to hi s arm-pits

,his

alert,nimble feet (sailors

’ feet are generall y small ) , cased incanvas shoes

,his strong brown hands

,whi te at the knuckles

,

graspin g lightly,yet surely the fam ili ar oar, whose broad blades

force the boat on wi th such qui ck,strong

,and equal pulse .

My youn g friend Parkins sits gravely holdi ng the tiller-ropesand nodding at u s (me and Coxen) , as we bend, like two portions of the same body

,simul taneous at the oars .

Coxen,like Dogberry

,prides himself on having had losses .

I f right was right,and all thin gs was as they shoul d be

,which

they ain’t,Coxen would be

,by his own account

,the lord of

half Dippington . If you ask himhow all these enormousterritories passed from the famil y of Coxen

,he will tell you

,

with a grave shake of the head, that it was the want oflarning that got it ai signed away .

“ There cann ot be the

A BA'l

‘HING -PLAC E ON'

THE SOUTH COAST . 1 8

smallest doubt that C oxen ’

s (let me see) un cle’ s father—no

,

aunt ’ s sister— no— yes— father’s uncle ’s mother—was descended

from two East Indi an captens , Capten Mover and Capten Redwood

,whi ch came to Dippin gton to moor quietly, and left their

property tied up by the most solemn oaths and specific dircet ions to the Coxen family to descend li neall y and inali enably .

There can be no doubt about this,because Coxen knows where

to lay his hand on the house in Dippington whose best roomcontain s a portrai t of Captain Redwood in an oval gilt frame

,

and laying his fist on a terrestrial globe ; and , moreover, thecaptains lie together under a flat black stone just as you enterto the right of St . Lawrence ’ s church ; and not only that, sir,there is , or was, in the sam e church a glass case, through whichyou see the worthy captain’s will

,leaving so much bread and

meat to certain inhabitants of St . Lawrence’ s parish . An d if

anything else was wanted,there was a pilot as died last June

was a twelvemonth, as told him (John Coxen) over a glass ofrum and a pipe in the parlour of the Tartar Frigate Inn ,

thatthere was parties who coul d speak about that ’ere pier propertyi f they had a mind and, what was more, he (Coxen) had seenmaps of the property which covered the site of the presentExmouth Crescent

,and all the ground where the pier n ow

stood . How the alienation occurred,no one could see

,but all

he knew was , that there was an uncle of his who always knewwhat lawyer to go to for a pound, and I suppose he was toldthat the site of certain property could not be secured withouthim,

and that it was of no consequence,and sichl ike,

” and soit went

,al l through “ a want of larning

,

” in a certain drunkenbranch of the Coxen fami ly

, who , if right was right,” ought to

be gen’

lemen .

On a morning misty with intense heat,I and Parkins stroll

down to the Pier-gate by appointment, t o meet Coxen, andtake a row and sail up the Stour river towards Shingl ewich.

The mach ines are all down on the beach,li ke an encampment

of Tartar gipsies in an inundated steppe— a cutter with sun,

burnt sail is passing,dark in shadow . The bathers are

bobbing up and down like floats fidgeting under a nibble.The delicious emerald water is lapping in

,and frothing and

G

82 CROSS COUNTRY .

Splashing about the scarlet wheels of the machines , and roll in gin froth on the shore

,as if white soapsuds were being swi lled

out . Redgaun tlet sort of amphibia, in flaming plush breechesand bare feet

,are riding on draggle-tailed horses at a merry

trot knee-deep i into the sea, to link to the machin es , whoseopen doors announce their ripeness for return to land . A fopin a Tweed suit has just loafed by with an umbrella up—fright~

ful example of a nervous and debilitated age . Children aregrubbing about in bufi” slippers and with wooden spades , as if

to be a navvy” or a gold-digger were the natural object ofevery man. The shore, rolled brown, level, and hard by thesea-mangle

,i s strewn with l ittle green films and scarlet roots

and purple shreds of sea-weed,and here and there is piled

with strips of parchment-looking fucus and the bladdered teal eaves l ooking refuse of the waves . The green light on thepier

,that looked last night so spectral in the gloom , i s ih

visible ; the distant Knock Sand and the North Foreland haveno star lit . There is a fretted sparkl e on the waves , and onthe rolling crest of the surf there is a glow as of gold plate .

The bathing-women are floating out like Norse witches wadingoff to curse a departing vessel and fling a foul win d on itstrack

,as the falconer whistles his Peregrine after a flyin g

heron out on the cli ff. The upper flowers sway and nod, andm ock at the danger, and the lark sings above the barley thatrolls in glosses , like the wind over an an imal

’s fur.Now we walk down the pier

,passing the Shipwrights busy

wi th their heavy hammers,boil in g tar

,and caulking, piecing

the ship ’ s skeleton in the dry dock ; the old boatmen with

red button-holes of eyes and worn-out telescopes ; the boysplaying in boats the life-boat

,with its padded-looking sides

the floating shell s of boats , like empty green pea-cods ; thehuge buoys of the Trinity House

,looking like floats used

by giants,or enormous iron fungi— and we are in C oxen

’

s boat,stepping by a ship-boy of dandy habits

,who is washin g his

shoes and bare legs with a stray cabbage-leaf.We are in , past the keen-edged steamers, the yachts andpleasure-boats, past the dense wedging sormd of the shipwrights’ hammers past the cranes

,choking capstans, and water

A BATHING-PLACE ON THE SOUTH COAST . 83

steps ; past the dredgin g-machines , and sluices, and great blackand white diamond buoys that tell strange vessels silent tidi n gsof the depth of water in the harbour .We are off. There has been a scrambling out of oars

,a

hauling of ropes , an unbendin g of sail s . We skim roun d thefort-like angle of the pier

,with its m assy stone-work and its

green-slimed and barnacle-crusted bulwarks,and are out at

s ea. The nor’-west catches the sail and strains it forth ; weleap and dance over the lum inous water

,which seems l ike so

much opaque sunshin e— yesterday’s sun shin e in faet— fasterthan even those white-tipped

,omega-shaped gulls that float ques

tioning roun d our little red thread of a flag. The boat dr iveslike a steam -plough through a trough of the waves

,or dips

down on one side til l the gunwale nearly lips the tide. A boatlagging along slowly in the opposite di rection

,looks at u s

admir in gly,an d one of the sailors in it hums something.

What did he say, CoxenOnly a werse of a hold song, smiles Coxen Oh

,scud

ding under easy sail,

’ —andwe was scuddi ng just then, sir , likeflying Isaac as they say. Now

,it ’ s a cur ious thing” on

these reflecti ve occasions Coxen always stopped rowin g,tucked

one oar under hi s knee, took off hi s cap , wi ped the“

prespi

ration” from hi s forehead,and leant forward with appropriate

gesture, laying the chopped forefin ger of one han d in thewoody palm of the other now

,it ’s a curious thin g

,s ir

,that

a man in a boat always thi nks that the boat he see is goingfaster than he is . Many’s the time as we’ve been going likeglory, and the gentleman I

’

ve been a rowin g of seen anotherboat not half as fast as we was

,and

,says he,

‘ Lord,Coxen

,

how that boat is walking along ! what a li vely boat says he,Coxen but it ain’t my place

,you know

,to say anythi ng so ,

on I pulls .There

,said he

,that’s the Belly View (Belle Vue (

Tavern,and now we steer straight across for the buoy there

,

at the mouth of the river out by Shell ness ; but to return,”

said he,about that there crinkle on the water. People often

says to me,

‘Why,dear me , Coxen, how could you tell the

wind was coming Ignorant them Londoners as the dirt youa 2

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tread on , and worse too . Pull home, sir ; keep time, not toequi ck capital stroke

,sir ; keep your oar a little more in .

I ’ve been out once before to the Goodwin Sands this mornin g,

with a young gentleman and lady. I think as they was acourtin g—I thinks they was .”

Coxen here rambled on to a long and intricate statement ofhi s ill -luck during the last year . This was an inexhaustiblesubj ect with him . He had a little house to let just up by theSubscription Billi ard-room on the South Parade ; he had notlet it yet— such a thing had never happened before for twentyyears . A s for his old woman, she never went out for fear ofanybody comin g

,but yesterday a young fel lar in the town

who had been in the Lancers , came back from Indi a, and was .

brought in from the pier with a band,and in comes Mrs .

Jones from next door,and says

,Come along

,Mrs . Coxen

,

put on your bonnet,

’ says she,and com e down and hear the

band .

’Away went my wife . Why, will you believe it, sir,

in that very hour comes a lady and gentleman to see thehouse

,drat it ! Then there was him and the boats

,when he

ought to have been paintin g and doing ’em up for the season,

he was out in a lugger off the Goodwi n Sands, lookin g out forsalvage— (pull left-hand til ler rope, sir ; leave that buoy to theright)—and now, when he ought to be lookin g out for gentlemen and sailing parties , he had to snatch a moment or two topaint and do up the Smil in g Sally and the Friend in Need.

”

Gor en’ s notions about the morality of the salvage were pecu l iar

,and woul d not

,perhaps

,be thought orthodox out of

Dippington ,as you will see . I asked him about the wrecks in

general,and he again tucked his oar under his leg

,and

volun teered a yarn .

It ’s hard life, sir , out there by them sands , when a heavy

sou ’- sou’

-west is blowing,and there’s no rum or baccy aboard .

Hard work beating round the nine miles of Goodwin Sands,

and the sea washing over you so that you can’t look to windward, and it pours off your back in bucketfuls . Sooner be off

the Knock Sand,or the Galloper

,or plain out in the Gul l

Way than that . There we lay four nights, running, maybe,half asleep on the boards ; no room for beds in a hoveller ; half

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Frenchman, who had been clinging there nine hours, till his

hands would scarcely come straight again . He had beenwashed off once

,and made his way to it again . Well

,we got

him up, and then‘,we picked up the captain . We nursed

them up , and rubbed them ,and gave ’

em clothes and somerum

,and I ’

ll be hanged,next day

,when we met them in High.

Street,if they would even speak to u s but, then, there is one

thing,they was parley voos .

Do you find them on their knees?” asked Parkins,timidly.

We find them praying or shrieking,or anything ; some

times they have been a drinkin g,and

,in that case

,often they

won’t leave the wessel,say what you wil l , and swear and curse

at you .

”

“And what do you do

,said Parkins

,in these distressing;

circumstances“ Do,

” said Coxen, indignantly, as if all pity for anything

but a fami l y who had lost their property through want oflearning was wasted do

,young gentleman why, leave ’

em

alone— leastwise if it is the master or capten ; if it is only acommon sailor

,the rest force him into the boat— generall y.

Do they cheer,

” says Parkins the enthusiastic,when they

see the gallant fellows coming to their rescueNot they. What has ever put such things into your

head“

P” said Coxen . I never touches ’em either

,till we have

made a regul ar bargain what we ’re to get, or our salvagewouldn ’t be much . Generall y the leak is coming in hot and

fast on them,for a vessel gets above its mast-head in the Good

win s in three tides,and they want u s at the pumps, and tre

menju s hard they work u s, and then someti mes won’t give u s .

even a Schnapps over. What for you English talk always somuch about Schn apps

‘

P I no Schnapps for you .

’ They are of'

all sorts some think nothing at all about i t,others again cut

it close and n iggarly—there’s where it is ; and when the sal

vage money comes it has to be divided among a many hands.We saved a ship last year

,a German emi grant vessel from Bre

men,and got four hundred pound for it in the Salvage Court

the A dmiralty don’t allow money as isn’t well-earned, and I gotonl y thirty-five pound out of it . Unlucky vessel that was,

A BATHING-PLACE ON THE SOUTH COAST. 87

too : dang if it didn’t run against Dippington pier, trying tocome in ! Well , all her goods were taken out and reshippedfor Bremen . Back they went

,and came here again in another

vessel, and dang if that didn’t rasp the same place and all but

go down, too There is a luck about some thin gs .”

Were these German s grateful sai d I .

They were that,” said Coxen

,bendin g Titanically to his

oar ; they“ hi doli z ed me

,sure-ly. Woul dn’t leave nohow ; and

if I went into a publ ic-house they all came too,and stopped

till I got up to go .

”

I pointed to some gull s , looking li ke specs of froth thrownfrom a wave, that were dippin g and wheeling round the sole ofan old shoe that was tied to a pole in the river to mark thepracticable current . The leather

,

” as it is cal led,alternating

with twigs,” placed here, probably, just as they were in King

C anute’

s time .Coxen looked at the wi l d birds with the tender eye of a far

mer lookin g at his own poul try. Yes,said he

,they don ’

t

come much here till the winter ; in the summer they keep outat sea. Lord ! you shoul d see them stalking about the Good

Sands” (Coxen mostly spoke of them as the G oodin s) atlow water

,as large as fowls

,lookin g out for drownded men .

Have you ever been to London,Coxen

Yes,

” said Coxen . When I goes I li ke to see Hashl ey’

s

and the Monymen t, and the theaytres . Lord (tucking the oaragain chattily under his left leg) how the gents as come downhere do like to get out of that suffocating place ! Coxen,

’ saysthey to me

,how glad I am to get out of that filthy London

What with the bugs and the rats,I think they has a hard timeof it ; and all I wonder is, wi th the j ammin g of houses andpeople, they escape being smothered .

”

From this our conversation turned to rats,about which I told

Coxen the story of how,in George the First’s time, the brown

rat came from Norway,and

,killing all the indigenous black

rats,conquered the country . But Coxen, putting aside this

story,woul d have it that London was the centre of al l rats as

well as of all evil . There was a craft,” said he

,the Simon

Taylor,laden wi th sugar, as struck and was sinking just as me

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and my mates was a comi ng up in our lugger . One of u s stuckhis crowbar in the coatin g of the mast

,and found the ship was

choke-full of rats all under where the wedges of the mast was .I tell you what

,sir

,those rats will get so numerous that the

sailors have to put victuals and drink for them reg’lar,or they

eat the very planks through . They ’ll eat the horn buttons off

the sailors’ Jackets,and the thick skin off the heels of the men

as they li e in their hammocks .”

A broad vein of dul l purple here spreading through the lightchrysoli te green of the sea, arrested C oxen

’

s weather eye,who

declared,as it moved along

,that it must be a school” of

mackerel . It proved to be only the flying shadow of a greycloud

,but it was sufficient to turn the conversation on fishing ,

for, Just at that moment, row after row of floating corks, branded

with the letters of their owners ’ names,and indicating sunk

lobster-pots,brought u s on to some busy boats of fishermen

,

who were drawing up the net cages, weighted with flin ts , insidewhich hun g strings of dead plaice .A word of mine about the fishing cormorants of China, andthe chance of tam in g the fishing eagle, led Coxen to curiousrevelations of the fish world about the devil-fish, the j elly-fish,the fiddle-fish (shaped l ike the butt of a fiddl e) , the stotter, andespeciall y the dog-fish

,the special enemy of the fishermen of

Dippington and everywhere else .Lord I” said Coxen

,you should see how them dog-fish

tear bits out of the net,and swallow the lobster-nets right

down in their hurry to get at the fish. I don’t mean the piggydogs

,the fellows all over prickles like, but the spur-dogs, the

largest ones . The fishermen know when they are coming, theycan smell ’em a long way off

,when the dogs are coming in packs

after the whitin gs,they are so oily and ranky. Why, I saw one

just now on the pier as we pushed off,that one coul d not

bear one ’s nose near . They’re as bad as the gannet, that thesailors declare l ift up the net for each other to get the herrings out .”

Here we sighted two Hastings fishing-luggers in which a crewof sturdy giants in orangy blouses

,under their black

,patched

,

and tawny sail s,were uproariously shouting and rej oicing at

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men who was good hands,they was ; but they came after a

boosing party of three days,durin g whi ch they had eaten

scarcely anything,and so lost . Oh

,they were a queer lot,

they were, at Splashington—no account at all .”

Now came Parkin s ’s rowi ng lesson .

“ Keep time,sir ; no chopping, like a man-of-war

’ s-manhands closer together

,sir— oar more aft

,sir—now well home i

”

The well home” consisted in Parkin s ’s mi ssing the surfaceof the water

,catching a crab

,

” and being nearly knocked offhis seat .

More directions to Parkin s ’s confused and troubled mindDip your oar a little deeper in the water

,sir—to the end of

the blade ! It is no exertion i f you lean well back, and thenpul l the oar home— well home .”

Coxen might be right,and rowing may be no exertion, but

Parkin s certainl y at that moment looked as if it was . His coatwas off

, his braces un done, his face a vivid carmin e .Steer straight

,sir

,for the Bell y View Tavern—keep time,

sir, or it’s no use—the faster you go , you see, the worse you

does . Now,one— two

An d so we returned to Dippington ,and that n ight I fini shed

my Epic .

CHAPTER IX .

T H E S Q U I R E’

S P E W .

(A DREAM THAT CARRIED ME BACK A HUNDRED YEARS.)

And other faces fresh and n ew

Shall fil l again the Squire’s pew.

ONE day last summer,I went down into Wiltshi re on a little

antiquarian tour with my friend St . Ives .His chief obj ect was brasses—mine was tumul i and Romancamps . He cared nothing for camps , I for brasses— the day ofwhich I speak

,we had started from Hindon in a trap for Beau

lieu,a little retired vi llage on the Wiltshir e Downs, ten miles

from Warmin ster—the church there bein g celebrated for its

THE SQU IRE’

S raw. 91

bras ses—we reached it after a pleasant drive over breezydowns, glorified with sunshine and dotted black with rookswe got the key from the sexton ; to work on his knees wentSt. Ives

,with tracing papers and rubbers in due form . I soon

got tired of watching the enthusiast,and retir ed into the

Squire’s pew,up in the gallery, to Spend an hour over

Hobbes’ Behemoth,which I happened to have brought wi th

me . But somehow or other,Hobbes’ heavy dialogue and the

heat of the day soon sent me to sleep,and my dream (written

out that night at the Hi ndon Inn ) took somewhat the subj oined form :

DREAM .

Methought it was a bright Sun day morning, in the year1 761

,and I had strolled into Beaul ieu church just in time to

see the worthy old Jacobite baronet, isir Henry Cantelupe,

enter hi s pew— the one I had my dream in— it was an oldfamily prayer-book

,embossed with fine old arms, and stamped

1 760, that had set me off.I looked

,and behold

,five minutes before the commencement

of divine service,the right hand door of the squire’ s gall ery

opened,and Sir Henry entered ; it di d me good to see that

brave old gentleman hide hi s face for a moment in hi s goldlaced cocked hat, as though acknowledging that he had enteredthe Presence Chamber of the great Lord and Master of u s all ;and thi s grave and sin cere

'

act of homage was al l the more commendable

,because there was much in that old church to rouse

the pride and vanity of a Cantelupe .In the first place the moment the brass handle of the gallerydoor had begun even to move or j ostle from the outside, thatmoment it had been the custom in Beaul ieu chur ch, for a goodforty years

,for the choir of Beaulieu parish to tune up . The

choir consisted of,imprim is

,Robert Lightfoot

,carpenter

,first

fiddl e ; secondl y, Tom Teddington,grocer

,second fiddle ;

thirdly,Jeptha Heavytree, blacksmith, bass viol fourthly,

Obadiah Maybole,a farmer’s son

,who performed on the flute

and lastly, but not least, that rival of the maddest wild gooseas to upper notes

,and as to chalumeau no mean competitor

92 C ROSS C OUNTRY.

with the bull ; Will G‘rol ightly, farmer, on the clarionet . The

choir began to strike up an appropriate anthem— such asLift up your heads , 0 yag ates,

” Blow ; or Why kop ye s o, ye

i n’

giz hi l ls Pursell ; or som e other burst of exultant religiousmusic that might not appropriately be construed by a profanestranger in to a complim ent to the squire on his entrance intothe church . Indeed

,there can be little doubt that the Squire

so construed it,as he generally after his short prayer rose up,

hung his laced hat on a curved peg which jutted out from aneighbour ing mural' monument, and takin g the large quartos ilver-clasped red-edged common prayer from the velvet-lin edshelf

,for a moment stood up , slightly inclined hi s manl y head

to the congregation,many of whom rose too

,and stroked

down their forelocks or nodded in the direction of the Squire’spew . Then the Squire sat down and calmly looked round tos ee who was present— or if anyone was away who ought not tobe and just as Parson Greenoak sails in

,worthy old vicar

,in his

white clear-starched gown pu ffing as a swan’ s breast

,and banded

by the crimson hood of Oxford,he looks up at the Squire

,down

the chancel to the school-chil dr en,smooth-haired and red

cheeked,then buries his fac e in his hands

, and is absorbed fora moment or two in prayer .Hitherto the choir has been Jubilant

,but subdued ; now the

members of it break out into extreme and enthusiastic violencefrom the benches at the west end

,which are their chosen seats .

Lightfoot ’s fiddle-bow balances and saws with dolorous excitement ; Teddington, who is strong in his bow hand, raspsthe strings as if his sole purpose was to dr own and oblivionizehis worthy coll eague’s instrument Mayduke

,who is a sturdy

young farmer’s son,the buck of the vill age

,cann ot get hi s

lower lip quite comfortably on the aperture of the box-woodflute

,but Will Golightly comes to his rescue

,and shrieks into

his clarionet loud enough to awake old Sir Walter Cantelupe,

who sleeps on his back in an alabaster suit of mail in the southchapel : as for Heavytree, who has but one arm ,

and holds thetremendous bass-viol with an iron hook (he lost his arm

thirty years ago, in one of Queen Ann e’s battles) , he toil s

away with the solemnity of a man in a saw-pit at the huge

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tuous in alabaster, beside Dame Ann e his wife, guarded by al ittle band of sons and dau ghters, who kn eel round his tombin relief

,all with rufi

’

s and fardi ngales like their good parents .Then opposite them broke out the or and azure again

,on

the cavalier General’ s tomb , brave Sir Peter, who fell for hisking at Northampton shire, bravely— there he was, not a bitmore humble than the Crusader in the chapel or his Eli zab ethan ancestor opposite, in the chancel, restin g on hi s lefthip ; a General

’ s truncheon in hi s right hand,on which is a

fri nged cufl'

glove ; whi le he wears a serene expression of loyaldetermination in his oval face

,which is so like hi s foolish

,un

fortunate master’ s .It is true there is no or and azure

,and cloven dragon’s head

on the whitewashed ceilin g,nor in the carved oak pulpit

,nor on

the font—but why go on cataloguin g the church, for it is carvedon the great blue flag-stones in the side aisle, it is on thatscrolled marble shield slab

,with its cherubs

,skull s

,hour-glasses

,

and thick di smal borderin g—it is of various degrees of lustrein every window but one, and that was smashed by a Puritanclerk in a fit of drunkenness durin g the Sacheverell agitation

,

and never yet replaced. We do not mean to say that this elaborate emblazonment of the whole church, as if it were a famil ysalver or punch ladl e, has arisen from any irreverent or ar

rogant pride of any indivi dual Cantelupe ; but the race is aproud one

,and it is the result of a long crescent pride here re

presented in aggregate . From the Crusades,when SirWalter

or Cantelupe took the Dragon Crest from some monster of nuknown name and fabulous attributes he slew in Egypt, down tothe time of the present warm -hearted, good old Sir Harry of thekeen brown eye

,and cheek of frosty red, every century has but

added to these heraldi c records one kn ight has given a window,another has erected a tomb one gave that carved goblet of apulpit

,with that strange stalk to the soundin g-board that is

meant for a palm tree, but looks hugely like a great gilt stickof celery

,the sounding-board that mushrooms out above

like the dial face of a compass being starred and lin ed withmagnet-rays of light and dark woods . It is something solemnand reproving

,though

,to human pride to think howmany gene

THE SQU IRE S raw. 95

rations of the name of Cantelupe have sat in that pew linedwith blood-red velvet

,faded here and there to yellow brown

,or

looked down on those green lined, hi gh sleeping boxes that camein wi th Queen An ne ; one after the other doled out by Time,and snatched up by Death in their great card match at whichthe stakes are human lives . Can telupes not only lie un der thepews

,and at the door

,and in the chancel, but in the ni ches of

the wall , where the builder himself slumbers. It is a shorttime is man’s life—not many clock beats

,not many buddin gs

and leaf fall s—not many ebbs and flows ; a little longer thanthe birds—a little shorter than the avenue trees

,yet time enough

to be proud in,and tme enough to earn Hell or win Heaven.

But we are getting too serious : now there was nothing doleful or whining about that day ’ s religion in Beaulieu church

,in

the coun ty of Wilts . Parson Greenoak stood up erect in hi shearty age in the hi gh readi n g desk so bathed in the slant whi tesunli ght that fell dartin g through a near window

,that to those

in front of him he appeared in hi s whi te robes like the Spiritof some departed prophet appearin g in vision of glory to adying saint but this effect was marred somewhat by the threadsof light whi ch strung across like some angel weaver’ s woof

,

shi ning here and there behi nd good Parson Greenoak,on the

crimson velvet of the pul pit cushi ons,whi ch were stamped in

the centre wi th the arms of their donor,Sir Harry, who gave

them to the church on his marriage day,now thi rty years ago.

Apart, however, from all spiritual resemblance, whi ch a touchof worldl y pride thus profanely broke in upon

,it was apleasan t

sight to see the October sun l ight mottle the Opposite wall ofthe Squire’ s pew with a glowy , quivering, golden mottle, thatas the service progressed

,slowly passed further eastward, as the

sun rose higher towards noon. No wonder that when theseerrant lights and fragments of glory glowed around the semibald head of Lightfoot

,Heavytree , and their tun eful band, one

old woman,whom many people thought a witch because she

was presumptuous enough to say she saw visions , declared in awhisper to a red-cloaked gossip as the strings of the fiddle-bowshone gold and transparent, and the heavenly but rather nasalmusic rose up in a thick and almost visible steam

,that she

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never beheld anything so like her idea of the Elders with theirgolden harps except once when she saw Kin g George attendin gservice in Salisbury Cathedral . Poor Goodie

,

” said this worthy vicar

,when somebody told him this

,

“ wi ser people thanyou have had meaner ideas of Heaven ; you had better thin k ofGod visibly up in Paradise than in no heaven and no hell

,

like that poor A theist they make so much ado about in Paris .”

Crood man, he had always an excuse even for bad people and tohear him you would think that we were li vin g in the goldenage

,and that gold-worship was generally becoming extinct .True

,that a man lik e Swift

,at this time fast sinking into

idiotcy, (dreadful punishment ofwasted and perverted intell ect ,)

would have smiled cynical ly to have seen the way in which theexcellent vi car seemed unconsciously to direct all the prayers totheSquire’s pew,

as if that was the first turnpike gate on theroad to Heaven . He woul d have scoffed in the churchyardafterwards at the vi car’s bowing that way in the creed

,waitin g

to begin the gospel till the Squire ’ s pew was well on its legs,

and in the sermon abstaining from touchin g anything but poormen’s il l s . There was nothing about pride

,but a good deal

about poaching no word about the rich man stuck in theneedl e’s eye, but a good deal about laziness , sottish idleness asevere logician might almost have gathered from the sermonthat poverty was a sin

,and that no one but a child of the devil

was either poor or was wicked enough to remain so . Thechurch of Beaulieu was

,in fact

,rather a dangerous place for a

keen observer,unl ess he coul d chain up his eyes ; for it was

amusin g to see the old clerk John Ni ghtwork, village undertaker

, who sat under the pulpit, folding his arms on his breast,and deliberately dozing with a set expression of serene andtranquil enj oyment on his wrinkled mask of a face . It wasamusing to see at fervid moments of the discourse

,when the

vicar got excited about som e perverted text of Polycarp’

s, and

drove down his hand on the desk and cushion with half thebang and almost the dust and smoke of a cann on to see howthe clerk looked up and nodded his head approvingly, as muchas to say, I knew very well it woul d come to that, and here

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bass , fol lowed by a dozen or so of light skirmishers,who answeredeach other with a droppin g file fire that seemed really intended,as I have said

,to put down Christianity altogether ; as far as

the vicar,in that church at least

,could expound it . Then a

sleeping boy fell off a form,or a book dropped

,or the clock

struck and thr ough such conflicting ob stacles it was that thegood man fought his way to Heaven.

B ut we must not be stopped by futile delays, but describe thesoft

,green wandering light that on summer afternoons strays

about the white walls of the church at Beaulieu,and that n ow

in this autumn time had changed to a pale orange glimmer ;the lime-leaves now were all so much leaf-gold

,among which

the orange-breasted robin piped like a child tired,thoughtless

of what it disturbed,at the chur ch porch ; one would have

thought i t longed to come in and serve as a chorister, butnot daring

,sat like a fairy b ird wi thout

,and sang its little

old world,m ournful

,and

“

unchanged hymn alone on the coldbough

,over the graves

,waiting a minim rest or two be

tween each verse of the spontaneous little anthem,as if

fi rst to hear if anything was said about it ; but hearing on lya bull -frog croak from Heavytree, the bass-viol player, halfstrangled by a rheum in his first sleep, beg1nnmg again, payingno heed

,no

,not a whit

,to the adm irable divini ty of the sermon.

Now the sermon was a good one ; but I am inclined tothink too learned and disputative by half for the rustic con

gregation ,whose minds

,un accustomed to be focussed to

attention,would have grown cataleptic with a forty minutes ’

strain of such compul sion,though the subj ect were Heaven

and their own heavenly mansions . If Sir Harry,the Squire up

at the hall,and the churchwarden slumbered

,what could be

said to the smaller fry in fact,:who could have girded at them

but the vicar ? and he was too rapt in his own earnestness andhis heavenward flight to observe them,

unless one snored himself awake

,and then looked up at him guilty red

,as the

vicar swept the area of pews over his spectacles . An Indianbrought for the first time into that big Wi gwam

,would have

thought that the seventy heads were noddin g in approbationof what the man

,up the tree was saying, or he might have

THE SQU IRE’

S PEW. 99

thought the heads,if he knew our customs, nodding for bids

round the man at an auction, or saluting each other at somesilent feast with friendly n oddings

,certainl y anything rather

thanBut why am I to chide my weaker brother ? have I not

,

too, slept when I meant to be attentive ? have I not, when Ishoul d have li stened, caught myself taking notes of the sidetwitches and noddings of sleeping men, who have j oggedthemselves awake, stared awhil e at the preacher and sm iled ,as much as to say

,that last argument was a clencher

,

” anddrawn back again in to the blank

,dark land of sleep ; besides ,

did not Sir Harry just n ow, nodding, open his eyes at the twoand-thirtieth minute, unfold his legs , look complacently at hi sshining shoe -buckles , blow his nose with watchful dignity,at which all the twenty sleepers awoke

,as he looked at them

with m ild reproval,repeating to himself “Homerus al iquando

dormi tat,in a l ow voice

,as if it was a text .

Who says that the sermon was a bad sermon ? yet it consistedchiefly of angry replies to some imaginary subverter of theChristian faith about the tim e of Cyprian ; still it was a vigorous attempt to refute the errors of Arianism

,which

,however,

certainly di d not prevail much in the parish, the very name

of that ill usion in fact, but for that forty minutes’ serm on ,

havin g,after so many centuries , not yet reached the tranquil

vill age .The Latin quotations

,which were numerous

,struck awe to

the minds of the rural congregation,who the sudden transition

of sound general ly awoke just as the angry clashing and trampl ing of your railway train suddenly di vin g into a tunnel awakesthe railway sleeper. The clerk always stirredatthe sound of Latin,and nodded angrily and with dignity at some playing boys in thes chool benches . Nowthe sermon begins to wane

,there are symp

t oms of its conclusion. The Vicar looks forward over the lastleaf. His voice perceptibly sinks, the cough chorus , hitherto increasing in violence or fitful ly breaking out in gusts , as if oneincited the other, lulls as if the thought of getting freesympatheticall y does everyone good—now with a benediction

the vicar dismisses the people. The instant the last word isn 2

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uttered,the turbulent children rush out wi th a j ostle and

tum bling scuffle, impatient for play or dinn er— a few redcheeked vil lage beaux wait at the door for their sweetheartsthere

,too

,the old men rej oin their wives

,and go tottering

past the place where they will soon rest for ever, while the boysrun in and out

,careless

,between the grassy mounds .

Gravely after the last lagging alm s -woman emerges thegood vicar

,who sails home to dinn er in his white robes

, &c .

I was still simm ering on in a cozy warm sleep,when a shout

from St . Ives, about a new brass that he had foun d un der thematting in the north aisle

,awoke me—I now took a turn at

rubbing, and in twenty minutes m ore our trap was bowlingback again across the Wiltshire Down s .That ni ght I wrote down my dream of the Squire’ s Pew.

CHAPTER X.

CROMWELL’

s HOUSE IN LONDON .

THE dark, massy ghost of Cromwell haunts more than onelocality of London . It has been seen a pill ar of mist in LongA cre and Brompton

,at Bermondsey and Westminster

,in all

which places the great Protector alternately lived .

Of all the London ghosts,except Dr . John son ’

s,Cromwell’s

i s, perhaps , the most corporeal and sturdy . Black sui t andcloak it wears

,and long boots ; the hat, such as he donned

the day he was proclaimed Lord Protector,has a broad gold

band, in fashion not unlike a crow n,girding it roun d .

Where shall we follow the stately ghost first ? To the farBermondsey ; to the old house now the Jamaica Tavern, thatis embalm ed by the horrible fumes of the glue-makers and thetann ers

,whose steeping pits

,fil led with a dark liquor the

colour of spiced ale,has a dust floatin g on the top of them

that (following the simile) looks very much like grated nutmeg . A l l green then

,I daresay

,with bushy elm s

,when

Cromwell perhaps brought his bride here from St. G iles’

s,

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s treet ; for though poor Spenser the poet had died of starvation ini t,Queen Elizabeth

’s Lord HighAdm iral had held Privy Council sthere—councils so disastrous to the Spaniard . Through thi snarrow street the halberdiers brought

.Kin g Charles in a close

chair to Whitehall,after his trial at Westminster

,and from

its latticed windows Cromwell himself may have looked withstern sorrow at the sedan that bore the faithl ess king .

But I never meet Cromwell so often,even a dim shadow

,in

the sunshine, (for it is all nonsense about your ghosts walking

only by moonlight : the mind ’s eye,to which alone they are

visible, can conjure them up by day or night,) as in LongA cre, that quiet street of coach-builders . I !specially love totrack my sober ghost hither

,because I know

,from a dull

,

industrious book-grubber of my acquain tance,that my friend

Oliver lived here quietly from 1 637 to 1 643 , (eventful yearsfor him

,as for others

,) where he was rated for the large sum ,

i n those days,of ten shil lings and tenpence . My date-grubber

is even kin d enough to inform me that the same not unknownCaptain Cromwell lived on the south side

,the Strand side, two

doors from one N icholas Stone,a sculptor.

An d here I shall refuse to g o any further with my ghost, orhe will keep me half the night leading me about— to the StarTavern

,in Coleman Street

,where he used

,before the kin g’s

fall,in the dangerous and troublous times

,to m eet his ad

herents ; or to the Blue Boar Inn, High Holborn, where hei ntercepted the treacherous letter of the king ; so here I musts top him

,for even a ghost may be troublesome . It was not in

Long A cre,in the quiet Captain’ s house

,that Cromwell kept

his seven tables spread,as he afterwards did at Whitehall

,nor

his twelve footmen in grey Jackets laced with silver and black .

I t was not here he saw his famous C OIHII Mare,

” with hisfavourite groom Dick Pace on her back , fly over the greentur f nor from this house di d he ride to waken the echoes ofHampton Park

,or to shake down the chestnut bloom of Bushy

with the soundin g feet of his Flemish hunters .

How often,as I walk in the sunshine through that busy

coach-builders’ street,do I fancy I see coming towards me a

form of massive stature,with leonin e head, which, by the wart

CROMWELL’

S HOUSE IN LONDON. 103

on'

the right eye-brow,which marks his frown so dreadfully

,I

know to be Cromwell,whose early life was spent in this neigh

bourhood. I kn ow well his heavy eyelids and hi s full aquilinenose, his broad lower Jaw,

hi s strong chin,and the long

,soft

,

curl less hair streaming down over his plain doublet collar andsteel breastplate . There is a natural maj esty about the Huntingdon country gentleman, indeed, such as kings rarely possess .How unlike this Long Acre

,with its black still houses

,to

that great yell ow brick mansion at Hun tingdon,where Crom

well was born ! that house,not far from the dark Ouse, that

passes on sullenly to the Fen country through rows of dullalders an d drooPing l

will ows ; or the stately ancestral house whereO l iver ’s grandfather entertain ed James I . with almost regalSplendour . Nor can we here help stopping for a moment to remind our readers that Cromwell was of no mean fam ily, if trulyto be of a mean family is a disgrace in the estimation of any buta m ean mind. Cromwell was sprung of nob le Welsh blood ,especiall y from a certain Dick of the Diamond

,whom Henry

VIII . knighted for his unrivalled prowess in a Court tournament . On both father and m other’s side

,by descent as well

as by various intermarriages,Cromwel l ’s family was deeply

conn ected with that brave middle class which has producedEngland’s best and bravest men . He was educated at C ambri dge

,and studied law at I (In COID ,

S Inn .

He returned home to become a careless roysterer, fond ofcards

,quarter- stafi

'

,and rough country sports

,till a great

darkness fell on him , and sl owly through that darkness brokethe light from heaven that broughtJoy and peace . In countryquiet and ease he lived

,nursing his great soul in silence,

” ashis friend Milton said afterwards of him . It was no adventurer of restless ambition who became really King of England ,but a brave

,pious

,industrious country gentlem an , who , at the

mature age of forty-one—more than half life over— took hisseat in the Long Parliament as member for Cambridge, resolved to throw himself into the front rank as a buckler for hissuffering country .

Still, through the pallor of ghostliness , (it is a long way towalk from Connaught Place

,where

,under Tyburn gallows:

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base hands threw the great man’s corpse,) I can still see the

bluff Oliver’s tanned dyspeptic face, that Hudibras and theother cavalier wits thought it not disgraceful to mock at ; theheavy red nose

,too, the result of fen agues , I am not in sensible

to . But I forget it all in that glance of blended love andmajesty that Dryden mentions so beautifully. I bow

,there

fore,with reverence when I meet the ghost of that good and

truly great man . The ribald cavaliers -such men as Rochesterand Buckingham— talk of him as the moody Puritan ; but Iknow that he loves music , and wil l listen for hours to voiceand in strument, with Milton his friend dream ing at his elbow.

They call him the red-handed murderer ; I know that he loveschildr en

,and is the tenderest of fathers . They think him a

melancholy madman ; I know that he loves an hon est Jest,and roared with laughter at seeing a soldier Jam his headinextricably in a Scotch churn . They call him niggard ; Iknow that he feasted all the Parliament House

,each Monday

di ned all his officers , and every day kept all but open table,though in his own diet truly he was spare and costless . Theycall him an ignorant brewer ; but Milton tells me that, hadhe chosen

,Cromwell’ s natural capacity was so great that he

m ight have equalled the greatest masters . They call him a

hyp ocrite ; but I know that he begins and ends every workwith prayer .I see him in Long A cre— this great, good man—walkin gwith that dear stripling son Oliver the news of whose deathwent like a dagger to his father s heart

,with lazy

,careless

Richard,or his dear Dorothy (his daughter-ih -law) .

Thathooded graceful old lady

,with the pure simple pearl necklace

,

must be the dear mother he loved so much ; she of whom healways wrote with such respect and love ; she who, in partingfrom him

,gave him her blessing '

Lin these fond but broken

words : The Lord cause his face to shin e upon you,and bless

you, and comfort you in all your adversities and make you todo great things for the glory of your most high God

,and to be

a relief unto his people. My dear son,I leave my heart with

thee ; good night .”

Surely, when we reckon up the mothers to whom great men

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defend Protestantism . Universal toleration,evangelical alli

ance,and all our grandest m issionary work

,were foreshadowed

by this great man . It was not in Parliament or in power thatthis ghost of ours spent the best part of his life ; no , but ingrass farming on the flat banks of the Ouse among dankwill ows

,in prayer

,in preaching

,and in the tranquil pleasur es

of hom e .

I gaze at the aguish ghost of the Protector,which I follow

afar off,as children do a street show

,with respect

,yet with

awe,whether he go towards Drury House or towards

Whitehall,where the bad kin g lost head and crown at one

blow.

But I must part from thy great shadow,as I have had to

part from so many others . Oliver Cromwell ! I see thy sterneyes and grave large features m elt into vague sunshine as Istil l address thee . Now thy sword is gone ; now thy greystockings ; now half thy m irror of a breastplate ; now thyfall ing bands now a radiant brightness that enwraps thee .Blessed spirit

,may thy doom be mine . Glorious sha

dow of immortality,may I one day be as thou art, though

my life shall have been to thine but as that of a pigmy toa giant . Ill ustrious among the crowned angels

,may I learn

more and more to venerate thy memory—a true king amongmen

,a true saint before God.

CHAPTER XI.

THE OLD MULBERRY GARDEN, NOW ST . JAMEs’

s PARK.

TIME,who is a harlequin

,famous for his tricks and changes,

seem s to treat London as the scene of a pantom ime that takes agreat many centuries playing, but still must come to the greencur tain drop at last . Wonderful are the changes and tricks

he effects , telling, too, all the gentlemen of the stage, whetherclown or king

,the proper tim e for their entrance and their

exit . His scenes are on a large scale, and they flap and slide

THE OLD MULBERRY GARDEN . 107

about just l ike the scenes of the pantomime of my simile— (thishot weather it is impossible to keep metaphors quite congruous) .

Now a king’s London palace,at a slap of his wand

,becomes a

hospital ; now a gallow’s green becomes a fashionable street .

Perharps Harlequin Time will s it that n ow a Niagara sausagemachin e roar in the cellar where Mrs . Brownrigg murdered herapprentice

,now that a coal-wharf shall take the place of the

Norman castle that once frowned upon the banks of the crystalThames

,the “ silver-footed Thamesis

,

” whose s trand the poetHerrick

,exiled to his rough Devonshire Vicarage

,longed to

repace,or reiterate

,

” as he somewhat fantastical ly calls it .

The harlequin Time,wi th his changeful wand ever vibrating

over our dear black-faced,changeful

,di rty

,delightful city

,has

played,and is still playing

,strange tricks . There was the little,

swi ft,crystal streamlet

,the Fleet— swallow-swift and fleet

chasing ripple after ripple,from its hilly source in some

Hampstead meadow,it is now a vaulted-up, loathsome, poison

breathing sewer,full of rats and odours that are so strong

they run about in visible shapes, and is no m ore fit to be seenthan a charnel-house

,or a plague-pit newly covered . The little

fairy nymph of that Fleet stream has long since died an Opheliadeath , and lies buried forty fathom s deep in thi s fat and stagnant Styx of subterranean London— a sad type of all the brightyouth and childhood that has grown old

,and wicked, and

festering, bad, and has died, and corrupted away, in this ourwicked old London . The Fleet seems to me— if I may beallowed to draw a sim ile from a book I love much— the unhappyL i ttle Nel l of rivers the Babe in the Wood

,killed by its

naughty uncles,the nightmen of London . Shall I stay to trace

its declin e,as it thickened and darkened like a painter ’s glass,

when he washes his Indian-ink brush ? Shall'

I tel l how itflowed under the cruel thieves ’ haunts of the bad cocked-hattime— the heartless

,false

,artificial time— when

,through bloody

trap-doors and secret apertures,often by moon glimpses at the

dead of night,stabbed and battered bodies were splashed into

its waters by masked highwaymen and blasphem ing wretches,with pistols still smoking , sticking from their huge fiapped

pockets . This is Chang e No . 1 .

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Change No . 2 ,—Lincoln’s Inn Fields

,where the Duke of

Ancaster and other of Horace Walpole ’s grand,patched

,and

perriwigged, false, fribbly l

friends lived, with sprinkle of judgesand great men (brain great, not pocket great)— fading to thestony row of silent chambers of 1 861—where the grimy laundress sweeps the foot-marked door-steps

,and where sparse grass

grows between the bald white stones of the courtyards .Chang e No . 3 of my sample changes taken at random . The

site of the National Gallery, in the middle Ages the Kin g’

s

Mews where,in grassy plots

,the dandeli on balanced its hol

low globe of down,like a floral acrobat, with only one trick, or

Spread its yellow shield flower,while the white falcons of

Norway fluttered an d whistled on the gloved hand of som elucky accident that wore the regal coronet, and strutted like adeity got down from its pedestal .Chang e 4 .

— The silent andb locked—upwarehouses ,where chainsdangle

,and custom-house cats collect revenues of mi ce

,where

hops smell sweet,and hay spreads about— dry memorial of

summer fields—and bales of spices tell stories to each other atnight of Ceylon cinnamon-groves and Malabar Jungles— standnow where once the Globe Theatre stood

,where for the first

time the great Elizabethan men sat and wondered at the magicworld un rolled before them by that short prick-bearded Shakspere

,who sat on the stage among the smoking gall ants and

their pages .But I might go on all day, showing the pantomimic chan gesof harlequin Time ; showin g how London has eaten up all thegreen fields round it, and spread like a gangrene, killing anddeadenin g as it spread . I could show how the rich citizens’

houses of m iddle-age London are now chandlers’ shops in smallalleys

,and that where Jane Shore

,with her Jewelled hair

,sat

and waited for the king,is now but I must get at once to

my special change— the change of the old Mulberry Garden ofCharles into the modern Buckingham Palace the change ofSt. James ’s Park from the swampy meadow walled in by HenryVIII

,to the trim modern triangle where the children play

,the

ducks strut,the swans pout

,and the cows stand so pati ently

to be mi lked ; where once fat Prior and black-browed Swift

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the early British chief. I like,too

,the centre walks

,where

‘

our little Benj am ins of London play,and cry

,and babble

,where

seedy meditators,and out-of-doors and sometimes out-oi

'

elbow philosophers think and doze,then wake

,and doze, and

think ; where the thin, nervous , fine-fibred grass struggles fora living

,and where the pampered swans steer past with their

orange feet . Here,too

,sometimes seated between an oily

farmer up for the “ show,

” who rubs his red face wi th a silkmainsail

,and a gentlemanly vagabond, who tel ls me he has

been in the “ Rifles,and who looks rather like a rifler— l

sometimes,in a day-dream

,find myself asking the farmer who

that swarthy man in the dove-coloured velvet and cloth-of-goldsword-belt is

,who stands just Opposite

,throwing showers of

dry hemp-seed to the ducks .I see now’t— sartin I don’t

,

” says the farmer .I appeal to the ex-officer of the Rifles .

You haven’t Sixpence about you,honoured sir is all the

reply I can get from the subaltern with the packet of greasyletters . But yet I do see him my retina takes the full image .

By the apple of my eye, I know now that grim dark face, thatheavy eye, and black wig , that strong sure walk, and that trainof li ttle waddlin g spani els . Charles II . is watching the threehundred men at work

,and talking with some French gardener

about throwing all the ponds but Rosamond ’

s into one strip ofwater

,with islands for the ducks there is to be a rising fence

for deer,decoys for ducks

,broad gravel walks instead of nar

row winding fiel d-paths ; Italian ice-houses, avenues of trees ,and

,above all

,a mall . I suppose the king got his love for

ducks in Holland,where he brought the use of skates from .

No use now,decoys for wi ld fowl in the Park ; the wild fowl

that Charles saw on their own nests are gone far from the roaring city

,gone like the fat and sweet salmons that the his

torian Harison saw daily taken in the Thames—gone wherethe woodcocks of the West End squares are gone , and wherethe whitebait of Greenwich will foll ow

,if the Thames goes on

sti ll getting worse as it gets older .

St . James’s Palace was once an hospital for fourteen leprous

sisters, and dedicated to the Spanish Saint who gave a name to

THE OLD MULBERRY GARDEN . 1 1 1

so long a line of Scotch kings , the dregs of which lin e we had theblessings of in England till we tossed them on to a foreigndunghill

,where they ceased to trouble u s

,death shutting them

al l up, the lost drunkard, wi th the other bigots and mauvaz’

s

s zg'

ets,in a certain quiet mortuary chapel of the Vatican that I

have often Vi sited with much thankfulness . Henry VIII,

hateful to God and man,laid his fat hand on this charity

,as

the English Rehoboam did , wherever he could on church ormanor-house .The site of Buckingham Palace was once

,as I have said be

fore,a suburban mulberry garden, or Cremorne, that existed

when Cromwell shut up Spring Gardens and they were builtupon, and before Vauxhall was Opened . It was a fashionablebotanical-garden sort of place , where you ate tarts, and hadwine and Cheesecakes . Lord Goring li ved close by, at thehouse that the Earl of Arlington and the D uke of Buckinghamsuccessively inhab ited ; and there was good air there and goodcompany, and here, at a glass-smashing banquet, Charles II .himself violated his own decree against pledging and the drin king of heal ths . Ever since Cromwell shut up Sprin g Garden

,

the Mul berry Garden flouri shed.

But of that anon . This garden originated in a plantin g ofmulberries near Westminster Palace , by that erudite and mostwise simpleton, James I .

,— the man born for a village school

master, or a country Shallow. It consisted of about four acrestwenty-two perches of land , and stood on the north-west sideof the present palace ; it was intended to set an example

,bor

rowed from some Italian traveller,of the cul tivation of the

Eastern tree, the poor w1tch-frightened pedant havin g somegleam of an idea that such culture would promote the manufacture of English silks . A t that time

,even in Scotland

,the

first principles of political economy were unknown,or the

murderer of Raleigh would have known that new trades maybe grown , but cannot be forced by the hotbed of royal decrees .The mulberry-garden silk— the due time of decomposition having

l

come—like Chelsea china and other artificial ities, exhaled

and went to — limbo . Charles I .

,that melancholy and wife

ruled bigot, before its complete decease, gran ting it, mulberries,

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swaddled silk-worms and all,to the care of Lord A ston for

own and son’s life,

” as laborious but dull Mr . Peter Cunningham has discovered

,after much dusty grabbing, and dry divin g

into registers .I will not stop to restore the ol d mulberry garden even inimagination ; let the old haunt of folly be bur ied un der thekitchen pavin g stones of the unhaunted palace . Let u s picture only for a moment

,if we li ke

,and then dismiss for ever

,

the great shrubby unn aturalised tree of Palestine,with the

thick sappy boughs,and large green toothed leaves

,—what time

the ground un der their dark shadow during Charles I .

’s an gui shwere purple

,blood-stained with fruit

,as if some Cavalier and

Puritan had in deed been struggling for li fe or death under thefruit-laden branches ; we may picture the Vandyke men, insuits of white silk or carnation velvet

,pacing on the turfen

bowling-greens,roses in their shoes

,swords by their side, their

hats plumed with blue or crim son,their hearing stately and

grave,as befitted the gentlemen of whom Falkland and Hamp

den are the two contrasting ty pes . Here,perhaps

,too

,grave

faced Puritan divin es— Hugh Peters and hi s brother preachers—ih sad-coloured raiment

,short cropped hair

,and black skull

caps on their heads,paced up and down

,between the fountains

,

the silver columns ; the flower beds— that seemed to rebukemelancholy as sinful

,— and the large-leaved mulberry trees .

Here,with heavy folio volumes of Prynne

,and other faithful

men,under their sinewy arms

,they repeated the story of how

Kin g David once waited for the Philistin es in the valley ofRephaim

,and went forth to battle to smite them utterly by

God’s direction,when he heard a sound as of a rushing wind

in the tops of the mulberries . It is true,says Brother Hew

Agag-ih -Pieces,afterwards trooper in Cromwell’s Ironsides

,

that the Douay version for mulberry trees” substitutes peartrees

,but what is the Douay version - Drawer

,bring

three stoups of wine,—~ and again in the Psalms lxxxiv. 6

,we

hear of him ‘who passing through the valley of mul berries

and,Drawer

,some pasty

,if you have

Here,without stopping to sketch that good and virtuous

Surrey gentleman, Mr. Evelyn,who loved gardens so much

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closed,and its enchantment broken up. Mr . Pepys found it a

silly place,worse than Sprin g Garden, but thought the wi l

derness somewhat pretty ; and April next year he was hereagain

,treated by some one with an 0110 made by a cook of the

place,who had been to Spain with Pepys’ great patron, Lord

Sandwich ; he found the podrida a very noble dish,such as I

never saw before ,” —and let u s h0pe digested it ; then he took

a walk,and eventuall y returned again, to sup on what he had

left from the dinner at noon .

And who dare call u s to task if we choose to presume thatin the next arbour mi ght have been seated a certain

,not un

known ,poet— one Mr . John Dryden ; not in his old book

s eller’s hack un iform sui t ofNorwich drugget, but rather freshcolour ed and grand, in his sword and Chedreux wig, drinkin gRhenish and n ippin g Cheesecakes with a lady in a mask— oneMadame Reeve

,the fair actress . Perhaps he is reading to her

,

under breath,his Ode to Charles II .

,which is poor compared

with that he wrote to Cromwel l ,becau se, as the poet wittily says,in his quiet way, Poets succeed better in fiction than in truth .

”

Well come off, laughs Madame Reeve , putting down herslender wine glass , and flashing out so bewitchingly with hersparkling whi te teeth .

It was to this bygone Circe land, Sedley, Etherege, and

Wycherley,better poets than men

,came to glean from

life . Here they sat,and watched their Modi shes, and

W il dishes , and Snappems , their musicians and dancers, their’prentices and sedan men their youn g-old beaux and their oldyoun g prigs , their citizens, servants, and chil dren . Here (toColby’s) came gallants ful l of French oaths , and their new

perriwigs and sword-belts, fresh from dozens of champagne,

”

and ridi ng races round Hyde Park . Here,tired of Ombre

,or

of presenting oranges at the theatre, came the sparks to seethe coun try ladies, whose great resort the gardens were, afterthe play had closed and the park had been visited . Here mencame fresh from their dish of cofi

’

ee or tea, to spill some Burgundy, and to drink toasts in brimming glasses . Here rufii an s ,fresh from the filthy dens of the Fleet, came to brag, and bully,cheat

,and pick quarrels .

THE OLD MULBERRY GARDEN . 11 5

To judge by Shadwell , this garden must have been a placenot always undisturbed by the clash of swords and the trample

and scrun ch of broken glass ; for spirits were high in Englandthen

,and swords were ever ready for sudden murder or duel<

ling,which is anal ogous to i t . Fat Shadwell , whom Dryden

attacked as a fool as un justly as Pope did Dennis , talks of thepleasant divertissement in the Mulberry Garden— and oneof hi s Frenchified humourists says : Ay, I was there , and thegarden was very full of gentlemen and ladies, that made loveto each other till twelve o ’clock at night— the prettyest Ivow

’

twoul d do one’ s heart good to see them .

And here a word or two about that unknown vice of thepresent original day— plagiarism . I should be sorry to robPeter to pay Paul ; that is to say, to quote Mr . Peter Cunn ingham

’

s useful if not brilli ant book on London,when I had

his authoriti es myself to go to, and some knowledge how touse them .

For in these times of literary fil chin g it highly becomes a manof honour

,— i f he have any generous fire in him

,— to sit down

and settle this question of “ plagiarism ” with himself— howfar honest quotations can be used without becoming dishonestthievin g, and how far, when practised on oneself, stealing is tobe resented

,posted

,and exposed . Now

,Mr. Peter Cunning

ham,bein g a busy

,not always accurate

,compiler from all good

books in London— such as Leigh Hunt,Sm ith ’s Rainy Day

,

&c .

— must needs be used seem ingly, though one go first handfor everything, and even set right, and fil l up his numerousshort-comings— the sin

,not of error but of omission

,being his

most special one .Thi s settled, and feeling easier now having nailed the coloursof a principle to my mast

,I go back to the garden that changed

into a palace about the same time Spring Gardens becam eLockett’ s tavern , the great resort of the Queen Anne wits andfrom here

,where mulberries no longer stain pretty crimson

mouths , let u s return to the St. James’ s Park and the quietcows , that West, that m ost smooth and intolerable of all dullartists , once pain ted . We have already in an erratic way

,as

becomes the legendary stroller,described how that fat tyrant,

1 16 CROSS C OUNTRY .

Henry VIII , turned St. James ’s Fields,that were probably

the people’s lands,into a small chase and how,

in his corruptand vicious cruel old age— this favourite of Mr . Froude

,the

crotchety and the changeable— turned out the fourteen leperladies and the eight m onks who kept up daily prayers . Herethis soul of leprosy

,

” as Leigh Hunt,generally rather m in c

ing and affected,final ly call s him ,

lodged his “ swathed andcorrupt body . The very year he married Anne Boleyn it wasthat this tyrant of so m any flocks and herds took away thepoor man’s li ttle ewe lamb . He who had

'

seized on goodmen’s lands—who had revelled

,Belshazzar-li ke

,out of even

sacram ental cups—n ow spared no one ; his thir st for lust andrevenge grew like Nero ’s . He had dead W ol sey

’

s Whitehalland Hampton Court

,he had Royal Windsor

,he had many

palaces,but he must

,too

,have this little leper’s hospital

,thi s

Naboth ’s vineyard , so he clutched i t . The black red—brickgateway of i t

,dull and drear

,still stands facing the steep street

of clubs,and the initials of Henry and Anne stil l stand toge

ther in the chimney-piece of the old presence-chamber .”

It was the sam e royal murderer of More,Fisher

,and Sur

rey,who made a tilt-yard and cock-pit where the Horse-Guards

(equally useful ) now stands . But now no blows are exchangedthere

,and m ilitary mi llinery is all that remain s of the old brave

bu fi‘

eting that was the horse-play of Henry’ s time ; that king

who made up for a good youth by so wi cked and corrupt anold age—Henry

,the Vitellius of England .

History,as hitherto written, has been nothing but a record

of the crimes and blunders of kings . The history of the English people I hope some day to enter the lists for

,carin g myself

m ore for the species man than the genus kin g . Of king-hi storySt . James ’ s Park gives u s plenty. We see that false king

,

Charles I .,with his dull

,sad face

,pacing across it on his way

to his execution outside the Whitehal l window. There isCharles II .

,his hopeful son

,talking to Nell Gwynne over the

garden-wall of the Mall . There is James II .,thinking of the

b ishops,and wishin g they had but one neck . Then dull Queen

Anne,nibbling her fan for want of a repartee. George I .

,

short,snub

,and pale

,with his fat German mistress or burlyWal

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1 18 cs oss C OUNTRY .

Spectator,of Pope

,Prior

, Swift, Arbuthnot, and Gray. TheBoscobel oak acorns that Charles II . planted and laughed overwith Rochester and Sedley

,and Kill igrew and Arlington , are

gone, the very lines of the Green Walk and the Jacobite Walk

(or DukeHumphrey’

sWalk,and the CloseW alk) , and the Long

Lime Walk,are forgotten and scarcely traceable ; but there

is still Duck Island or its successor, that St. Evremon d, the

wit,was made governor of

,as a j oke

,by that Merry Monarch”

who made so many of hi s subjects weep . One can still seethe Parade where Lo Sueur’ s bronze gladiator stood on itsstone pedestal

,but it is difficu l t to imagine the green ditches

and mounds that Charles II . had levelled,and the trees he had

cut down,and the avenues he made

,and the fruit trees he

planted,or the bridge that he removed.

But here Mr. Leigh Hunt’ s remin iscence of the Music i nthe Par recalls a fine chivalr ous legendfof the place , whichinterests u s more than that measur ed tramp or that thrill ofthe drum . It refers to the stanch fidel ity to a fal len cause ofold Lord Craven

,the supposed lover in early life of James the

First ’s daughter, the exil ed Queen of Bohemia, whose greathouse stood on the present site of the Olympic theatre . He itwas who was on duty at the palace the day the Dutch tr00pswere marching triumphantly and bloodlessly into the park . Theblood of the old soldier of Gustavus— the Dal getty of a corrupt court— fired up he would have borne down with half-adozen men on these pickle herrings

,and died fighting among

their swords but his master forbade him,and he strode away

with sull en dignity .

”

But here,too

,as we look towards the forsaken palace-court

of St. James ’ s— never a lucky home for royalty since the poorleprous sisters were expelled— arise unhappy memories . HereGeorge IV . was born to bless the nation and here theunlucky Pretender a warming-pan” changeling, as theWhi gssaid ; here Charles I . parted with his children— the swarthyboy who was born here

,and his large-nosed brother of York

here Mary died,and Prince Henry

,the lad of such promise,

who pitied Raleigh . Like other London houses less celebrated

,much good and evil has been done in that pal ace

IRISH FAIRIES. 1 1 9

many heads and many hearts broken—much joy and muchsorrow has entered there .

An d now, before we leave the Park, we remember howotherwise it has altered . Bein g no longer a sanctuary frombaili ffs , there are no hollow-cheeked men now gasping abouton benches ; and if a modern Lady Bradl eigh had an en

thu siasm to see a great novelist,such as Richardson

,she

would not ask him for an elaborate Hue and Cry” descriptionof himself

,that she may know him‘ when, on a certain day, the

author of Clarissa” walks in St. James ’s Park .

But now,wi th the clash of cymbal s in our ears

,m ingled

with the mild lowing of cows,an d with a gleam of scarlet and

flash of steel in our eyes,we must qui t the park

,the swamp of

the ante-Norman days,the fiel ds outside the lonely isolated

leper-house of the fourteen sisters,the Duck Island of St .

Evremond,and the walks the swarthy Charles paced

,and hie

to other legendary scene s,where we may again meet the

reader .The Horse-Guards ’ clock, with both hands for once un ited,points to twelve— I must away— I hear a ’bus conductor youcannot hear— I see his tin whistle which you cannot see— andhis cry is

,Bank

,Bank

,

” which is my way to London Bridge .

CHAPTER XII .

IRISH FA IRIES .

I WAS, knapsack on my back, with occasional li fts on j aunting«

cars,making a tour of Ireland, hearing shi ll elaghs rattle, seeing

whisky drunk,and listening to rebellious songs all about pikes

and the S/z an van voclz t,or the old prophetess who in ’

98 predicted the arrival of the French .

I was a tourist on my way through Connemara, determinedto hear as much of the brogue, see as much of the big bluemountains cal led the Twelve Pins

,

” and pick up as manystories of banshees and Ribbonmen as I coul d in a dozen weeks.I had come from Killarney, where the spectre kin g, O

’

Donohue

1 20 CROSS COUNTRY .

mailed in sunshine,rides over

'

the lake every May morning,and I was going to Donegal

,the country of rock dwarfs,

smugglers,and mine spirits . I knew i f there was a fairy to be

found in Ireland I should hear of it from Denn is O’

F lan agan ,

who was to drive me in the jaunting-car between Ballyrob inand Bal lynabrig, and so it proved .

The day had turned out wet,the rain fell in long slanting

c ords,and beginning first by covering the window-panes of the

inn at Ballyr obin (where I was detain ed) wi th silver scratcheslike so many feeble attempts at autographs by some travellerpossessed of a diam ond ring

,had at last com e to a wide, washing

s tream that flooded the glass , and kept it dripping, like athatched roof on a wet day

,the bright drops matching each

o ther in races to the bottom,as if they had determined to be

m erry, and to get up small Derbys on their own account . Thecar waited till the cushions got wet, and Denn is then drove itback again under cover .In my room there was not much to amuse a weather-boundtravel ler. The onl y books on the shelf over the ill uminatedtea-tray were a Catholic Testament in the Irish language, adismembered volume of Tom Moore ’s Irish Melodi es

,and a

History of the Irish Rebelli on,black-greasy wi th thumbin g .

The mantelpiece was stuck with bagmen’

s cards . There wasnothing in the room peculiarly national except the peat fire andthe big peat basket, which in Ireland stands where the coals cuttle does in England . There were the lumps of dried blackturf

,looking like small oblong cakes of chocolate

,burning

,or to

be burnt . There is no blaze about a peat fire,but onl y a qui ck

,

earnest,white flame

,that slowly burns the sods (where once

the snipe and wild duck fed and nestled ; where the mopin g,bankrupt heron brooded over his irrem ediable m isfortun e ;where the hooded crow watched the lamb, and the endl essmagpies strutted and fluttered) to a blin ding pure crimson, so

pure and intense, that it gradually alchem ises into a bloom ofcolour less radiance

,and then

,lowerin g and sinking,lapses into

white stil lness preparatory to fusin g in to the mortuary asheso f old age and repentance . There is somethi n g primitive an dsavage in the tall basketful of dry turf, and I like to throw it

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1 22’

os oss COUNTRY .

demon horse,croppy

,fairy

,or what not . I bethink me of how

a Doolan once tamed the dem on horse,and of how the famous

O’

Rourke went up to the moon,and was left there by the big

thafe of an eagle. Tired at last ofmy rumination,and findin g

no one coming,I rouse myself and go out into the kitchen

to see what delays Dennis and the car . I find Denn is,totally

forgetful of me and the j ourney,intent on teazing Mistress

Joyce’s eldest daughter,a little wicked

,black-eyed colleen

,

who has her back to me,and is arrangin g her long hair

,which

looks something like a horse ’s mane,by means of a cracked

three-cornered bit of looking-glass stuck on the second row ofplates on the dresser

,and singing like a mermaid as she weaves

her tresses

Sweet Mol ly Carew,

Itwasn’t for you

That I gave in the bann s to the parson,Yet for you I

’

d do mur ther,

Yes, t-rayson , or fu rther,Stale, felo de say, or ral e arson .

On one side of the crystal triangle sacred to female vani ty,

was a truculent,black-browed

,burglarious portrait of Dean

Cahill on the other,a fubsy caricature of Napoleon, who is

still the idol of the Irish peasantry,though he never did any

thing for them ; these impulsive, inconsequential Celts always li kebest those who serve them least . Three brown

,sm oky lumps

of ham contributed by the deceased gintl eman who pays therint

,

” depended from a beam over my head,like swords of

Damocles . In one corner of the earth floor rolled a heap ofpink eyes

,mixed in brotherly union with the baskets-full ,

”

the genus potato the Joyces especially affect . On the shelfnear Denn is is a suspicious green bottle half uncorked, and ashe hears my foot

,Dennis drops his whip

,cries Whisht ! in a

moment,your honour and is 011

“

to the stables, while Kathleenlooks round

,colours

,and brushes a stool cleanwi th her apron for

me to sit down on,then kneels down and puit

'

s at the sm oulderin gpeat fire, which she had nearly let out while Denni s had beenwhi spering soft nonsense in her little pin k ear . I observe onthe mud floor

,which i s scooped out in holl ows, and is anything

IRISH FA IRIES . 1 23

but level or clean,the shavings of an alpeen (shi llelagh) which

Denni s has been long seasoning in the dunghill , and which hehas just now been shaping into a terrific mace, intended to thinthe ranks of the base anti-Flanagan faction a rope of onions

,

in their smiling,bronzed

,red-yellow skin s , dangle overhead,

and a salmon rod,with a spear at the butt-end

,rests in a

corner of the room . Kathleen,her mermaid dressing over, is

now sitting down at the back door,on a chair without any

particular seat,with one eye on Denn is

,who is putting-to the

car,and flapping the blue cushions, and with the other on a

she-goat,that feeds

,tethered

,near the stable

,and is waiting

for Mrs . Joyce tomi lk her. At Kathleen’s feet rolls , not overdressed

,youn g Teddy Joyce

,playin g with hi s mother’s heads

(the rosy darli nt i) , the very beads she counted as she went lastweek on her pilgrimage up that holy mountain near Westport,Croagh Patrick

,which is as conical and nearly as steep as an

extinguisher.Dennis gives a howl of delight— one of those howls that

'

youmay still hear even in a Dublin concert-room—as the lastbuckle of the harness is slipped into place . He reappears in

a large blue great-coat that reaches down to his heels , and witha rusty hat wi th a flapping li d that goes up and down, twinedround with white shiny lin es of gut, and studded , not wi th

brooches,but with gaudy macaws and golden pheasants,

as the best salmon-fiies are called . Amongst these , like a gunfrom an embrasure

,obtrudes the old Irish Adam

,in the shape

of a black dhudeen pipe, oily and odorous .A truly Irish hubbub ann ounces our departure . MikeJoyce emerges from some cell ar

,or secret distill ery, red and

r ejoicing ; men come out and shake hands withDennis ; Mrs .Joyce, with her white frilled cap and pleasant staring face,insists on mixin g me a stirrup cup

,

” in the shape of a glassof whisky-toddy : the sight of the sugar distilli ng down in asilvery shower in which

,gives me quite a new impression of

the charms of chemistry.

I shake hands with everybody,as if I was one of the Al l ied

Powers in a popular print . I balance myself sideways on theshelf of the Jaunting-car

,feeling as an Englishman at first

1 24’

cs oss C OUNTRY.

always does in that wild,erratic vehicle

,as if I was on a side

saddle, or rather on a chair which was being drawn fromunder meI felt slightly qualmish

,and clutched at the back rail as we

started wi th a spurt and J'

erk that nearly unseated me .Hurrah !” called out the Joyce family . More power to

ye said Mrs . J. Good luck to the worst of ye saidKathleen

,looking up with a smile at Dennis from her stocking.

Off we were—that is to say,off I nearly was— but I managed

to keep my seat,which is more than some M .P.s can say

,and

away we went at that headlong,reckless

,generous

,pelting

pace that Irish carmen,reckless of wear and tear

,always do go

in the south of Ireland . Bal lyrob in faded behin d u s . Now,

you who have laughed at the incomparable travel ler who toldyou of coals being brought up on a china plate

,guess what

luggage we had in our car. Rats in a bottle P An elephantin a jam-pot ? But you would never guess . A turkey in abandbox—yes

,positively

,a turkey sent in an old bonnet-box

to Bal lynabrog market by Mrs . Joyec the prudent . I haveseen a few droll things

,but never anythin g odder than that .

A swan in a basket at Basingstoke,with his neck out and a

parchment direction round i t,is droll but the turkey in Mrs .

Joyce’

s bonnet-box was irresistible .Dennis is a Connaught man

,pale and whiskerless , but with

straight black hair and good features,with a serious, earnest

manner,changing rapidly to rollicking fun and drollery, and

with a fine swellin g l ow-toned voice,capable of much rise and

fall, much in and out, and endless subtle gradations offeeling .

It is rather startling to a sober,cyn ical , sceptical English

man,who believes what he sees and can handle, and little else,

to hear,for the fir st time

,an Irishman telling you a fairy story

with a quiet,almost sad

,air of intense conviction and feeling

it is startling to one accustomed to see sham ghosts broughtu p at pol ice«courts and sentenced to the tread-mill , one accustomed to hear aerial voices and win kin g statues accounted forby spectacled men on scien tific principles , to find a personsoberly and calml y relating

,with a voice thril ling with emotion,

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1 26’

cRoss C OUNTRY .

razor-blades—as we tore on slipping through it,Dennis

call ed it— between walls of mountains capped with cloud .

For more than an hour,head down

,we butted through this

,

our shining yell ow waterproofs glistening like gold .

At last it cleared up, out came the laughing blue . Thebedr enched horses struck out sprightlier than ever. Denni sbegan to sing

,then to talk

,and our talk fell on a certain moun

tain we were passing, called the Gian t Mountain .

Now, Denni s was great in giants , being one of an oldfamily who had numbered many giants in its ancestral roll .

“ Did you ever hear of the giant who could hear the grassgrowing said I .

N said Dennis,he couldn ’t have been a native of these

parts . (Well , that’s a good one too .) But I have seen a

giant’s grave there away in Ennis,your honour . They say

that he had the biggest bones of any man in those parts , butthat his wife

,falling in love with an ould haythen King of

Clare,with the big gold crown on him

,so that he looked li ke a

walking Jewell er’s shop,snagged off his head with his own

sword,for no other had any power over him . Many’s the

time I ’

ve sat makin g salmon-fiies on that giant’s gravestone .It wasn’t twenty years ago that a party of the Green Horsecame by that way

,and stopped there

,at the very stone

,to

water their horses . ‘What ’s this says the corporal to acountryman

,who was digging praties fornent i t. It was the

work of a big Irish giant in the ould tim es,

’ says the countryman

,civilly . Well

,

’ says the other,then it will be the work

of a young Scotch giant in these new times to remove it .

’

So

he tries,and tugs

,and tugs

,and gives it a terrible b owge

,but he

coul dn ’t make anything of it . (Laughs ) Och the giant wastoo much for them—for it’s there now .

”

I suppose,

said I,the banshee is seen sometimes here

abouts .”’Deed they are

,your honour

,said Dennis

,seriously ; we

generall y hear them in the evening,or at twi li ght-fall , and we

know then it is no human voice keening,because it is so

sweet and mournful,like a sorrowing angel in purgatory (rest

their sowls for all the world,your honour. The noise is Just

IRISH FAIRIES . l 27

as if it was some old woman was sitting down under the wallyonder

,and beatin g her thighs at in tervals with the flat of her

two hands,then flinging them up over her head and clapping

them together, as the country keeners do when you hire themat a funeral to chant out the Ologaun .

“ She dresses, I have heard,” I said

,humourin g hi s belief,

in an old blue cloak,with her long grey hair fallin g over her

white staring face,which is generall y wan and famished . At

Dun luce Castle they showed me a roun d room at the base of atower overlookin g the sea . It was once the prison of the Earl sof An trim— some foul deed must have been done there in theblack old times . The earthen floor of this banshee

’s tower isalways kept clean an d free from dust

,and people say it is

swept dail y by the banshee .”

To think of that,now

,your honour !” said Denni s

,with

intense interest, feeling his faith confirmed. Well,a banshee

was heard the night my mother died,and it was in an ol d

Danish fort at the end of our praty ground ; when my poormother

,and she in her death-struggles

,heard that terrible wail

that she knew was not human,and she down in the fever

,she

says to my father, says she, Denn is, I must go ,’

and sureenough she di ed that day week

,at the very hour— and the

same thing had happened to al l her family,for she was of a

good owld stock, your honour . A year or two after,what di d

she do but appear to Teddy,one of my little brothers . He

come in one summer evening, and told u s that as he was playingabout with the yellow flowers that grow in the bog-holes

,

making them into necklaces and belts,and what not

,he feels a

sort of warnin g,looks up and sees mother sittin g on the stil e

J ust as she used to do,but n ow very sad and pale . He ran to

her,but just as he got near her

,she melted away and di sap

peared. Then he got frightened,which he wasn’t before

,and

run screaming hom e and towl d u s ; and I remember it more, bytoken it was St. Denn i s

’

s day,and he is my patron saint, rest

his sowl —crossing himself five times .“ Did you ever see a cluri caun

,Dennis said I one of

those little wizen fell ows in red-heeled shoes , scarlet coats, andlaced cocked -hats

,who is seen hammering at a tiny brogue

1 28’CRoss COUNTRY.

inside the ruins of a chapel,and who

,if you gripe him

,tells

you where the crock of gold isN0

,your honour,

” said Dennis : but I met a fairy manonce when I was a boy. It was up a high mountain, where Iwent to cut a stick

,for it was all shaking with hazel -nut bushes ,

and I didn’t care then for the story of the old folks that it wasslap full of fairies

,and what not

,bein g a devil-me-care gossoon .

I got up the hill,scrambling through the stones and dry fern

,

frightening rabbits,and startling thrushes

,treading the swate

breath out of the dry purple thyme,thinking of my girleen, as

I always did when I saw anythin g specially bright, sweet, orin any wise purty ; up I went and up ,

now pushing throughthe thorn bushes

,and now getting out of the green dark into

the broad blue brightness and sunshin e,till I got nearly to the

top,and l ookin g out clear over bog and river, thanked God

for having made such a country as ould Ireland . Then, looking above

,what do I see but

,twenty yards off

,as nate a stick

as I ever saw in my life, and, by my sowl , EI di dn’t forget to

cut it,and just as I was stripping off the broad woolly leaves ,

singing Ould Ireland’ s native shamrock,

’ I looks up andsees a common-looking queer sort of oul d man com ing straighttowards me along the path . What do you do

,you spalpeen,

’

says he angril y, cutting my trees An d he spoke as if theyall belonged to him . Well

,though it give me a little tremble,

I wasn’t to be put down,and thinks I, I

’ll walk nearer to you,

and see what sort of a man you are— for I was ready thenwith my hands

,your honour

, an d I walked straight ou

straight on . But when I got to the place,tare an ’

oun s , wherehe had stood

,he was gone— gone . I looked everywhere

,un der

the trees,behind the bushes

,over the big stones

,but no man .

So , thinks I , it’s a fairy

,sure enough

,and with that

,as if I

had been shot down,I ran like a fell ow from a mad dog .

Och ! it was divi l a time I run faster in my life but once .Sod, wall , stone heap , bramble-bush , water—gap , nothingstopped me

,till I got home

,three mil es ofi

’

,torn

,wet

,di rty

,

red-hot,and frightened .

But did you keep the enchanter’s stick said I .

Och,faix di d I

,

”said Dennis

,for a year or two

,and the

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1 30 ’caoss C OUNTRY .

nothing but the good people dancing and figuring inside thehil l . Well, before my father could make out where it camefrom he fel l in a sort of swound, and when he awoke he wasoutside the fort

,two fields away it was quite dark

,and as for

the bagonet where was it but stuck in some hay Just behin dhim ! Well , never a word did he brathe of it till his dyingday

,when I leant over to catch his last gasp . But I ’

m tiring

ye, your honour.”

Not a bit, Dennis, said I . It prevents me coun ting themil estones .”

Well,then

,I ’ll be telling

’

you how there was a youngScotchman who took the farm after we went, and who used tobe always laughin g at the humbug about the fairy piper. Pipeaway

,

’ says he,‘ and be plagued to you ! So long as I don’t

have to pay,its chape music is that same . ’ Thim

’

s the words,

or very near, he made use of at the markets and patterns, tillone evenin g he was comin g through the snipe meadow

,and

what does he hear but a pipin g just as if it was underground,and un dergroun d was heaven

,and these were the sowls of bap

tised children making merry and dancing for joy. A s it was,as soon as he got home

,Ma lann a vicht

,

’ says his mother,who

was half Irish,saints in paradise

,what’s turned your blood,

j ewel Then they teazed him,especially the girleen s his

s isters,til l he recovered a bit

,and up and toul d them he had

heard theMacarthy’s fairy pipers .”

Those Protestants are very slow of belief,Dennis

,said I .

Och ! and you’re right,your honour

,

” said Dennis . Pe

nance,pilgrimage

,cross

,mass

,it’s all one with them . Faix it

puzzles me to say how the likes of’em will ever find a back

way to get into heaven without paying St. Peter’s turnpike .But has your honour :ever heard of how the fairies changethe children in ould Ireland

Of course I have, Dennis, said I . Don’t we all knowhow they pine and pine and get wizen

,and knowing

,and say

things any old men could say ; and then the mother, after muchpraying, ru shes at them suddenly in the cradl e with a red-hotpoker, which she has been getting ready for the hour past, andthen, with a scream, the change comes, and she finds, instead

IRISH FA IRIES . 1 31

of the little knowin g dwarf,her own fine rosy child again,

cryi ng for the breast .”

Bedad ! Your honour,said Demi i s, has got it all by

heart,like a schoolmaster gets Latin ! Well

,I heard a case

of thi s kind the ni ght of a b irth only last Paschal . A friendof mine who drives a car was coming along the road

,and sees

somethin g white at the window of hi s brother ’s house yonder,

so what does he do but get out and creep up closer did Patsy,and what shoul d it be but an old woman

,wrapped up in grey

,

handin g a child out of a lattice to another ould creatur ingrey

,who held up her arms for it down below. Have you got

it E” says she . I have,’ says the other. Well

,he thought it

was al l witchery, and that, perhaps, it was a little owing to thewhisky he had drun k at the fair ; but , sure enough, next day,he found hi s brother’s child had died at the birth . So he knewwhat had become of i t

,that what they buried was a m ere trick

of flesh,and that the real child was snug and safe in fairy-land

— which was a comfort to him,though he kept it to him self.

So,ni ver mention it

,your honour

,or it’ll hurt the family .

”

Why, Denni s,” said I

,you are as ful l of old stories as an

egg is full of meat .”

And full er too,begging your honour ’s pardon

,said Denn i s .

I remember hearing a neighbour of our s at Ki lmore tell methat the n ight of the last great storm she and some other womenwere sittin g round a fire in a cottage, listening to the pelt anddrive of the rain

,and the fiuster and worry of the wind out

side the cabin— crossing themselves,I ’ll be bail , and thinking

of the forrior gan ogh (bitter sadness) of those who had goneto Ameri ky, and m ight be then on the broad say (rest theirsowlsD. All of a sudden there came a bigger roar than ever,as if a wild baste and the divil on it was waiting hun gry at thethrashal

,and bang the door flew open ! some of them sawnoth

ing more but some windle straws (larsar lena) blowi ng roundthe floor, but she I spoke to saw distinctly troops of fairiesridin g round on horses no b igger than small birds . Then thedoor slammed again

,and they heard a clash of swords outside,

and a hurry as if there was a scrimmage goin g on in the air,

which passed down the road. and gradual]y di ed away in theK 2

1 32 ’CROSS COUNTRY .

distance. The next morning,sure enough—and the woman

who told me saw it with her own eyes— there come news toGalway of the battle of Salamanky, and there was dr ops ofblood seen for a quarter of a mile down the causeway so n o

doubt but that was a fairy battle .”

Whi ch clearly accounted, Dennis, for the big wind and theships that went down,

” said I .

Not a doubt else,and hear me now. The onl y way in such

perpl exities is to go to the fairy doctor, who knows all aboutthe blast and the changes and the meal cure . Try a drop ofParlem int (legal whiskey) , your honour ; it keeps the cold outof the stomach and the heat in it. Good luck to thim whoinvented it (rest their sowls Well

,as your honour sames so

fond of these old pishogues (God between you and harm Imust tell you about the fairy cow that used to feed everythird night inside the ruins of Castle Bal lyn ock, till the naygurwho kept it

,who was a relation of ours (a third cousin) on my

mother’s side,kilt it

,and laid the skin to soak on his dunghill .

From * that time everything went wrong with him : the cattledied

,his sheep had the rot

,and he got into a lawsuit (rest his

sowl IVhil e he was puzzling his head to kn ow what broughtal l this mischief on him—whether it was m issin g mass

,or not

going to St . Bridget’s Well , or up Croagh Patrick and doin gthe stations

,as his dacent father had done

,or what—a fairy

appears to him one n ight in a dream ,and says she to him

,

Mr. Flanagan,that cow you killed was my grandfather, and

that’s my grandfather’s skin,you spalpeen

,you have got soak

ing in your dunghill . You blackgaird, if you have any manners

, go take and lay it in the fort to-night, and when the cowcomes to li fe and runs round the enclosure, turn your back, youvil lain, and take care not to cross yourself, Mr. Flanagan .

’

This he did,and glad enough, and out come the cow ; he heard

a voice thanking him for returnin g the skin,and all went right

with him ever afterwards .”

Af ter this,Denni s grew silent, and I fell musing. The old

superstitions of Ireland,

” thought I, are dyin g out like theold language

,stil l Munster has its clur icaun artisan

,its Mer

row and Duhal lane,its O’

Donohoe and its Macgill icudcly. The

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-1 34 CROSS COUNTRY .

longer the tap of the cluricaun ’

s hammer is heard by the gol dseeker. The black bog pits have yielded almost their last goldchain and brooch of the old Danish king

,slain long since, and

buried am id gigantic elk bones blackened pine trunks , andstone-axes

,down far below the quaking surface

,over which

the snipe zigzags or the bittern boom s . The tumbling waggonjol ts by with its cargo of laughin g revellers, where the croppypiper was buried un der the sign-post during the troubles orby the heap of stones

,once a happy home till the red ni ght

that the Shan avests , Carders, or Hearts of Steel, hemm edround its burning roof. No bleedin g nun or ghost of the blas

phem ing foxhunter, who chased the vermin to the very altar,appears now to scare the Engli sh pedestri an ; for even theghosts have emigrated out of Ireland since the Union . Catho

l ie spirits,abhorring Repeal

,will not take the trouble to scare

Protestant land agents sneaking about in disguise, for fear ofthe hint-piece and the sight behind the wall . The good olddays of female hangmen

,and processions of corpses in crim son

carts,are gone by the ri bbonmen no longer flaunt their ribbons

at night upon the Curragh or in the bawn ; the gully, wherethe foxes are

,no longer has its black peat water stained with

the blood of Moll y Maguire’s children ; the tu l lagh’

s slope isuntrodden by the insolent hoof of the butcher yeoman’s chargers ; the tubber (spring) is left by the barefooted pil grim to thesnipe and the m oor-hen ; but still the sl iebh is bluer than ever,because a brighter sun shines on its mountains of piled sapphire ; the old night stars shine cheerier over the scorchedheadl and where the gull screams and the great droves of silversalmon still leap and swim ; the Dane

’s rath grows greener, andthe Druid’ s ghost lies at rest on the grassy knoll by the sea,listening to the old ocean hymn .

Tide of Lough Erne,let thy floods rise and hide the ruins

of dead m en’s graves, so that old wrongs be hidden away andforgotten ; let the Oroagh

’

s peak point to a new heaven and an ew earth , so that the crimes of the old blood-boltered Donand Donagh be forgotten ! Roun d towers, where the squallcrow and starling only build

,echo once more with the voice of

the prophecy of a happier future Shall we never see the day

IRISH FA IRIES . 1 35

when the coas t of Ireland shal l be starry at dusk with the an

swering lustres of the warnin g light-houses ; when her mountains shall be circled— not with black Phlegethon s of hog, but

with smil ing fields and belts of cottages ; when fleets of fishingboats shall fil l her bays, and her roads shall be crowded withmerchandi se ? May the blessed day soon come when her citiesshall wi den and her commerce increase ; when her fisheries

shall become as numerous as her manufactories, the north bewhite -with bleaching-fiel ds

,and the south be yell ow wi th flocks !

Dennis here became uneasy about a seat-cushion he hadlost . We are sure

,

” he said, to meet the masthur . He’llwant to get up just because it’ s dropped somewhere on theroad . Now, i f I had them all right (bad luck and the devil)I shouldn ’t have seen the sole of his foot .”

What shall you do The agent will be stopping yourwages

,

” said I .

If I don’t find it to-morrow,I’ll just stale another

,said

Denn i s in a low,qui et voice .

Who i s that thin man in front, Dennis said I .

Oh,that ’s a schoolmaster

,

” said Denni s . “ I kn ow by hiscut, but I won

’t see him,or he ’ ll be wantin g me to take him

to Clifden,and pay me with a writin g lesson . Sorra a one

that we meet but I know, yet they don’t know me

,that’s the

best of Here’s the two Mr. Bradys . The top of the morning to you, Mr. Brady ! They’re brothers ; yet you wouldn

’tthi nk, your honour, there was a drop of blood between them ,

no more than there is between you and me ” (abruptly, withtrue Irish di scursiveness) .

“ Do you see their oiled coats ?Itts xbetter than any mackintosh ; it

’s soaked three months ino il it’s better than al l your mackintosh, or the soft soap andingy-rubber .

”

We were now entering B al lynabri g, along whose suburbanroad was. pouring a train of country people returnin g from thefair. Now, it was a prim itive tumblin g car, wi th its flat

shelf and outrigger crowded with grey-stockinged farmers andlaughing colleens ; n ow,

it was a cage-cart ful l of pigs, wholooked out between the bars , with that calm,

observing,friendly

independence peculiar to the Irish pig ; now,most amusing of

1 36’caoss COUNTRY .

all,it was a rough

,conical—hatted , old , raw-boned schoolmaster

riding a donkey,with his Splay feet stuck in hay stirrups ; now,

we met rough graziers wrapped in frieze countrymen of al lages in the constitutional tail coat

, gilt , buttons , and kneebreeches

,and the slip of a stick stuck un der the arm . Every eye

was bright with good-humoured whisky— some sang,while all

greeted u s with a shout, a flouri sh of sticks, and a j oke.

CHAPTER XIII.

DRIVER M IKE .

How can I find words to describe the barrenness of Connemara,except by comparing it to that of County Mayo and how canI describe County Mayo except by comparing it to ConnemaraHere have I been ridin g on one of Bian con i ’s cars ten miles

,

from Clifden to Galway,and have not seen a soul yet

,and

scarcely abody, except the two half-nakedichildren that were playing round a peat-heap at Ballyrag

,and the old woman with the

grey hair tied in a kn ot who put-to the horses at Croppy town .

Not a house either but that one hut,beyond the old castle of

the Martin in the lake,which was announced to u s by two or

three spindl y trees full an hour beforehand .

Still bog,bog

,bog

,mountain

,lake

,l ike the enchanted

,

doomed country in a fairy story.

Two inn s to-day— the first kept by a Church of Englandclergym an

,the second by the parish doctor—do not indicate

much traffic or commerce in this beautiful region of blue mistand brown

,burnt sienna-ish bog. It remain s

,I shoul d thin k

,

much as it did when St . Patrick,in his white robe

,tramped

barefooted to seek audi ence of the savage Irish king, who wasdressed in wolf- skins

,and had a spikymace for a walking- stick ;

much the same as when the black Danes carried their ravenbann er through it ; quite the same as in the croppy times, orwhen cocked—hats and swords were seen in Galway streets .

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138’

caoss C OUNTRY .

Mike Joyce, breaks out with a song, written by the schoolmaster at Derry Knowing, and, as it is not devoid of quaintness ,I give it

Tune of the Nate Gou ld Ring .

O gra m achree,

You don ’

t love m e,

Or el se you wou l dn’

t l inger,

Thi s l i ttle ring,

Whi ch n ow I bring,To sli p upon your finger.

Coll een asthore,

My heart i s sore,Too l ong I have been wai t ing ;I’ve feed the priest,An d cooked the feast,It i s no l ies I

’

m stating ;

It’s tru th, bedad , I’m stating.

Mavourneen , then ,B e on e i n ten ,

And do not look so taz ingThe pig i s bought,The fish are caught,

The day and hour are plaz ing ;

0,Ki tty, ain

’

t they plaz in g .

You sm il e at m e,

O, gra machree,

Love, dear, you wil l n ot l inger.

No blarn ey, Tom I’

I’

m deaf an d domb,The ring i s on her fin ger ;

Whoop, boys, i t’s on her finger.

I had complimented him on his song,when who should get

up at a road-side whisky-shop where we changed horses,but

two bagmen ? who, having hoisted in their tin boxes an d’

mackintosh-covered bundl es of patterns ti ll the car groanedagain, began at once, before the car moved off, playing at gamblin g games of cards

,with an ardour worthy of a better cause.

I‘ve were still in sight of Benabola, king of the Twelve Pins (or

DRIV ER MIKE . 1 39

skittle mountains) , and they were on the seat with their backsto me and Mike, who drove sideways, as carmen love to do .

Mike cast a malign glan ce at the bagmen, as they imperiouslystowed away their ti n boxes .

One woul d think,

” he muttered to me,it was the Juke

of Well ington and Adm iral Nelson out,arm in arm

,for a

holi day. I’

d upset them in the next bog-hole for a tinpenny.

”

But the red—whiskered,fresh-coloured

,pompous

,slangy bag

men went on throwing down the red and black pipped cards onthe car cushion between them quite unconcerned

,the mon ey

lying between them in reasonable pools of silver. If we hadbeen driving through Paradi se they woul d not have looked up.

A s a road-side dog broke out on us from a cabin, Mike beganto talk .

There’s a power of agles,said Mike

,suddenl y

,up in

Derryclare, there. I sometimes am getting them at three-andSixpence the couple for gentlemen that keep menageries ontheir lawn s . I

’

l l tell you a story about them .

Give that yelping dog a cut with your whip , Driver,the gamesters .Mike replied

,seriously

,bending down to them

,Perhaps .

one of you gents woul d be kind enough to fl ing half-a-crownat him . Well

,as I was sayin g when the dog interrupted me,

I had a man from Letterfrack on the box the other day,who

was a powerful one on agle stories,but they’re not worth telling~

Hold up, JinnyOh

,the story

,by all means

,Mike

,

” said I .

A year or two ago,

” said Mike,it may be more— there was

a poor widdy had her slip of peaty ground not far from thefoot ofBenbaun

,that big blue fellow there to the right . She had

just her handful of goats,that nibbled about B encu l laghduff,

and her slice of bog,and such parqui sites as she had got given

to her by one of the great Martin s of Bal li nahin ch, before oldCruelty to An imals reigned in Conn emara (rest his soulC onvayn ient to this widdy li ved an eagle .

‘ Do you see thattree we’re passin g said the Clare man to me . To be sureI do,

’ said I,how can I help it — di d he li ve in that P’ No

,

’

says he,as pat as could be

,

‘ he didn’t,but he built on that

140 C ROSS C OUNTRY .

wall just beyont i t.

’ Wel l,one unlucky Friday

,the wmdy

’

s

sons— two stout lads ready for any mischief,and more fond of

snappin g at snipes and listening to the gentlemen’s beaglesthan work—climbed up that wall of a rock

,pull i ng them

s elves up by the long green strings of ivy and the littlehollybu shes that grew in the clefts, and

,when up there

,

what di d they do but bring down two Of the youn g birds .Soon afterwards , the widdy

’s lambs began to decrease i nnumber (it was yearning season at the time) , and so it went on ,

t ill onl y forty out of seventy were left . The widdy,thinking

i t had been the herd, had him watched, and then found out,s ure enough

,it was devil a one but the oul d thafe of the world

,

the agle . So she goes to a wise gossip,and asks her what

was to be done . Says the gossip to her,

‘ Have you neverd on e any provocation to the agle And the widdy says toher that her sons had taken two of the youn g birds to brin gup in the house as pets .

’ That’s it,

’ says the ould woman,

and there ’ll never be good blood between you,Widdy Grattan

,

and the agle,till you give back them cubs

,and the boys go up

again and put back the birds,and make all smooth .

’ The boysthen took back the eaglets , and from that day no more lamb swere taken out of the flock nor was that all

,for the agle be

haved like a j intleman to her, and because he couldn’t give them

back—seeing as how they were picked to the bone— he. flew

forty miles a day for thirty days runn ing into county Clare,

and brought back every day a lamb,to make up the number

he and his family had eaten . And this is how it was foundout . The man that told me, and who lived near the widdy,

.

~had lately married a Westport woman, he came out of Clareinto these very parts

,and he declared the brand on the lamb s

the agle brought back was the bran d of a squireen from hisown neighbourhood. Now

,isn’t that mighty quare

It is,indeed

,

” I said,believingly.

Mike continued : Well, this same Clare man told meanother story of an agle that beats Banagher. There was acountryman near B en core who used to cross a ford every dayto cut his little slip of turf to boil his wife’s praties with . Oneday

,as he goes across with his spade over his shoulder and his

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142’

CRoss C OUNTRY.

How can those fellows go on playing at cards instead ofli stenin g to your good stories 9” I whispered to Mike .

Oh,bad luck to them ,

” said Mike, they always make uptheir losses from the first fool they get hold of. Hear me n ow.

The twelve Pins look well, gentlemen, said I , stoopin gdown .

The gents,looking up in a desultory way,

'

said,Oh

,very

wonderf‘

ul Fifteen-two and a pair are eight—that makes methree-and-sixpence .”

Oh,let them be

,the nagurs, said Mike, with extreme

contempt.Just then, a pig-driver passed, trimly dressed, driving, with

unnecessary noise and solemnity, four pigs, completely tattooedwith red bars across the back .

That’s a young pig-j obber, I know, said Mike.How do you know he

’s on ly just begun business said I .

Why,there’s too much ruddle . He’s more ruddle than

pigs . A s he gets older he’ll put less .Mike

,the Connaught man

,was a shrewd

,good-humoured

,

sagacious madcap with a man’

s body and a boy’s heart,like half

his countrym en ; his voice stammering with fun ,became

,when he

grew serious,deep , rhythmical , earnest, and pathetic . Having

sounded him in legends, I waited till moon-rise for his ghoststories .A fter a short stare at the horses’ ears, which passes wi th acar-driver for meditation, Mike said abruptly, Did you likeSligo, your honourIn the cour se of my remini scences of Sligo

,I mentioned a

one-eyed and left-handed waiter.Mike laughed

,and said,

“ I kn ow that waiter. Ben and mehave an old grudge he’s one of the ferocious O’

Flaherties .

”

Here our recollections of Sligo were interrupted as we ap

proached Letterfrack, the Quaker settlement, by a sini sterlooking old man with bare feet, and a patched great coat,with a scrubby ram’s-wool coll ar, who bore on his back anenormous round bundl e of old clothes wrapped in a rug

,that

gavehim the air ofAtlas, learnin g the use of the globes . Aftermuch higgling he gets up to ride to Clifden, and ties hi sbundle to one of the jaun ting-car rails .

DRIV ER MIKE . 143

Is your portmanty safe, Tom ? Are you insured fromhrs , or won

’t they insure tinder sai d Mike in a kindly voice.I

’

m all right, Thad, an d thanks to you,” cried grateful Tom .

Very well, Tom . (Then chip , Jinny.) I thought you wereoff to Coleraine, Tom

“ No ; I’ve just been reprimm ded

‘

(he meant remanded) .

The picking up of passengers makes a long day’s ride,on an

Irish jaunting-car,one of the merriest things in the world .

Nowhere can you pick up stranger sayin gs or more pleasantb its of observation to chew the cud of in after and dul ler days .Now we drew up at a whi te washed cabin, wi th its brown poolan d d img-hii l before it, the pigs nu zzlin g at the potatoes,that smoked strain in g in the basket-lid before the door.Facing the door

,s10ps down a peat buttress

,which feeds the

fire ingeni ously enough, and also keeps out al l the pure air fromthe circle roun d the red-hot peat . Our friend Tom

,the pedlar,

was already snugly establi shed as a balance to the commercialgentlemen

,who

,wi th antagoni stic rows of half-crowns

,were

now absorbed in the mysteries of blin d hookey, andwere blindto everythin g else except an occasional tin ted yell ow glass ofwhisky

,brought out from a shabeen by a bare-footed urchin

who acted as pot-boy.

A turn of the road brought u s to one of those cottagestat ions where Biancon i keeps his relays of horses . A thin

,

cheery old woman,with her dry grey hair blowing in wisps

over her face,tripped out, and began t o put to the horses .

Fergus and Kitty” were marked by Bian coni ’s royal decreeupon the collars ; so that Fergus shoul d never wear Kitty

’scollar

,nor Ki tty Fergus ’s . She slipped in the buckles and

whipped up the cheek- straps as deftly as a smart young ostlerof sixteen . She even smeared some black ointment on Kitty ’scracked hoof

,and had the leather case on before the C on

naught man could get roun d and help her. I rej oiced to seeher slap the wet flank of Jimmy

,to send her into the stables

,

and pul l Brian’s mane as a token of recognition . Five minutesmore and Mike was on the yellow box

, tucking the oilskinapron over my legs

,and hopin g I had room .

“ Now, your honour, said Mike, for the next ten miles

144 CROSS C OUNTRY .

you’ll have as pretty a rockin g as ever a rowl er tourist had inhis born days . You might as well be at sea in a gale of wind .

”

The next time we stopped,Mike exclaimed : You see that

nate little gurl that brought u s the parcel at the gateYes

,

” I replied .

Well,says Mike, she

’ s one of the j ump ers .

Jumper . What’s thatWhy

,one of the soup ers that went over to the black faith

in the famin e times 'for soup . She is a nate little girl,and

takes in millin ery . I’

ve seen fellows change their faith for apair of breeches .

No I said .

Is it no you say ; it’s yes I say

,cried Mike . There was

a young Brady,of Moll ycull en . When the committee was

giving away the clothes,he sees a pair of breeches as mightily

takes his fancy.

‘ Give me them,

’ says he‘ and I kiss the

Bible . ’ Well,next day when he went

,they d been given to

somebody else, so what does Brady do but com e back againto the ould faith

,though divi l of a haporth of credit he is

to that same . Look there,your honour,

'

at that fiel d wherethe potatoes are lying out in clean rows . What youngchildren for work, and how purty that handsome girl wi ththe bare legs shows them how to use the long spade . Thatland was all bog four years ago

,and all that track furnent .

It belongs to a Scotch farmer,who turns out hi s children to

work di rectly they begin to thrive,from six years old to

sixteen, all the same. That girl is the beauty of the place .

Now if he had been Irish she would have been working at her

piany, and had her big lump of a novel , and have been merelylooking out of the win dow for the pur ty young man .

”

“ Yes,

” thought I,and fell into a reverie

,the Scotch are

conquering Ireland. The old hard-drinkin g, open-house daysare gone by for ever ; witness the Martins , who rul ed half

Connemara and had the lands of a prince ; witness andand all the old clans .

Before I coul d fin i sh my apostrophe on the Middleman

question, the Orange and Green question, the Absentee ques !

tion,the tithe question

,the Popery question

,and some others,

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146 CROSS C OUNTRY.

to take some horses for him down into Tipperary,and when I

got near his house my m oney ran short,and I went up to his

place,told him my case

,and borrowed five shillings . ‘ Be

sure you pay it again,my man,

’ says he,next time we meet

.

’

I thanked him ,drove off, and six months after this he met me

s omewhere about here, and got on my car to go as far asClifden. Now I knew he had my five shilling down in his redpocket-book, and remembered it, so I went up to him andsaid

,

‘Here’ s the five shill ings,Mr. Bianconi

,that I borrowed

at Clonmel , and thanks to you , sir.’ Keep it

,my good man

,

’

said he,with a pretty smile that did me good . I like to see my

dr ivers remember their debts . ’ I’

d had as soon put my headinto a menagerie of wild bastes as see him again if I hadn’t .”

Our next passengers were two decent country-women,with

their gown s tucked up and their shawls drawn over theirheads .It was getting cold, and as it grew cold we grew silent,

onl y now and then blurting out a sentence when we got downsullenly

,with heads butting at the bullying wind

,to walk

slowly up a hill beside the car. But it was every momentwith Mike some kin d

,encouraging

,cheery words .

Well,girls

,how are you by this time cried Mike.

A chorus of women replied, Och ! dead entirely with thechill .”

An d if I sat li ke that, said Mike, reprovingly, all thetime in the car wouldn’t I be as dead as the fur that wasunder me then added

,under breath

,

“ There’s no worsedrivin g than the women,

’cause they never get out to spare thehorse

,poor craytur .

”

With the exception of a dark avenue just as we entered Gralway, which was rendered dangerous by a rush of cars cominghome from the fair, fil l ed with reckless, exhilarated countrypeople

,we had no risks to encounter on our way to the semi

Spanish city where Judge Lynch hun g hi s own son .

We had traversed that day a wonderful panorama of Irishs cenery, bog, coast town, arms of the sea, lakes , and moun tains—a country wil d as Siberia, endin g in civili sed city, with richsuburbs , packet station, and commerce . In the morning, a

THE IRISH JAUNTING CAR . 147

stone-buil t whi sky-shop in the eveni ng, a civi lised hotel, withconventional waiter

,and all other sophi stication s . This m orn

ing,untrod mountain s

,m iles of snipe track

,and wild duck

coun try ; to-night, paved streets, neat shops, and starry rowsof columned lamps . It was l ike comin g from the thirteenthcentury into the nineteenth, and I felt grateful for the change,yet pleased with the experience .

CHA PTER XIV .

THE IR ISH JAUNTIN G CAB .

I was on a Wickl ow j aun ting-car that was cl imbing one ofthose steep hill s that lead in to the mountain country

,that you

see blue and temptin g,smilin g to you with promises of fairy

1an d,from the pleasant green deer-walks of Phoenix Park

,

Dublin . The car was the old Iri sh car,with the two hanging

shelves back to back,and the little iron-bound crow ’s-nest in

front,but where the carman never sat

,preferring to sit side

ways and dr ive,sharing in the gossip of the passengers

,be they

priest,lab ourer

,or quarryman

,or black-eyed girleen

,we picked

up by the way.

My temper clarified as we slanted up the blue billi ard-board,

dry, hard roads peculiar to the mountain districts of Ireland .

Not an hour ago I had been in a dreadful state of rage andindignation. They had told me in Dubl in

,at my hotel opposite

the College,that the Wickl ow car started at two o ’clock . At

two o ’clock,therefore

,the vanguard of our army moved ou.

O’

Grady Street, where the car was reported to start, and wasdeposited there

,with the blessings of the Lord” upon i t

,by

Tim, the incomparable boots . If I waited in that dirty street

opposite that little sp irit-shop n wherc they also sold herrings,

biscuits , and candles fi ten minutes,I waited two hours. I re

con noitred all the neighbouring streets,looking at prints of the

last ill-favoured saint,Doctor Wiseman ,

Napoleon,and Daniel

O’

Conn el l . I became the scorn of the adjacent clothes-cellar,

148’

CRoss C OUNTRY .

where the faded regimentals dangled in the wind, and the veryred pain ted Gorgon masks over the doorways lolled out theirtongues at me . I was the butt of a select clump of greasybeggars from the slums of the Liberty . The carmen leered atme as if I was the first invadi ng Saxon that had set hi s footon Erin’ s shore . The boys, striped with rags, walked roundme suspiciously

,as the street dogs at Constantin ople do round

a stranger,suspectin g his creed . No signs of the car

, in spiteof all the anathemas I heaped on the inconsequential, harebrain ed

,reckless Celtic race .

A l l I got was ridi cule . For in stance, when I asked awomanwho was driving about coals in a cart

,with a bell j inglin g in

front,if the car was not punctual ,

Pun shill says she,showing all her yellow teeth

, an d

fl in ging up her dirty hands with a laugh as she dr ove ou

pun shill is i t ? What, Jack MacGan pun shil l ! Away wid

I e l”

Did ye’ ever hear the likes of him said a woman

,passing

with a square of brown cat’s-meat on a skewer.Some thought me cracked, others foolish , but the majorityshrugged their shoul ders and said

,Can’t ye see, Biddy, he

’

s

an Englishman,the cratur

Then a horrid crowd of armless,eyeless objects surrounded

me, baring their stumps and thrusting out their snufi'

y, leanhands . One said he had a “ family of ten orfin s to maintain

,

your honour another,turning up hi s pulpy

,opaque eyes

,

said,I’ve been dark these thirty years

,your honour .” It

might have been so, but the dirty rascal looked scarcely nineteen

,which rendered the Optical delusion a difficu lt feat .

At last,innocently

,shambling, calm , and resigned, came Jack

with the rickety car,which he proceeded to build up wi th

parcels . Touching his brimless hat to me with an air of consequence

,business , and authority, he drove off the beggars , as

a Vill age cur woul d have chased away a flock of geese . Theman was one of those wild eyed

,reckl ess-looking fell ows you

seldom see among the dul l-blooded Saxons . He caught up thereins more like Phaeton out for a mad holiday than one of thosesteady English coachmen who sit as if they had grown to the

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1 50’

C Ross COUNTRY .

here he comes and it’s pretending I don’t know him I ’ll be.

Saints above u s , how he’s running And Jack slapped his

thigh to express supreme del ight,looking away from the coming

man,and driving slowly ou .

However, to Jack’s great vexation

,the runner turned out to

be only Mr. Plunkett’ s man,witha parcel for Rathdrum . I

wouldn ’t miss Mr. Saul for forty pounds, said Jack,pull ing

up at the cross-roads ; it does me good,l ike medicine

,seeing

him ; besides, I want to see him about Crazy JaneSome poor insane relation,

” I thought .—for she can’t take her grass .A vegetarian

,

” I said to myself.M i l l ia murder which means ten thousand murders in

English,cried a passenger

,wil l the Docthor never come

We were waiting at the cross-road for the take up .

Here he comes I” cried a bagman,who was stamping at

the delay,

“ looking l ike a ha’porth of soap after a long day’swashing.

”

Och ! the mummy of a monkey. Look at him I” cried athird passenger— “ look how he pulls his legs after him

,as if

they were only borrowed for the day !“ If you don’t make haste

,sir

,we can’t be waiting

,said

Jack ; and Mr . Saul , wi th Don’t you know me

,Jack tum

bled up . Cross about u s ! Don’t you know me,Jack

,ma

bouchal Give u s a li ght. Haven’t I been running like amadman to Bedlam to catch the bit of blood there you’re driving three m iles an hour to the knacker’s Give me the whipHe was at home with all of u s in a moment .

Och ! is it you,Mr. Saul ? And how ’s somebody ’s sweet

heart,the black-eyed widdy’s daughter at Rathdrum , Doctor ?

When’s the banns to be up said Jack with a bit of fin e acting.

Och ! be asy,Mike

,get out of that,

” said Saul , colour ingand floggin g the horse .Who is this I said in a whisper to the man next me ;he does not look like a doctorSaid Jack

,sotto voce

,

“ A cow-doctor, your honour, but wecall him the Doctor

,

’ out of respect to hi s father,who is the

great farrier in Rathdrum ; and sure hasn’t he got the brass

THE IRI SH JAUNT ING CAR . 1 51

plate and the knocker,and the red and green bottles and the

pounder for the salts , and what would a rale doctor want more ?And a tidy b it of land

,too

,fornent u s .

”

Jack,our driver

,was a bugler in the Wickl ow Rifle Militia

,

and he was n ow dr ivin g bare-headed and in an easy undress,

consisting of a di rty,ragged

,red m ili ti a jacket

,much the worse

for stable practice . In hi s mili tary capacity, Jack was pugnacious and t alkative

,brusque and abrupt

,but in his civil an d.

Augean province,sil ent

,stolid

,qui et and social .

Our new passenger,Mr . Saul

,the doctor

,was a wiry young

man of some five-and-twenty shooting-seasons,fonder of salmon

fishin g than farriery, and of giving himself whisky than ofgivin g inval id horses drenches . He wore a soiled green shootingjacket

,a loose

,untidy velvet waistcoat

,and a red rope of a

handkerchi ef strangled round his neck,which gave him at first

sight the appearance of having unsuccessful l y attempted suicide.As for hi s face

,it was thin

,pale

,and I must con fess rather

debauched—looking ; his eyes were wild, excitable, and bloodshot ; his cheek hollow and hectic ; his mouth wi de, waverin g,and witty . He was always mercurially shi fting his seat : nowhe was on this side

,now on that ; now driving, now leapin g

out to a walk ; now sin gin g, now shoutin g .

Jack ’s a soldier ; you shoul d hear him on the bugle bedadhe’s powerful

,

” said Mr . Saul,patronisin gly looking at Jack .

Get out of that,doctor.” said Jack, colouring .

A purty regiment it is too,

” said Saul,b ecom ing ironical

suddenly. Divi l a one of ’

em could hit a tree at twentypaces . They m ight rifle the in imy— bedad if they

’d shoot’em I”

You ought to know,Di r . Saul

,says Jack

,reprovingly

and hurt, how many feet off we were when you saw u s firin g

with the rifle at the buttr—was it twi ntyNone of your brag

,Jack

,

” said Saul,laughing him down,

or I shall have to thrash it out of ye . t y don’t you learn

to box , Jack The fist never misses fire .

Last time as ever I went to Dublin,didn’t I box a porter

and two carmen before I got to the end of the fir st street, littleas I am

, Say now, Mr. Saul said Jack .

1 52 CROSS COUNTRY .

Weren’t you rej ected twice as a soldier ? What di d theold sergeant at Rathdrum say of you said Mr . Saul I

wish the Rifles luckOh

,this sergeant’s nothing I” said Jack

,or why does he

take to black clothesBedad

,

” said Saul,get out of that . He’ s a brave man ,

Jack ; and I’ll knock down any one who says he isn

’t . Youknow as well as I

,Jack

,the Sergeant was of the Seventy-cight

formerly,who they stripped the colours of because they would

beat to mass against government orders .”

Here we cam e to a shibbeen,and for the third tim e the

young doctor got down and called for whisky . Mr . Saul wasnot a teetotaller

,no more was Jack . W

'

e all got down .

I hope you won’t care,Mr . Saul

,but here ’ s som e of the

crathur we haven’t had tim e to get christened,

”

said the widowlandl ady

,evi dently knowing her customer .

A l l right,widdy ; brin g two dandies,

” said Saul , seizing aglass

,and some cordial . Faix ! an ’ this is rale Inn i showen ”

(smacks his lips) , div i l a bit else to me ! The beer’s badabout here—al l (learnedly, and with chemical authority)because of the sulphurous vapour

,and having no elixir of

oxygin in the centhre of the wather. Widdy, some soda-wather !I had too much stuff last night at the fair

,and I ’

m still thirsty,

though I drank four jugs of cold pump-wather this morning,

besides two bottles of porther . Take a dandy, s i r, there’s no

headache in Irish whisky . Well,then

,I ’ll take it to prove to

you . By all the Byrnes and O’

Tooles in Wicklow— and that ’ssaying something this side the Scalp—you’re the best fell owI ’ve seen for many a day l”

A scenemore intensely Irish and more intensely un -Englishcould scarcely be conceived . Here was a car reckless of delays

,

a consequential,drunken

,sporting farrier passing for a real

doctor,and a driver quite indifferent to punctual ity, parcels ,

passengers,or nightfall

,stopping at the bidding of a half

drunken cow-doctor at a roadside whisky-shop . I saw it wasno use to lose my temper. There was nothing to do but toobserve the hum ours of Saul

,the cow-doctor

,snipe-shooter

,and

salmon-fisherman .

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l 54 CROSS C OUNTRY .

a croppy song from. the Nation newspaper,evidently not un

pleasing to them . The only hit of it I remember is

C roppies , ari se ! C ropp ies, arise !Let the ol d angry li ght burn in your eyesRig the old scarlet drum ; bann er of green ,

Now shal l thy dusty fol ds on ce m ore be seen .

C roppies, ari se Croppies, ari se !Once m ore the green flag of Liberty fl ies

Now by the stone wal ls , and l ong level dikesShall gli tter bright ranks of our bayon et and p ikes .

Dragoon s may ru sh down , wi th their sabres abroad,Tory statesmen may come wi th their prating an d fraud,Bu t we

’

ll scourge them away, wi th their tricks an d theirWhen the brave croppies shall on ce m ore ari se.

Now thin, Jmtlemen all,

” says Jack,with an air of a

punctilious man of business,I think it is time to be m oving.

”

Glasses round roars Saul,

“ d’ye hear,widdy ? n ot for

gitting the Saxon Ji n tleman who has this day honoured u s withhis company amongst u s . Glasses roun d

,and we’ll be off .

”

An d off after that we went,Saul dr iving like a madman to

make up for lost ti me,but no accident happening . Indeed , a

jaunting-car is a very safe vehicle,for if it upsets it only dis

perses its passengers into roadside bogs,dikes

,or rush bushes

,

wi th now and then a concussion against a stone wall or theroadside post

,that foolishly and unl uckily does not get out of

the way .

Saul,elated with whisky

,grew laudatory of him self

,and

said : If it hadn’t been for the cock-shooting I should havestood as high

,I think

,in docthoring as the best man in

Dublin ; but som e time ago I had a fever from checked perspiration and the bile—biling over l— and ever since that I ’velost my retention of memory. Before that I used to be a greatdab at Pope

Order i s Heaven ’s last law,

and thi s redressed,Some are

,and mu st be fatter than the rest.

Do you remember that ? You see I ’

m down upon ye.

”

(A

THE IRISH JAUNTING CAR . 1 55

whisper .) I ’ve got a remedy for jaun di ce,bedad, in my resatebooks that wi l l cur e it in an y stage

”— pauses solemn ly except the stage of daycomp os i l i on .

”

(Abruptly breakin g off. )The man who isn’t sociable is a fool, and if he l ikes I

’ll box

him .

”

Give u s a song, Di r. Saul,cried Jack, looking round .

The cup of O’Hara, or the Black-haired Rose.”

“Why not leading the Calves , Jack ? or The twi sting ofthe Rope But n ow

,come , I

’ll give you a snap of my own,

written under whisky on a frosty morning to the old tune ofCormac Oge . You’ve seen Nell y

0 l itt le Nelly C onn el l in ,

G ra machree, my soul , my beautyLoving ye i s just a du ty.

Don ’ t say ki ssing i s a s in,

Li ttle Nelly C onn ell in ,

Begin .

Little Nell y Conn el lin ,

Gra machree, coll een asthore

B u t on e ki ss Ye’ve plen ty more.

Ki ss in g n ever was a s in,

Li t tle Nell y C on nel lin ,

Begin .

Widdy,give u s another dandy, and put it down to me—that

makes three . Och ! there ’s no widdy ! we’re driving, I see.Hurrah ! we ’re driving . Larrup ’

em ,Jack

Is there much snipe abou t hereIs it snipe said Mr . Saul

,angrily. I bel ieve

'

you,and

salmon too . If you’ll come and stay with u s next year,we ’ll

show you as pretty shooting and fishi ng It’s that takes me

away from medicine,or I should soon be a match with those

fellows in Dublin but och ! I ’

m always on the blue grave] , orup to my armpits wading after the heavy twenty-poundersfor hours without coming to lan d . Then there’s the races

Stay awhile,Jack

,how often can you load in a minute

(Abr uptly, as usual .)Three times

,

” said Jack but the buglers don’t have gunexerci se .”

1 56’

cs oss C OUNTRY

Why, heart of faith said Mr . Saul,fervidly

,what use is

bugling, when a man should be — I ’ve a good m ind to go onwith you and have a wake’s di version in Dublin . What I dois drink

,and eat

,and sing that’s what I call real happiness .

The man who i s not sociable is a fool,I say. Put me on a

horse,and I ’ll go anywhere and over anything . This isn’t my

best hat,this is a disab i l beaver” (rubb ing it round with his

sleeve) . I’m a nice youn g fellow

,I

’

ve got a little property,

and I want to see the world . Sit forard,Jack .

”

(Takes thepipe out of the coachman’s mouth and puts it calml y in hisown .)At the next stage Mr . Saul got down .

Good-by, Mr . Saul ; m ind you remember me, said I .

Rem ember ye l” said Mr . Saul ;

“ yes,til l the day of my

death ; While memory,’&c .

”

What a look his wild whisky-and-water,religious

,poetical

,

random eye gave me as he squeezed my hand blue .Here

,too

,I parted wi th the Wicklow bugler

,and Darby

Doolan,a quiet

,buttoned-up, moody man , now taking the reins,

our conversation fell on dress, upon which subj ect Darby hadvery serious and esoteric Opinions .Gentlemen

,said Darby, gravely,

“ don’t wear stays now asthey used to do . Och ! it was dreadful ! Sure if I was a lord ’sson I shouldn’t like to wear any m ore than my own bonesabout me

,let alone a b ig baste of a whale’s . Did you ever see

those dolly pegs they use in washing in England ?Somewhat confused

,I asked what a dolly peg was . N0

yes— no . I think not .To see how my wife slaves, said Doolan, while them

ladies sits at hom e all day curling their hair,not thinking of

the dirt in their yesterday’s gown-tail s , nor caring for all thegrindi ng and the elbow-grease it takes to clean them .

”

What does that m ean over the grocer’ s sh0p

,there ? said

I,poin ting to a shop we were passing . Top Tay ? What’stop tayTop tay

,Doolan said

,with a long look of pity at me

,

why it means topping tay,of course—our tay as tops all other

tays .

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1 58’

CRo ss COUNTRY .

j okes,and an admiration for O’

C onn or,a famed barber at

Wicklow.

Och ! he has such a tongue,said Reilly ; you shoul d

hear him . I do like a turn with that barber ; it bates cockfighting , and there

’s sport in that,too . I ’ll just tel l you a

thing he did onl y the other day. Bedad ! it bangs Banagher,

and Banagher banged the divi l , your honour . I’

m ready toburst when I think of the fun of that barber. There were twocountrymen

,with their sickles wrapped round in haybands

,

comes into his shop , on their way home from the harvest withthose nasty foul people the English, and says they,

‘ Barber,

we want a shave for a halfpenny .

’ I don’t shave for less thana penny

,

’ says he, my b ouchal s .

’ But at last,after a dale of

higglin g,he agrees

,and both of them sits down. The barber

froths both the chins and the two months’ beards,and says he

to me,Tom

,run for my Bal lysader razor,

’ for he keeps thisfor tough j obs

,and when he gets it he shaves half the chin of

one and half the chin of the other . I fear I ’ll never level itnow

,

’ says he .

4 I fear it was not a man of business cut yourhair the last time. ’ Then

,after dan cing roun d them and figur

ing about for som e time,he washes off the lather

,whips ofi

‘

thecloth from under their chin s, and gives them the handgl ass tosee themselves in . Why, you

’ve notched u s like forks ; we’re

only half shaved,

’ cried both of the reapers . That,

’ says thebarber

,is what I do for a halfpenn y.

’'

Well, you’d have

kil led yourself with laughing to have seen the two Munstermen look at the glass

,and then at each other

,turning the pence

over in their pocket,then rubbing their chins

,till at last they

out with twopence each (twice the usual sum) and sat downand were shaved like Chr istians .

And this reminds me of the trick I played a Dublin bagman at Galway once . There was a lot of u s at the Malt Shovel Inn

,where the Cli fden coach, whi ch I then drove for Bian

coni , stopped, and the loudest talker was a tailor bagman, whoyou’d think was made on the eighth day al l by him self he was

,

so swell i ng with his pudding-bag sleeve s and peg-top breeches .We fell a talking

,and at last he bet me a quart of ale that

I could not smoke a pipe of tobacco while he walked once

THE IRISH JAUNTING CAR . 1 59

round the green . Well,I took care to pack it very loose

, and

away he went ; but I beat him ,and brought it al l to ashes before

he returned . Then I must let him do the thing again,to give

him hi s revenge, for he swore he had been so sure of beating mehe had taken no trouble to wal k fast. I was determined toplay him a trick , so I challenged him again ,

and away he went.

In the mean time I sent out and got a rappin g dose of tartaremetic , and sli pped it in his quart of ale, that was ready frothing for the winner on the bar. Presently in comes my gentleman as proud as ninepence

, puffing and blowin g. Well,

’ say she

,

‘ have I won —have I won Yes,

’ says I,

‘ you havethere ’s your ale : drink i t . I am dead bet this tim e

,anyhow

,

he says,and off he drinks the whole pot

,without resting his

elbow. Wasn’t he sick ; faix ! his worst enemy woul dn’t have

wished a better sight than to have seen him holding hi s sides,

as blue as the devil when St. Patrick took him by the nosewith the red-hot pincers .”

Are you fond of driving, Reil l y said I,lighting a cigar

,

and giving him one .

Not over and above, your honour, said Reill y. Put meon top of a hot chesnut and I ’

m at home ; but this roll ing ona rickety coach-b ox spiles the digestion. Och there’s nogreater di varsi on n ow to my m ind than to sit on a hill and hearthe music of the beagles down in the valleys . Och ! the echoestalk an d jangle to each other ; it

’s m ighty di varting , and thepur tiest thin g in life of a bright blue Autumn morning . I hadtwo beagles when I was a youn g man I call ed one Fly and

the other Bird . I shoul d say, in all Ireland there was no two

better dogs to turn and wind a bare ; for faix , they playedinto each other ’s hands just

‘

l ike two players at whist .”

And what becam e of your beauties said I .

Reilly sighed . Why, Bird was killed leaping over a cl ifi’

,

and Fly ate a poisoned lamb they ’d s et for these carrion-crowsthat kill the game on the hills . He swelled up as big as abarrel

,and died while I was carrying him home .

Poor Fly,

” said I,lighting a sweet-scented fusee .

By the powers , your honour,” said Reilly

,

“ as a boy,I

should have got down from a gibbet,I think

,if I ’

d heard the

1 60’

cs os s C OUNTRY .

dogs ’ tongues and seen the scarlet topping the stone walls inlittle lines of red

,till they all j oin ed into one great red sea at

the blackthorn covert side. Blood-and-oun s,that makes my

blood bile and the pul se go like a steam -ingin e . One day,

when I was a boy,I and five other lads were goin g to school

with two sods each un der the arm for the master (that’s how we

paid him in the poor parts of county Mayo) , and presently wesaw the hounds comin g up in full cry after the bushy tail .Now m ether had said, Patsy

,whatever you do

,don’t go after

the houn ds . ’ But she said nothing about going before them ,

so away we went,hedge and ditch

,barefoot

,spl ash through the

black b og-holes,tip tap over the hard blue roads

,and hep

and-hop over the plough,and skim and drop over the stone

croppers,till the fox was run in to . May I never hear mass

again if we weren’t some ten m iles from home then,and we with

out our dinner . Well,just as we were looking about for berries

,

mushroom s,or anything

,what should we see but a di sh of

sm oking maly potatoes, laughin g them selves out of elbows, ata cabin door . Serra guide me

,but before I kn ew what I was

about,I had it under my arm

, and was a mile off under a bushcounting them out

,and tryin g if the sort could be spoken wel l

of. A t the next turn of a road, what should the great temptershow u s but a large fiat-head cake cooling in a win dow

,and

that one of the fellows took and ran off with too . So that’sthe way we made out our dinner . Do you see that house yonder

,sirYes ; you m ean the white one, wi th the slate roof, said I .

Yes,

” said Reil l y that belonged to a magistrate that theytell a good story of. He was always in debt and being watched

,

but he kept him sel f so close, that divi l a fy f ar or a car gar

could the bailiffs serve,till one day a Bray man

,one Phil

O ’

shaughnessy, determined to be up to him ,so what does he do

but sham drunkenness outside the magistrate’s door,for he

thought he saw theman he wanted peeping through the win dowblind ; out rush two policemen , and take him to the stationhouse

,and p resently before the magistrate . Who are you E”

says the magistrate . Read this,

’ said the baili ff,banding

in the latitat , and you’

ll see . ’ And so he grabbed him . Mightynate it was

,anyhow.

”

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1 62’

CRo ss COUNTRY .

When I saw,at a Dublin theatre

,the whole house to a man

get on their legs,and howl at the manager because he woul dn ’t

introduce a national jig in the middle of La Sonnambula, I said ,The Irish are an exci table p eop le.

When a Killarney guide swore to me on the tomb of hisgrandm other that there was a small lake up in Mu l lacap, countyKerry

,which contained a giant eel

,that swam twice round the

enclosur e every day at two o ’clock, with a pan of ould gold tiedto his tail

,I said

,The Iri share a sup ers ti ti ous p eop le.

When a Tipperary landlord, in a Galway railway carriage,told me he was surnamed the Woodcock, because he hadbeen shot at so often by the noblest ti nan try and missed

,I

sai d,The Irish are a revengefi cl peop le.

When I saw my friend Mike Rooney’s best blue breechesstuffed into his cabin win dow to keep out the rain

,I said

,The

Irish are a thoughtl ess p eop le.

And lastly,when I refused the beggar -woman at Castlebar

a half-penny,and she ironicall y hoped the Lord woul d make

my bed that ni ght in heaven,

” I said,

The Irish are a wi tty

p eop le.

But thi s is nothin g to do with my story ; for what I want tosay is

,that I got into Westport on the fair-day and the ses

sions-day,and foun d the cofi

’

ee-room ful l of bagmen andsessions people

,just hot from a case in which an action had

been brought against the owners of a steamer for putting acargo of eggs wi th which they had been intrusted too nearthe funnel

,in consequence of whi ch half the eggs had been

hatched and half addled. I first thr ew myself heart and soulamong the bagmen ; those whom I chi efly valued were ab ig

-headed elephantine Sm ith, in the hardware way, and Fitzgibbons

,an invalid —a neat lfeatured, dr oll Dublin man,— very

full of anecdote. Thus they beganWhy, what

’s the matter,Smith said Fi tzgibbons the

Dublin bagman to the big-headed gentleman in the hardwareline .Smith had thrust his hands in his pocket, shut up with a

hang the order-book,in which he was making memoranda of

the day’s work,stretched out his shapely legs

,and seemed

PADDY AND L 163

enti rely intent on staring with a quaker-like concentration atthe tips of his boots.

“ I tell you what is,said Smith moodi ly “ I can’t get on

without my claret .The house is going to rack and ruin since Proger

’s death

,

said a neat band-box man in the fioor-cloth line .0

,you shouldn’t be hard on the house . They do their

best, sai d the ful l -whiskered, neat-featured Fitzgibb ons .Have you ever heard, Smith, that story of Dwyer, the Dubli nbeakNo

,

” said Smith,not yet rallyin g from the effect of the

absence of hi s favour ite wine, but wishing to be amused .

I was som ewhat tired of the endless ceremoni al of Mr.

President,may I be perm itted

,

” Mr. Vice,I am intruding, I

fear,on your provin ce

,

” and bridled up to hear the story whichthe-eccentric di spenser of justi ce had himself told Fitzgibbons .Fill your tumbler, old fellow,

before you begin,said Smith .

Thank you, old boy, said Fitz, twisting his mouth into anelongated tube adapted for probationship in screeching” hotwhisky and aqua.

I’

ll tell you the story, boys, as the ould Jm tleman himselftold it me. The other day

,

’ said he,in his own mealy brogue

,

as I was sitting for the administration of justice on myjudgment-sate in Ormond Street

,a little boy was brought up

before me charged with robbing an orchard out somewhere byDonnybrook. The case was clearly proved ; and the keeper ofthe nursery-garden deposed that the boy was an old offender

,

and that he had visited the place so often that he had clearedit of every sort of fruit . Having no pity on such villainousyoun g marauders foun d guil ty upon the clearest possible evidence

,I sentenced him to three months ’ imprisonment

,not

forgetting to add the usual whipping,— the peculiar prerogative

of juveni le offenders . Just as I had delivered this sentencewith a solemn air

,I looked in a dign ified way round the court,

and.

to my surprise ob served the old gardener, who lingered inthe witness-box

,standing there still

,pulling down his fore

lock as if he wanted to speak to me,and had something on his

m in d . If you plase he said .

“What are you wanting,

M 2

1 64’

cnoss C OUNTRY .

fellow said I . If you plase,said the man

,I’ve got a

pecul iar favour to ask . What is it said I . Why,said

he, if it pl ase your honour’s worship

,that I may see the little

boy receive his sentence .” What, be whipped said I .

Yes ; he whipped,” said he . Well, as soon as the business

of the day was over I went down into the back-court,feeling

anxious to kn ow what sort of morbid cur iosity impelled theman . When I got there, the little boy was receivin g his fi rstlash

, _and I saw him ,

all in a shiverin g heap,cramm ing hi s dirty

knuckle into the extrem e corner of his left eye and there, inthe corner

,stood the prosecutor lookin g on and rubbin g hi s

hands as if it was,

’pon my sowl,the Royal Theatre he had got

a dress-box in . Well,I watched him ; and before the whip

could come down again on the poor little devil ’s dirty hide,he

goes up to the urchin, and gi ving him a dig in his very smallribs

,cries out

,There’s a Mogul plum for ye and the next

time the whip came down, he goes up on the other side, andcries

,There’s a jargonell e for ye and the third time it was

,

There’s a Kerry pippen for ye and so the cruel vi llain wenton

,til l, I

’ll be bail,there wasn’t a fruit or vegetable known in

Paradise,much more in Ireland, that he did not mention to the

poor boy.

”

(Loud laughter,Smi th. It’s a good story now,

ain ’t it ?F i tz gibbons . Why

,you never heard it before .

Smi tlz . Och,haven’t I ! Weren’t we all half kiltwi th it the

other week at DerryF i tz gi bbons . Bad luck to the big head of ye, so I did . Well

,

it’s a good story,ain ’t it ? Yet, hang i t, I towld it the other

day to to a man who couldn’t for the life see the point of it .

Why did he say,There ’s a Mogul plum for ye he kept

repeating ; Ah,there ’s a jargonell e . ’ Now,

why did he say‘ jargonelle ? I coul d have laid hold of the boil ed leg ofmutton

,and beaten him into capers with it .

After this,the neat little man in the fioor-cloth way volun

teered a long and pointless story,all about a clock runn i ng

up a wall . Now,I could imagine a clock on a wall, or a man

run ning away over a wall wi th a clock ; but what was thisIt was a new hotel and he had just gone to bed

,when he

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1 66’

CRoss C OUNTRY .

he does, it won’t keep . While he is trying to flog his brains

for a plan,out comes G eoghean in a burni ng, storming rage,

threatens him with prosecution, orders him directly with hi sown hand to remove that carrion from his yard

,or he wil l

charge five shillings for every hour it is kept there . In despair

,the m ortified own er re-0pens the n egociation but

G eoghean ,stern and obdurate

,will not now give more than

1 1. 1 5 s .,and at that miserable and in sufficient price the bargain

is closed .

Smi th. An d mighty ingenious too . The coup-de-grace most

judiciously applied . (Seriously ) This house isn’t as it used to

be in Rooney ’s time : there was no talk of a gentleman wantingclaret thenF i tz g i bbons . Och

,man

,never mind the claret tell u s the

story how you took in the Dublin carman .

Smi th. Oh,it ’s not worth the tell ing. It was last year

,Iwas

com ing home from my circuit, and I arrived by the seven-o’clock

train at the Drogheda station in Dublin . I thought I woul dhave som e fun

,—for I had a white hat on at the time

,and

looked mighty like a tracker (pedestrian) so I went staringabout the station

,and cal led for a jaunting-car . Three men

ran up , whip in hand : one would dri ve me for nothing, andgive me a dram besides ; another had a horse that would makethe tay-kettle’s steam -boiler burst ; a third would go bail thathis horse could drive all the rest before him . I hired one

,

clung on the side-seat like a stranger,and told him to drive to

the Gresham , The Gresham,i s it Away he went, — such

a drive —roun d by the Quays,and the Phoenix, and Grafton

Street, and the Liberty, and back to Sackville Street . Then hepulls up at the lamp with a start, leaps off as if he had donethe thin g well

,and waits for his fare

,expecting a crown or so .

I handed him the statute Sixpence . What’s this said he,

looking at it as if it was a bad one . Is it bad said I . Nsaid he ; but I want four-and-tinpence. For one set downwithin the mun icipalities,

” sai d I,

“ fare Sixpence .

” “ O,by

Jabers,said he

,

“ the mealy-mouthed rascal ! To the ouldHarry with your municipalities ! Serra to your big head, ifI di dn’t take ye for a rowler (tour ist) (Laughter)

PADDY AND L 1 67

I They tell a story in Dublin of a magistrate there who hasa peculi ar m ission for puttin g down carmen . His obj ect inl ife is to check extortion ; he li ves to suppress carmen . Oneday he sent hi s little girls to school in a car, putting them inat the turnpike to save over-fare

,an d directin g them with

many precautions to get out this side the muni cipal boun dary.

IV

hen they get out, they hand the carman, who had preparedhimself to pluck hi s youn g fare; Sixpence . The carman lookedat it first

,and then at them .

“What’s thi s dirtying myhands says be .

“ It’s your Sixpence .” “ Is it Sixpencesays he. It ’s your proper fare

,

” they said,and we shall not

gi ve any more .

“ You ’ll n ot give any more N0 ; it’s

what papaw told u s to give .” “ An d who is your papaw

(with a voice of drawlin g di sgust) .

“ 1\Ir . Flannigan ,the

police magistrate .

“Mr . Flannigan !” (with a look of discomfiture rising to terror, regainin g his seat, and whippingoff) .

“ Och ! then good morning to ye, my little darlints, andremember me to your papaw .

”

Smi tfi. There are two magistrates , Flannigan and Flaherty,of whom many good stories are told . One is peculi arly hardon people who are found incapable of takin g care of themselves or of anyone else

,and who

,because they have been

generally already robbed,are also fin ed. The other is equally

forgiving . I heard a drunken fell ow once,lying in the gutter

and talkin g with his wife,who was swearing at him for not

com in g home . Where’s your mann ers, ye di rty baste,

” shesaid

,pushing him with her foot

,bringing disgrace on the

ould name and the ould blood ? Och ! you big baste,to leave

your poor neglected wife and chi lder ;— gct up with you .

”

Biddy,

” said the drunken vagabond from the kennel,for the

love of the Virgin and St. Patrick,j ust rowl me over to Flan

n igan’

s side of the street,and I ’ll be al l right in the morning .

”

F i tz g z'

bbons . He ’s the magistrate who exam ined the man ofstraw as to the value of his property. Will you swear hesaid

,that your holdings are worth twenty pounds P” Be

dad,

” said the bail,who was holding his nose as if he was rub

b ing it,

“ I swear that I wouldn ’t part with my holdings fortwice twenty pounds . So he was admitted .

1 68’

oRo ss C OUNTRY.

A s a change from the bagmen , I turned to the sessions-table,where the chief speakers seemed to be aMr. Joyce, a low attor

ney and parasite,a fat Falstaff, with a wavering cunn ing eye ;

Mr. O’

Donnel,a barrister ; andMr . Mufii ngton ,

the owner ofthe steamer in fault in the egg-question. He had a swollen—looking red face

,and a punchy, vulgar little body ; but Joyce spoke

of him as the prop of the town, and the glory of county Mayo.Joyce was not a peace-maker

,as we see when he gives tongue .

Joyce. I go on the broad principle . I say, put a six-barrell ed revolver to thei r j aw, and blow them to everlastingblazes .I . Gently

,gently

,Mr. Joyce the law will see us righted .

Joyce. (squeezing a lemon viciously) . What I told themwas

,when you’re all dead and rotten the steamer will go

ahead . Westport for ever ! What I want is a revolver— a

legal revolver. Revolver is legal who says it isn’t I shouldlike to see any one say it isn’t . Where is he ? I

’

m not tooold yet to fight ; and I can hi t a gnat at forty paces wi thouttelescope-glasses .Mufi ng ton . We shall win our action there ’s no doubt aboutit Counsellor Brady says we shall .

Joyce. Snafiie him , that’s what I want just as I did for

Captain House . Is the country to be destroyed,that ’s what I

ask . Is it to be ruined ? Och ! rascal ; och, the murtheringvillain s ! Take it patiently yes, I will . Let me purpose asa toast

,Muffington and the steamer. Hurrah GIVE IT

STAM PING .

Toast drunk with dance and Jingling acclamations .Mr . Muffin gton ,

the little podgy, red—faced, swollen sort ofman

,got up and proposed the health of the counsel for the

defendantfl Mr . O’

Donn el .

Drunk with fresh glass, dancing .

Joyce. That ’s what I like . I hate all your fin ical dirty talk .

Grapple with ’em ; drag them to blazes ; throw rotten eggs at’em ; pill ory them . Och ! that ’s the way give

’em Lynchlaw !Mr. O

’

Donn el,a spare

,care-worn

,pale, clever-looking man,

his thin face working with excitement,got up and made a speech

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1 70’

cs oss C OUNTRY .

may it live for ever,I say

,and a day longer . The chairman is

the man who knocks down any one that disagrees with him,and

so will I any one who says the word against Muffington and

the steamer . ” I’

m for morality and all that sort of thing ..

Now,then

,we must remember Larry . N0 one will grudge

sixpence for poor Larry . Mr. Mu ii ington ,I respect ye ; the

Muffington tree is what I h0pe to die under, when this lastJohn

,some hot water,— quick, you divi l ,—and more spirit on

the top of it, you blackguard .

Tired of this scene of blarney,confusion

,and noise

,I broke

from the turbulent cofi’

ee-room,crowded with witnesses and

attorneys,and got out into the pure air of the street . It was

fair-day,and the town was alive with moving wheels

,bell owing

oxen,and expostulating pigs . There

,in a snug corner

,was

the indefatigable brogue-seller, with one hand in a shoe and’

the other rubbing it, as he spit upon the leather . If it doesthis with a spit

,what will it be with a black is his argument .

There,safe under the church-tower

,were the women with their

stalls of clean printed calicoes,runn ing their fabrics between

their fingers and thumbs , to the intense admiration of thedark-eyed Colleens, the young sisters that clung to their skirts,and the boy who stopped the sl ip of the peg with the longhayband tied to his left hind-leg as a sort of rein . Therewas the bowl-seller

,with his nest of b owls

,cogs and noggins

,

at whose store stood the sturdy farmers with buttoned-upfri eze and stout blackthorns under the arm . There were gi n

gerbread' stal l s, and men selling halters and whips, all rangedin rows on either side of the High Street , roun d the chief inn ,

through whose door worked in and out a j ostling crowd ofgraziers and drovers

,from the mere cotter

,who had brought

his single pig— the hope of the family— as a great venture,to

the lordly grazier,with his five dozen bulls of Bashan, and hi s

big pocket-book,swollen with greasy one-pound notes . An d

through all this chatting,laughing

,excitable

,cheerful , eager,

good-natured crowd,with variegated colours flyin g, came the

band of the Galway mil itia,

-the non-commissioned of ficers,

four abreast,as large as life

,with drawn swords the drum in

a painful state of apoplectic excitement and infiammatorily red

PADDY AND 1 . 171

in the face and last, four abreast, arm -in -arm,the newly-caught

recruits,shoutin g their sanguine and sangui n ary anticipations

of endless booty and tremen dous glory . Raw Irish lads,just

caught from the bog, they looked as green as the laurels thata phantom without a head waved ab ove their as yet unbrokenskul l s .Mi liti a is doin g better than the line

,I said half-maliciously

to a griz zled recrui tin g sergeant of the 52nd leanin g against aChemi st’s door-post

,hi s stained scarlet matchin g very well with

the adjacent blue bottles .Och,

” said he,with a professional and crafty smile, they

’reonl y decoy-ducks

,sir . An d away they went, rufii ing the fair

wi th their parchment-thunder to the Spartan-like bray of the

Tow, row,row

Of the Bri t i sh grenadiers .

Pushing through the crowd of hot rosy girls,uncomfort

ably fine farmers’ sons,and sagacious old women

,and farmers

wi th hay stirrups, narrowly escaping a violent Juggernauticdeath from cage-carts of anxious-lookin g and self-consciouspigs, wondering empty-headed calves, and m i schievou s~ lookingrunts , dr iven wi th yells in the Irish languagefand thwacks notneeding translation

,I worked slowly through the gossiping,

busy, chaffering crowd , till I got to the low stony hill with theturf trodden off it

,where the cattle market was held : it was

a bovine Witenagemote,an E sop parliament . The money

market I saw was tight,by the buttoned-up look of the old

farmers, and the reserved and cynical mann er of the splashedgraziers, who eyed the cows with contemptuous criticism ,

nudged their stomachs with Abernethy-like roughness , and thenwalked off

,beating their muddy b oots with their ground-ash

sticks . Between the countless horns of leathery dry-looking kine,country gi rls and farmers’ sons with meteor-l ike neck-handkerchiefs exchangedmeaning nods, in spite ofwatchful mothers heedful of bargains

,and F ardorougha-l ike fathers . The busiest men

were the small higglers and j obbers,with onl y two dirty pound

notes or so to invest,and determined to speculate desperately in

some moribund cow or spavined horse . I saw one of them

1 72’

cao ss C OUNTRY.

leading about anything but the fatted calf its hi de a vampedo ld shoe, its hair like an old school trunk

’s,its eye fishy, its

gait feeble . A j olly Rory O’More offered him a pound-billfor it, and said 'i t didn’t look likely. Never judge a book bythe cover

,

” says Jim , down upon him with an old saying .

Don’t be wiser than wise,” says another O ’

Rourke to a wellto-do farmer, Who is sticking out for a high price . Tal k of co

quetting ! these graziers know every trick of the art . Lookat that fellow with the frieze-blanket coat

,howmuch he longs for

those tight-skinned active pigs—pure Connaught but he fights ,and scolds

,and beats his hands

,and buttons his coat

,and scares

the pig-j obber,and now that all is nearly over

,he actually claps

on his hat tighter,puts his shillalah un der his arm

,and walks

coolly off to one of the long waggon-tilt booths for a half-one”

of whisky. That bold act is a fine stroke of generalship it isthe coup -de-gm ce ; it wins the day . The pig-j obber

,almost

tearing his hair,runs after him

,claps the earnest-money in his

expectant pahn ,and cries

,Mike

,the pigs is yours .” Then

with stentorian violence to the boy, he roars CALL’

EM BACKYou’ve got them dirt-cheap . Out comes the pocket-book

,out

c ome the notes and observe the dry sm ile of the satisfied purchaser

,and the feigned di scomfiture of the diamond-cut-diamond

j obber . The long low booths— so low that you cannot standupright in them ,

—are worth a visit . See the li ttle peat-fire atthe doorfwith its pleasant whifi

’

of curling blue smoke that ’sfor the hotZwater, and the hot water is for the whisky. Within

,

facing each other,on long l ow benches

,sit the drovers and

farmers,scraping their boots wi th switches

,wi th hands on

knees,they laugh and chaff with thorough Irish lightness of

heart . They do love pleasure these Celts . French or Irish ,they work at play

,and play at work 5 they dance themselves to

death,but they dig with the listlessness of convicts .

Between the rows,smoking jug in hand

,passes the widdy

Grattan,with always some story to tell you of what M

’

C or

mac’s pig said to King O’

Toole . O the pleasant hustle andflurry of those simple-hearted, happy, wretched-papists, whoshould be miserable with pigs

,priests

,mud-floors

,and dung

hill s,yet are so obstinately j olly while Paddy

’s rich morbid

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1 74’

C Ross C OUNTRY.

said one of my companions,a Dublin m edi cal student

,with a

pleased manner,at the same time scraping out his pipe . Is

it colouring he said,rubbing it and holding it up to ou r

third friend,—a little pragmatic

,wizen

,bow-leggedWelsh com

mercial traveller from the coal-districts,—just as a mother

would show her firstborn to her gossip . The Torc mountainmight hold up its bragging arms to catch the clouds of Kerry

,

but he (Brady) was only solicitous about his eldest meerschaum ,

ornamented with the playful skull and cross-bones .What is the matter with Phil said I to the stolid boat

man . Is he gone for the salmon-rod ? It’s a pretty day forfishing .

Is it Phil (wi th a puzzled and inquiring air) . Sure he’sgone for the whisky

,— the cru is lceen -lawn

,— your honour .”

Lawn,lawn

,lawn l.” shouted Brady, still screwin g at his

pipe with a sculptor’s care . Bad-luck to him,am I never to

get a patient ? Then it’s not dementia.

”

We looked,and sure enough we saw afar off our favourite

waiter Tim— the horseman,the fisher

,the fiddler— handingwith

religious care a deliciously green transparent bottle of the bestBush Mil ls—potent

,fragrant- to Phil

,who received it as a

proselyte would the viaticum . He wrapped it in the breast ofhis jacket as a father m ight a frost-b itten lamb in a snow-stormamong the hills . He came back at a bound over the pier

,with

a cheer from Tim,and a “ good-luck to u s

” from the buglerand a dozen hangers-on

,who were waitin g about the door with

a score of ragged ponies,ready for Mangerton and its stony

clamber.Is it right said I .

It’s right,your honour

,said Phil with a look of

'

sagaciousapproval . There’s the rod by the jin tleman that

’s nursingthe big pipe and the bugle

,ready for Paddy Blake , by the

j in tleman with the spy-glass on him . Now then,give way

,

Macarthy, and remimber that I ’

m an O’

Donohue ; and don’t

let me do all the pulli ng,you bodagfi.

”

B e asy,Phil

,be asy the day’ s before u s .

Away we went,cuttin g the water like a ploughshare does

BOATING l N KILLARNEY . l 75

the clay furrow,straight for Ross Island, and the oul d castle

that big thi ef Cromwel l poun ded to smithereens,“or at laste his

son-in -law ; so that it was all in the family .

” Probert,the little

W'

elsh bagman,gave a spasmodi c bob forward as we throbbed

on Brady li t his meerschaum wi th a red sod, brought for thepurpose

,and declared the scenery woul d be d—d fine if the

moun tains had onl y been taller and the lake wider.Will your honour tell me how to put the say in a whi sky

bottle said Phil,brushing his m outh with his sleeve

,and

readjusting his feet against the holdfast .None of your impertinence

,sir

,

” said the bagman .

Phil onl y pul l ed viciously,and asked me if I had ever heard

of what the piper of Kill aloe said to Macgil l icuddy of theReeks when he gave him a bit of his mind

,and called him an

infernal spalpeen .

No,

” said I .

Faix,then I ’

l l tell your honour some day when the wi nd’sfavourable and the company selecter

,

” with a wink at theirascible bagman

,who was inquir ing of Brady the price of coal

in Dublin .

If i t was tobacco,now

,said Brady

,

“I’

m your man .

Impertinent pody I” said Probert, stil l sore at Phil .1

“ T—d

poatman ,t— d poat

Will it be fine,Phil says Brady

,looking up at Mangerton

with pipe sideways in his mouth . I fear it’ll be soft .”

It will not,

” said Phil .How do you know, poatman said the bagman pertly

,

as little men generally speak,and looking as if he had caught

Phi l in a di lemma.Well , God Almighty didn

’t tell me,said Phil .

I was up doosed early, bedad,” said Brady

,and I don’

t

like the look of things . ”“ But God Al mighty

,said Phil triumphantly

,winking to

me, was up before you and it will be fine. I know by thelook of the Purple Mountain

,by the fl ies on the water

,by

the leaves of the arbutus on the little rock there,and by

Now then, men,” I said . Pull away for Ross Island.

Brady, chorus . I sing improvising

1 76’

cs oss C OUNTRY .

To D inas , to D in as we pu ll , we pul l ,Wi th the l eap of a stag and the r ush of a bu ll ,Wi th our gurgl ing bottle an d hamper ful l .

Where the green ho lly di ps its berries of redOver the fairi es ’ fern -leaf b edWhere the drown ed monk s ings a mass for the dead .

Hurrah

O ver the si len t reefs we sail,

The boatman tel l ing a ban shee tale,The f resh ni ght wind i s her mourn ing wai l .

Hurrah !

Then a heal th to the King O’Donohue,

Who dwel l s far up in the moun tain blue,Macgi ll i cuddy, wi th you , wi th you .

Hurrah

Long life to you,says Phil ; and may we have many m ore

such jin tlemen with the tongue well hung, and the heart in theright place . (Looks on the bagman .) Isn

’t it beautiful P” (toMacarthy, who had been eyeing Brady

’s pipe attentively forsome m inutes

,to that enthusiastic gentleman ’s almost coquet

tish delight) .

Och,beautiful entirely (wakin g up) .

Probert thinks,as it is a little cold

,he will take a pul l

,and

lays his hand on O’

Don ohue’

s oar .Now get out of that you lep recazm,

’ under breath) ; sure,and an ’

t I Phil O’

Don ohue,boatman and guide of Killarney

Lakes,descended from the great O’

Don ohue of the G l in s,

an d am I to give up my trust,and sit like a fat priest doin g

nothingNon sen se, pother ! Didn

’t you let this gentleman pullbut half an hour ago P I will pull pody and soul, I will pul l—by St. Tafid, I willMr . Probert

,keep your temper . Phil

,be decent . Here’s

a b ig lump of a rock what’s this called, Phi l

That’ s O’

Don ohu e’

s di ning-table,your honour, where

’s he’sseen dining on the turtle-soup and the pig’s trotters

,and all

the dainties mortal man can think of.

It is ferry pig,

” said the Welshman,forgetting hi s anger

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1 78 C ROSS C OUNTRY .

I shouldn’t l ike to have gone to their meets,said Brady

contemplatively.

O ’

sull ivan, too, had bloody wars with the O’

Donohues inould times—But the whisky is getting quite mouldy

,your

honour,for want of drin king .

”

It’s a long pull , your honour, said Macarthy, wiping hisforehead. (The spirituous essence of smoke is handed round .)Pi n

'

l . You mane the pull you took at the bottle . (Larry,play up O

’

Sul li van’

s Joy ; and handle the keys as if yousmelt the rale stuff

,and a glass of it was pourin g out for you .

Well done,Larry ; play up ! Och

,n ivir spare the bags If

there ’s no one here of the wrong way of thinking, maybe I’ll

give you a Croppy song.

He has a beautiful pipe of his own, said Macarthy, criti

call y,putting his head on one side ready to listen .

Phil spits and looks hard at the bottom of the boat .Now then, Phil, no nonsense .

”

Phil sings .

Och for the day we marched in to Athlone !D idn ’

t the al dermen gi ve u s a groan ;Seeing the sogers race out of the town .

Major, the bodagh, wen t off in a swoun .

Down,down , Orange l ie down !

Thunderin’ thick were the crowds of the pikes,

A mu sket a piece for whoever that l ikes,And a drum sure as b ig as e

’er butt in the town

,

Wi th, och, such a beautiful musical soun’

Down , down , Orange, l ie down !

There was O’B rady, the top of ’

em al l,

Cheering the boys from the l edge of a wall ;If but a Croppy gave even a frown ,F or mercy men fell on thei r marrow-bones down .

Down , down , Orange, lie down 1

The Green flew above an d the Orange belowA rush at the gun s, they were ours at a blow.

T hen blast all the bugles to frighten the townF or Liberty

’s up , and the Protestan ts down .

Down , down , Orange, l ie downChorus

, &c.

BOATING IN KILLARNEY. 1 79

Onmes . Well done, Phil .B rady. Infernal good song. I must learn that . Try a pipeof Can aster, old fellow . Smokes doosed well .P/z i l . Thankee, your honour. More power to ye, Mir . Brady .

Protert. It’s a fery coot song ; but I prefer Of noble racewas Shenkiu” (that i s a coot tun e) ; or C odi ad yr Hedyd,

”

or C odiad yr Hylli on .

”

I . But now,Phil

,somethin g more about the Ji n tleman with

the three-cocked hat an d the rijimental band .

Phi l . Wel l,your honour

,there was a Scotch gardener

,who

worked for Mr. Herbert on the Muckross demesne, who alwaysu sed to make hi s j eers at my father when he talked of theO

’

Don ohue (rest his sowl) . Play up , Larry, you vill ain ! Thatis The Fox-hunter’s Schame” he ’s playing

,your honour .

Play up, Larry. Well ; and it went so far that they hadwords between them about i t ; the Scotchman sayin g, thatupon hi s sowl he was ashamed to see so sin sible a man talkingsuch trumpery . My father was but a gorsoon then, or maybehe’d have up with his shillalah and knocked the impudence out

B rady. Go it,Phil ; I like your pluck .

Plz i l . Well,my father and he were up early one morni ng in

the autumn,cutting down som e young birch-trees that hid the

view from the sketching jintleman that came to the Torc waterfall to look for something they call the pi cturest . The fogin a silvery stream was smoking up from the blackberrybushes ; and the broom,

and the fern,and the blessed sham

rock,lay with a silver beading all over them as i f

,bedad

,the last

night ’s fairies had shed their j ewels as they ran away frightenedat the first beam of the peeping curious sun . The rabbitswere h0pping over the dead leaves that lay about like greatheaps of bull ion-gould ; and if you listened carefully, you coul dhear n ow and then the bellin g of a buck on Glena (and apurty sound it is in the fresh morn ing) . Well

,my father and

the Scotchman were busy as pipers at a wedding with the billhook and axe

,when the Scotchman

,who had been lookin g for

a long time at the lake,and the island showing through the fog

,

suddenly gripe s my father by the arm,and asks him

,for God ’ s

N 2

1 80’

cs oss C OUNTRY.

sake,if he didn’t hear anythin g . N0, says my father . Why,

you must be deaf,

” says he. There,

” says he,for all the

world like a flock of floatin g angels passing low over the lake .

”

“ I hear nothin g but a squall-crow on the firs yonder,” says

my father. You must be a‘ fool,then

,says the Scotchman,

quite scared ; for there it is again .

It was the rijim in tal band of angels , says Brady.

Pfii l . Whatever it was, it was too much for the Scotchmanfor he went home

,sickened with a fever

,lay at the gasp for

three weeks,and never laughed at the stories of the O’

Donohu e

again .

B rady . Why, you omadhaun, the thing is as clear as thenose on your face,— and an ugly one it is . Sandy was deliriou sWith a fever ; the blood was heated in the essel s of hisupper gastric region .

I . Excuse me,Mr . Brady, but we must land .

And we di d land,and dined and sang and rambled all over

the blessed old ruin,that was the last hold in Munster to yield

to Cromwell , that is, Ludlow. We saw the great gun withthe big Irish name that burst in exul tation when it almostknocked down Ki llalea tower

,that was brimful of sour

Pur itans, wi th their g reat clasped Bibles, buff suits , AndreaFerrara swords

,and endl ess sermons . There the can on grin

at you with hard sil ent mouths from ivi ed loops and crumblingramparts

,where bog-oak girls” teaze you in the prettiest

brogue to buy arbutus-wood card-cases .B rady . What a j olly old place '

Probert. A fery prave place,but not so prave as some of

‘

ours in Wales .B rady. When I walked the hospitalss z

'

l . (who had followed u s up the stairs to the O’

Don ohue

dining-room) . Begging your pardon, Jm tlemen

,this is the

O’

Don ohue’

s di ni ng-parlour. (How the bees are hummin g onthe ivy-blossom,

'the craturs That window looking on thelake is the one which O’

Don ohue leaped out of.Omnes . The story

,the story

,Phil . Here

,wet your l ips with

whisky .

Phi l . Well,you see, thi s O

’

Donohue was a mighty grate eu

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1 82’

caoss COUNTRY .

to his left leg . Pat was sad enough for he had not been ableto sell the pig in that day ’s market at Killarney . He wasgoing along

,head downwards

,like a mare that has lost her

foal ; for his landlord was a cruel ould hunks, and had swore aweek before

,that if his rent wasn’t paid by that Friday night

,

he’d sell Pat’s very bed from under him,and seize his two milk

cows . Well,at the turning of a road

,Pat hears a step behind

him,and looks up and sees it is the O’

Donohue riding, with histhree-cocked hat

,on his white horse

,grand as a Ji neral . Good

evening,sir

,

” says he . Good evening,Pat

,

” says O’

Donohue ;

you look but sadl y .

” Then Pat out and tell s him all hi s .

troubles . Pat,

” says he,you’re an honest sort of a man and

I’m sorry that you are fall en into the hands of such an ouldrip of a tyr ant as that landlord of yours . Give him this for aquittance and he poured a heap of gould into Pat’s hand, andthen, before Pat could turn round thank him ,

or make hi s bow,

he had gone . Next morning early,down comes the landl ord .

Pat,” says he

,

“ I’

m come for the rent and as you haven’tgot it I shall take your cattle so let s go to the stable .Stop

_a . bit, says Pat, here’s your rent and he asks for as

recate . “What’s all this said he , as'

Pat whips out O’

Do

n ohue’

s bag of money and puts it in his hand. Take that,”

says he ; and, by the holy poker, it’s me is the boy that would

like to see you putting a finger on the cattle .”

So away wentthe landlord with Pat’s rent

,grumbling and swearing like a

Tom-cat at din ner-time . An d,faix

,he didn ’t make m uch of

the money either ; for when he cam e to look in his greasy oulddrawer next morning

,what had it all turned to but a parcel

of dry leaves ; but he never could come down upon Pat, who

had got his big recate as snug and sure as the Pope ’s Bull .B rady. Verdict

,Sarved him right .” I say

,Phil

,is this

a crack coming in my pipeA pleasant hour it was we spent in old Ross Castle, thefallen stronghold of the enchanted chieftain of the Lake

,the

magician of Kerry,the sworn enemy of the O ’

Don ohue of theGlens , the Macarthy More, Macgi lli cuddy of the Reeks, andthat big thafe Cromwell

,whose red nose local legend duly

chronicles . We gr oped up the winding staircase,and walked

BOATING IN KILLARNEY. 1 83

cautiously along the defaced battlements ; and every whereby embrasure, loop , old fireplace, door, an d window— sang thebees on the ivy-blossoms their half-angry purposeless melody,as our eyes glanced from island to mountain

,where the cloud

poised above the coloured shadow, its spirit sister, that watchedbelow.

Now a tumble into the boat and with a merry tune ofLarry’s Coul dn ’t you lave the rose-bloom alone

,R atty, and

not stale it all for those cheeks P” ) we pulled for Inn i sfall en ,

the island of the rui ned abbey,with the fat lawn-pastures and

the patriarchial hol ly-trees .P/z iZ. Play up, Larry . (He

’ s been dark,your honour

,ever

since hi s mother knew him ; but a purtier fin ger for the silverkeys isn ’t in all Kerry .) Try the line, your honour ° there ’s anice curl on the water now. Did you ever hear of O Donohue,and the challenge he sent ?

Omnes . No out with it .

B rady . I like the old buffer with the three-cocked hat,

(Whispers to me)— Thi s Phil is of g rate value.P lz z

'

l . Well,your honour

,i f you must hear i t

,this is how it

was : Once upon a time,there was a cowherd, and as he was

dr iving hi s cows one morning to the field,who should he meet

on a grand white horse but the O ’

Don ohue and says O’

Donohue

to l\Iike,Mike

,I’ve got a letter here whi ch I want you to

take to the other side of the lake,and give to the fir st jin tleman

you meet ridin g on a bang-tailed chestnut,says he. Well ,

without more boderation,Mike takes the letter ; and sure

enough,just over

,not a mile from Killaloe

,who should he

meet but thr ee j in tlemen horsemen, and the first of thethree was on a bang-tailed chestnut . So Mike out with theletter

,and gives it him boul d . It’ s fighting he manes , said

the man on the chestnut,curlin g up his nose as fierce as a

boar-pig when he read the letter,nam ing the place and hour

that the O’

Donohue had fixed ou . Now,Mike, who was ready

with the stick,determined to see the fun

,and goes at the time

appointed,and gets up in a willy tree

,snug and safe out of

sight . In half a minute both the armies come into the fiel d,and such a scrimmage begins as I make bould to say even

1 84’

oaoss COUNTRY .

Donnybrook coul dn’t match . Heads and arms hew about likesods at a hedge-school when the masther

’

s awayThere is no knowin g where Phil ’s eloquence and power ofinventi on would not have carried him

,had not the boat-head

been half an hour since turned homeward,and a cry from Brady

now announced that the lights of the hotel began to be visible .There they shone, low on the water, now dark

,now lurid

,

guidin g u s to our desired haven .

I. What a night for the O’

Don ohue to be abroad,with the

banshee of the family riding pillion !B rady . 0 boderation with the banshee ! what I want is agood rump-steak and some bitter.Protert . What I want is peer .Twenty minutes ’ strong

!pulling brought u s again to the

j etty ; two minutes more brought u s to a white-hot peat fire,with a darling kettle singing all to itself. What a breach wemade in the p eef , as Probert called it ! That night we hadpleasant dreams of monks praying on lonely. islands of O

’

Do

nohne in his three-cocked hat of Cadwallader boxing withMacgill icuddy of the Reeks, and getting the worst of it ; ofhospitals

,pipers

,and pipes . The first thing I heard when I

awoke the next morning was Brady in 32—1 was 31— callingfaintly to Tim the waiter for another glass of bitter .

CHA PTER XVII .

A N IGHT AT KILLARNEY .

I . BRING another matarial , Tim ,for Mr . Brady .

“Matarz'

al means , in Irish, whisky-and-water, said I to atall

,thin

,soured

,wondering-looking man

,who I found to be a

London land-surveyor,with a very bad opinion of the Celtic

race as his predominant peculiarity . He generally spoke inspasmodic short sentences

,and uttered them with a snap as if

he had stung you . His name was Dabble .

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1 86’

CRoss COUNTRY.

B rady . Have you had many tourists this year,Tim

Tim. Divi l a year more,your honour

,bad luck to ’em There

they go out in the cars of a morning,and some of ’em sure

have their maps as big as the thrawing-room table ; and whenI drive they sit as sti ff as a poker

,and never ask the name of

nothing,but say to their wives

,This mus t be B allyswi l ly,

” orThis must be Kil laloe and by the holy jabers (slappinghi sknee and doubling up in a choking laugh) , ten to one but it

’

s

Stranorlar or Ki l lygordan . But I ’

m not going to interruptthem, or it would be, What an impertin ent fell ow that driveris I” and there’d be the bright Sixpence less to take home tothe wife .Dabble (to Probert, apart) . What an ignorant fellow thisis !Probert (to Dabble) . Fery

,fery ! (shaking his head) .

Tim. May I go ou,your honour or am I stopping the

aveningI . No, no, Tim ; let

’s hear more about our friends the tourists .

Tim. Then the wife, with the rosebud of a mouth , God blessher ! says

,

“ Dear me,James

,how picturest !

”— always “

p i c

tures t.”Divil if I know what it manes ; and bedad, Father

Reilly coul dn’t tel l me,for I asked him the last blessed Sunday

as ever was after mass . Well,then

,there are the five sisters

all in a row,just like so many goslings

,~—wi th always half an

eye,and more nor that

,for any dacent young fellow who is on

the car,—who all open their mouths together, that you

’d thinkthey’d swall ow the lake

,mountains

,and all

,like so many red

herrin gs ; and they all call out, especially when the dacent youn gman looks their way, How pi cturest 1

”

B rady. The little hypocrites , how I should like to stop theirmouths ! Och

,the cratur s -I say

,my dear fellow (to me) ,

just look how this meerschaum ’s colouring. You don’t thinkthat is a crack , ehTim. An d why do the darl ints call out picturest when theplace is not pli sant game-feedin g land, but just the mere.

scrapings and rakin gs of the world .

B rady (to Tim, maliciously, to vex Probert) . And have

A N IGHT AT KILLARNEY . 187

you many of the bagmen,Tim

,with the great tin-boxes and the

mackintosh bun dl esTim. Bedad

,sir

,we have ; and as much fuss wi th their dirty

tin boxes as if they was Lord Lucan or Lord Ragland, badluck to the big heads of ’em and every third word they utteris, He

’s not a bus iness-man,sir . ” (Bell rings .) But there

’

sthe masther rin ging like a Bengal tiger . I

’

ll be in upon youin a brace of shakes ; cd, if the tin toes isn

’t all but off my feetwi th this runn ing up and down .

Probert. What a tammed trouplesome chattering fel low !

IVhy, a Wels waiter would no more dare to talk to hi s pettersDabble. O

,they ’re all alike ; quite hopeless , qui te hopeless

B rady. More water,sir ? (Burns Dabble

’ s fin ger .) Och '

it’s sorry I am,because these sort of kettle-burn s lead often to

the cu san eou s erasypilitis and the grand scurvy . (Winks tome .)I . Well

,what did you think of Mu ckross Abbey, Mr.

BradyB rady. Infern al dul l

,and in fernal dear .

Probert. A shill ing a head was plackguard cheating .

Dabble. Nasty,lazy

,lying set . Ugh ! Pigs under the bed,

p i gs everywhere .B rady. No

,no ; bacon in some places .

D abble. Dun ghill s at the door,and the wretched people sit

ting as if dunghil l s were always intended to be at doors . Ugh !Drinking and fighting . UghI . The happiest people in the world .

Dabble. Yes thoughtless,that’ s the worst of it : dancing

at fun erals . Ugh !I . But about Muckross . Isn’t it solemn ? with that yew inthe courtyard

,spreadin g over its dark banshee arms as if pro

n ouncing an eternal malediction, keeping out the sunshine andstarshine of centuries from the humble un known graves theyhave tried so long to vi s it .B rady. Sarve the old bufi

'

ers right ; they were always eating and drinkin g

,and playing the div i l ’s own mischief.

Dabble. Popery,Popery

,gentlemen

,i s the curse of Ireland .

1 88’

cRoss C OUNTRY .

I So I have heard ; but England got on very well with it once,and the whole world too . Some good men have been Papists

,

I suppose . Under the darkness of that yew thirty monks metdaily for some three centuries

,parting

,after prayer and praise

,

to climb higher than the eagle,to ford torrents

,to wade through

swamps,to carry God’s message to the dyin g

,and to li ft the

cross before their glazing eyes l

Probert . Put don’t forget the putcher’s pill .I Well, suppose they were fat, and did enj oy the spottedtrout and the wild deer’ s haunch

,what then ‘

P Are good men

to starve ? Can good works never be wrought but by sheletons Must all fat men be sent to hunt whales and live onblubber ? N0

,we must not think of such a thing .

— It mustbe a solemn sight to see a funeral in the old burying-place ofthe O ’

sullivans and the M ‘Carthys .

B rady. Yes . Shil li beer’

s cheap fun eral 33 .

I . The country girls with the shawls over their heads , theol d crones raising the keen e or u lag aun , flinging up their skinnyarms and clapping their hands .B rady . Tell ing such thundering lies of all the O’

Gradys

the dead rascal had wol l opped, and not a word about the timeshe had been in gaol or before the beaks .I . Leave some poetry in the world

,Brady . Think of the

neat gate and the sloping shaven lawns,with old thorns bushy

red with berries,among which the blackbird pipes his solitary

matins over the monks quiet un der the turf beneath ; of theblack funeral yews dull and grand

,like stupid rich people ; and

the blossoming ivy round the clean cut gray stone, fresh as ifquarried yesterday from Torc mountain yonderB rady. An d Mr. Herbert ’s gate-keeper

,— the old buffer,

with the frosty red face,gray whiskers

,and baggy black velvet

shooting-j acket is of grate value . Bedad, there wasn’

t a wordI told him about the hospitals that he didn’t say,

“ 0 my 1”

with his Kerry brogue on him, the omaci’l mun .

I . An d di d you hear,Brady

,about his once visiting England,

and meetin g the great stage-actor Mr. John Kemble and howastonished he was at the civilization of England

,and especially

the warm p lates onl y to think of that, above all things, —not

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1 90 C ROSS C OUNTRY .

you may thread the gorges of Dun l oe ; you may rise intoheaven by way of Mangerton ; you may storm G lenacuppal ,Coom-a—Duv

,and Stoompa ; brush through the green glossy

arbutuses with the crimson sorbs,or press the yellow moss on

Caran Tui l lB rady . Wel l, what then, when you have done all thisI . Why (have a bit of patience) , you wi l l fin d nothin g tosurpass the placid beauty of the Monk ’ s Island

,Inn i sfal len .

B rady . Kill arney i s very well ; but I like it best on aregatta day ; or when the wild deer of Glena are b eing drivendown into the lake. 0

,it’ s beautiful then

,entirely

,to see the

boatmen breaki ng each other’s heads wi th the oars, to try whichshal l secure the bit of venison first ! Every rock then has atongue of its own

,and every echo begins babbli ng and calling

to the dogs,as if Paddy Blake and his big brother

, who li vesup in the Eagle’s Nest

,were all out after the dogs ; and then a

horn wakes up in a rale Irish yell , which is sweeterTim (looking in ) . Thrue to you, Mr . Brady ; that

’s no lie .B rady. Tim , you vi ll ain, more sugar ; and send for thepiper

,that we may have a jig in the kitchen when all the boat

men have come in . That pretty girl in blue in the bar cantake her part in a reel

,I know

,as well as any lass in Kerry.

Tim. She can , your honour (with tremendous energy) .Larry will be here in half an hour .B rady. I suppose you have been through the GapI . Of course

,or what was I born for ? Didn’t I enter in

triumphal procession,driven by a bugler of the Kerry mi

litia,in a red jacket

,singing Brian O’

Lynn , and Leslie

Foster,

” to the tun e of Lesbia has a beamin g eye andtell ing me stories of his father, who died broken-heartedbecause he was bet by the O ’

sul livans in a facti on-fightDidn’t I go through the P ike like a Caesar, attended by a retinueof bog-oak girls and goat’s-milk and potheen sellers , all withtheir red bare feet

,dusty hair

,and wild looks

,—not to mention

the two cann oneers,ready for the echo

,runnin g by my angry

side,with the long slips of peat blowing red in the wind ?

B rady. What struck you most in Killarney townI Not the Bishop ’s-chair Tower

,nor the Round Fort

,

A N IGHT AT KILLARNEY. 1 91

where the gold-seekers grub and burrow,nor its suburb s Agha

doe and Kil l alee ; but what always does strike you as mostcostly and grand in every Irish town— the union work-houseand the lunati c asylum .

Dabble. They’re all poor or mad . Ugh !B rady. Be civil, you spalpeen , or, by the holy poker, I

’llI . Mr. Brady, Mr . Brady ! Well

,we got out of the car at

the hut of the granddaughter of Kate Kearney (0 ,Lady Mor

gan,

— such a hag l—with her yellow whisky and her snowym ilk and as we entered the pass between the Ricks (Ricks)and the purple mountain

,which is just a long shoul der of the

Toomies,an d prepared for our four -mil e mountain-plod, past

the Fathomless Lake, and the stream of Loe, and the Cumineen Thorneen pools

,our five senses were driven out of our

‘head,an d sixpence out of our pocket, by the blast of Ted

Rafi‘

erty’s cann on, with which he cal ls to the echoes . Then,

foll owed by old women with strin gs of stockings , who runabout and talk Irish

,who curse your long legs in Celtic

,and then

bless the beautiful face of you in Engli sh ; arbutus-wood girlsB rady . With di vi l a thing that is not yew in their boxes .

I A n d urchi ns praying, long life to your honour , and maythe m erry dancing sixpences you give them be put downi n big letters to your accoun t in heaven .

”

B rady. Before you got to the Cave of Dunl oe, where theOgham letters are on the stones

,did you mark the ili gant de

tached vill a residence of the great Dan’ s brother ?I . Not I, Brady ; nor the beautiful demesne of the great

O ’

sullivan More . I don’t come to Ireland to see nate villas ,with the fir-trees all in a row

,like the teeth of a comb . This

beautiful countyDabble. Beautiful ! Ugh !I . Well , we won

’t dispute . Oh, on I went through the Gapwith that sort of uneasy del ight with which one always penetrates such gorges

,made to be manned and kept.

B rady (quite abruptly, but thoughtfully stooping down hishead) . Just feel that lump that’s one of Flynn’s tumblers .Flynn’ s tumblers are so cursed thick : by the powers

,I ’ll wager

they’re a good half inch at the bottom of solid glass . Excusethe interruption.

l 92’

cs os s C OUNTRY .

I . Don’t mention it,Brady. The Gap is quite an Irish

Thermopylae— sea,bog

,and all perfect and I half expected to

meet there the red Earl of Ulster,Brian Boru

,or the Des

mond , at the head of their kerns and gal lowglasses, with theirj ingling mailP robert (who has been asleep) . It’s a pad place for the mail .I The gray

,bare

,beetlin g walls are black with the silvery

spil l s of water that splash and trickle down them ; here andthere

,in cleft and chink

,the ivy-bushes or the heather

tufts nestle in . It is fairy-land ; and every moment, frombridge or the lake

,where St . Patrick flun g the last serpents,

I look for the castle of the giant . Then comes the Black Valley

,which we see as the Gap opens into slopes of rock and

heather,stretching like a by-way to the right , lone and deso

late,—the Valley of the Shadow of Death with the lake of the

red trout,black as A cheron ; the rocks blasted and calcined ;

the cascades here and there jerking down like fairies ’ silverladders .B rady. I like the lake islands,— the Lamb , the Elephant, theHorse

,the Crow

,the Heron

,the Gann et

,the Books

,the pri

son i slands,and Darby ’s Garden

,that Lord Kenmare gave the

old fisherman who made him a present of a salmon. Howloaded they are with the arbutus wi th the crimson drops

,like

deer’ s blood,and those broken rocks

,where the herons sit and

think !I . Yes ; Killarney is never so beautiful as n ow,

when thered rain of autumn comes streaming down in to the lake

,

and the leaves come swirlin g from Glena,as if the ghost of

O’

Don ohue were throwing his treasure down to an awaitingcrowd below ; when the blue of the mountain grows Opaque ,and the cloud hangs heavy, moored to the peaks, or at sunsetblows from it in a long thin sail

,like a crim son hag half shot

away.

Tim (looking in) . Now,that’s what I call beautiful !

B rady. Bring a sod, Tim .

I . You seem rather dull to-night, Brady. Perhaps I bore

you with my poetising in this region of perpetual honeymoon .

B rady. Not at all,not at all

,Mr. Edithor . It’s myself that

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caoss COUNTRY .

B edad, i f man and boy an d girl , down to the o l dest cripple,Did n ot soon come to drin k and sip , to sot an d soak and tippleThe priest he brought hi s shovel -hat to dip in as a ladleB egor the gauger

’

s secon d wife came with her largest cradl e.

Such bottl ing an d barrell in g, and broken heads and cursing,

Such maudl i ng, and shaking han ds , an d go ssiping an d nursingT il l all at on ce, on e April day, —it mu st have been the fir st

, s ir,

The whisky changed to water back ! the change was for the worse, sir . .

Och one by on e they stole away—the priest un to hi s v il lage

The farmer to hi s yell ow ricks, hi s cart and horse and ti l lage

Thegossip , makin g faces sour, ran scoldi ng back her daughterRheumatics, spasms

, col ic, gout, al l com e of m oun tain water.

It’s Tore Cascade they call the place ; you stil l may see it splashi ng

O’er broken rock an d ledge and shelf, like crockery that

’s smashi ng.

It’s only Sixpence at the gate, to Mr. Herbert’s porter ;

It i s requested on a board you do n ot stay to court her.

(Laughter

Dabble. No hope for Ireland till they all turn teetotalers :B rady. Fill your tumbler

,sir

,and don’t quarrel with your

liquor .Dabble. Your sociability

,my good sir

,will b e your ruin ;

but our thanks for your song. Is not the Torc Cascade a goodplace

,sir

,for the L i cbomanes sp eciosum and theHymenopki l lum

Tunbri dg ens e .7

B rady. Div i l if I know . It ’s a rale good place for a veal pie,champagne

,and a Colleen 0g, with the nate blue eyes to smi le

on you,and to talk love to as you pop oi li the cork .

I . Capital , Brady, quite Irish . Now that’s a miracle worthworking . I can fancy the nation getting extremely pious

,and

extremely drunk,as the holy water came runn ing and tumbling

and jerkin g and frothin g through the sil ver birches that feather over the mossy rocks .Dabble. Those waterfalls are always such confounded places

for catching colds . Ugh !B rady. To the divi l with your colds !Probert. A colt is pad .

B rady. So i s a spavined horse.Tim (rushes in breathless, executing a double-shufii e step) .

A NIGHT IN KILLARNEY. 1 95

The piper ’s come, Jmtlemen ,

and the kitchen’ s swept and dacent .B rady. Famous ! Now

,Dabble .

Dabble. I shall go to bed . I hate dancing—it ’s foolery . Ugh '

B rady . So it i s when fools dance ; but then fools may goto bed . Whoop ! (Gives a war-yell , and runs out .) Nowfor Planxty Drury” and the Tattherin g of the Quil tTim . An d Jim O ’Hal loran

’

s Ganther .” Whoop !Scene changes to the kitchen . Boots seated meditatively ona pile of peat ; chamber-maid in buff, chamber-maid in pink,man o cook in white jacket

,charwoman in bare feet

, drawn upin rows

,and in high spirits . In the back-ground

,relays of

more chamber-maids,fat black-eyed landlady

,cheery landl ord

,

an d nimble clerk of the establishment . Larry, the blind piper,i s seated on a barrel turned upside down .

B rady . Now then,Larry

,The Fox-hunter ’s Schame.

(Larry plays a wi ld sporting tun e, which he ekes out by verbal remarks and comments : as

,Here the huntsmen come up

that’s the whipper-in ’

s horn this i s them laping a sod- ditch ;that’s a fall ; here

’s the death— of the for .

” Every one cheers .)Now then

,Sixpence each in my hat for Larry .

Larry . More power to ye, Mr . Brady . G intl emen,take

your places,pigeon’s-wing

, and cut the buckle .Then the j ig began

,fast and furious . Brady ’s partner was

the bare-legged,girded-up charwoman, an old body who

danced with ten-horse power . How we twisted round, andunwound

,and advanced to partners

,and toed and heeled an d

shook the toes,ti l l the kitchen-roof rang again with the fun !

Hands across and when the dance flagged for a m om ent, therecame such a yell from the man -cook to hearten u s on to tentim es m ore intrepid exertions in the most pleasant of all

dances !To use Brady’s expression, the fat landl ady

’s performancewas of grate value,

” the boots was serious and misanthropic,

the b uff chamber-maid was vigorous , the pink chamber-mai dagile but as for the thin clerk

,he was at once stupendous and

surprising. He performed all sorts of Irish feats with his feet ;he danced down everybody

,and was the incontestable champion

o 2

1 96’

CRoss C OUNTRY .

of the evenin g. Tim was glorious and gorgeous ; Brady coul donly be compared to a demoniac dancin g-master. A s for Probert

,he was pragmatic

,bow-legged

,and sententious . Dabble

twice rang for hot water merely to interrupt u s,and then was

heard of no more.

A s we were going up to bed , Brady suddenl y stopped, gavea twitch at his pocket

,and pul led out a letter.

Bedad,said he

,if this letter didn’t come for me just as

we went in to the kitchen,and I forgot to open it. It’ s the

college seal .” He read it.

Have you passed said I .

No ! By j abers,” said he

,

“ if I haven’t gone a cropp er

again 1”

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BANSHEE ’

S CA STLE .

THERE was, we heard, a Ban shee-haun ted Castle, on the Ahtrim coast

,and I and my friend Vaughan

,the artist

,were on

our way to find it out .Our campaign had been planned , we were to start thatmorning

,when the shrimps were cleared away and the loaf

and eggs had melted into air,thin air . When we had seen

the ghost castle we were to take the car,and go on to the

wonderful Salmon Bridge, near Ballycastle, and the next morning to the great promontory of Fairhead

,and that wonderful

legendary passage through the cliff called by An trim fishermen

and smugglers The Grey Man’s Walk .

Our work was cut out for u s,

” as Vaughan said,and we

were ready to do i t.

It was a grand day. The sea ran on the side of us in adancing sparkl e of glimmering emerald, we were intoxicatedwith air and sunshin e . We were fresh from the rugged westof Donegal , an d the warning tone of the sea in that blow-pipe

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cs oss COUNTRY .

foreland, or cliff in Antrim . Glory be to it. Our first l ionwas the wonderful eagle ’s nest of Dunluce

,where the Earls of

Ulster and Antrim once looked down on the sea,almost ever

since there was a sea ; for, in deed, so grand were these M‘

Quillens

,that they seem to have looked down on every one and every

thing.

To see the wild blue sea after the. trim white washed inn wasa pleasant contrast . A s those fretted arches and chasms inthe limestone cl iff are to the dreary bogland grave of MacPhe

lim,MacB ryan ,

MacNei l l,of C lan deb oy, so those white gulls

are to the dark,heavy ploughland they flap over, thinking it

some dark,dismal

,frozen sea. Not ten miles

,and we have

seen twenty caverns at least— mere rat-holes from here, butreally great bays for the northern waves . How fluctuating

an d restless the sea is compared wi th those steadfast towers ofDunluce, on their hun dred feet of perpendicular rock, n ow

bann erless,rent

,and smitten .

Vaughan had been on this coast often with Stanfield,who

sometimes comes here for new sensations when he begin s to losehis sea legs by stopping too long on London Turkey-carpetedfloors . That next gate to the left leads u s down to Dunluceand the Banshee’ s Tower.We entered the gate

,passed a sloping meadow bound in

with stone walls,and saw before u s a great pile of ruins

,bat

tered ramparts,crumbling turrets and enclosures

,now scarcely

defi nable as either square,round

,or oblong . Here was the hall

,

there the lady’s chamber here the ki tchen,there the chapel

one of the wil dest places to live in sur ely,man for safety or de

fence ever built . Yet this,for centuries

,was the night-star for

m ariners,a beacon rock for the sailor to shun and yet to steer

by . The outer walls were but continuations of the rock . A

seagull could not rest on any intervenin g ledge there is Visible.From this rampart di zzy workmen fell headl ong, and slainknight fell plump down into the greedy waves that openedfor their prey and closed the mailed corpse in the livin g tomb

,

so that till the judgm ent the white bones locked in steel mi ghtstare through sun l ess day and moonl ess ni ght at the bul warksof its mortal home

,so regardless of its fate . Here the Ban

THE BANSHEE’

S CASTLE . 1 99

shee wails over the grey n ight sea for the dead Earls of Antrim .

Here theWe never take less than a shilling

,said the gui de,

it’s little of that goes to u s .

”

Perhaps,my dear fellow

,said Vaughan

,when you have

t old u s al l that ever was here,you will go on in a second

volume to all that never was here,so that your reader can take

his chance .”

The causeways is a poor thing after this,said the gu ide.

Don ’t listen to all the stufi'

the carman crams you wi th . Dun

l uce is generally reckoned the first thing of the kind in Ireland

,and bedad

,I wi sh I had al l the fees : but of course they

a lwaysgive apples to the man with an orchard,so I get onl y

the paltry pence,and me with the fien z y on me, and the lum

bago in the lin es .”

The carman,

” said Vaughan,would have it that you keep

all his j ourneyers staying about here,and that there is nothing

( to see .

Hear him said the rival showman ; what, not the big,t all Castle

,an d the car e under i t

,and the Banshees

,and the

n arrow bridge that the lady with n arves fell over and was savedby the ball oonn ess of her petticoats

,which landed her clean and

s afe at the bottom of the rock ? The ignorant craturs , to talkof the causeway . To tell you sober truth

,as I wish I may be

hung— I don’t see much in the causeway,with the holes they

call caves,and the lies about Fin—maccou l—it’s a good deal

boderashun .

”

Threading our way through ruined court-yards,past defaced

chapels,dinin g-hall s

,guard-rooms and prisons

,we began to see

the plan of the whole. The outlying grey wall s and enclosureswere mere barracks and outposts . The castle itself lay beforeu s on an island of rock

,moated by the sea the only approach

to it was a plain wall of earth,over which a portcull is , now

destroyed,once ran .

Come along,Vaughan

,said I

,follow me

,and we will

storm this Banshee ’s Castle . Here,come over

,don’t look

down, it makes the eyes dizzyIt’s all very well to talk

,said Vaughan why, it

’s worse

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CRoss C OUNTRY .

than the top of a garden wall,and sixty feet drop . My feet

stick as if I were chained to the ground . I could not move ii“

a man with a sword were prickin g me ou . It is a dreadfulni ghtmare feeling . I feel giddy and sick . I shall be like that oldgentleman at Snowdon, you remember, that the guide had tocarry on his back over Crib Coch

,or he would have actually

crawled over on his belly like a big turtle,as he was .”

Come along,Vaughan ; why I

’ve seen you break througha hundred twi rling oak sticks at Donnybrook

,as easily as i f

you were elbowing your way through an illumination mob .

”

But it is n o j oke reall y for me,my dear fellow

,

” said V aughan . Come and lend u s a hand, and don

’t stand preachingthere like a second-ratel Spurgeon . And I say, you Bansheekeeper

,lay hold of my coat-tails behind

,for

,by .

heaven, thatyawnin g pit seems to me to be the very mouth of Gehenna.

He cros sed,trembling .

Well,n owwe are over

,said I

,

“my brave man ,

‘

m ix a l ittle

vermilion for your lily-livered cheeks,and take courage . The

castle is our own—e the men-at-arms have all been stabbed andthrown over the walls to feed the gull s . A pocket handkerchief

“

with my initials and cognizance waves upon the highest chimney-pot . The bastard king gnaws his flesh in the dungeon ,the ladies wring their hands in their barred-up chambers— Lordof Dunluce

,welcome to the castle of the chasm . I will have

the corpses all cleared,the kin g put in chains

,and the prisoners

fettered . An d when the smell of powder is gone off,bring up

my din ner. To leave the mock-heroic,Victorious De Courcy

,

what a scene this must have been for a scrimmage. Fancy thefight below in the underground cavern— the grapple of mailedmen in the boat— the battle of bloody and broken oars— thepush of spear— the clash of axe i t i t i“ i t

See the lichen stones,and the hanging turret

,where the

dry grass nods and blows . Fancy the rush over this hangingchasm , piled up with red smeared men, groaning and screamin gin a knotted heap . Then the fight up the narrow tower stairs,and the slow retreat backwards to the edge of the sea-wall

,,

where death hung in air waiting for his prey with black andoutspread arms .”

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202’

caoss C OUNTRY .

Very well, then, give me the whisky bottle,” said Vaughan.

We had better be off,

” said I .

So away we went along the bold road,through the North of

Ireland fields, where the white birds flew about over the chocolate-coloured fal lows

,skimm ing after the traili ng plough

,drawn

by the black and white horses with ponderous broad chests adeserted and unoccupied country

,except for two or three of

the soldier-like poli ce,in their green rifle uniform

,and a young

girl or two with the neat shawl over her head— dangerous as amantilla, and wonderful target for black eyes watching forhearts . Leaving the causeway wi th the angel ’s building stones

,

the unfin ished sea pandem onium or Irish rostrum,dedicated to

the forgotten and discrown ed Neptune,we walked away merry

past scattered tracts of white-washed stone cottages,where

strings of dr ied herrings waved over the door .Do you see the line of land yonder said Vaughan .

Well,that was Islay

,tlae n eares t of the Oi

'kn i es . The boatmenoffered to take u s there for four-and-twenty shill ings

,but I

was afraid of being locked up by contrary win ds,or of a

rough night coming ou . I said,Will there be wind

’r’” They

said,God wil ling

,

” and I would not trust myself, Fancy sucha boat and every man drun k . M ‘Namara pulli ng at wrongropes

,fighting about the helm ,

swearing at the sea,some dr aw

ing knives about the way to steer . Horrible I it makes mes ea-sick to thin k of it.

It is pleasant to feel near Robert Bruce’s Scotland and Burns ’

S cotland . Presently we come in sight of the Mull of Cantire,only fourteen miles off

,then the great lump of A ilsa Craig

looms in sight like a great stranded whale— such a monster asheaves its emerald mountain of a back through the green wavesof northern seas . That line of rock away th ere is the islandwhere Bruce flew with his three hundred men to escape Baliol,-the angry rebel that hounded him over m oss and moor . There he'could look at Scotland, and thi nk of fresh Bann ockburns , redwith Norman blood . There is eight miles of it, and its cliffs

a re fronted with basalt columns, which, at a di stance, look likethe walls of some sea Carthage . Here is Dun sveri ck. Yes,here was Dun sverick, ancient nest of the O

’Kanes,on the

THE BANSHEE’

S CASTLE . 203

bare island of rock its fragment of yell ow tower, with assharp and clear an an gle as if it was pul led down yesterday, sogently time visits the old place . There the O’Kanes of thesaffron mantles and matted hair looked out on Ruthl in , or rightaway to Islay

,with the green

,glassy sea stretching between,

as safe from the English of the pale as the eagle on the top ofhis purple mountain . There is still the basalt rock

,flattened

at the top for the mangonel and the watchman,and down on the

south side is the great gap of a bay,where the boats look as

small as walnut shells .Now as it gets towards twi light

,between the fishermen ’

s

houses, and just over the grey stone walls , down the dark bay,and between the bleak heap of rocks

,the twin-li ghts of the

distant island m ove and twi nkle like two lone stars , the first

blossoms of the evening heavens .We pass through a wild hit just in the dusk, a dark tract ofa bog—glistenin g here and there

,where the setting light glances

in the rain-pool s m the brown pared walls, where peat has beencut, still showing the trenching marks of the spade . Just as weapproach the stone stile leading to i t, Nora trips over, showing as pretty an ankle and as trim a leg as ever trod Irishearth . She colours a li ttle 011 seeing u s

,and with a gentle

save you,

” tell s u s the way to Ballycastle,speaking even more

broad Scotch than the Antrim people are prone to do .Just push up my knapsack

,

” says Vaughan .

Just buckle my chest- strap , Vaughan,” say I we had

reached a stage of feeling famili ar to knapsack tourists .The knapsack has grown heavier

,the two straps slightly gal l

the collar-b one,the fastening across the chest pinches we

require frequent j erks up to change the bearing of the load .

There is a slight straini ng sensation down the front of the shin,

a slight ache in the calf of the leg,a slight soreness from the

hard limestone about the soles of the feet . Now we getsilent

,and disposed to stop at those parts of the road particu

l arly near a wall, where you can lean your knapsack against .Won der how we could have been fool enough n ow not to comeby car ; resolve never to walk with a knapsack again a lightshines out in the distance another—then half-a -do z cn

204 C ROSS C OUNTRY .

hope revives—the heart jumps for j oy—the brain clears andqui ckens—the pulse enli vens— we step out— give one starethen on we push, determined by the last spark of daylight .

Blind man’s holiday,

” indeed,to look down the winding road

that bran ches from our due road to Ballycastle,to Carriclc a

Rede, the rock in the road, where we know the salmon bridge

was . A windi ng terrace brought u s into a field, and the rock

lay before u s . The bridge had been taken up for the winterthe rock stood al one some sixty feet from the shore the toplooks so thin, it seems as if no one could keep on it ; unl ess heclung with hi s hands and feet

,be blown off

,or topple he

must be it,seems . Half way down the side of a rock you see

a rude cottage,where the fishermen dwell during the summer

,

(by day onl y, as a boy told me,) but in the winter the bridgei s taken up and the cottage deserted . We saw the place wherethe fishermen fasten the bridge-ropes— and even to look atthat made me giddy.

A rough fisherman’

s son, wi th rough red cheeks , and fellof black hair blowing about his eyes

,told us he had often been

over the bridge wi th a load of silver salmon on his head . Itwas rather sprin gy and planky li ke under your feet

,you had to

trot it,it wasn’t safe to walk

,and seventy feet was no joke to

fall otherwise there was no danger. t t

I liked Connemara,

” said Vaughan,placin g both feet on

the hob,and trying to roast him sel f simmerin gly.

“ I likedthe red petticoats and the bare feet .”

0 Lord,how it poured next day in streams . We were ac

coutred in tremendous oil-skin , covering u s from chin to toenot flexible water-proofs, but good, stiff sail-cloth, such as thecaptain of a Whaler m ight put on when a sou’

-wester was blowin g

— the rain poured down in heavy black drenches . It wasno summer rain skirting sunshine, it was no short springshower

,but a day of il l -tempered

,sullen win d and rain we

were going to encoun ter ; so we hi tched on our oil - skinhats

,pul l ed down the fiannel -lin ed flaps , and took our seats

sullenly to bear the storm . Our two umbrellas bent down de

precatingly before the wind, and arched over our heads like,

bronze tents .

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206 CROSS C OUNTRY .

return this morning,if he waited til l ten o’clock . He agreed

,

but the first thing I heard when I got up this morning, wasthat he had gone off at seven .

Hark to him,

” said I,he is just within reach—j oggin g on

with his side to the horse,as if no guilt were in his sou

Hallo ! you fellow,

”criedV aughan ,

standing up like Caractacu s in his war chariot

,one hand gracefully waving an umbrella

for a sceptre. What do you mean by leaving u s this morning,

and putting u s to the expense of another car‘

P What do youmean I shall be representing the matter to your master atWestport. Take my word for it .

The fellow turned round,and

,to my amazement

,instead of

merely confessin g his fault, drove full in our way, and commen ced a volley of abuse , in the voice of a stage bandit, whichwas caused by a cold he had lately caught

,as he lyingly said

,

from having been kept locked out of his hotel all night,and

made to wait at the gate in the rain,without food for himself

or horse .Go on your self, said the bellicose Mike, you murdering

divil,with your gentleman-j acks , and your winning manners

go on , ye Irish Sepoys—go on , you spalpeens , and the Devil’s

blessing go with ye for laving a poor man in the bitter windingcould al l night and he with a wife and family . Too much isi t

,your dirty blackguard—you sink of iniquity—you dishonest

Philistin e—you miserable nagur, with your too much .

”

If you won’ t go on,

” said I,let u s pass you .

”

You shan’t pass—you shall keep behind me for thirtym iles . You big imposthumes— you bad half-pence—you—youmiserable hypotheses .”

Let me get at him said Vaughan, trying to get down.

The man i s drunk,said I

,and he is old— let him alone .

Get out of that I” said the rogue, gain in g courage, seeingwe were for peace, clear theway there —get behind, will ye 9

”

Make room for your betters,sir .

”

I must get down,

” said the hery driver .B e quiet

,

” said I,his mare is dead beat ; she has had no

food or rest all night—see how her hin d legs totter, and comedown shaking— she cannot keep up for twojgmiles more, whippast him , and when he races u s he will soon founder .

”

THE BANSHEE’

S CASTLE . 207

Whoop away we went, whipping at him as we passed, for hehad now cursed himself hoarse

,and letting the reins hang about

the horse’ s legs,was walking by the side of his car

,thr eshin g

hi s horse in a mad-drunk ,torpid way .

In a moment he was up on his side seat, and off after u s ;b ut then his greasy hat blew off

,and he had t o zigzag after

that,an d by the time he had got up again

,we were som e

distan ce ofi'

. His cries of och,you murdering craturs !

vill ai ns ! Och, you thundering thaves !” came to u s on the

wind as we passed ou .

When we got to the next town , Vaughan went instantly tocomplain to the car-proprietors

,who promised to punish the

insolent fellow,whose misdeeds and neglects were not for the

first time chronicled .

We had set out to see the green promontory of Fairhead .

The sky was an overgrown forget-me-not the sand downs bythe seawere alive with a thousand rabbits

,trotting in and out

,as

if they were playing at hi de and seek . The low,quick wave

washed on the pebbles,and turned them into carnelians and

garnets by the m oment ’s transparency— fragments of rainbowsfrittered away on the beach

,where dull sheaves of brown

,

bladdery sea—weed lay like old clothes dryin g on the walls,ready

for the kelp burners , who , wet and eager, scrambled it up. Thenets were dryin g on the cottage roof—ou every stone

,the

yellow oil -skin-wrapper dreadnoughts of the fishermen werespread

,sure sign of the last night having been rough, yet there

was the guilty cannibal sea, as gentle now as if it had neverdone harm to any one—as clear and level as if it never couldrise in to great hollow hills , capped with foam ,

wrathful and terrible. A s we clamber past the holl ows the cross beam engines

,

and tramroad slack heaps,every minute came a cracking

burst of blasting powder,like the sound of a cannonade at

sea,wi th thundering thumps

,and shocks of sound that

seemed to bellow to the distant sailor.A gui de took me over slopes of bare land

,and past vast

blocks of green stones stubbed with heather ; past the BlackCape, and the lake of the Druid

’s Island to the Grey Man’sPath— the extraordinary scene of one of Antrim’

s interesting

208’

cao s s C OUNTRY .

legends . It is a fearful rent some nine feet wi de in the edge ofthe cl iff

,down which a strong dangerous scramble—a goat’s

path unchristi anl y dangerous,leads to the shore

,which

,lonely

as a churchyard,i s covered with innumerable monumental

1ooking stones, gray with moss . A cross this gap rests, high up,a pil lar of green stone, firmly wedged in ,

under which you des cend to the shore . This is the path of the Grey Man— a sortof kingly mysterious phantom that in great storms and trouble si s seen here through the sea fog, standing and waving his hands—in fact

,telegraphin g in an imperfect and vague way to the

viewless spirits of sea an d air.Do you see that large stone on the beach—the white one P

said our guide .We did.

Well,I found a man’ s skul l there on Tuesday week

,and

the foxes had been fighting for it .

My bed that night,at B al lyna, was a dreadful phenomen on

of upholstery. It resembled a turtle’s back ; it was high andround

,and unl ess you nail ed your self on the apex, you might

as well have tried to sleep on the top of a crocodi le . It was,

I believe,firml y stuffed with ti n-tacks or tenpenny nails . I

kept firm awake all night,and at thr ee in the mornin g foun d

myself still restless and worn out,staring at a trucul ent por

trait of Dr . Wiseman,on the opposite wall . If this dreadful

lump of a bed had all owed me to sleep,two other monsters of

evil were waiting to hinder it . My door would not shut,and

it opened by steps into the smoking-parlour,so that it was just

conveni ent for the tap -boy to have cut my throat and goneoff with my watch . This

,and several other stories of inn

murders,arose in my memory as I rolled out of bed for the

eleventh time. A lively story, too , of a Tyrolese landlord, whoto murder his guests and throw them down a precipice behindhi s house

,woul d not let me alone .

I dozed and saw the sangu in arylandl ord. Hewore a redwaistcoat and chamois leather smalls . Another grievance was thefact of my bein g over the inn stable ; the hoor was chin ky, hat,and unplastered. Al l through that dreadful ni ght I heard thecar horses drag their manger chains to and fro, and stamp and

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210’

cs oss COUNTRY .

got up in that gymnastic way,and with the mil itary prompt

ness of a Wellington . What will you take for breakfast,

Sir“ A roll and an egg . Shut the door

,said I

,rubbing my

shin vexatiously .

Bedad,and you have had the roll already

,I think

,I heard

the impertinently witty fellow say as he shuffled off well,if

ever I saw the like of that sam e .”

Waiter I” I cried, rushing to the door, bring me morewater .”

Would you b e wantin g a tumbler he said,holding his

mouth with his hand,and then blowing off the steam with a

burst of horse laughter.Waiter (it would not do to appear annoyed) have you any

mutton chops in the house 9

Well,your honour

,we have a skin of beef.

Drat him ! why did he look at the leg that I was holding,

and lay such an emphasis on the word skin .

In half-an -hour I was down . Mary— fie on ye, Mary— theaffian ced of Tim the waiter

,was heaping sods on the fire that

already covered both hobs,and rose in a roaring pyramid of

hame,which would in England have been thought extravagant

in the house of a man with ten thousand a-year . The broiledham

,red and unctuous

,came in— the porcelain-shelled egg

,

the fragrant coffee,the home made bread

,so brown and savoury

.

I forgot my bed and my martyrdom . I arose and went to thewindow with that sort of dreamin ess and quietude that a badnight produces . The chapel hel l was going . The pretty neatcountrygirls were passing to church— al l was calmness andquiet. Opposite me, under a dead wall , on which was a tornbill announcing :the sale of a farmer

’s effects,includin g the

u sual B ay mare and p iano— sat Kitty

,the old beggar

woman, who had been dark these thirteen years .

”She was

crouched up , telling her beads , and mumbling some prayers ina low voice

,looking up when she heard a footstep

,prayin g the

rich for alms,and giving the poor her blessing gratis

,for she

knew them both by their voices as they accosted her . I saw

n o one who di d not bestow some mark of recognition .

THE BANSHEE’

S CA STLE . 21 1

That next ni ght we got to Belfast, and the next afternoonstarted for Dublin

,Vaughan and I .

Belfast Quay.—Three o ’clock .

— Grey October day, with adancing

,breaking froth to windward

,that i s ominous . Anxious

,

buttoned-up men, ask busying sailors nautical questions di thcult to answer. It was ra t/zer rough last ni ght

,but on the

wlzol e a very good passage—men run about with briny ropes,

race up and down the brazen-bound engine-room stairs, or toilabout like small Ar rowsmith ’s atlases

,with swollen portman

teans,and strange packages

,containing everything

,from peri

win kles to airi

pumps . I look down on the great monster engine ,whose lungs seem chr onically out of order

,and whose thr obbing

mouth the pale,perspiring stoker feeds and cram s so pertin a

ciou sly with shovelful s of carbon . I go below,and fin d experi

mental men kn ottin g them selves up in various recumbentattitudes , or tryin g the sm il ing steward

’ s bottled porter— Iadmire the daring men who

,till the vessel gets into trouble

,

turn down the flaps of their travell ing caps—light their beamingcigars and pace up and down with the determined air ofSebastian Cabots . B u t my attention was at once riveted on ahorse-box

,a sort of square wooden crate

,in which , fastened

securely up, stood a race horse, whose frightened eye—of

which the reddened-white onl y shows— indicates great alarm .

Its guardian was a tight-legged,broad-shouldered

,m iddle-aged

groom,in a green shooting jacket

,fastened knowingly by only

one button at the throat—neck-handkerchief stamped with whitewafers—cheeks

,a dull purple

,with cold and anxiety ; small ,

wrinkl ed, winkin g eyes, artful , but anxious . Such was myLinnaean defin ition of the two animals I saw before me . Theman left feeding the horse

,who taking the hay

,mechanically

champed it up, fast and voraciously, and then beat with itsfront hoofs against the wooden box for more .The Yorkshireman with the tight- skinned legs had a re

gular programme,which he repeated

,with petulant indifference

,

to every questioner. It ran thus Yes,sir

,good morning

,

sir,— quietly, old’os

,quietly .

-This is the well -known stalli on,

Ilderim , sir—almost thorough bred— by Barley Bree out ofCherryPie . Father won the St. Leger—mother won the Oaks .

r 2

21 2’

caoss COUNTRY .

Quietly; old boy —don’t be frightened—Bother this small box

—he ’ll hurt his knees— I only wish we was safe on shorethat ’s all I wish— Try a m outhful of hay— the swell frets himso— there, gently, old fellow- I ’ve taken him safely all overIreland

,and now we shall come to grief at last . Drat this old

horse-box ! —There’s the wind risin g, too,- gently, lad—How

long'

m ore shall we be, cap’en

“Why,all the week if the north-west and east swest goes

on blowing as it have done,and we have to reef the main j ib

boom,and set the mizzen halliards .”

The Yorkshireman patted the horse and looked dej ected .

But we did at last,afterfsome sea changes

,

” duly reach Dubl in— the fast-asleep city— but whether

1Ilderim and the in sufli

cient horse-box got safe on shore I never heard .

CHA PTER XIX .

T HE S E VEN C HU R CH E S .

Nor of A sia—but of County Wicklow. More power to ye !Where am I now but in the heart of those mountains that lookso blue from Phoenix Park , Dublin .

A lazy,wil d Irish lad brought me to the snug inn

,and from

there I,with Mike Doolan the guide

,had begun my tour of the

valley and the mournful lake that mirrors its ruin s . There wasthe old round tower

,like a vast factory chimney

,and to make

it more like,the conical roof was off

,and crews were scream ing

in and out then a little stone hut,which was once a church

,

with a little tower built in to it so as to make it look like akitchen ; then a li ttle ruined churchyard wi th many crossesthen another ruined chapel at the foot of a wood ; and, lastly,up a rock hanging over the lake

,the cell of the hermit

,whose

fame and sanctity led first to this early Christian settlement.This is one of the most characteristic and in teresting places

in Ireland—not more than a day ’s j ourney from a large city,

yet wild as the recesses of Horeb or of Sinai . The lake,inky

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214’

caos s C OUNTRY .

Pretty well 1” said I ; why, you have drenched your greenisland with landlords ’ blood

,and the only proprietors you have

spared have been the absentees . You have had a healthy,

hungry famine ; a hearty fever has thinn ed down your redundant population

,according to strict political economist prin

ciples and having been further bled and sapped by the departureof so many thousands of your strongest

,richest

,and happiest

peasantry,Ireland is now

,according to smirking di plomatists

,

declared to be‘ most flourishing .

’ God help England fromthat sort of flourishing .

You’re right, sure, said Darcy, fill ing hi s glass youmight as well congratulate an apoplectic man on the fin e colourin his cheeks , or a dropsical man on his stoutness—unfeelingspalpeens . So you found u s hospitableIndeed I have

,

” said I,almost carelessly generous

,and

,

without any cold-blooded class pride ; we Engli sh do a kindness

,as you put out money to interest, not throwing it away

on pleasant strangers,or for mere caprices of good hum our ; but

you are an excitable people I will give you three in stances of i t.

The first night I arrived in Dublin, having adm ired and wal kedround the great black Bank

,and the old houses ofParliament ,

and the stately domed customhouse, havin g passed by its rivermoat

,and it s thicket of lance-pointed masts, flags

,and brown

banners of weather-coloured sails,havin g circumnavigated

Merrion Square,admired the curious coal-carts

,with their wag

gling bells,and the rakish-looking

,disreputable cheap hearses

,

with the dirty white plumes having waded through theLiberty

,visited Swift ’s monument

,and performed other rel i

gions cerem onies of the Saxon, I went at night for a recreationto a grand concert at the Rotunda. Found the same full ofblack eyes— natural ones I mean

,those who entered contrastin g

favour ably with the selfish, boorish Engli sh crowds, who toooften j ostle for places .The concert began ; Miss Elvina somebody, in white muslin,

san g something in Italian,all about Crude] , perfido .

’

She

fin i shed,and curtsied as she retired . To my utter astonish

ment a row of thorough gentlemen behind me gave a whoop ofapplause

,more worthy of Donnybrook fair

,I thought

,than

THE SEV EN CHURCHES . 21 5

the stall s of a concert room . I attributed it to i l l -regulatedspirits

,an d forgot it . The next night I went to the Theatre

Royal ; to my utter surprise, when a favourite actor was called

on the stage, after the success of the first piece , the whole house

gave just the same sort of yell I had heard in the concert-room ;and not only this

,but in the farce

,when one of the actors

fell int o the orchestra,as he did every night at the same hour,

every one present not only gave a yell,but leaped upon the

seats with an excitability that no real event could produce inthe m ore stol id Saxon mind . I assure you that the ShoreditchTheatre

,on Boxing night

,could not equal the noise of the

gal lery boys in the Dublin Theatre any day in the week . An

Irishman ’s blood is champagne and fire .

”

Darcy smoked and listened—I went ou .

I ’ll give you another instance of what struck me as a proofofyour universal pugnacity . Last Monday I was on my wayfrom Bray to Dublin by train

,I amused :myself by watchin g

the green whale back of a headland m elt into the blue of obl ivion

, when a jerk of stoppin g aroused me from my musings .It was Bal lybrag , a quiet little place as need be, with its littlecottage of a station

,and its level ston e terraces ; when I passed

it two months before,it m ight have been a station for Drowsy

land ; n ow, it was up in arms , crowded with eager faces , andpugi listic , combative-looking passengers, who had poured out ofa train that stood alongside

‘of ours

,as if preparing to boar d

u s . Every eye flashed,every fist clenched, every arm worked

as if the biceps could not rest,and was longing to set in action

the fiexors and extensors . From the guard,with the whistle

round his neck like a child’s coral,down to a clergyman— a

rural dean , in snow-white neckcloth and spotless grave blackclothes— every fist shock an d m ovedfevery eye glared .

“That is the matter said I,to a porter.

hi atter,

’ said he,the station master has just c aught two

Dublin men and a dog trespassing on the line,just squint by

the tunnel, he’s bringing them along by the collar

,single-handed .

Hurrah for him .

’

Whoop for him,

’ said the rural dean,and we all gave a

yell worthy of Brian Boru’s days .

21 6 CROSS COUNTRY

I saw their arm s up as we passed,

’ said a lady next to me ,as much interested in the fray as if she had been Mrs .Bellona .

Darcy laughed,and said

,rocking him self in the chair

,It’ s

true,it’ s true—we do like a scrimmage

,it warms the blood,

and prevents spiteful things rankling . I am always afraid of

your professing Pharisee . I always notice he has some meanway of taking it out of you , if he wait even ten years forhis chance . Forgive

,but knock him down first

,and forg ive

him afterwards,or else you’ll have to be knocked down

,and

then have to forgive him,which is much harder on the oul d

A dam .

”

The next day after Bray,said I

,laughing

,

“ I went toHowth

,climbed the hill

,and crossed to the Eye .

”

Of cou rse,said Darcy

,and went to see where the villain

murdered his wife,a shilling a piece more for that. Nobody

cared for the Eye before that .”

“f el l, said I , and a rare tumbling, see- saw pul l we hadfrom the pier to the island . Is it going to the Eye you are

‘

E

had said a brown-faced, amphib ious fellow,carrying wet

strings and flakes of sea-weed to burn for kelp it’s too wild,

and it wil l be rougher yet, if the Lord will .

’ But I am of thebull-dog breed

,and always do a thing if I ’

m told i t is difficu ltso I went and talked to a di sappointed-lookin g Peter who hadbeen toilin g all night and cau ght nothing but a small

,ugly

,

large-headed,dog-fish

,which he was going to cut down the

back,trim and fry for dinner . We agreed for three shillings

,

and got a lame-footed fell ow,who steered

,while I took the heavy

sixteen-foot oar we had b orrowed from a smack in the harbour. That ’ s a man to take a glass of grog without help

,

’ saidPeter

,pointing to his mate approvingly . Peter’ s conversation

was laconic and ejaculatory . He talked of increasing the fare,

because the wind was so hi gh and the pull so hard . I ’cut himin two with an angry negative

,and bade him keep to his bar

gain . Sure,

’ said he,we ’re poor

,but we ’re honest . ’ He

pointed to a s creaming,whirlin g gull over our head

,and

tal ked of his trade . He usually went out a mile to sea, an d

baited withwhelks for cod and haddock . If they were blown out

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21 8 C RO SS C OUNTRY.

great queen or a great witch , and had that mountain al l to herself for a kitchen garden .

”

That ’s what the Kingstown carman talked about,but here

on the Wicklow m ountain roads the talk is all about the SugarLoaf

,and the Scalp

,and the Gap o

’

Crockan,and Derrybawn ,

tosay nothing of Loughnaqu i l la, C roughanmoira

,and Blackmoore.

He ’ s as supple as a buck,said Mike the driver

,as he

pointed out these great hil ls,referring to a stonemason from

Pembroke dockyard,who kept leaping off the car

,and racing

up the hill in sheer wantonn ess of health and strength , muchto the annoyance of a quiet fellow

,his companion, who sat be

side me . The one was a stone-dresser,and the other a stone

setter,though the first could also set

,and the latter also dress ,

stone when times were bad . The one was a wild, handsom elooking fellow

,in a blue cotton-velvet cap

,new black coat

,and

showy waistcoat while hi s friend were the plain, honest fustianshootin g-coat and worn cord breeches of his every-day trade .He was learned in hard and soft stone

,and criticized every wall

we cam e to he told me of the various diseases of the eye andlungs that the soft-stone men experienced

,and that the hard

stone men escaped . He was prosy and diffuse on the blackeyes and decent behaviour of the Pembroke lasses he told meof the fights and j ealousies of the Welsh and Irish, and harangued upon the old castle where Henry as he would havei t

, was born . Behind him,in the car

,was hi s bundl e

,tied up

in a red handkerchief, wi th his stone hammer tucked in the knot .

I’

m glad I ’ve put down those women,

” said the ungallantMike ; I

’

d sooner have a load of wheat any day than a loadof women.

It is not every one,said the buck in the blue cap

,

“ thatcan get rid of them as easily .

Thrue to you,

” says Mike ; but here’s your place— look

sharp . Thank you good morni ng . Whist That ’s a wildone

,said Mike

,giving a valedictory look after blue-cap .

“ Do you think they escape colds by goin g without stockings said I

,as a quantity of bare-footed children passed by . It

must kill the weak ones,and leave only the strong to grow up.

”

“ Listen to me,

” said Mike,pointin g to a steep mountain

,

THE SEV EN C HURCHES . 21 9

bare feet never s l ip ,that’ s our Irish saying ; the bare foot

wants no shoeing,and the same soles lasts u s out .

The only persons now on the ca r were a land agent and afarmery-lookin g man fresh from Australia. The land agentwas a nervous

,mufli ed-up man, who seemed in a perpetual state

of masquerade,with a comforter roun d his throat

,and his hat

drawn over his eyes . Hi s views of Irish poli tic s were practical

,but not sympathising . He approved of emigration

.Draft

o ff all your surplus population .

” Get rid of all you r superhuons mouths . Enlarge your farms

,and get more respon

sible tenants . ”

But this dread of your life must be painful ?It was at first,

” said he, but one gets accustomed to i t.

I have had my life attempted three times . When I began Iused to think how dreadf ul it must be to watch every stonewall as you rode along for the Spurt of fire and the pale face ;but I think nothing of it now

,for these crimes grow scarce .”

But there was a murder in Tipperary last week,

” saidI . A barricade was set across the road to step the landlord ’ s gig : and

,when it stopped

,a man ran up, blew out the

dr iver’s brain s,and whipped the horse back to the house . The

gig passed back through Templemore with the dead body lyingon the seat

,a dreadful sight .”

Don ’t talk about i t,

” said the agent,I am just going my

Tipperary round but still these crimes are now few rents arehigher

,and are regularly paid . The famine made Ireland pros

perous .

”

The famin e,said I

,was a dreadful cautery for a dreadful

ulcer . Last week I was in Donegal . I drove on a cold Sundaymorning right fromLondonderry to Lough Swi l lywith a pleasant,witty fellow

,and his trunk and fishing-rod . It was a long

,cold

drive ; and when we got to the bare, wild, pebbly shores of thelake

,we had to go up to a hill and burn a bundle of hay as a

signal for a boat . hve then hoisted a flag to tell the man onthe opposite side to send for a car

,and waited on the rough

stone pier,where the little waves washed and rippled

,till the big

clum syboat came tacking across and bore my friend out of sight .Well, who was he, your honour said Mike .

220 CROSS C OUNTRY .

Why, a land agent and attorney, from Cork— sent !forby a Scotch farmer just over Lough Swi l ly, who has justhad a thousand sheep destroyed last year by the peasantry

,

who won’t allow him to settle there they kill his lambs,carry

off his sheep,and no one is detected . If I had raised my hand

then they’d have flung him in the Lough, for the sea birdsto scream over but I 'didn’t

,for I suppose even an attorney

has claims as a man .

To my surprise the agent went on to take the popul ar side ofthe question

,an drecoun tedmany stories of landl ords and tenants,

and their forgetfulness of the love of the Irish for the soil . Hiswhole endeavour was now, he said, to induce men to em igrate .Al l this was uttered in a low voice

,with frequent interruptions

and looking round . The next time I saw my friend he wasperched on the top of a coach

,with a travelling cap ’s flaps

drawn over his ears . He looked the very image of a suspiciousspy

,risking his life for small gains and mean purposes . Yet

he tal ked of foreign tours,an d seemed in dress to be a gentleman .

A s for the returned Australian,he was a burly elderly man ,

with sorrowful ey e and a compressed m outh. He was dressedwell

,and wore a thick

,curly wool waistcoat of pure Australi an

m ake . He had been ten years away and seemed stunned bythe changes he saw .

I wouldn ’t live in Ireland now for hy e-hundred pounds a

year,

” he said . The potatoes are grown smaller,everything

i s'

changed, (yes , may be better) but I wan t to get away .

”

Aus tra l ian . Is Doolan of the Bawn dead ?M ike. Yes

,and his son too .

Aus tra l ian . What Tim,the soldier

M ike. The same .Thus they went on till every recollection was demoli shed .

This friend was bankrupt,that dead . He was eloquent ab out

stringy bark trees,kangaroo s oup

,bush-rangers

,

’possum -traps ,gold cradl es

,850. There was something sad and complaining

about his eyes,which was strangely in contrast with his well

to-do dress and self-conscious air of prosperity. He wantedto get back : all he wanted was to get back—Ireland had nothing i er him now ; but he should take back a broad sod from

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222’

cnoss C OUNTRY .

An d i f you come on any day’Twixt twel ve an d on e o

’

clock ,Why, there you

’

l l see the geese may be ,

Ou the lake of Glendalough.

”

Why,what’s that song about

,Mike said I

,much amused .

About,your honour ? why, about King O

’

Toole beingchanged into a gander

,with his seven sons

,because he didn’t

keep his promise to the blessed St. Kevi n but here’s the Glendal ough guide .

”

The guide was waiting for me . The guide,Regan

, was a lean,wild

,hungry-looking fellow

,scantily dressed

,and with red

,

bare feet . I slided about the splashes of bog,but he

'

madeclean leaps

,and effected a steady picked-out progress .

We got into some hill ocky,greasy ground round the cathe

dral and St. Kevin’s kitchen ; two small stone chapels , n ow

ruins,about twenty feet lon g

,the roofs formed of stone shingles .

Thi s is the ancientest of the seven chu rches,

” he said ;there used to be service here even a few years ago a fewyards off i s a large slab of stone

,with a round s000ped hole

in i t,as if it had been used by the monks for a font . There is

a legend about a poor widow with a sick child,who met the

saint here one day as he came from his cell up in the cliff overthe lake

,and begged him for m ilk . He instantly sent her

down a milch hind,whose m ilk the widow poured in to the

stone cup .

That was agreat miracle, your honour , said Dan, winking,

(cross about u s) . This is the stone that’s worn away with thealbow of the ould woman, as she sat waiting for the mil k St .

Kevin promised her,and here’s where her fingers went

(pointing to five small in den tures ,'

with a cunning leer,seeing

m e incredulous, and wishing to show him self to a Protestantabove superstition) and sure I ought to know

,for didn’t I

chisel them myselfIt’s only a quern

,said I

,to try him, where the women

used to bruise the corn before handmi l l s became common .

”

Thru e to you,your honour

,but I never give it them so at'

all . They must have the fine stories,so I makes them fresh

and fresh . I hope it won’t rain,your honour, for when it rains

THE SEV EN CHURCHES . 223

here,it manes it. The roun d tower you see there is one hundred

and ten feet tall,and fifty -one feet in circumbendibus ; it

’ sbui lt all of granite, for the slate in it i s not worth men

t ionin g . There are two windows near the door, and four morenear the top . The story is

,that the Druid used to go up every

morning,an d when he saw the sun rise in the horizon , then he

took 011“

his hat and bawled out Baal north,south

,east and

west . It must have given him an appetite for his breakfastbut

,the haythen s , they had no tay, and what

’ s breakfast without tay [Sings ]

Sain t Kev in says to K ing O’Toole,

I do not wan t to wan derSo gi ve to me, for a li ttle see,

As far as fli es the gan dther .

Do you like peat better than coal,Dan said I .

Well,it ’s no cheaper

,and takes some trouble to light

,

said Dan ;“ but there ’ s no smoke

,and we thinks it agrees

better with u s . Now,your honour

,Trin i ty church and its

high round tower,you passed at Laragh and St . Saviour ’s

Abb ey,makes the last of the seven churches .”

Well,thought I

,here I am in the centre o i

'

Irish tradition .

Lough Dan,yesterday morning, where Holt used to lurk, and

An am oe,where Stern fell through the mil l-race ; then Castle

Kev m on the green, oncePierceGaveston’

s,and where afterwards

the O Tooles , the great clans of IV ickl ow,lived to fight and

fought to live : n ow G len dalough—the treeless

,grey

,stony

valley,where the dark G leneoloe feeds St. Kevi n ’s lake ; to

morrow Avoca,where the sweet waters meet

,and Rathdrum

,

where the chiefs used to assemble . Here I was,in the Irish

Iona,where

,in the dark

,bloody times

,St. Kevin the companion

of C olumbkil l , came, between the two lakes, to lead'

a holylife . Here Kathleen tempted him

,and here he pushed her into

the lake.Ah! you saints have cruel hearts ,Sternl y from hi s bed he s tarts,

An d, wi th rude , repul s ive shock ,Hurl s her from the bcctl iug rock .

G lendalough, thy stormy waveSoon was gentle Kathleen

's grave.

224 CROSS C OUNTRY .

Round that hermit’s grave sprang up a cathedral , a city, anda seminary of learning . Burnt down several times by the Danes ,and rebuilt

,it was then destroyed by a flood ; and fin al ly, when

restored,fired by the invading Engl ish, who the Irish, then in

vain,wished to become absentees . Here are stone crosses to be

seen,and ruined chapels and abbeys , and burial grounds , and a

round tower,and the lake where St . Patrick shut up the last

serpent (not priestcraft) , and the lake where Kathl een of theblue eyes and the honey breath perished last of all

,there is

the herm it’s bed and the outlaws’ den .

True the seven churches are very poor,the crosses m ere

blocks of almost shapeless stone,the lake but a black pool the

roun d tower a factory chimney with no smoke coming out,and

the saint’s bed a m ere crevice in the rock ; but then, a glass ortwo of whisky fires the imagination, and what with a song, anda climb

,and a row

,and a little discussion, by the time you get

to St. Kevi n’ s Bed,you are ready to believe the yarns of Sin

bad the Sailor, or anything else .

Dan (in the cathedral) said to me (his victim) This isvery ancient and antique , but it has been pulled about by fellowsminin g for treasure . It was all built during the Pagan persecution and war . This cross was the m onum ent of St. LaurenceO

’

Toole.

” He and the saint were great friends .Did they take their tay togetherSure they di d and their beer too

,which is a trifle

stronger,as you read in the old writers .

Leaving the grey turrets of the seven churches and theirscattered burial-places

,we got in to a sort of plantation, through

which we saw St. Saviour’ s Abbey,half hidden by mossy ash

trees whose sl ight leaves flickered roun d the broken wall s . Tothe left

,a mountain stream poured down

,slidin g, slipping,

trickling,and crushing past tree trunks

,and over hat slab s of

rock and giant stepping stones like running whisky,

” saidDan

,as he tripped before me to show the way.

And divil a lark,

” said Dan,is ever seen over the blessed

lake,more by token

,your honour

,there’s a story about i t.

Some say that as they had no repaters in them days, St . Kevintaught the skylarks to wake the men who builded the churches .

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226’

cs oss C OUNTRY .

b ush,and your hugers in this corner rock—that’s it there ,

now your foot on that round block,and your fingers on that

ledge,and swing yourself in . This is St. Kevin’s bed . Now,

tell the saint your best wi shes,and maybe you’ll get them .

”

I foun d myself jammed in a little cave—a regular smugglers’

den,twenty feet sheer perpendi cular over the sullen lake .

That is poor Kathleen’s grave— mournful,lonely ; no fish

springing,no bird flying, no tree growing on the bank . At the

end was a ledge for the saint’ s head.

Why, what are you laughin g at, Dan , said I , cooped upin this oven of a place

You may call it an oven,said Dan

,for it is here I make

my bread . What’s your Christian name,your honour

Maybe you’d like it wrote up here on the rock . Wil l youhave it chiselled or whitewashed Chisell ed

,a shillin g ; wash ,

S ixpence . Wash rubs out . Many a shilling I ’

ve chiselledthe rowlers out of. Here’s Sir Walter Scott

,you see ; and

here’s Mr . Tommy Moore,and Lady Morgan.

Thank you ,” said I , but how shall I know you ever write

i t ? What do you do in the wi nter, Dan, when the touristsceaseSaid Dan , I sit at home, and invent lies to amuse them inthe summer ; and when I

’ve done that, I go to Liverpool, andget work at the stone-masing . But the truth is— (encouragedby my fee)

Thi s King O’

Toole, bedad no fool ,Had son s an d daughters seven ;To swan s an d geese, each on e of theseWas turn ed by good St. Kevin .

The king had sworn by crown and hose

To gi ve him lan d an d hol dingsI f the o ld blackguard had been feathered and tarred,It m ight have stopped hi s scol dings .

”

With a shout from Dan,to rouse the ghostly echoes we

turned back to the inn .

The next day I started for England .

10

10xi

TALES IN AN INN-KITCHEN .

CHAPTER XX .

TALES IN AH INN-KIT CHEN .

’ Twa s after a long day ’ s ride that,on a January sunset

,I leapt

from my horse at the door of a small inn,in a Vi llage between

Ross an d Monmouth .

I had been struck at a distance wi th its sign,which

,gli sten

ing in the setting sun,like a golden shield

,looked like that

wayside summ ons for a feat of arms which in the old days washung forth as a beacon to the errant kni ght . A shock-headedostler

, with bowed legs, shambled out to take my horse to itsstable

,while I

,parting company with him for the first time for

six hours,followed the landl ord , who waddled before me, into

the inn ’s best room . I fairly shook with cold when I cast myeyes round the gloomy and tawdry funeral -plume splendour ofthe large cavern

,in whose grate a newly-lit fire crackl ed and

spitted .

There’s a better fire in our kitchen,sir

,said the landlord,

apologetically and inquiringly ; but, of course, you wouldn’t

like to go there .”

I’

ll go there with all my heart, I replied,“ if I shall not

intrude on your other guests,

” my last spark of pride com

pletely extinguished by the cheerful hum of voices and them erry laugh that cam e in fitful gusts through the opened door

,

and was followed by a deep lull .We’ve no one there

,sir

,

” he said,but old Watson—who

,

I dare say, you know— old \V atson , who drove the Ross coachand our village blacksmith and schoolmaster— worthy peopleall . Follow me, sir and with the patronising air of a cicerone

,

or rather of an old hen introducing her last chicken to the world,

he led me into the bar, and drew a seat for me to the fire,

which blazed up as brightly as if it had absorbed al l the flamesof the whole village into one roaring furnace .I did my best to look companionable and to the mannerborn

,

” bu t there was a smell of cold air about me that j arredwith that mirth

,— there was a lull . The landlord filled his

pipe— the blacksmith eyed the fire as he would hi s smithy

Q 2

228’

cnoss C OUNTRY.

the schoohn aster whispered in an under-tone to the coachmanDo you ever

,I said, addressing the blacksmith , find any

traces of the old battles in these partsAye, sir, that we do ; flin t axes and swords of rough

forging .

”

“ An d you forget, friend Jenkins , the skeleton discoveredsom e twenty years ago,

” said the s choolmaster,with an air of

authority,in a cleft of a rock overhanging the Wye .”

How was that said I .

It was found by some quarrymen in a small cave,the aper

ture of which seemed hardly big enough for a rabb it to getthrough . It was the skeleton of a large man : one bony handstill clutched a spear

,the shaft of which had fallen to ashes

centuries ago ; the legs were drawn up convulsively, as if thesoldier had died of famine . He must have crept there like ahun ted for for shelter . Som e say he was one of V ortigern

’s

army— yet this seems a baseless fancy ; but certain it is that itmust have been some British chief who fled hither during thewars that ended in his nation bein g driven across the frontier

,

and leaving behind him the beautiful land,with its windin g

river and its wooded hi lls,on whi ch Caractacus had struggled

for freedom— leavi ng behind him those mysterious stones onWhich the rites of his religion had been performed .

”

You seem deep read,

” I said,

“ in the traditions of thiscounty .

”

“ I’

m half a Welshman,said the schoolmaster

,and my

mother,Lucy Griffiths , was of a good stock , and claimed

descent from a royal tribe ; but, as I was a-going to say,this

chieftain—for so he must have been—was perhaps woun dedhere

,for there are still signs of a camp

,as there are indeed

,

either Roman or British,on all these river hills and from these

watch-hills a beacon flame would have been seen almost to themountains of Abergavenny .

”

How they could have lived,poor critturs

,said the land

lord,and fought

,without a glass or two of humm ing ale

,I

can’t imagine,for they tell me they only drank a liquor

b rewed from heath mixed with honey .

”

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230’

caos s C OUNTRY.

posed a bowl of rum-punch,which he made

,and ladled forth with

the air of a m onarch to a band of perfectly contented subjects .The constable proposed that the schoolmaster should tell a tale

,

to which pr0posal , after much pressing, he acceded .

“A s we ’ve been talking of Britons of the old times,I ’ll tell'

you the story of David Thomas,the one-eyed cobbler

,and how

from a drunken vagabond he became a thriving farmer,which

seem s to spring very naturally from our conversation. Iwas quite a boy when David Thomas came from Caernarvonshire and settled here, but he never got ou

,for he spent half

'

his time paddling about in a coracle,and the other half in this

kitchen. He was a clever,shrewd fellow

,and did nothing

badly but cobbling . He was a good fisherman,knew every

stone in the river, swam like a duck , was shrewdly suspectedof poachin g, coul d snare any animal from a m ouse to a badger,played the fiddl e, and, in fact, was the min strel at every m errymeeting in the two counties . He was the idol of all the boysof the village, of whom he had always a ta le, soliciting him forwhistles , implorin g him for mole traps , or bartering with himfor rude Pandean pipes . He had the entry of every house

,for

he was the self-circulating newspaper of the vill age ; and whenBoney’ s battles were toward

,he used to read to a congregation

every day more num erous and far more awake than ever girdedround the pulpit of our m ini ster . He had always a sly j okefor the maidens— some allusion from an old Welsh poet

,for he

was a great reader of the Bards,or some kin d word of praise

of their absent lovers that sent a blushmantli ng up to theircheeks

,and presenting you in the short space of two moments

with the white and the red rose,shifting into hues di ffering

,

and yet alike . So have I seen the eastern sky melting its pearlli ght in to the choice radiancy of

Now,none of them ere poetical hi ghts of yourn, mind,

said the coachman authoritatively .

The schoolmaster smiled blandly,and proceeded

He was a favourite,too

,with the vill age striplings, plan

ning foot-ball matches,makin g them snares or teachin g them

all the tricks of the diver in the deep spots of the Wye ; or, inan evening

,playing his how al l the faster for the cog of good

ale,

’ which stood well replenished at his elbow.

TALES IX AN INN-KITCHEN . 231

But all this did not make hi s own fire burn brighter,an d

his fiddle how was pl ied oftener than his awl . In Spite of thegrotesque cast of hi s features

,there was a something myste

rion s about the one-eyed cobbler,that kept up the v illage

curi osity about him . He had fits of depression,when he would

wander all day among the amphitheatre of woods,from whence

the sound of his fiddle,playin g strange wild snatches of Welsh

airs,coul d be heard by the distant ploughman . At these times

he cam e hom e only late at night,and during the day would

do such mad freaks that men whispered that David Thomas , ifhe was not hal f crazed

,had surely committed some crime in his

youth for whi ch his troubled conscience wracked him . He wouldget the key of the old church from his brother the sexton

,and

shut him self up for hours amongst the tombs in the chancel,or climbing up, for he climbed like a squirrel , to some al

most inaccessible chamber of the onl y remainin g tower of thecastle on the hi ll yonder

,might be seen lookin g out from

a shattered embrasure like the ghost of some mur dered kni ghtthe moon-light and som e of his dearest intimates said it was

particul arly about early springtime that he rambled about inthose awful places .

“ I remember well myself,when I was a boy

,comi ng late

one stormy January evening through the churchyard,walkin g

timi dly,and with head turned

,through the path that led up to

the house of God,even in my awe

,for the wind was howl in g

through the belfry loopholes,thinking of this G odsacre

,where

rich and poor met for the first time in real equality, with noricher robe above their cold breast than the green turf

,studded

with daisies when from behind a grave I heard a groan whichshook me with fear. I looked it was the merry cobblerporing over a grey tombstone

,and spelling each letter as one

would the Bible ’ s page . A corpse light threw a horrid glowworm gleam upon his strange features . I was afraid to speak

,

but a sort of fascination compelled me to crouch down behinda raised tomb and watch him . Present]y he rose, looked atthe sky

,beat his brow

,and muttering words which I thought

were God save her sou l,

’ paced out through the wicket gatethat led into the village .

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caoss C OUNTRY .

Then I rose,breathed deeper

,and stealing to the stone from

which I had never taken my eye, marked it with a crossscratched wi th my pocket knife, for the m omentary light bredfrom corruption had gone out

,and I coul d only feel its letters .

I went home pale and trembling,but sayin g I felt ill and tired

,

hurried to bed . To my mother,for my poor father was already

dead,I said not a word a feeling of mystery brooded overme

I felt that I dared not tell what I had seen,and yet I felt that

concealment was a sort of crime . Heaven pardon me,if then

I first brushed off the bloom of innocence from my youth .

I awoke after a night of feverish dreams before daybreak,went

down before anyone was stirring, and flew,rather than ran

,to

the churchyard . The grave lay calm in the grey light of dawn,

the weather-cock,like amorni ng

-star,catching the first glimpse

of day. I found the spot I knelt down there was thehasty cross Lucy Owen , set . 18

,departed this life Novem

ber 1 3,

Below,

‘ Mary Owen,her mother

,November

20. Lovely and pleasant in their l ives,in death they were not

divided .

’ Owen— I had never heard the nam e . The mysterystil l lay heavier in my heart . I hurried hom e , and came downto breakfast with clouded brow and troubled eye . My mother

’

s fond eye observed it,but I complained of a slight fever

,

and she was qui et . Days went by, an d though I dreamtof that horrible scene in the churchyard

,and of the cobbler

,

time soon erased it from my young brain,and I drove it from

my thoughts . But still I never followed the cobbler as I haddone

,never dared to ask him for traps or whistles . The church

now seemed a dreadful place,and I turned away from the old

tower if I heard his fiddl e sounding mournfull ywithin its ruinedchamber . I saw him often

,gay

,telli ng strange tales

,and as

m erry as before,but to my eye there was now a shadow upon

him, which seemed to me to give a ghastly hue to his features ,

and when I saw the glimmer of a cottage fire li ght up his face,I shuddered as I thought of the stormy Jannary ni ght and thehaunted churchyard .

It was some years after this that as I was read in g one dayan old fairy story to a crone of a neighbouring cottage

,and

had just completed,with all the enthusiasm of a youth

,the

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234’

caoss C OUNTRY .

in a moment that it was a thief who had thus entered thechamber of the dead

,for a small coral cross

,which Lucy had

worn since she was a chi ld,and whi ch had been left in an ol d

oak bureau that stood beside the bed,was gone .

I listened open m outhed . Could it have been the cobbler ?And what did Lucy Owen die of then so sudden ly I enquired .

The fisherman said as how it was disease of the heart,of

which her father had died.

’

Dreadful forebodings fill ed my mind ; an instinctive feelin gof horror rose in me . I dismissed it from my min d

,and resumed

my usual course of lonely wanderings and readings in thewoods whenever I could escape from the fiel ds

,for even at

this time I longed to live and die a schoolmaster .It was a November day ; I remember it well . It was a day

of decay,of rain

,of gloom the leaves new fallen

,paved the

walks of the woods with sere and wi thered forms of corruptiona pale sunset was tinting the wood

,alm ost bared , with a faint

golden light,that looked like a mockery of summ er it was

like the sm ile on the lips of the dead ! I wandered forth by thelonely path which leads from the meadow of the battleheaps

,

’ up to the top of the hi l l where the stone of power,’

the rocking—stone of the Drui ds,rests . I was walking silently

and musingly along,making no more noise over the dead leaves

than the rabbits that I every now and then disturbed, and thatran bounding thr ough the brake ; when I saw in the meadow,not twenty yards from me

,Thomas

,standing near one of the

mounds with a spade in his hand . I was in a sunken walk ,hidden from him by a thick clump of beeches, whose redleaves still rustled in the autumn wind . I stood there halffrozen with aston ishment

,as I watched his motions

,for those

mounds I had been taught to think were the graves of greatchieftains who had been slain in battle with the Romans

,when

the eagle hew on the heights above and the boys shunned theplace after night - fall

,for we noticed that no dark fairy rings

were ever there,in that field on the border of the wood ; and

we thought that where the fairies would not trip , no goodthin g could be ; and I thought of stories I had heard of Trojankings,who slumbered by the light of one gem ,

or an ever-burning

TALES IN AN INN-KITCHEN .

lamp,in enchanted tombs beneath the greensward of a hil l

,

and of demon deni zens of caves and mine spirits and allthese I blended

,as I stood there tremblin g at the fallin g leaf

that rustled to the groun d,strange thoughts of the cobbler

,

and the scenes where I had seen him,tin ted darker by the

shade of fancy : what coul d he be doing there, in a place asconsecrated by vill age tradition as the very churchyard, thatsilent city of graves

,where the inhabitants come together but

Speak not,though but an earthen wall divides them Thoughts

of crime,of buried treasure

,thronged through my mind . He’ s

di ggin g,he’s been diggin g for half-an -hour

,still I lie cowering

in my shelter. The moon comes forth, and l ights his grimearnest face ; he pauses— looks up

— looks round— wipes hisbrow,

and digs with renewed vigour . An aperture disclosesitself : he works—starts back- again looks i h

,drags some

thing forth,and puts it in his bosom ; recovers the entrance,

with care replaces the turf,falls on his knees

,lifts his hands to

heaven,then looks roun d li ke a guilty thing upon a fearful

summons,and hurries away with stealthy steps . Then

,and

not till then,when his shadow was lost in the ni ght of the

wood, I arose trembling wi th excitem ent, and from my hidingplace I

,with a dozen bounds

,stood beside the chieftain ’s grave .

There it lay beneath the moon,surrounded by that silent mul

t itude of woods,which told by their falling leaves that Death

still reigned upon the earth . I looked at the aperture that hadbeen closed so carefully with the sods

,that no marks of removal

could be discerned . A superstitious awe crept over me at thatsilent hour

,when I felt I was in such a place . Something

glittering caught my eye, and amid a heap of seared leaves thatthe winds

,win ter’s fierce myrmidons

,had torn from their

parent tree,and driven together . Good God ! it was a cross

a small coral cross,tipped with gold

,which had caught the

moon’s rays . A cross like that the old crone had told me

of. A thought of guilt flashed through mymind, an in stinctivebreathing of the God . I felt that I had been marked out fromHeaven as the avenger of blood there was then blood on thehand that had touched that funeral mound . I saw it all

,I felt

i t,I was sure ; the sudden death , the gnawing of conscience,

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caos s C OUNTRY .

the churchyard scene . Slowly I retraced my steps , as if insome fearful dream , past my hiding place, giving one more lookat the mound, frosted with the moonbeams that fell upon itlike on a pure heaven. Again a form steals forth from thewood ; was it some shadow of the dead ? It is the cobbler !He sees me not

,though he passed me almost close, for his

eye was bent on the ground to grope for somethin g lost =He turned over every heap of withered leaves

,every knot of

rushes , every bunch of dry white grass . He turned his facesuddenlyfiTgO sorrowin g angels ! what a face ! torn with deepanguish

,remorse

,

Fand fear . Slowly and stealthily as a beastof prey I stole away

,and ran down a lonely lane into the

“Village .

‘ News, Jemmy,’ said my mother ;

‘who do you think has

come from America ? Who but youn g Richard, who yearsand years ago was to have married poor Lucy, a villagebeauty, whom I dare say you never heard of

,who died sud

denl y in her bed. He i s rich,and tell s me he means to settle

here . He asked after you,and I told him that you were going

to be a schoolmaster,and gave your whole life to readin g

,and

wandering about among the woods . He laughed, and said hislife had been spent in cutting down woods . The old cobbler too

,

(I started) , why do you start of course he knows the cobbler ,though there is no great love lost between them

,as I beli eve

they even interchanged blows before they parted . I believethey were both suitors to Lucy ; but what chance had thecobbler, ill -favoured, idle dog, with a youth as straight as amaypole

,and so handsome that half the lasses in the place

broke their hearts for him .

’

Was there any suspicion,

’ I said,of the cause of Lucy ’s

death“ ‘ Suspicion, child ! N0 ; she di ed of a heart complaint,like her father

,with whom I have often danced in my youn g

daysI saw no more of the young farmer for nearly a month,

for he had friends to see in another part of England. It wasthe day before Chr istmas when he returned . During this timethe change that came over the cobbler was percepti ble to

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238’

caoss COUNTRY .

to his body,and threw it into a rocky stream

,where the very

rippling seemed the voices of invi sible beings : but God sentthe beavers

,and they gnawed the rope

,and the body heated ;

and the murderer owned the hand of God was in it, and

confessed his crime ; and we hung him in the Deadman’ s

Hollow,on a withered pin e

,and there he bleaches now.

’

A s he told me this, we had arrived opposite the squalidstall of the cobbler : we looked in—no one was there ; westepped in quietly without chinking the latch

,and li stened .

There was a muttering up the turnpike stair that led from theshop to the poor bedroom above . It grew louder and m oredistinct . It was the cobbler’s voice

,as of one in agony and

prayer . We li stened . The words came to our ears like thelast trump O God, cleanse these hands from blood O God ,cleanse these han ds from blood was his cry . We waited forno more silently we went forth in to the street : what a changehad come over the face of Richard ! There was deep determination in that compressed mouth ; energy in that clenchedhand . For a moment we looked on each other, but spoke not :that si lence expressed more

,far more

,than speech .

‘ It isChristmas eve

,

’ I said ;‘ years back they had a custom here

of singing hymns in the church at midnight,to hail the blessed

day. The cobbler will be there ; there, in the presence ofall

,I wi ll confront him

,and charge him with the deed of blood .

Touch not the murderer til l then,

’ I exclaimed beseechingly .

‘ Twelve years since,

’ he replied,in a voice deepened by

emotion,when the blood ran hotter in my veins, I could not

have foreborn e,but rushing ih

,I should have clutched the

hell-birth by the throat,and with a curse have trampled out

his horrible and misshapen soul . ’

With a warm clasp of the hand we separated . It seemeda year to midn ight . No lover felt the hours creep by at slowerpace . I thought the dull grey sky, the frownin g heaven , woul dnever veil in the night . It came

,ni ght cam e

,and disclosed

another world,the mere shadow of that glorious sunny earth

in which we live ; fairest stars shining where the sun hadstood the m oon hid her face

,and one star brighter than the

rest,shone as red as blood .

TALES IN AN INN -K ITCHEN . 239

I met Richard at a corner of the churchyard,and entering

it with him,we seated ourselves in a dark corner

,unlit by the

few candl es that scattered the darkn ess in faint circles of light .The cobbler was there

,seated in a front bench almost opposite

the altar ; his head buried in his hands , as if in prayerone by one

,or in small gr oups , the villagers stole in like

shrouded ghosts from the churchyard without— old men,maid

ens fair as the murdered one,chil dren awe-struck at the dark

ness of the church,and the novelty of the scene . From the

dimly-lit gall ery suddenly bur st forth a strain of melody,as

sweet in that stillness of night as if the choir of angels thatthe shepherds heard had again sun g forth in the heavens . Thecalm melody contrasted dreadfully wi th the turbid fever in ou r

hearts . It was like the placid tranquillity that reigns upon thedead

,compared with the sorrow that sits upon the mourner’ s

face that bends over the bier. A voice,deep as from a vaul t

below,rang through the church hi gh above the childish choir

‘ A voice from the grave of the murdered calls for vengeance I’

It was Richard : as he pronounced the words that hushedthe praises that were rising to heaven, he strode towards thealtar. The cobbler threw himself on his knees , as if somespir it had struck him to the earth .

‘ Mercy ! ’ he cried ;‘ let

man have pity,for Heaven has mercy ! ’ ‘ The mercy thou

showed to the dead I’ said Richard , felling him to the ground .

We rushed forward . There were shrieks from the maidens,

cries of horror and surprise from the men .

‘What meansit Spare him ! ’ Keep him back .

’ I seized Richard bythe arm . He would have struck me in his demoniacal rage :Three men held his arms

,and he lay foaming and m addened in

their grasp . I told my tale to those who crowded around meI told of the scenes of remorse that I had witnessed ; howthoughts had grown into su sPicion s , and suspicions into proof :I showed the cross . It is hers it was the murdered angel’s

,

’

said Richard,and again he struggled to escape . Again rose a

murmuring of voices . A s slowly, like a corpse revived mightrise from a trance

,rose the cobbler . He trembled

,and the

tears poured downon his checks .he said

,

‘ God has smitten me . I am g uilty

240 CROSS C OUNTRY .

the bran d of Cain is here . Hear me ere I go to death , Iwas not always thus . In my youth I was fair

,till disease and

vice distorted these features . I loved Lucy Owen,I served

her like a b ound does its mistress— I ran,I swam

,I did all for

her : but a handsome stripling came, and I was slighted . Thewedding day was fixed. It was in the inn-kitchen that I first

heard the news . I rushed forth,and roamed about till mid

n ight,half maddened at tidings which had blighted me

,as

frost does the early hower. It was a summer night,I crept

to the Owens ’ cottage . Lucy’ s broad casement was open,

though her room was dark . A devil ’s thought came into mym ind

,and drove back all recollection of heaven . I clambered

silently up the vin e,entered the room which was half lit by

moonlight,half in shade

,lay a moment silent

,watched the

sleeping spirit ; then, like a fiend of hell, stifling her mouth ,I suffocated her with the pillow . Again I laid the bodyof one whom I loved and hated, calm as if in sleep , and creptdown as I had come . I felt n o remorse ; I thought it a justpunishment for the cruel rejection of my love . I dreaded thatanother should share the love of one who despised m e . But

the devil forsook his Victim,and remorse stole in ; it was in

moments like these that my wounded spirit, not yet entirelylost

,found reli ef in those groans and prayers which you (turn

ing to me) heard .

The mound that I dug ih,when I lost the cross which I

stole from the room of one whom I could not forget, was afuneral heap

,wherein I had heard gold was often found . I

wanted to escape to some other land . I found a gold wreaththere

,round the neck of a skeleton

,but I started back when I

first looked into that vault,for the glimmer of my own eyes

lit it as with a lamp even in such scenes thoughts of my guilthaunted me

,my name seemed written in lin es of decay on

every leaf,the stars looked down like the eyes of a judge

u pon me ; everywhere the avenging angel was looking .

’ i t i t

“With looks of horror we led him from the church , before the morrow he was in the cell of Gloucester prison . Iwas present at his trial . He was convicted, and was hung,an d thus did God discover a crime that had so long lay hid .

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242’

caoss C OUNTRY .

coach as four spanking tits ever drew along a road . Well now,

my father was a man who liked his glass,to keep out the cold

,

and keep in the warmth, as well as any man, and he was asun ivarsal ly respected as any man that ever sat on a box ; hewas the busum friend of every! landlord in the county, thej arvey best liked by his mate on the road

,and a great favorite

with all the buxom bar-maids ; but he had one fail ing, he wasa man as had fancies about his health, which was as good as

any man coul d have,and if you’d seen him with his box-coat

and his belchers on,with his j olly cheek and merry eye

you’ d have said,if Methu seley ever druv a coach , he was the

mortal picture of that respected patriarch he never tray elled without a dr aught in each pocket, which occasionallybreaking over a ladies ’ parcel

,made a pretty mess ; but, Lor

bless you he was that well spoken,that he generally made it

out that such am

parcel was peculiarly difficu l t for such as he tocarry

,and if it had been any one else it would never have

arrived at all . An d his waistcoat pockets,which were as large

almost,what with the custom of the age and his nateral cor

pu len ce, as a small ridicul e, were lined with tin, in one ofwhich was l o z engers , and in the other pills of a pecul iar makenot that he shirked his glass

,but on the plea of health gene

ral ly looked piteously ati

gthe landlady, and desired i t, as aninvalid

,to be made particul arly hot ; and he had a habit of

feeling his pul se at the smallest provocation,so that ignorant

persons might have imagined he was undoing a handcufi’

.

A l l human beings , as the Parson said on Sunday, is liable toerror

,and this was the error of my guvenor ; but the most

aggerawatin g thing was , that when he did come hom e onSunday night, he choose that peculiar time, about midnight,especially if it friz

,to ring up the house and say he was

dying,give us his blessing

,and make over to me his silver

chronometer and appendages,which I had always to give him

back when he recovered the next morning,in time to take a

larger breakfast than usual before he started. But wolf ’ wascryed so often thatwe soon didn

’t believe it, and after grumblingfor some time as we turned out of our warm beds, I got at lastrestive and didn’t go at all, and there was a pretty scene

,for

TALES IN AN INN -KITCHEN . 243

the old fellow got up remarkably quiet for a dying person,and

c oming to my bed with a horse whip,gave me such a leather

ing that I never failed after this to attend his dying sum

mons as a dutiful son should do . Wel l , there were highwaymen occasionally seen along the Hereford road

,and one night

my father,who had gone out a perfect mass of great coats

,so that

he had to be helped 011 his box by the ostler and staff,came

in to the in n with a hole in hi s hat,just as if a bullet had

passed through i t ; an d my father,who was j ust mixing a

powder for a stiff glass of grog,c ould give no further explana

tion of it,b ut that about ten m iles from Gloucester a man

hal l o’

d out to him,and he

,thinkin g it a passenger

,said the

coach was f ull,and drove ou . This he thought might have

been a highwayman,particul arly as he recollected hearin g a

pistol go ofi'

,as he thought

,in a field near the road , about ten

min utes after . The g uard,it appears

,as usual

,had been asleep ,

for when they stopped to water the horses,about hy e miles

further ou ,he blew his horn

,thinking they had arrived at

Hereford not but that he always carried a blunderbuss,which ,

however,report said had never been discharged within the

memory of man , was imperfect about the lock, and not verysound about the barrel .

“My father , thereupon, being a good deal gall ed with the j okescut on the occasion

,when he next went to Gloucester bought

a pair of old cavalry pistols of immense length,and then layin g

in a bag of bullets and a few dozen charges of powder,an

n oun ced to his passengers , who assembled in a sort of parliament to hear the harangue that he made the necessity of adefence in case of attack the good man had

,in fact

,

worked himself up to a pitch of patriotism almost equal toNelson on the eve of Trafalgar . Most of the passengers quitewarmed to the affair ; though some , concluding from the extentof the munition supplied

,that there was a chance of not a soul

escapin g alive,refused to go ; but the rest, conceali ng their

fears under an overdone display of courage,manifested great

determination,and

,after the third glass of brandy-and-water

,

expressed their unflin ching resolution to cut their way toGloucester— a promise which

,if any one had taken them at

n 2

244’

cnoss C OUNTRY .

their word,they would have been rather puzzled to perform, as

the whole company hadn’t more than two pocket-kni ves between them . Like the veterans of a forlorn h0pe

,with con

solatory remarks as to the fate of various unfortunate travellerson the same road

,the coach started . The ostler drew off the

cloths with the same spirited jerk as ever there was the samethrong of chambermaids

,hangers -on and admiring town smen

,

as ever ; but there was a gloom on all, for my father hadspread undue alarm byz

the extra number of pills he had taken,and the ferocious way in which he had flouri shed his pistols andtalked of selling his life dearly.

’

B ut,for my life

,I had nearly forgot a material point in

the story,which is

,that the most prom inent of all the passen

gers,and the one who acted as a sort of prime minister to my

father,was a stranger— a man with an immense pair of whi s

kers and a large drooping moustache,who seem ed

,by his

frogged coat and mil itary air,to have been in the army, had,

indeed,his conversation not abundantly shown it for he talked

boldl y of skirmishes and cavalry affairs,and

,stap his vitals

,

’

he was for slaying every m other’s son of them . No waitingfor tardy justice

,but a repe and the nearest tree ; a preposi

tion rather ‘ pooh-poohed ’ by my father,but applauded voci

ferou sly by a wir en little attorney, who said he’d have the

law of ’em , if they dared to touch him .

’

Our mili tary friendtook a great interest in the defensive preparations

,and ih

sisted him self on loading my father’s pistols and the guard ’ s

blunderbuss,having

,as he said

,once

,by a peculiar system of

loading, winged a duellist, who had slain his hy e men,and

thought no more of shooting an antagoni st than a properChristian would of puttin g a bull et into a mad dog . And then

,

assuming the generalship,for my father’s courage towards the

tim e of startin g,if it hadn’t decreased

,had at least assumed

somewhat less of a bellicose character,he advised the secretion

of all valuables ; and heightening their courage by undoin g asort of box in the heel of his shoe

,placed carefully therein

a roll of bank notes, which, as he qui te accidental ly let outwere of an immense amount . This

,and the glitter of a

diamond ring on his finger, excited a general commun icative

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246’

CROSS C OUNTRY .

I ’ve one more account to settle,

’ he replied,before I go .

Nimming Jack,

’ he cried,to a fiashi ly

-dressed companion,

whom no disguise could have turned into anything but asecond-rate knight of the road

,bring that old gent . there in

sight of this window .

’

They dragged my father forward, and put him on his kneesbetween them

,a living mass of great-coat . ‘ I

’

ve no money,

gen’

lemen,

’ he cried,in a voice of extrem e terror

,as his tor

m entors,shouting with laughter

,emptied his pockets of pills

enough to hil a beaver . Open your mouth,

’ they cried and,

pulling it open,they ramm ed a fist full down his throat. He

rose a wiser,but a sicker man than he had kn elt down .

‘ A dieu,gentlem en and ladies

,

’ said the mili tary surgeon,

bowing a mock farewell ;‘ and as for you

,old Jarvy

,don’t

listen an other '

t ime to military surgeons . I’

v e a great mind togive you a blue pill at parting

,but I ’ll spare you to kill a

coach-full of passengers some day by bad driving .

’ Then,

mounting a led horse of his companion,he galloped off.

“When he was fairly out of sight,there were proposals

made to pursue,but nobody seconding it

,they determ ined to

fire a salute after him ,to intimidate him and prevent his re

turn ; and this would have been done , had not it been foundthat the pistols had been stuffed with pepper instead of

powder,in which the bullets lay imbedded, and had been stopped

up to the muzzle with paper .The coach

,lightened of its burden

,entered Hereford with

a sick coachman and crest-fallen passengers .”

CHA PTER XXI .

THE COUNC IL CHAMBER AT BRISTOL .

How many recollections these simple words call up from thedark abyss of memory ! We figure to ourselves grave senatorsin solemn deliberation potent grave and reverend seign ors,

”

the great ones of proud Venice,or beauteous Florence

,in pro

found debate . We think of the great republican, or~ ol i gar

THE C OUNC IL C HAMBER AT BRI STOL . 247

chi cal senators of the medi ae val state,each a prince

,discussing

solemnl y,amidst all the gorgeousness of A siatic luxury

,the

affairs of their respective states . Then think we of the Doge,

or the stil l more sol emn con clar e of cardinals in the eternalcity of Rome . With rapid transition we recall the secret tribun al s of Westphali a

,and the dark mysteries of the inqui

s itorial assembly,or night meetin gs of conspirators

,the

veil ed and masked leaders,are remembered by u s in a min

gl ing of associations . Dim V lSlOll S arise before our eyes fromthe pages of the world ’s history . Councils held by trembli ngmen as the enemy is before their gates —senates receivingtheir victorious generals and

,above all

,the majestic senate of

Rome,whose every councillor

,a Gothic ambassador said

,re

sembled a kin g . B ut a truce to the ideal,let u s return to the

plain work a-day world .

”

Leavi ng,therefore

,the m otley associations suggested by

such places,I the other day

,as citizens som etimes should do ,

strolled into the Bristol council chamber,the room where the

civic parliament is wont,at stated intervals

,to hold its deliber

ative meetings . Undisturbed by any parrot guide,my eyes

glanced with pleasure over the autograph letters of the great andthe brave which depend from the walls . There always seem sto me something solemn in a sol itaryroom oran empty chamber

“W'

hcn the festive l ights are ou t

An d the guests are al l departed.

But the chamber is hun g with paintings,and we never feel soli

tary wi th them,for there i s ever a silent

,calm companionship

about a good portrait . A spirit seems to watch you from thecanvass

,and those inanimate eyes seem almost capable of beam

ing with expression. They rem in d me of the statues ofPygmalion

,only remaining for ever unfin ishedand halfanimated .

An d what painting ever hadm oremagic p owers on the imagination than that of yonder noble cavalier by Vandyck ? hV e

mean the full-length of Phil ip Herbert , Earl of Pembroke, inhis robes of office as High Steward of Bri stol . The chivalricsaged nobl e wears a rod cloak lined with white , and bears inhis hand the white staff of o IIi cc . Near him reposes his ducalcoronet . He boasts what I’ryn ne would call the unl oveliness

248’

caoss C OUNTRY .

of love—locks in the shape of flowing hair. A lace embroidered collar fall s over his cloak . His stockings

,like Mal

vol io’

s of comic fame,are yellow

,but

,unl ike that ill-starred

steward,he is not cross-gartered . It breeds somewhat an

obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering .

” His shoes bearthe large ribbon roses of this time . We never saw a morebeautiful painting by that noble artist

,Vandyck

,not even

his portraits of the unhappy Charles,although in them we

trace so wel l the deep sorrow and stubborn resignation of thatmonarch . It is as adm irable for the truth

,freshness

,and ex

qu i site clearness of its tints , as for its spirited and wonderfulexecution

,and the lights are brilliant and delightfully modu

lated by the darker portions of oscuro . We realise at once thetradition which admiring artists tell

,that this great painter

always painted on a white groun d . Hence proceeds that decision and lucidity of general tone which distinguishes thispainter’ s productions from the exaggerated chiaro-scuro ofTintoretto or Rembrandt

,grand masters of colour ing as they

may be . Never in his works do we find the senseless e

’

mpas to,

to use a term of the studio,or the daubing on of paint as with

a trowel,adopted by and some other m odern masters .

How truthful,too

,are the carnations

,so perfectly aping the

embrowned,ruddy glow of health in a manly cheek . This

picture is so valued,both as a work of art and from its associa

tions , that it is said that the present Pembroke family haveoffered to give the city for it as many gold pieces as wouldcover its canvas . This sam e Pembroke family have contributed

,

perhaps,more great and brave m en from their m ales than any

noble house in England . Am ongst them we find the illustriousLord Herbert of Cherbury

,whose treatise

,De Veritate

,

” i sesteemed by every philosopher . The tale told by this chival~

rous man,in all the ardour of a glowing imagination , and how

he imagined he saw the Divine One in all His majesty, i s wellknown. Besides various illustrious barons of the middle ages

,

intimately connected with this fam ily by marriage, we have thegallant and the good Sir Philip Sidney

,the most chivalrous hero

,

and the most generous in his bravery,that England

,with all her

noble sons, ever saw. The beauties of his romantic Arcadia,

”

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250’

cs o ss C OUNTRY .

of his age, although his licentiousness was equal to his Virtues .I doubt this,

” he says,

“ I do not think that Shakspere,

merely because he was an actor,should have thought it neces

sary to veil his esteem towards Pembroke under a disguise,

although he might if the real obj ect perchance had been aLaura or a Leonora . It seems to me that the sonnet s couldonly have come from a man deeply in love with a woman ; andthere is one sonn et

,which

,from its purposed incongruity

,I

think to have been an intentional blind . The sonn ets are,in

fact, a poem of several stanzas , of so m any li nes each , and likethe passion that inspired them

,always the same .” Coleridge

proceeds to remark on their harmony,condensation of expres

sion, and considers them ,like the Venus and Adonis

,the evident

offshoots of a young poet. We think no on e can di ffer fromColeridge who has once read the sonnets

,and who has not ?

The 28th, for instance, is evidently addressed to a loved mistress ;while others

,like the l 04th

,To me

,fair friend

,thou never can

be old,” are quite consistent with the glowing gratitude of a

poet to his beloved patron. So also the 30th, that beautifulone beginn ing

When to the session of sweet s il en t thought

I summon up remembran ce of things past.

Some modern writers suggest that Ann Hathaway,Shak

spere’

s wife,may have been seduced by the Earl

,but we woul d

not willingly entertain so ill iberal a suspicion . The 1 52n d,In loving thee thou kn ows ’

t I am forsworn,” would hardly

bear this harsh interpretation,and rather refers to some lover’ s

quarrel . A temporary divorce is indeed said to have takenplace between him and his wife, who died some dozen years

after him . The sonn ets were published,by Thorpe in 1 609 ,

while William Herbert succeeded his father in 1 601 ; this , atall events

,makes the dedi cation to Mr . W . H . rather un

courteous . The first folio of 1 623 , edited by Hemmin gs andother fellow-comedians

,was dedi cated to theEarl ,who wasknown

to be of literary taste . This mystery, perhaps never to be solved ,adds a thousand-fold interest to this beautiful picture . Themother of this Earl was a daughter of the Duke of Northumber

THE C OUNC IL C HAMBER AT BRISTOL . 251

land,his father ’ s first wife bein g of royal blood, but dying

without issue .Lord Clarendon speaks i n the highest terms of this Earl .

He says,he was the most loved and esteemed of any man of

that age,an d hayi ng a great office (Chamberlain) in the court ,

he made the court better esteemed an d more reverenced in thecountry . He had a great number of friends, and no enem ies .He was well bred, an d of excellent parts

,an excellent

humou red man,and brother-in - law to the Earl of Shrewsbury.

Hi s expenses were onl y l im 1 ted by his great m in d . He was

not loved by James . He succeeded in othee the famous Carr,

Ear l of Somerset,the senseless favourite of a pedant

,who was

m ore fit to wield the feru le than the sceptre . He had noambiti on

,but loved his country . He was excessively addicted

to pleasure .

” His mind was injm’

ed by these excesses, and hefinall y died of apoplexy, after a hearty supper,— a retributivedeath which many epicures have met . Clarendon speaks of hisdeath as happening happily for his fame, just as the hame ofcivi l war broke forth . His brother

,we believe

,succeeded to

his ofii ce . He had been,from the beauty of his person

,a great

favourite with James,but with a prudence peculiar to his

fam ily,he gave way to the rising fortunes of Carr . He also

endeared him self to the king by hi s love,real or assum ed

,for

that gentle craft,hunting . He became in Charles ’s time

Governor of the Isle of “f ight, but, alas ! sul lied the honou rof his fam ily by treating with the Puritans

,and preservin g a

traitorous sort of neutrality,— trembling for Wilton and his

broad domains . His temporizing proceeded rather from fearo f consequences than from a disloyal heart ; for during theKing’ s residence in Holland

,the faithful Clarendon always

speaks of the Earl as one on whom they might count . A s aPuritan would say

,he ever remained a concealed malignant

,

or as we should reply,the base fear of temporal losses neve

extinguished the innate loyalty of his heart . The beautifulseats connected by associati on with the famil y are Penshurst,in Kent

,sung of by Ben Jouson

,and Wilton , where Sir Philip

Sidney wrote his A rcadia . A descendant of the fam ily,Lady

Dorothea Sidney, was wooed , but wooed in vain by the poet

2 52 CROSS C OUNTRY .

Waller. His poems addressed to her under the"

name ofSachari ssa (my sweetest) are still preserved . Memorials of al lthese celebrities are preserved at the two places .Such recollections did this noble picture call up in my mind .

CHA PTER XXII .

THE DRUIDS,

TEMPLE A T STANTON DREW,NEAR BRISTOL .

Al ter Zeiten al te treue Zeugen

Schm ii ckt euch doch des Leben s fri sches Grrun ,Un d der V orwel t kraftige gestal ten ,Sin d un s n och, in eur Pracht erhal ten .

Ye old true wi tn esses of times long fled,

Life’s freshest verdure tricks each an cient head,

An d m ighty form s of an cien t worlds gon e by,Stan d roun d u s

,robed in an ti qu e majesty.

Di e E ichen of Kom er.

Four ston es, with their heads of moss , are the on ly memorial s of thee ;

the grass grows between the ston es of the tomb ; the thi stl e i s there al on e

sheddin g i ts an cien t beard . Two ston es hal f sunk in the groun d, showtheir heads of moss . !tale of the times of old—the deeds of the days ofother yea rs .

” —038 1'

an.

C OMMEND me to the walks round Bristol , for n atural beautyand in terest of association . The poet may wander at thefoot of thick fairy-haunted woods

,by the side of the brown

Avon,where Southey“

,Coleridge

,and Lamb have rambled before

him ; or from the hill of A lm ondsbury he may adm ire thelovely landscape that Opens to his view

,where the silver Severn

pouring its tributary flood into the ocean,while in the far

distance the blue mountains of Wales melt into the horizon,

which is scarcely of an azure less in tense than the sky whichfloats over the scene or he may saunter on the Down, whetherit be decked, as the seasons change with the snowy May blos

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254’

eno s s C OUNTRY.

rise many heaven-poin ting spires . Over all,although it is

September, and the leaf is rustling down ,the sun shines

sweetly,and the sky is blue overhead

,while the lark pipes

aloft at “ heaven’s gate . Autumn seems to be mim ickingsumm er

,and aping

,wi th her withered cheek and wrinkled

brow,the smilin g j oyousness of youthful summer

But we must on our way. It is Autumn,reader

,a season

which we love,and all around, in Nature, seems to harmoni se

with the association of bye-gone ages . These monstrous tombstones of the past

,these monum ents of departed centuries

should be seen in autumn . We venture to lay this down as amost oracular di ctum. Spring

,with its buddi ng leaf and

sprin ging flowers,i s too j oyous a time to think of the dead ;

summer,again

,is all too merry

,and too full of gauds .” But

melancholy Autumn is the time,when the berries shine ruddy

on every hedge,and the brown leaf ru stles to the grormd, and

its companions turn crim son,and golden

,and brown, and a

thousand other colour s,as if they coul d escape the grasp of icy

winter by these Protean changes . Now,too

,we hear by the

roadside the little brooks rippling louder,and they seem to b e

prating musically to pray cold,chil ly Winter to tarry

,if but for

one little week longer,in his snowy palaces of the north . But

he comes relentless,and the swallow prepares for his flight to

burning Africa,and the robin alone pipes

,and sweetly too, from

yonder hedge,which

,though it has all the summer been a

beautiful entanglement of eglantine,and hawthorn and wild

flowers,now begins to look dreary

,as the cold bleak, piping

win ds,winter’s avan t cour iers

,whistle through it. This i s the

time for thoughts of the past,n ow that the sunsets no longer

tin t the clouds with a thousand gorgeous hues of fi ery and ofgolden li ght and there is but a chill , ruddy farewell gleam in

the West,while in the pale mornin g the East is drear and

grey.

In this dim light, at a season when the sky is but amass of dull leaden-coloured cloud di d we sally forth for

S tan ton Drew,or

,in other words

,the stone town of the

Dru ids .” There is no dat monotony about the road, whichwinds snake-like as a river, through quain t hamlets , and cot

THE DRU IDS’

TEMPLE AT STANTON DREW

tages wi th the rose sti ll blooming round their diamond panes,

and past old hostelries too, with signs representing ob sc1u *

e

naval heroes , whose fame and bodies have long since beengathered to their fathers ’ mausoleum . Here the road is halfshaded by trees for the golden-leafed elm

,and the silver

shafted birch,and the giant oak

,its trunk of a dusky brown

,and

the alder,with its stem of frosted silver

,and the primeval pine

are all there ; and then we catch glimpses of sloping meadows ,which are each

,mayhap

,the whole world of som e rustic boy

,and

perhaps,if he has a sense of the poetry of li fe

,a world fil led

with a thousand form s of beauties . Another winding, and we

see a little brook ripple over its pebbly bed through entangledshrubs

, an d even this tells of Autumn,for its little current is

strewed with yellow leaves . Here is a lone meadow with adark pond

,over which a willow hangs ; such a pl ace as we

dream of,and thin k of poor Ophelia’s fate . Bridle paths here

and there lead from the road,into wooded recesses

,where one

might expect to find none but the monarch Pan or someattendant Dryad . Around u s and about u s , on al l s ides , as faras the horizon

,are hill s and sloping fields

,which blend in the

distance .An d over all these scenes which our imagin ation may havecoloured

,there is impending like a thunder cloud the solemn

stil ln ess of Autumn . The only sounds are the fall of thewhirling leaf and the robin ’s mournful note . A l l natureseems preparin g for her win ter ’s sleep .

“ Is this the turning to the Druidical temple said we,

maj estically,to an old animated skeleton

,who

,in accordance

with England’ s admirable system ofrelief,was kneeling breaking

stones by the roadside . The poor old wretch, half in his grave,should rather have been enj oy ing the genial heat of his ownhearth

,surrounded by half-a-dozen chubby grand-children .

Temp le said the animated skeleton,evidently po z ed, but

not li king to show it,resting on his hammer

,and scratching his

head,and speaking after awhile in a tone of savage rebuke.

You mean the s taw z s at Stanton ? First turning to yourright from my next stone heap .

”

IVe thanked the old man and plodded on ; the animated

256 CROS S C OUNTRY .

skeleton’ s hammer we coul d hear feebly chipping for half-amile . Not many persons did we meet ; a few old couples ,regular Baucis and Phil em ons, going on their weekly visit toBristol

,their great metropolis a recruiting sergeant, with two

entrapped bumpkin s with ribbons on their caps . We walkedtwo miles and met not a soul . But we have passed throughsome pretty dells

,where the tops of the trees have been level

with the road,and we have passed a deserted house, which is

always food for conj ecture . The pathway to the door wasgrass-grown

,an d the garden had run wild, but, amidst all the

ruin,a few roses were still blooming profusely . Now we

quicken our steps,for just at the bend of that hill in the dis

tance we di scern a pedlar, one of a craft which we have lovedever since we read, at ten years of age, of the doin gs of thatmerry knave

,Autolycus

,the picker-up of unconsidered

trifles . That stifi’

hi l l has pulled him up, for his pack is heavy,and we are now upon his heels . Ha ! that is a French vaudevi l lehe hums

Mais lo plus gran d plass irQu e l e Prin tem s m e don n e,C

’est quan d l e v ign e bourgeonne.

We have come up to him n ow,and find he is a Frenchman

We enter into conversation,and get famil iar on the lonely way

.

He tells u s , wi th all the gaiety of a ruined Gaul, that he wasborn in beautiful Le Vendee

,that seat of ancient loyalty

,and

had finally settled as a jeweller in the Palais Royal, and havingm arried (tel le and was prospering

,too

,when that

revo lu ti on maud z‘

te broke out . He described to u s the s i lence

tr iste et morne of that horrible night of blood,when nothing

could be heard but the wail of the tocsin,the rumble of artil

lery and caissons,and suddenly the thundering clang of cavalry

.

Then he rose and oined theNati onal Guard,and fought at the

barricades against those Coquins and larrons,

” the RougeRepublicans . He had received a pike wound while stormingone of those obstacles to peace in the Faubourg St . An toine

,and

fell . A republi can hag stabbed him,but his brave comrades

bore him oi l, and he soon recovered . But

,alas since the

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258’

es oss C OUNTRY .

Ah1” said we, Roma

,Roma

,non era piu com era prima

,

quoting a song of the Campagna.This touched too tender a chord by far

,he stopped and sat

down on the bank by the road—side,and burst into tears

,

burying his face in his hands .We passed on . Reproach him not

,reader

,for you kn ow not

what deep thoughts of home and his loved ones these simplewords may have awakened .

One winding lane more,then past a mediaeval thatched

,

conical,comical turnpike-house

,and we are landed in Stanton .

A pretty and clear trout brook runs through the village,which

in the summer is greatly haunted by urchins,who dabble

about and scare away the speckled trout wi th crooked pins ,much to the rage of old Izaak Waltons . Then here and there,on the right hand and on the left

,are tranquil-l ookingman sion s ,

possessing in the highest degree that mixtur e of ugliness andcomfort in which a true Englishman rej oices . There is onewith an old dial on the lawn in front

,and another of an Inigo

Jones sort of air,and besides these there is a one-roomed

public,

”

(so call ed by courtesy) , house,

” where the bestapple wine and home-baked bread are to be procured . Ah

Elizabethan house,a fin e farm yard, some old cottages with

arched doors ; and, above all , an old mediaeval grey church ,full of monuments

,and surroun ded by a God’s acre,

” inwhich the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep

,

” complete thevillage . If every cottage were an alms-house for an ancientDruid, the place coul d not be more quiet . A whisper reverb erates through the Vill age

,a loud footstep attracts as much

attention as a tr oop of cavalry woul d in a city. Every houselooks unaltered sin ce the days when good King Charles waskin g

,

” and n o great effort of the imaginative faculty is re

quired to picture a troop of cavaliers or Ironsides riding throughin hot pursuit . We asked for the steans of a very pallidb aker

,who was slowly driving on foot a cart containing a pretty

r osy-cheeked child,s eated on a pile of quartern loaves, like a

victim on an altar. We found them,after receiving an ironical

round of cheers from a party of juvenile Somersetshires, who

e xpressed it audibly,as their private opini on

,that we were “ a

s pinning along like anythink.

THE DRU IDS’

TEMPLE AT STANTON DREW . 2 59

The old monsters of the past stand in a tranquil field

adjoining an orchard and a farm -yard,and the first view of

these stony skeletons is very impressive,although the blocks

are at a considerable distan ce fr om each other . The Druids hadplanned three distinct circles

,forming the circus

,emblematical

of the sun ’s supposed revolution, and composed of stones , someof which are four yards square . The first great circle is of hyestones

,many of which the local savages

,aided by that great

savage,Time, have considerably injured . Then there is a

circle of eight, wi th a diameter , says Seyer, of 96 feet, the circumferen ce of which is just 1 50 feet distant from the other.Next

,i s the south-west circle

,or lunar temple

,also emblematical

of planetary revolutions . It is composed of eleven stones,

having a diameter of 140 feet,and being distant from the centre

of the great circle 714 feet . There is als o , about 100 yards tothe north-west

,a cave

,so called

,ten feet wide

,and eight feet

deep,formed of three large flat stones , eighteen inches thick ,

North of this are two large stones , lyin g flat in a fiel d ; andbeyond an adjoin i ng brook , i s a very large stone, called, locally ,Hachell

’

s Quoit,” being

,we presume, the supposed work of a

giant .Local intellect is undoubtedl y highly mystified as to theserelics . The children of the hamlet don

’t play at hide and seek ”

about them after dusk , and if public-house oracles are infallible,groans

, &c. are not unfrequently to be heard in the stone-close ,when the moon is out

,

” towards the sma’ hours . One gapingrustic told u s, as how some do zay that it

’s a weddin g, and thatthe fiddl ers and the bride and groom were all petrified as theywent to church .

” Now this idea is probably a fable of theseventeenth century

,when music always preceded a couple to

church. An other old dame said , Others do zay, nobody can

’

t

count ’

em ; certain’tis a baker did try with loaves on each , and

they never could come right . But there ’tis , some do zay onething

,and zum another

,that there’s no believing none of ’

em .

”

So we thought, reader, don’t you An intelligent old farmer told

u s he had seen men dig several yards down without getting tothe foundation of one of these stones . The stone is certainlynot of the neighbourhood

,being chicfly old red sand-stone , half

8 2

260’

ono ss C OUNTRY .

v itrifiedwith intense heat in some great convulsion of our globe .Some of them

,however

,were of limestone, and have been used

to pave the roads . May the bones of those who did it be mixed.with their dust . One or two of these antique giants have nowfallen from their high estate

,and others are tottering to their

ruin we saw no Druidical rock basins in any of them,but

time had cloven in all of them vast gaps and fissures,which

were full of rain water ; all were covered thick with varioussorts of lichen

,and on many grew wild hewers, bloom ing,

as if mocking at decay we need hardly tire our readers withthe natural association of such a scene . The centre altar-stoneof the chief circle is a gigantic block as large as an Egyptianobeli sk , on which , doubtless , human blood has often been shed,when the Prince of Cornwall

,before the time of Stonehenge

,

ruled over Cavenodor and all the west of England .

We thought— who could help it — of the Dru i ds,those white

robed believers in one God,these teachers of a pure Sabaism

,

of a metempsychosis,and a future state . A ll the lays of the

bards their attendants rang in our ears,for does not old

Taliesin say

They talk of the prou d an d magn ificen t circle roun d which the majesticoaks, the symbol s of Tayreny, the G od of thun der

,spread their arm s .

”

An d again,when he is watching the rock-basin

,he says

“A cormoran t approaches me with large wings she assau l ts the top

ston e with her hoarse clamour s ; there i s w rath in the fates, let i t burstthrough the ston e.

”

Then we think of the priests of Baal,so often mentioned in

Scripture, who cut themselves with knives in honour of their

God . Aneurin,too

,says

,l ike Taliesin

Let the thigh be pierced in blood .

And again

In hon our of the m ighty king of the plan ts, the ki ng of the opencoun ten an ce. I saw dark gore ari sing from the stalks of plan ts , and on the

clasps of the chain whil e the circul ar evolution s were perform ed by thea tten dan ts and the white ban ds wi th graceful extravagan ce. The assem

bl ed train were dan cing after theirmanner, and singing in caden ce with the

garlan ds on their brows.”

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262’

os oss C OUNTRY .

blance to those of Carnac,in B ritanny, — that land of forests

and A rmorican tradition . Near Dundry we also observed a largecistvaen

,or sepulchral mound

,beneath which repose

,perhaps

,

the bones of some ancient British prince . It covers the areaof a whole fiel d. The soil all aroun d Stanton is impregnatedwith iron

,and its rich red hue gives a fine tone to the land

scape,cheering to the heart of the farmer

,as it tell s him of

hidden geological riches .Wehave no doubt that these monstrous stones were draggedthither by the united strength of a whole tribe indeed

,som e

of the Welsh triads distinctly refer to such efi'

orts when theytalk of great un dertakings being like the labour at the stoneof strength .

Just a little below these remains of Paganism,stands the old

church,founded by the holders of a purer religion

,which was

unknown when these stones were first dragged to their presentposition .

But a chapter on the Druids would involve a volume . Se

imagine u s,prithee

,good reader

,plodding home

,and

,when

arrived there,sitting down to our desk and writing the above .

Farewell,a word that has been

,and that must be

,

” ’

tis

spoken with regret,but still

,—FAREe L .

CHA PTER XXIII .

A SOMERSET SH IRE WALK .

B u t here n o m ore soft mu s ic flows,

No holy an them ’

s chan ted n owAll hu sh

’d, except the ring

-dove’

s n ote,

Low murmuring from the beechen bough.

“THAT a di smal thing is an Autumn morning . So we thoughtas we looked out from the diamond-paned window of an oldfashioned in n in the pretty monastic little village of Banwell .

Our hostelrie,reader

,was one of those which are eulogised in

so sweet a manner by old patriarchal Iz aak Walton Wherethe bed with its clean sheets smells of lavender, and the walls

A son rasrrsn i aa WALK . 263

are decked with some simple ballads . Or, as Keats says ,more poetically

Where az ure-l idded'

sheepMay rest on beds , all blan ched an d laven dered .

It was a little before dawn when] we looked out towards theMendips

,which

,covered with a blue mist

,stretched away

towards the sea,their outline looking fainter and fain ter, til l

they blended with the cold grey mist of the morning . Almostat the very instant we looked forth the dawn commenced , witha faint

,pallid glare in the East

,which anon turned into a pale

crimson glow,and soon subsided into the misty

,leaden-coloured

obscurity of an October morning . It was a very ghastly imitation of a July m orn

,and a miserable aping of the aerial pa

gean try of summ er. We were getting quite abusive againstautumn, when suddenl y the sun gleamed forth through thechill air and lit up the whole scene before u s , the hill-tops inthe distance

,the old towers of many churches that rose around

u s gleaming coldly,while its rays gave a look of cheerfulness

even to the trees,clad in their golden-coloured foliage of autumn.

We took a hasty breakfast,and salli ed out through the hamlet,

which antiquarians say is so called from B a im (deep) and717 ei lg z

'

(sea) , having been in former ages covered by the watersof the sea and the Severn . The village

,situated in a rich

valley,i s about six m iles from Axbridge

,and thir teen from

Bristol . Nothing can be m ore interesting than its legendaryand historical recollections . Like most of the Somersetshirehaml ets

,its associations are of great antiquity

,a monastery

having been founded here by one of the West Saxon kings , atthe time when England was split up into little kingdom s . Thegreat Al fred appointed to this ecclesiastical establishment hiswell-known favourite Ayser . It was destroyed during theDanish wars

,probably by piratical bands

,who landed on the

adj acent Somersetshire coast,but was

,however

,soon restored ,

for Edward the Confessor took it from that ambitious chief,Earl Harold

,and bestowed it on Dudaco

,the Lombard Bishop

of“Tells . In the fifteen th century,about the time of Henry V ,

an era when many of the beautiful and richly-decorated

264 ’

cRoss C OUNTRY .

churches of Somersetshire were built, this bishop erected anepiscopal palace here

,which was pulled down many years since ,

after having been first turned into a modern mansion. Themonastery once belonged to the Duke of Somerset

,but after

his attainder,ruthless Queen Mary restored it to the bishopric

of Wells . This same mun ificen t prelate built the fin e oldchurch of Banwell

,dedicating i t

,we believe

,to St . An drew

,

The tower,richly decorated, i s 100 feet high . There is some

good painted glass within the holy pile,and a fine brass

,dated

1 554 . There are,besides

,part of a rood loft

,an old font

,

som e parish records,commencing 1 806

,and other objects of

interest . The village is,in fact

,full of monastic reminiscences ,

and there are still remains of parts of the old m onastery,and a

market cross . Bishop Paul Bush,of Bristol

,whose skeleton mo

h ument is in Bristol cathecl ral,was once conn ected in some way

With this place . There is also a m ineral spring in the vil l age .

The adjacent hamlets are Rolston,Westwick

,Towerheacl ,

Kn ightcot, Yarborough, &c . It is in a place like this that weforget all the errors of the monks

,and think of them only

with gratitude as the heralds of civilization in these wild districts

,and the precur sors of a purer religion . A s we give a

parting look at the old tower,we think too

How many heart s have here grown cold,That s leep these m ou ldering ston es am ongHow many beads have here been told ,How many matin s have been sung.

”

Passing ou , we wended our way to the an tecl iluv ian caves ,which are situated in the grounds of a cottage built by thelate Bishop of Bath and Wells

,the grounds of which are laid

out With much taste , on the western side of a hill above thevillage . A beautiful view from the summ it repays the traveller for a clamber up a steep ascent

,and an unrivalled panorama

lies before as in a bird’ s-eye glance . Behind u s lay the darkchain of the Mendips

,among which Bleadon (B leakcl own )

rises boldly towards the sky,and Brent knoll is hardly less con

spi cuou s . To the south the splendid spir e of Bridgwaterchurch points its stony finger to the sky. To the north rises

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266’

oRo ss C OUNTRY .

thigh . In a curious cave in Bleadon-hill,the bones of ele

phants , hyaenas , rhinoceri , and other tropical animals, have alsobeen found

,but no remains of man . Who can imagine the

Mendips haunted by monsters , against whom all the strengthof man would have been ineffectual .The roof of Banwell cave drips with liquid carbonate lime

,

which tends to preserve the bones,and some of the oo z ings

from the rock have already petrified in to stalactites . Theseinteresting remains have been carefully preserved almost exactly as found, by the wish of the late Bishop . Ou the wallof the garden are som e marble tablets inscribed with appro

priate lines of a devotional character— alluding to the hillhaving once been a spot devoted to Druidical rites . The onlydrawbacks to the tou t ensemble are two Cockney-lookinggrottoes

,which are whitewashed and decorated in the worst ,

possible taste,and on a mound of turf near is a sham Druidical

altar . A“short walk thr ough the grounds brought u s out on a

bridl e path on the bleak fern-coverecl hill, and we turned ourfaces towards “ Maxwell mills .” Before u s lay many rangesof hills

,stretching as far as we could see on either hand, oce

casional ly broken into dells by mutual intersection . Manyof them are partially cultivated

,and the stubble gleamecl yel

low in the sun on the dark hill side . Some of them, the highest of the chain

,rose far in the distance

,and were tinted by

the sun’ s mellow golden light,while those nearer still were.

dark and over-shadowed,as if by the vast black wing of some

evil spir it . Here and there, on the side of a hill, a man mightbe seen ploughing on places so steep

,that it seemed preble

matical whether in some un lucky lurch , plough and ploughman

m ight not roll together into the valley below. We traversed arough field path , pushed through a picturesque fiel d or two , andpassing some tranquil-looking cottages

,and a public-house

with a great elm-tree before the door,under whose shade, and

under the sign,as if un der the banner of their liege lord, Sir

JohnB arleycorn ,sat some sages

,discussing a capacious pot of old

ale,and the newest news

,we got in to the main road. We passed

through some pretty lanes,turned up a high road, at the side

of which a spectral sort of sign-post pointed its lanh-black

A SOMERSETSHIRE WALK . 267

finger, an d we reached Maxwell . There a little stream,

dammed up till it had formed quite a mini ature lake,turns a

mill,and havin g performed that

'

piece of industry,wanders

about among the meadows in a very reckless sort of way ihdeed . Autumn ’s rul e was evident in every tree an d bush

,

even in the sallow flags and rushes that peered out of thebrooks

,that rippled cheerfull y by the wayside . Every tree had

lost its gay li very of Summer,and seemed as golden as if

Midas,in a freak of regal fancy

,had coined each leaf into a

little plate of the precious m etal . One m ight fancy that wewere in the realms of the Arab ian Sorcerer

,or those regions of

Mammon,where the trees bear jewels instead of leaves .

These are the begi nning of the enchantments of that aerialwizard Winter

,who after turni ng them to gold

,tinting them

with a thousand ruddy hues,and stamping them with the

liv id plague-spots of decay, sends his “ piping winds tostrip them from their parent tree

,and to drive them with a

cruel persecution over the hill and the m oor,and the ploughed

field and up the lane, and over the high road, wherever theyassemble in little knots

,these withered leaves

,as if whi s

pering conspiracy,these savage myrm idons of the icy king

rush at them and send them rustling to the four quarters ofDaven . And the sun, too, that great alchemist , n ow tints thealready golden leaves with a deeper yellow

,and the great fanlike

leaves of the chestnut . The carvellecl leaf of the easternsycamore and the fiowerl ike keys of the ash

,and in the orchard

by the wayside,the ruby-dyed foliage of the apple

,whirl in

the wind and come eddying to the ground,and every now

an d then,across the hard

,dry road, a leaf crackl es driven by

the breeze,and that is the only sound . Banwell is a sort of

nucleus of field and road,where at night you might expect

some will-o ’- the-wisp with his livid torch m ight beguile you to

muddy death in the horrible depths of some dark swamp. But

enough of Autumn a few more turns,atter a judi cious enquiry

at a cottage window,of a blooming Somersetshire maiden

,

bring u s to Winscombe Hill . After passing through an irregularstreet

,with a few cottages, an d a ruined barn , &c .

,which form

the vil lage,you see an old church that stands at a little distance

268’

CRoss C OUNTRY.

to the right of the road . It is a lofty decorated buil ding,with a

beautiful tower all carvel led and enriched in the m ost gor

geous manner that stone is susceptible of. Some fin e oldtrees , emblems of immortality, stand in the God’s acre ,“ where the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep . We weres lowly toili ng up Wiscombe Hi l l

,which runs through a pretty

defile,we had just reached the top , we say, and were lis

tening to the rushing of the wind amongst the branches ofs ome funeral-lookin g pines which deck its brow

,when we were

overtaken by a cheerful-looking old farmer,with a scarlet

waistcoat, on his way to A xbridge . We gathered from a chatwith him

,and his broadest Zu i n erz etshire

” dialect,full of

zurs” and thicks,&c .

,that he had just sold at a very satis

factory price,to another farmer

,an old white mare

,which for

many years had alternately pulled at the plough,and bore him

o nce a week to Wells market . Now this very satisfactory salehad thrown our friend into a state of great placidity

,and had

given him a very good opinion of the world in general . An

om inous j ingle in his pocket at each step told u s of hidtreasure

,and the shadow of a sm ile of i ll -concealed self-com

placency lurked about the wrin kled corners of his mouth . A fterhaving

,in the bubbling over-warmth of his heart

,pul led

out a sort of portable bracket-clock,a l ias a watch , which he

carried in his pocket,and then offered u s a pinch from a huge

sarcophagus,which we courteously called his snuff-box

,he fell

unsolicited in to an amusin g gossip of his youthful recollections .We won’t trouble the reader with his tales about hi s old missus

,

” or hi s Opinion of the m inister, whom he thought a greats collard

,and a good Latiner

,

” but we will briefly relate what hetold u s he had heard his grandfather zay” about the highwaymen that once haunted that pass . The stages used to be fre

quently stopped there, and sin gle travellers were often robbedin the winter as they passed over A xbridge Moor by night .

Once,he said

,a gentleman who had taken the road,

” let thepassengers of a stage pass on trust

,on condition that a pretty

lady inside would dance a minuet with him on the moor .“ And he was quite the gentleman, and never would rob thepoor

,but would give them a guinea or two n ow and then, when

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270 CROS S C OUNTRY.

WRINGTON .

A few miles further brings u s into Wrington,after wander

ing through some pretty lanes,after passing an old posting

inn which was shut up long ago,and which looks like some

vast mausoleum reared to the genius of coaching,an efi

'

ete

science ; and above all , some orchards , where the trees areb owing down with the weight of ruddy apples

,and where some

urchins,with cheeks as rosy as the apples

,are pelting each

other with the fruit,in spite of all the rein on stran ces of a gray

headed grandfather,while the orchard re-echoes with their sil

ver-toned laughter.A long lane leads u s into Wrington ; the houses begin tothicken

,hostelries get more numerous

,and above them

the fine tower of the vi llage church peers over all, thestreets thicken and diverge as from a nucleus of four. Weanxiously enquire for the house of the great Locke

,who , we

know,was born here in the year 1 632 . To our great delight,

every boy in the street,even the group playin g for dear life”

at leap-frog near the chief inn,knew all about Mr. Locke

and un der the guidance of the head boy,who volunteers to

pilot u s , with an ultimate eye to a prospective penny, we sallyon . A short turn up a little half-paved lane

,past a row o f

clean cottages,in many of which a pleasan t fire is glowing

,

and we arrive at the obj ect of our pilgrimage . It is an humble

,clean

,thatched house

,close to the churchyard

,the last of

a row leading from one of the principal streets . It consists oftwo stories

,and

,in our own day

,might be the fit abode for a

gardener or higher order of labourer although Locke’s fatherwas a man of some landed property, and of Dorsetshire extraction . A man who coul d afford to send hi s son to col lege, andtrain him up to one of the liberal professions , would hardl y livein such a cottage at the present day .

Never did saint feel more devout when he reached the shrineof his patron saint

,never crusader at the sight of Jerusalem ,

than we di d at the sight of a house so connected with thememory of the greatest phil osopher of England in modern, or,perhaps

,any time

,— that great man

,who first made an intel li

gent use of the sublime prin ciples laid down by Bacon who

A SOMERSETSHIRE WALK 271

earnt fr om that sage to watch nature in her laboratory, andtrace her works ; he who first cleared the science of metaphy sics from all the barbarous jargon of the schools ; and, as

Shaftesbury says , brought philosophy into the use and practice of the world

,and into the company of the better and politer

sort,who mi ght well b e ashamed of it in its other dress — the

great man ,who

,first clearing the science of the mind on the

one hand from the ideal obscurity of the Platonists , and onthe other from the debasing materialism of the disciples of theStagyrites , taught u s , as if with the voice of a god, that all ou rideas proceed from two simple sources— sensation and reflec

tion . The senses furni sh the raw material to the brain, which byits reflection and contemplation is worked up into innumerablethoughts .That great authority, Sir James Mackintosh , says , Locke

’sworks have contributed much to rectify prejudice, to undermine establi shed errors

,to diffuse a just mode of thinking

,to

excite a fearless spir it of enquiry, and yet to contain it withinthe b oundaries which nature has prescribed to the human understandin g. He has left to posterity the instructive example of a prudent reformer, and of a philosophy temperate aswel l as li beral , which shares the feel ings of the good, and avoidsdirect hostil i ty with obstinate and form idable prejudi ce. IfLocke made few di scoveries, Socrates made none . Yet bothdid more for the improvement of the understanding

,and for the

progress of knowledge, than the authors of the m ost bril liantdiscoveries . Perhaps few men have led a l ife so happy as ourphilosopher . Neither Plate with his dreary years of sorrowan d suffering, or Aristotle with the toil of his disciples, couldboast such advantages . Locke learnt toleration in the schoolof persecution

,acquired liberality from the doctrines of the

Independent divines,and a love of freedom from his di ssenting

friends . Hewas born in an age when experhn ental philosophywas making rapid strides

,and the Royal Society was onl y

l ately established . He was an intimate friend of Newton’s,

of Le Clerc,and other continental men of science . The

generous liberality of the Earl of Shaftesbury enabled him todevote his life to study he studied wisdom in men as well as

272 CROS S COUNTRY .

in books, and mixed with every rank of society. His life glidedon peacef ully towards eternity

,like som e mighty

,silent

,flowing

river. He realised these fine lines of old enthusiastic Crashaw

Sydneyian showers

Of sweet di scourse, whose powersC an crown old Win ter

’

s head with flowers .

Soft sil ken hours ,Open sun s an d shady bowers,

’Bove al l n othin g wi thin that lowers .

Whate’

er deli ghtCan make day

’

s forehead bright,Or give down to the wing of n ight .

His was

A happy sou l , that al l the wayTo heaven had a summer day.

”

He di ed at the seat of Lady Masham ,at Ongar

,in Essex

,

while his patroness was reading him a chapter in the Psalm s .We will not say a word on the absurd imputations of material i sm once thrown out again st this great Christian phi losopher ; for no writer in the English language is more pious ordevout . It is difficul t to say whether Locke did most for thecause of true science

,religious toleration

,or education . He

found them all hidden in Cimmerian darkness,and besmeared

with corruption ; he left them almost restored to their pristin ebeauty.

The most delightful trait of Locke’s private character is hisbehaviour towards Sir Isaac Newton

,who became insane from

grief at the destruction of som e MS . by fire . Pepys alludesto i t. Newton

,soon after this dreadful visitation

,wrote to his

friend a letter,beginning strangely thus

SIR—B eing of Opin ion that you en deavoured to embroi l me wi th wom en , an d by other mean s , I was so much affected wi th i t, that when one

tol d m e you were sickly, and woul d n ot li ve, I an swered’

twere better i f youd ied,” &e.

Newton then apologises for this,and also for having said that

Locke’s principles struck at the root of morality .

” Our phi

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274’

eaes s C OUNTRY .

al l Somersetshire . The edifice is 1 20 feet long, and 52 wide ;the tower 140 feet high , and every little ornament of thebuilding is elaborately fin i shed. We part icul arly noticed the

east end, on each corner of which are niches for statues whileabove

,gurgoyles

,in the shape of dragons

,seem to scramble

down the wall, and vomit the water from their stony mouths .There is also a nave

,chancel, and porch , comprising every re

qu i s ite of this architectural period . The tower contains a goodpeal of bells

,which sound musically as the traveller catches their

chime faintly on the distant Mendip s . A new church hasbeen built in the adjoining hamlet of Redhill . The well-knownWaterland once lived h ere ; and there is a free school in theparish . The teazel i s grown largely for the uses of the cloth

trade in this neighbourhood, towards Broadwell down andz inc and caliminaris are found in abun dant quantities . Thevillage

,situated near Burrington, i s about twelve miles from

Wells,and eleven from Bristol . We were sorry to learn from

a vi llager, that the inhabitants of this rich vil lage have been forhalf-a-dozen years coll ecting subscriptions to buy an organ fortheir beautiful church , and have not yet succeeded .

The great object of interest here,after the birth place of

Locke,is B arley Wood

, a pretty little cottage, where the excellent Hann ah More resided with her band of lovin g sisters

,after

she gave up their school at Stapleton . Here,after publishing

B as B lew her plays , and Caleb in search of a Wife,

” thatnovel so saintly and solemn, she retired as to a hermitage ;and here, after having acquired a vast deal of literary fam e,and having contracted friendships with Dr. Johnson

,Reynolds

,

Burge,Garrick, &c.

, she devoted herself to works of charityan d mercy. Penetrating the wilds of the hills

,like a nun of

o ld,she established schools in the rocky fastnesses of Cheddar ;

an d before her death had that inexpressible delight,whi ch only

the virtuous can conceive, of seeing above a thousand children ,w ith several female clubs of industry, assemble at an ann ualfete on those rocky heights . Then might thi s excellent womanhave said

,Now let thy servant depart in peace

,for mine eyes

have seen thy salvation . Of made by her writin gs,she

l eft legacies to charitable institutions amounting to

A SOMERSETSHIRE WALK . 275

‘

Was ever money got by purer means, or spent to a m ore holypurpose ? To the rough m iners whom she Visited

,living in

di stricts as uncult ured as the wilds of Africa, that pious bandof sisters must have seemed like mini stering angels . She diedon the 7th of September, 1 833 , aged eighty-eight , full of yearsand full of hope . She was gathered in like a sheaf of the ripestwheat into her Sav iour’ s garner. A merry

,plethoric

,old land

lady at an in where we took dinn er remembered all the famil y .

They were carried to the grave,she said

,all -five

,one after the

other,and poor Mrs . Hannah More

,

“ dear soul,

” the last .There ’s her grave

,sir

,with the weepin g willow over it . It

stands,reader

,near the road

,and a willow does bend its leafy

branches over it .

“ An d,

” continued the good Mrs . Boniface,

there ’ s a grand monument to her in the church , with such ahepitaph, it woul d take you a quarter of a hour to read i t .

”

This is vulgar fame . The worthy hostess would have suffereddeath at the stake

,if she could have in sur ed herself a hepitaph

that would take half an hour reading,beating Mr s . Hannah

by a good quarter ; ladies said she cam e down and prayed the“

rill agers to copy i t, as they haven’

t time to wait . We got qui techatty wi th the old lady ; and having praised Locke and Hannah More in a flowery oration that consum ed hal f an hour bythe great inn clock

,that ticked lug ubriously, we so won her

heart,that having unfortunately made an observation on the

crop of apples being deficien t, the old lady forcibly and powerfully convinced u s of the contrary, by not al lowin g us to departti l l we had filled our pockets to repletion with the ruddy produce of her own orchard . We left as heavily ballasted as aDutch East Indi arnan ; and having taken a stirrup cup of excel lent cider of this year ’s brewing, went on our way rejoicing,light of heart but heavy in pockets .Like Autolycus, we sang on our way to Congresbury, pro

nounced cachoPli onou sly C oomesbury,

Jog on , jog ou,the foo tpath way,

An d merri ly hen t the s t i le a.

A m erry heart goes all the day,

You r sad tires in a m i le a.

”

276’

CRoss COUNTRY .

Just as you get on any of the heights here, a mansion halfhidden with foliage meets your eye

B osom’

d high in tu fted trees,W here perhaps some beauty li es,The cyn osure of n eighb ouring eyes .

We believe it is called Mendip Lodge . A more beautiful situation could hardly be conceived .

CONGRESBURY

i s associated with the legendary of a hermit named St . Conger,

who is said in very recent times to have come to England,after

being a m onarch of the East . This benefice was given by thetyrant

,John

,to Jocel in e

,Bishop of Wells . There is a bean

tiful view from hence of the vale of Glastonbury and its monas~

t ie ruins . Travellers shoul d always visit a place where hermitsare said to have lived ; for both that pious fraternity as well asthe founders of monasteries had a wonderful keen eye for thebeautiful and sublime

,and none felt more keenly the loveliness

of unadorned nature

When'

unadorned , adorn ed the m ost.

A long walk through a devious lane and winding roadbrought u s , after a careful consul tation of the half-obliteratedhieroglyphics on many a sign-post

,to

BROCKLEY .

Let us bury for ever in dark oblivion our conversation witha miner

,our chat with a collier

, and, lastly, although we dropa tear as we wipe it off our tablets

,the meeting with an old

man and his wi fe, who were going to an adjoining workhouse .

They wept as they went along ; because they knew that, afterliving together for thirty years

,and sharing the world’s smiles

and frowns,the showers and sun shine of fortune, they were to

be torn asunder for ever,and not to meet

,no

,not even in the

grave . We were still thinkin g over the p r ison-rel i’

ef system ,

that inflicts such deserved pun ishment on the atrocious crim eof poverty

,when we entered the wooded COOMB E ,

and its wildbeauty soon swept away all thoughts of the suffering of our

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278 C ROS S COUNTRY .

CHAPTER XXIV .

A WALK OVER THE MENDIPS .

'

,The chil ly cl ose of an Autumn

’s day,

When the leaves fall thick on the wan derer’

s way ;

And ru stl ing pin es with a holl ow soun dForetell the tempest gathering roun d ;W hen the skirts of the western clou d are spreadWi th a tinge of wil d and s tormy red,

That seem,th rough the twi li ght forest bowers ,

Like the glare of a city’s blaz in g towers .

” —Mrs . Hemans .

When Autumn has laid her sickle by,And the stacks are threepi t to keep them dryAnd the sapl ess l eaves come down fra’

the trees,

And dan ce abou t in the fitful breez eA nd the robin again s its bu rd alone

,

An d sings hi s song on the aul d peat-stone.— Cap taz

'

n Grays

CHEDDAR .

An d Cheddar for mere grief, his teene he coul d n ot wreake,Gu sht forth so forceful that he was l ike to b reakeThe greatest banks of Ax, as from hi s m other

’

s cav e,

He wan dered to the sea.

”—Drayl on .

THI s gem of a village is interesting alike from the naturalmagn ificen ce of its scenery, its manufactures , and its antiquities .

Like A xbridge,it was origin ally a royal dem esne belongin g to

the Saxon Kings . King John gave it to the Bishop of Wells ,from whence it derives its name of Cheddar Episcopi ; theformer name being derived from the British word C ed

,a height

,

and Dwr (Dwvr) , water, as Dover, 850. In the reign ofEdward

VI .

,it was sold, and final ly came into the possession of the

Marquis of Bath,to whom it now belongs . Passing an old

market cross,onl y the shaft of which remains

,we go through

one or two irregul ar streets,passing several picturesque water

mills,and a dark den

,whence the red sparks are flying out

under the ponderous hammer of a stalwart sm ith,we arrive at

the cli ffs . A road by the side of a clear brook,here and there

dammed up for the u se of mills, leads you into a rocky ravi ne .On one side is a gentle hill

,well wooded

,and glowing in the

A WALK OV ER THE MENDIPS . 279

varied colours of autumn,at the foot of which are some m iners ’

cottages ; on the other rise the cl iffs, 400 feet high , frown ing inawful grandeur . The grey rocks are here clothed with natur e ’stapestry ; the dark yew,

the clinging ivy, the fiverwort, andthe fengren . A t the foot, and on little ledges below,

everywhere bloom s the sweet- scented basil and the wild rue . A t

some seasons of the year,too

,these dark grey rocks are covered

with red clouds of the rock pink,and in summer by the blue

hare-bell,which blossoms in every crevice and fissure of the

cliffs . In som e place s the rocks swell forth with bold prom inen ces

,like the bastions of some ruined keep

,and at others

sink into dark chasms . Many deep caverns are foun d in variou s

parts of the rocks . In one of them an old woman lived fortwenty years . An other abounds with the most beautifulstalactites

,and in

"

a thi rd,human bones

,as well as those of

beasts and oxen,have been discovered . A t one point the cliffs

rise to a height of 420 feet,nearly 100 feet higher than those

of St. Vincent,at Clifton and nothing can surpass their

sublime grandeur at this spot . A winding ascent of two milesbrings you through this rocky pass to the summit

,which is

still 100 feet below that of the highest Mendip . Here fivesister-springs gush out of the rocks , and, uniting together, pourtheir crystal stream

,which is fil led by dark green aquatic

plants,and the blue shell s of limpets below.

A s at Clifton,the geological strata point out, by their resem

blance on either side of the defile,the dreadful convul sions

whi ch tore them asunder. The delighted visitor is tormentedin this place by guides

,who insist on pointing out what they

imagin e to be objects of interest,and beautiful Jimpses ,

” withthe m onotonous voice and whining tone of the craft. Thestones and spar they offer for sale are dug some miles off.An interesting legend appertains to these crags . An old MS.

in the possession of the Axbridge Corporation,of the eleventh

century, mentions that Edward the Confessor, A .D . 9 75 ,

came here to hunt,during his retirement at Glastonbury

,soon

after the disgrace of St . D unstan . In the ardour of the chase,the stag and the hounds were carried together over the cliffs ,and dashed to a thousand fragments . The king ’s horse was

280 CROSS COUNTRY.

following them at the height of his speed,when Edward

,sud

den ly breathing a vow of repentance and forgiveness ofDunstan,was preserved by his horse suddenly stopping on the edge ofthe yawning chasm . Struck with awe at God ’s goodness

,he

returned to Axbridge,and restored St. Dun stan to his former

honours . Se says the monkish chronicler.We tore ourselves away and turned back to visit the church

,

which is dedicated to St. An drew,and was probably built in

the fourteenth century,by SirRobert de Chedder

,the son of a

Bristol burgess,who lived in Broadmead his tomb stil l stands

within the communion rails,and a fine brass on this m onum ent

represents the knight clad in complete steel while a figureof Isabella

,his lady

,is on the floor bel ow . There are also in the

church two piscinas,a fine stone pulpit

,painted and gilded by

the monks of old,a lectern with a half-destroyed copy of Foxe ’s

Martyrs,part of a rood-loft

,and a gilded and carved roof. The

vestry is an old chantry,and another chapel of this rare old

church contains a statue of some saint,much mutilated . In

the windows are some good fragments of early-stained glass,

one or two of the faces in which have a holy,placid expression

,

rarely found at so early an age . Ah old tombstone,A .D . 1 595

,

of Ed. Roe,with an English in scription

,i s on the floor

,and

the remains of a stone with a fioriated cross .There are two chapel sédedi cated to the Holy Virgin and theTrin ity . In one of them is part of a very old defaced monument on which the arms are a heart between hands andfeet . The tower

,adorned with pinnacles

,and an elegant

parapet,i s 100 feet high . The nave and aisles have pierced

parapets , and the ceiling of the belfry i s richly decorated . A s

we were in the chur ch,a pale ray of sunl ight lit up the tombs

with a beautiful,yet melancholy light . One of the Cheddar

fam ily was married to Lord de Lisle,who perished in the battle

of Nibley Green, in the reign of Edward II .

, when William ,

Lord of Berkely,was his opponent . The church is 1 29 feet

long,and in the north and south porches are stone seats and

niches, where the images of the patron sain ts once stood ;a fine yew-tree grows in the churchyard . Ou Cheddar Moor,many battles are said to have taken place between the British

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’

oRoss C OUNTRY .

Every now and then there is a plantation slopin g to the roadside

,or the road itself winds down into a valley

,or stretches ,

across a plain. Here and there is a fine view of the chann el,

which stretches wide in the distance and j ust away from thehigh read there are some pretty snatches of scenery—the rocksbecome precipitous

,and a rivulet gushes forth

,as the mining

population would say,like silver ore when it is molten . And

this pretty Village is associated with Bristol,for Henry VIII .

,

with all the generosity of a royal robber,gave this Vicarage to

B i shonBu sh, the skeleton effigy of which worthy man restsin the chancel of Bristol Cathedral . The vulgar traditionthere is, that he was starved to death by the Roman Catholicsbut skeleton effigies , having a figurative meaning, are frequentin old churches . Antony aWood gives a good account of thisprelate. A short walk brings u s on to

SHIPHAM .

Just below the road,the rocks sink into awi ld

,craggy valley

,

most picturesque and beautiful . A more charm ing spot forthe pencil of a SalvatorRosa cannot be imagined . From hence ,on a clear

,cloudles s day, can be seen all the coast of South

Wales,and the rock of the chasm

,

” and other mountainsnear Abergavenny. The Saxons and Danes once fought here,and stained this spot, where nature seem s so wild and beautiful ,with blood . Lapis calam inaris is found in considerable quantities in these rocks an in dustrious man quarrying for it can ,I am told

,earn a g uinea a-day . This stone

,when powdered, i s

used in the manufacture of brass when fused,the m etal is con

s i derably increased in weight . This mineral is probably nothin gbut lead in an oxidized form

,being always found over a vein of

'

that metal . The subterranean riches of Somersetshire are yetbut half developed. A new church

,possessing a good deal of

’

simple beauty, has lately been built in this parish . St. Leonardwas

,we believe, formerly the patron saint of the hamlet .

A mile or two further,after enquiries from a throng of

chubby children,who are absorbed in the delight of a game of

ring-taw,

” and again,of a corpulent

,m erry-looking old land

lord, who stood at the door of his inn, as if to show passers-by

A WALK OV ER THE MENDIPS . 283

what capital effects his XXX produced ; so have we seen a fatold spider

,lyin g p erdu in a corner of his web , waitin g for some

intrusive fli es . Several anxious questions of stone-chippers bythe road side, who served u s as animated mile-ston cs , broughtu s to

C HURCHIL L .

One thin g, however, did we notice in an adj oinin g hamlet,whi ch afforded u s an inward sm ile . In the principal part ofthe said village stood an attorney ’s house ; its varnished doorand ponderous knocker spoke of flocks of li tigious cli ents . Thehouse looked purse-proud and important

,and looked down at

you with its great glass eyes,quite contemptuously . A few

doors further on,however

,we came to the humble house of a

junior limb of the law,evidently an unsuccessful practitioner,

for the house looked emaciated, and weeds were gr owing roundthe door . The business of John Doe seemed evidently to havebeen absorbed in the whirlpool of Richard Roe . Se have weseen a black corpulent spider live for a long time in the cornerof a win dow-pane

,enj oying a bloated state of prosperity, t ill a

rival practitioner has established him self in an opposite corner,and speedil y first drawn away

,and then swallowed

,all his

clients . \V e pitied the absorbed practitioner,and passed on .

The vil lage of Churchill lies near the great BridgwaterRoad ,and under the north brow of DoleberryHill . Thi s fine oldrugged [eminence has served as a place of encampment forevery nation that has ever invaded England . The Britons havebuil t here their wattled huts

,and on i t

,and from hence

,have

blazed their beacon fires,gleaming over the vale of Glastonbury

and the eagle of the Romans,and the white horse of the Saxons

,

have alike waved from its summ it . The peasants still believethe height haunted

,and imagine that vast treasures lie con

cealed beneath its rocky surface .

I fDo leberry d igged were,Of go ld shou ld be the share

runs the local adage . Traces of encampments still remain,

many acres in width, parallelogram in shape, and open at eitherhand .

’

CRoss C OUNTRY .

CHAPTER XXV .

THE SUBURB S OF B RISTOL .

The knowledge of scen ery which i s achi eved by such excursion s i s al l

c lear , unall oyed, and pricel ess gain , for i t n ot on ly enri ches the chamber ofm emory with pictu res whi ch can b e expan ded atwi l l , bu t n ouri shes the

power of appreciating all other k indred scenes, an d redoubles the charm

o f those we m ay afterwards enjoy.— SERJEANT TALFOURD

’

S V ACATION

RAMBLES.

THE enterprising pedestrian who sets out with intent to Visitthe hamlets which form the text of our present chapter

,must

leave the city by the side where the tower of Lawford’s Grateonce commanded the town wall . Passing along a dull and uninteresting read

,he will first arrive at Easton, a scattered v i l

lage,chiefly inhabited by miners from the adj oining coal-pits ,

There is nothing here to detain the eye for a moment,if we

except the old manor house of the Village,an erection of the

time of Queen An ne,or perhaps older

,which is now divided

into two houses . A sun-dial stil l remains over one of thedoorways

,and the old-fashioned terrace is ascended by a few

steps,on each side of which

,like guardian deities of the soil

,

grow two enormous bay trees . A little further on,down the

sam e lane,away from the road to Stapleton

,brings you to a

m odern church,a massive building of the early Norman style .

The architect,in his love for the Gothic ideal

,has retained even

the barbarities of other days,for down the roof of the tower

Sprawl uncouth monsters,half beasts

,half fien ds

,who do not

answer even the excusable purpose of gurgoyles . This churchseems quite like a missionary station among this rude andneglected population

,who

,for so many years

,with the ex

ception of a smal l chapel, of some fanatical sect, have lived inas savage and uncared-for a state as could any tribe of unwashed Ethiopians

,whon1

,by

-the-bye,this begrimed population

exceedingly resemble .Leaving Stapleton

,with all its Hannah More associations

,to

the left,we cross som e dreary waste-looking fields

,just such as

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286 CROSS COUNTRY .

u s, before, and on either hand ; We seem to be entering intothe veritable realms of old KIN G C OAL

,the great grim mo

nareh of nursery fable the roads are paved with coal,the leaves

of the trees that frin ge the road are black ! the men that passu s with candles in their caps are very dark

,so are the donkeys

they dr ive the children that shout along by the way-side areblack as Erebus the houses are as dark as if they had beencut out ofblocks of coal ; the stones we walk on ,

seem coal andthe air

,as far we can see

,is blackened with dark wreaths of

smoke .Colliers are evidently an ardent and bibulous set

,for public

houses seem inn umerable ; there are the Mason’s Arms

,and the

Royal Arm s , and everybody else’s arms

,enough to tire the

Clarencieux king of arms him self to enumerate .Amongst this strange semi—barbaric population Wesley beganhis labours his fervid enthusiasm and homely style m adethousands of converts . Among a race

,to whom to speak of

Christ,and heaven and hell

,

” were unheard-of things,di ssent

gained groun d,because the Church had never raised her banner.

"

Whether dissent still prevails we cannot say but we only sawon e chapel by the side of the road

,and a more hideous defian ce

of the ungodl y law of beauty we never saw . It was devoutlyu gly . A great part of the low lands of this parish are devotedto market gardens

,a purpose for which its dark

,friable

,alluvial

s oil well fits it . The produce is brought to Bristol by thefemale inhabitants

, chiefly the wives of coll iers , who affect amost primeval dress

,and rejoice in peculiar and rather pictu

resque bonnets, which seem derived from the gipsy hat ofGeorge II .

’

s reign . The village of St . George contains nothingof interest . A part of the hamlet

,bearing the mysterious

name of Don John’s Cross,derives its romantic title from a

cross formerly erected here,in the time

,we believe

,of Eliza

beth,to commemorate the halting of the funeral possession

of Don Juan,a rich Spaniard

,whose body was

sbrought to

Bristol to be exported to its native country. Remains of itsshaft are said to be still somewhere preserved .

The houses about Kingswood have an uncomfortable, unruralair ; about some of them there is an ill-maintained air of res

THE SUBURB S or BRISTOL . 287

pectabil ity, and about all of them there is d irt. Colli ers 1011round the doors smoking

,looking dingy out of win dows

,an d

the roads are perpetuall y crowded with waggons full of coal .The juvenile part of the population seem to grow up colliersprecociously . Infant C arters

,clad in profuse ancestral waist

coats,a world too wide

,

”an d more like great coats, drive

along carts,looking l ike little models of their fathers

,who

walk before . Itinerant vendors of different commodities fil lthe air with their hoarse cries

,in rival eagerness to tempt the

inhabitants to purchase . We pass two neat modern churches,

and breathe a little pure air as we approach Syston. Heremysterious-lookin g chains cross the road

,belonging to some

coal works a brook ripples by the way-side, it sounds romantic— but it is of boiling water

,and flows from the engine-shed .

Unearthly clangings are heard,the only sound is the throbbing

of the steam -engine ; the yards are fill ed with miners’ picks .”

Who would think that this unromantic mining district is theseat of numerous historical associations . To Syston QueenAnn e used to come, to drink of the water of some medicin alSprin g, which here well s up from the ground . At Pucklechurch

,

adjoinin g,i s an old far in-house

,which stands on the site of a

palace of the Saxon Kings,one of whom ,

Ethelred, as far aswe remember, was stabbed here , at a great feast, by a famousrobber

,who enraged the monarch by his intrusion

,in defiance

of his authority.

Every n ow and then we pass some picturesque old gable

ended house, redolent of the days of Teniers . One of the inns,

the Maypole,

” was probably built on the scene of the Villagefestivities .

A t Bridge Yate the road passes through a pretty common,and near a most picturesque hostelrie. The house is gableended

,with those ornaments on the ridge-front which are pe.

culiar to the age of Charles II . A vine clambers over thewalls

,and round the windows

,and over the old porch . And

here, by

-the-bye,a word about the porch as a peculiarly En

glish adjun ct to a house, most suitable to our climate, and wellworthy the attention of all modern architects . “fell managed,it might be made a great ornament to the house of a man ofmiddling rank .

288 CROS S C OUNTRY .

The common here is a beautiful little bit of English villagescenery ; the high road traverses it, while on one side it isedged by a group of old-fashioned houses

,and on the other by

wooded hills ; and you can just see the heights of Lansdown .

Diverging to the left,and traversing a hilly road

,which is now

sunk between high embosked banks,all yellow with the death

tint of decay,and now rising higher

,leads you over the sum

mit of a hill,on each side of which

,below

,the country rises

and falls in beautiful irregul arity .

A sudden turn of the road brings you at once into Ab ston,

opposite the church,which rears its grey head on some rising

ground,above the few scattered houses that now constitute

what once was so important a place . It derives its nam e, Ab

bot’s-town,

” from the circum stance of there having been once amonastery here ; and few villages, perhaps , in the wide realm ofEngland have been the scene of so many events . Zealousl ocal antiquarians even assert it to have been the Abone of Anton ius . Though this may be more justly claimed for our ownClifton

,or Sea-mills, it cannot be denied that Abston was a

well -known halting-place for the Rom an legionary on his wayfrom the Severn, v i a Clifton, to A qua Solis (Bath) .

Here,and at Wick

,Roman coins and other remains have

been found ; footpaths can be partly traced here, and a fiel d,called the Chestles, or Castles,

” i s still poin ted out as thescene of a great battle between C eau l in , a Saxon Chieftain, andthree British kings

,all of whom fell beneath his sword . It

took place about the year 577 . The church, dedicated, we believe

,to the flayed St . Bartholomew, is of plain architecture .

The tower is,however

,rather elaborate in its last story

,and

has a door adorned with quatrefoil . The whole bui lding,

however,derives beau ty from its commandin g position . Som e

old yews flouri sh in the church yard . A steep path,on one

side of which are houses,brings you to a deep wooded glen

,

through which the Boyd,a pretty rippling stream

,hastens to

j oin its waters to the great Avon which flows above . Therocks on either side fall back from the river, and form on theone side a sort of mountainous country for the space of awhole

field which is richly wooded.

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290’

oRoss C OUNTRY .

CHAPTER XXV I .

A WALK TO TAUNTON.

TAUNTON , or the station on the river Tone, cal led by theRomans who settled there Thonodonum

,is as picturesque an

old English town as any in Somersetshire . It boasts of muchthat can give interest to the antiquary or delight the lover ofthe pictur esque.It has all the associations of a little city ; and its old almshouses , its castle, and, above all, its two beautiful churches,furnish materials from which the imagination

,as from some

inexhaustible treasury,can weave the legend and the romance.

We might conjecture,even if we were not supported by tradi

tion, that in the very earliest age some British tribes chose thefertil e vale of Taunton Deane as a station in which to reartheir huts . The keen eye of a savage would readily see theadvantages of a place so adapted by natu re as a site for a settlement . Protected on all sides by the vast marshy tracts aroundthe source of the Parret ; having a river flowing through thevale, from which they would fish, and not very distant , thegreat forest of the Mendip Hills

,the haunt of the wolf

,the

badger, and all those other animals , whose skin s , in that earlyneriod of civilization

,furnished clothing

,while their flesh fur

n i shed food to the fierce hunter. There, too, at a later period,the rich al luvial soil

,washed from the hills

,and carried down

by the stream that watered the district, must have attracted theRoman settlers and the civilized Saxon. In this valley

,as far

as the eye can reach from the fair tower of St . Mary’s , did theWhite Horse and the Red Dragon once struggle for conquestand for li fe . Here i f tradition may be trusted , did the patriotA rthur spread havoc amongst the followers of the traitor Horsa.

Here,too

,how inspiring to reflect, on this very ground, thought

we,as we paced up the principal streets of the town, di d the

great Al fred,perhaps

,animated by the recollection of the glory

o f a here,although of a hostile nation

,after his long conceal

ment in the neatherd ’s hut, amidst the dreary m arshes, di scomfit the Danes in a terrible battle

,after they had already been

dr iven back with the loss of their great magic Raven standard,

A WALK 'ro TAUN

'

I‘

ON . 291

which was woven by the hands ofWi erd women . Now,again

,

the pageant changes , an d we hear from St . Mary’s the hymn

of praise,the beauteous building echoes with the sound

,for

since the days of Al fred has sprun g up a strong castle,which

i s a fortress held by some great baron,and instead of the war

like Saxon citizen,ever ready to repul se the Danes

,who land

on the adj oinin g coast,there are plump

,well-fed burghers

here,men who work the sil k and the wool

,and they the first

,

too,who have practised those arts in En gland .

Taunton,even at the Conquest

,seems to have been rather an

important place,as it was then made a fiet

'

of some favouritenoble . It afterwards became an appendage of the Bishopric ofWinchester . It stood a siege from the forces of the impostorWarbeck , in Henry V II .

’

s reign,who was taken before its

wall s,after a short ski rm ish with the royal troops . In Eliza

beth ’s age Drayt on says

What care so empty i s that hath n ot heardOf Taun ton

’

s fertil e val e

A s in most of the facts advanced in that wonderful repertory,

the Po lyo lbz'

on,Drayton is correct .“ In the civil wars Taunton

endured a siege from the royali st forces,it being then a centre

of a very Puritan district . Colonel Goring,one of the bravest

an d most licentious of the royal party, commanded the belea

guering troops . They were st ill lying before the town , whichheld out stoutly

,when the fatal battle of Naseby was fought.

The want of that Colonel Goring ’s troop gave that Victory toCromwell and Fairfax . A letter from Goring , an officer as fierceand dashin g as Rupert

,saying that he expected to take the

place in three weeks,and intreating the king to delay giving

battle,was un fortunately intercepted by Fairfax . To this

siege,therefore

,may fairly be attributed

,i f not the f ate, at

least one great defeat of Charles . Fairfax , relying on this letter

,raised the siege of Taunton with three thousand men , and

having defeated the Royalists at Lamport, took Bridgwater bystor m. We believe it was at this siege by Goring that thecitizens were encouraged in their resistance by the exhortationsof a brave Independent minister.

292’

eRoss C OUNTRY.

But perhaps the most in teresting and well -known event conn ected with the history of this town is the active part it tookin the Duke ofMonmouth’s rebell ion . Soon after he had landedat Lyme

,he visited Taunton

,which had been reckoned on by

his partizans as one of the towns most zealous for the Protestant cause

,the defence of which furnished him with an ,

excuse for aiming at the throne . All here was for him,and

his star,so soon to set for ever on Sedgemoor

,seemed now

at his zenith . The town smen presented him with a stand ofcolours

,adorned with Protestant emblems ; twenty maidens

of the town , dressed in white, in a solemn procession, gave him.

a Bible and a sword ; and great was the applause and deep theadmiration, when this wretched impostor, in a theatrical speech ,promised to defend the one by the other . In less than a monthhis head had been held up by a bungling executioner amidstthe execrations of a London mob .

Then came the terrible retribution ; for this hour of follyabout twenty townsmen were hun g by Jeffery, and the damselswho had compromised their loyalty were only pardoned afterpaying a very heavy fin e

,which a man named Penn

,acting as

agent of the queen’s maids of honour,wrung from the terrified

burghers . In this town,too

,the butcher Kirk exercised his

most horrible cruelties . Hanging some of the rebels,he em

ployed fiddl ers to play whil e the wretches were writhing intheir death agonies

,and then he laughed aloud at the “ rogues

dancing.

”

The town has had numerous charters from nearly all ourkings , and seem s during the reign of Edward III . to have beenconsidered by that great monarch as the centre of the clothtrade

,the citizens being aided by settlers from the great com

mercial districts of Flanders .The town is intersected by several streets . A t the end of onestands St. Mary Magdalene

,the great glory of the valley . By

the side of another,towards the river

,is the castle

,standi ng in

the midst of a court-yard,the entrance to which is by an old

gateway,on whose scathed front may still be traced some ih

scription s , carved there by the abbots of yore ! Across one streetruns the Tone

,and in another

,which rambles away towards

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294 CROSS C OUNTRY.

boasts a statue of the worthyman,dressed in the decent attire

of a rich burgess of the time of Elizabeth,and painted to repre

sent life. The epitaph is long and curious ; it begins , Taunton bore him

,London bred him

,piety taught him

,religion led

him, Taunton blessed him London blessed him,

&e.

”An o

ther is to the m emory of Richard Naish, who endowed alms

houses in the town,still existing. Some of the seats in the

church under his monument are still devoted to the use of hisdescendants . An elegant modern marble monument perpetuates the memory of the soldiers who fell in the Afghan war.Some of the windows contain beautiful stain ed glass

,wrought

out in legends .

Innumerabl e of stai n s and spl endi d dyes ,A s are the tiger-moth

’s deep damask

’d wings,

An d in the m idst, ’m ong thousan d heraldri es ,

An d twil ight sain ts , and dim emblaz on ings,

A shiel ded ’scu tcheon blush

'

d wi th blood of queen s and kings .

The whoi e buildin g has been lately beautifully restored.

The old timber roof looks well,chastening down ,

with its darksober hue

,the splendour of the ill umination . Over the north

porch there is a room with a window,from whence you can see

into the church here,probably

,a charity priest connected

with one of the shrines once lived . What a solemn and awfulhabitation must that have been . To look forth at night fromthe one side on to the cold God’s acre

,

” on to the graves ofhis brother monks who had died before him

,or into the church

,

as the moon-beam fell through the storied window, and pouredwith a pale crimson light on the floor of the aisle, or to look again,on a summer’s evening

,and to see the last ray ofthe sun stealin g

in,and irradiating the altar or some monument with its efi

’

u l

gen ce,as if an an gel had accompanied the beam on its passage

from the world of fire . Then, at the appointed hours, at matins ,or vespers

,or complines

,would that holy man go down, and

breathing forth hi s wonted prayer,return again to his dim

chamber. What a life for man,shut out from all the j oys

and sympathies of his kind,and yet that very isolation invested

with a strange,peculi ar interest The old sexton, who showed

us the church , told u s he should like to live there. We heard

A WALK 'ro TAUNTON . 295

after, on inquiring his history, that he was a man alone in theworld

,a widower

,and chil dl ess . Worthy old fel low ! he seemed

to kn ow every stone in the bui lding,ay, and to love i t, too .

The tower is b eautiful ly decorated in its third story . Thegu rgoyles

,which seem like fiends flyi ng from the sacred har

mony of the bell s,are stran ge monsters

,very elaborate in form .

The north porch is pecu liarly rich in adornment . Angels support shi elds covered wi th various heraldic emblems . Amongstthem we recogni sed the gyp cier, or purse of the middl eages

,and priests

,with all the emblems of the passion

,beauti

full y carved . The crown of thorns,the nails

,the hyssop

,the

ladder,the lance

,&e. St . James ’s

,the other old church in

Taunton,is a very humble building

,compared with its lovely

sister,yet the tower is good

,and seem s of greater antiquity

than St. Mary ’s . We ascended its cork-screw staircase,which

was worn away by the tread of several centuries,worn by the

sandall ed shoes of the monks, and the boots of the Puritansoldier. The view is worth the ascent

,for the whole valley lies

before you . Taunton boasts its mayor and corporation ;and in the round tower of the old castle

,the assizes are still held .

Al as ! for the corporation ! On the 5th of November,

a grand edict forbade the burni ng of a Pope” or Guy

Fawkes” in this once Protestant town . If the Puritanburghers could rise from their tombs

,they would surely ex

claim,with the nasal twang of a true devotee

,Ichabod

,Ichabod

,

the glory is departed from thyhouse it

The fol lowing fact relating to the town , whi chwou l d on ly interferewi th the gen eral n arrat i ve, we throw into a n ote. The tower of St. Mary

’

s

i s 1 53 feet hi gh. The popul ation of the town i s abou t It stil l

return s two m embers to Parl iament . A king of the West Saxons first

bui l t the cas tle in the year 700. The cas tle was destroyed by his queen ,E thelarga, and a n ew one was rai sed by B i shop Langton , of W in chester.The gateway of this bu il di ng, bui lt in 1 406, s till stan ds . There are on it

the arm s of B ishop Horn,who repaired i t. Taun ton boasts of a free

grammar school , founded by B ishop F ex, in 1 552 . There are al so the re

main s of a con ven t, founded by Fran ciscan monks, iu the thir teenth cen

tury. The C ornhi l l i s po inted out as the place of Jefi'ries ’

s legal mu rders .

The suburbs o f the town are, Bi shop'

s Hi ll , Staplegrove, and Wi l ton . The

latter churchwas original ly a bran ch chapel of St. Mary'

s .

296 CROSS COUNTRY .

CHAPTER XXVII .

BRISTOL AND ITS SIEGES .—NO. I .

Urbs haec, s ubl im is , spatiosa, fidel is . amoena,

Dul cit et in s ign i s , pri sca, ben igna, n iten s .

Jura, Deum , Regem , Region em , C rim in a, Pacem ,

Servat, adorat, amat, protegit, odit, habet.Motto to M i l lerd

’

s Map of Bris to l , 1671 .

BRISTOWE is very badly off for historians—there is no denyingit. Barrett is choked with Rowleian lies

,and therefore use

1ess ;—Sayer remains incompl ete, and what is fin i shed is amere skeleton of dry antiquarian facts

,so unv iv ified and left so

confused by the author,that they might almost as well have

remained in the old archives from whence they were drawn ,covered with the dust of oblivion . The natural consequence is ,that nine burghers out of ten know no more of the history of theirvenerable city than the stranger who passes through it. Itsancient importance

,and the great historical events which have

taken place in its streets,are only known to a few old antiqua

rians , who seem determ ined to shroud all they discover in asoblivious a darkness as they first found it . (We need hardlyallude to Travellers ’ Guides

,and other ephemeral hand

books .) A singular fatality for a city so long the second inthe realm

,so long a mart for all nations

,a city tracing back its

foundation to the hoarest antiquity ;— a city,moreover, full

of historical reminiscences,old churches

,old houses, old

streets,and everything of which legend and tradition love to

tell - a city which has contributed a large quota to the illustrious of past centuries

,the good and the great and finally, a

city the remoteness of whose foundati on entitles it to thereverent attention of the antiquarian .

In our present chapter,we do not profess to have raked up

any moth-nibbled,time-worn mem orials ; our extracts are

taken chicfly from the diurnals and historians of the seventeenth century

,and we garnish our p ieces de res is tance

” withsundry anecdotes and contemporaneous allusions . Let our

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es os s C OUNTRY .

contrast i ng with the gay plum es of the swash bucklers of

the day. Imagine yourself gazing,as a spectator of the seven

teen th century,from a window of a house in Wine Street , on

the motley crowd . You di stinguish at once,mixed as they

are together,the two great parties of the day

,as different in

their dr ess as in their opinions . Hardly can they suppress thehatred and contempt which they entertain for each other .Yonder

,see

,i s a puritan ; —how solemn he looks in his dark

cloak and high hat, with no hair showing beneath i t . He is,verily, chanting to himself a devout psalm ,

with somewhat ofa nasal twang . And see yonder spruce cavaliers

,how con

temptu ou sly they eye him ; and, marking his fair rotundity,quote to themselves Ben Jon son ’

s exclamation of zeal in theLand Busy

I shall eat exceedingly, an d prophecy.

They have passed,and are lost in the distant crowd . Now

passes before u s a trim abigail,who hurries along, glancin g

furtively back in a most coquettish manner . No wonder ;for close behind are riding two young cornets of the garrison

,

restraining the wanton curvettings of their spirited chargers .One is telling the other of the glories of the Globe theatre

,

and lamenting his bani shm ent in the dul l west . Then,with

the volatility of his age,he directs his attention to the above

named damsel,and

,alluding to her attire

,smil es as he quotes

those lines of a poet of the day

Hair l oosely flowing, robe as free,Such sweet n eglect most takethme.

Anon they fall to discour se on rare Ben and immortal Will .Then comes by—but we must leave our rhapsody, and fall tofacts .A traveller who visited the city early in this century, de

s cribes the goodly city,with its fayre cross

,between both

bridges,as not much inferior to that in Coventry. To it come

four large and fayre streets from the four chief quarters ofthe city

, v i z .,High Street, which is the fairest from the great

bridge in Somersetshire ; Broad Street, from the great bridge

BRISTOL AND ITS SIEGES . 299

in Gloucestershire ; Wine Street, from the Castle ; and CornStreet

,from the Marsh (the locality of Queen

The writer proceeds to describe the Marsh, whi ch, he says ," i s a very pleasant and delightful place, with as much art

added theretoas coul d well be, for walks or bowling ground (agreat amusement of the day

,even among the higher classes) ,

and other recreations for the rich merchant and genteel citizen

,adorned with many a fair tree , wherin constantly the city

captains drill,and muster

,and exercise the city forces . The

writer di lates on the seventeen churches , and the“ fyn e and

stran ge fabrieke of the cathedral l .” The merchants

,he

says,are rich and numerous

,usin g traffic to every part of

Christendome ; the citi zen s pious, and vying with each otherin adorning their churches . The city, he adds, is a sweetcity

,and compassed in with a stron g wall and gate . The

Castle i s of great extent and bulk,and hath formerly been a

most fayre and strong hold but now it is almost quite demol ished.

”

In addition,the reader must imagine the wall s round the

city,bearing

,as now

,their Norman names ; Mont-pelier,

Mont-aigu,and the British

,named Brandon

,alm ost bare

,but

occasionally used for outworks . Cli fton was at this time knownonl y for its hot springs .The ancient walls extended to Park Row

,Stoke’s Croft, Law

ford’s Gate,and Redcl ifi

’

Church,with a redoubt on Brandon

Hi ll,and one in Tyndal Park . The great breach mentioned

was made in the wall near Park Row . A t the commencem entof the great struggle

,when an English king

,for the first time

since the death of the crook-backed tyrant,was compelled to

set himself in battle array against his rebellious subjects,

Bristol was in the hands of men attached to the Parliament,

who openl y threw off the royal authority,as soon as their party

unfurled the banner of rebell ion . The Royalists were, however

,a powerful body , and were aided by the Cavalier gentry

of the environs and adjacent parts o f the country . The tra

gical fate of two of our loyal citizens is briefly alluded to byLord Clarendon . The extract shows the importance of thecity at that time .

300 CROSS C OUNTRY .

He says There had been some months before,

”—he datesMa a design of Prince Rupert upon the city of Bristol

,by

correspondence with some of the chief inhabitants of the city,

who were weary of the tyranny of the Parliament : but it hadbeen so unskilfully or unhappily carried

,that when the Prince

was near the town,with such a party of horse — the Prince

was a dashing cavalry genera and foot as he m ade choiceo f, it was discovered, and many principal citizens apprehendedby Nathan iel Fiennes

,son to the Lord Say.

”

(This nobleman , a statesm an unfitted for his post,was one

of the few of that class who were suicidal enough to j oin theRepubli can party, partly from ambition, and partly from cons iderin g themselves neglected at court ; he did not escape theimputation of cowardice) ,

“ and the governor of that city forthe Parliament at this tim e

,special directions and orders were

s ent thither,that he should

,with all severity and expedition

,

proceed against these conspirators,as they called them ; and

thereupon,by a sentence and judgment of a council of war

,

— it was ever short shrive with the crop-heads A ldermanYeomans who had been high sheriff of the city, and of greatreputation in it, and George Bouchier, another citizen of principal account, were—against all interposition his m ajesty couldmake— both hanged

,and all other imaginable acts done

,to let

al l the world see that there was no way to peace but by thesword .

”

The account of this plot,given with all the min utiae of a

coroner’ s inquest in a daily paper,is nearly all Sayer says of

this memorable siege of the city in that civil war,when fair

England’ s soil was drenched with the blood of her best andb ravest sons . These ill-fated gentlemen were hung, we believe

,in Narrow

,Wine Street. Their place of sepulture is

di sputed by local antiquaries . Thi s public execution (the firstduring the war) must have struck terror into the hearts of thevanquished Royalist party : for

,hitherto

,the Puritans had

c arefully kept up that sophism,i . e.

,that their intention was

o nly to remove evil councillors,malignants

,

” in the language of the times

,from the person of their sovereign . The

retribution,however

,was at hand

,and Royalty, before final ly

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302’

CROSS C OUNTRY .

when Prince Rupert,wi th the Oxford forces

,woul d appear be

fore it on the Gloucestershire side . On the four-and-twentiethof July

, (1643) both arm ies sat down before it, quartering theirhorse in that manner that none could go out or into the citywithout great hazard of being taken and the same day

,with

the assistance of some seamen who were prepared before,they

seized all the ships that were inKingroad, which were not onlyladen with goods of great value

,as plate

,money

,and the best

sort of all commodities,which those who suspected the worst

had sent abroad,but with many persons of quali ty

,who

,being

unwilling to run the hazard of a siege,thought that way to

have secured themselves,and to have escaped to London and

so all were taken prisoners . The next day Prince Rupertcame to his brother and the Marquis

,and a general council

of all the principal ofii cers of both arm ies b eing assembled,it was debated -in what manner they should proceed, —byassault or approach .

” There were in the town five-and-twentyhundred foot

,and a regim ent of horse and dragoons the line

about the town was fin i shed, yet in some places the graft"

waswider and deeper than in others . The castle within the townwas very well prepared

,and supplied with great store of pro

visions to endure a siege . The Opin ions were several : the

ofi cers of the Cornish army (very natural that the Cornishtroops

,min ers from their youth , preferred regular approaches)

were of Opin ion that it was best to proceed by way of approach

,because the ground being very good

,it would in‘ a very

short time be done,and since there was no army of the enemy

in a possibili ty to relieve it, the securest way would be the best ,whereas the works were so very good they must expect to losevery many men

,and if they were beaten off

,all their summer

hopes would be destroyed, it not being easy again to make upthe spirit of the army for a new action. Besides

,they alleged

the well-afi'

ected party in the city, which was believed to bevery great

,would

,after they had been closely besieged three

or four days,have a greater influen ce upon the soldier

,and be

able to do more towards the surrender than they could upon astorm

,when they would be equally sensible of the disorder of

the soldier and their own damage by plunder,as the other and

BRI STOL AND ITS S IEGES . 303

the too late example of the executed citizens would keep menfrom offerin g at any in surrection in the city. (Sensible, and ,as it appeared after

,correct advi ce, for the storm was attended

wi th great loss of life,and their friends in the city must have

suffered by it .) Ou the other hand,Prince Rupert and all the

ofii cers of his army, very earnestly desired to assaul t it, all egingthe work to be easy and the soldi ers fitter for any brisk at

tempt than a dull , patient design, and that the army would bemore weakened by the latter than the former that the city nothati ng yet recovered the consternation of SirWilliam l V all er ’

s

defeat,was so ful l of horror

,that it woul d make a very weak

defence ; that there was no soldier of experience in the town ,

and the Governor him self would not like to endure the terrorof a storm ; whereas , if they gave them time to consider, andto look long upon them wi th a wall between, they would growconfi rmed and resolute, and courage would supply the place ofskill , and havin g plenty of all kinds of provisions within thetown

,they woul d grow strong and peremptory, whilst the be

siegers would grow less vigorous and disheartened . Thesereasons and the Prince’s importunity, with some insin uationsof knowing more than was fit to be spoken, as if somewhatwoul d be done within the town that must not be mentioned ,and a glorious contempt of danger, prevailed so far that it wasconsented to on all parts to assault the town the next morningat three places on the Somersetshire side and three places onthe Gloucestershire side at the break of day. (The High

Street side of the city was the Somersetshire side, and on theGloucestershire side

,down Broad Street

,stood then

,as n ow

,

the old gateway of St. John’s,defended by its portcullis and

drawbridge, and flanked by redoubts and other external works .There were several redoubts on the opposite hills .) The truthis

,both opinions

,with regard to their different circumstances

,

were in themselves reasonable . For the Gloucestershire side,

were Prince Rupert was , might be stormed , the graft"

(ditch)being shallow

,and the wall in som e places low and weak

,which

coul d not be easily approached by reason the ground beingrocky and the redoubts very strong which overlooked the

ground . On the other side, the ground was very difficult to

304’

oRoss C OUNTRY .

approach , and as inconvenient and dangerous to storm,by

reason of a plain level before the line,and a broad and deep

graft, and the line throughout better flanked than the other.The next morning

,with little other provisions fit for such a

work than the courage o i'

the assailants,both armies fell on .

On the west side,where the Cornish were

,they assaul ted the

lin e in thr ee places,one division led by Sir Nicholas B anni ng,

assisted with Colonel John Trevann ion,

(By Pol , Tre, and Pen ,You m ay kn ow the C orn i sh men ,

runs an old distich) , Lieut-Col . Sl ingsby and three morefiel d officers

,too great a number of such officers t o conduct so

small a party as five hundred men,if there had not been an im

moderate disdain of danger,and appetite of glory . Another

division on the right hand was led by Colonel Buck,assisted

by Colonel Wagstafi’

e,Colonel Bernard A shley

,who com

man ded the regiment of the Lord Marquis Hertford,with

other fiel d officers ; and the third division on the left hand ledby Sir Thomas Basset

,who was Maj or-General of the Cornish .

These three divisions fell on together with that courage andresolution as nothing but death could control and though themiddle di vision got into the grafi

‘

,and so near fill ed it that

some mounted the wall, yet by the prodigious disadvantage of

the groun d,and the full defence the besieged made within

,

they were driven back with great slaughter ; the common soldiers

,after their chief officers were killed or desperately

wounded,fin din g it a bootless attempt . i t

On Prince Rupert’s side it was assaulted with equal courage,

and with almost equal loss,for though that di vision

,led on by

the Lord Grandison, a brave young cavalier, Col . -General ofthe foot

,was beaten off

,the Lord Grandison him self being

hurt the other,led by Colonel B ell asi s

,likewise had n o

better fortune . Yet Colonel Washington with a party,fin ding

a place in the curtain (the general term in fortification for an

extended wall) between the place assaulted by the other two ,weaker than the rest

,entered

,and quickly made room for the

horse to follow . The enemy,as soon as they saw the lin e en

tered in one place,either out of fear or by command of their ‘

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306’

eRoss C OUNTRY.

goods,wives and families

,bag and baggage

,have free liberty

to return to their own homes or elsewhere,there to rest

in safety,or ride and travel wi th the Governor and forces ; and

su ch of them and their fam ilies as shall be left behin d by reasonof sickness or other causes

,may have liberty

,so soon as they

can conveniently,to depart this town in safety

,provided that .

all gentlemen and other persons shall have three days ’ libertyto reside here or depart with their goods

,which they please .

6 . That all the inhabitants of this city shall be secure in .

their persons,famil ies

,and estates, free from plundering, and .

all other violence or wrong whatsoever .7 . That the charters and liberties of this city may be )

preserved,and that the ancient government thereof and present

governors and officers , may remain and continue in their formercondition

,according to his Majesty ’s charters and pleasure .

8 .

“ That for avoiding inconveniences and distractions,the

quartering of soldiers be referred to or left to the Mayor andGovernor of the sam e city for the tim e being.

9 . That all such as have carried any goods into the castlemay have free liberty to carry the same forth .

10. That the forces that are to m arch out are to leavebehind them all cannon and ammunition

,with their colours

,

and such arms as is before expressed.

”

The next morning,if not before

,for the truth is

,from the

time that the treaty was first offered,they in the town kept no

guards , nor observed any order, but the soldiers ran away tothe Prince, and many of his soldiers went into the town, his .

Highness was possessed of Bristol,the enemy then marching

away. Here the ill example of Reading in the breach of thearticles was remembered

,and unhappily followed

,for all that

garrison was now here ; so that they, with some colour of rightor retaliation, and the rest by their example, used great licenseto the soldiers

,who should have been safely conducted, which

reflected much upon the Prin ce (Rupert) , though he used hi sutmost power to suppress i t

,and charged Colonel Fienn es to

b e accessory to his own‘

wrong , by marching out of the townan hour before hi s appointment

,and thereby his convoy was

BRISTOL AND ITS SIEGES . 307

not ready,and at another gate than was appointed or agreed

em; and as the articles were thus unhappil y violated to thosewho went away, so they were not enough observed to thosewho stayed, and to the city itself ; for many of Colonel F ienues

’

soldiers , takin g condi tions, an d entering into the Kin g'

s army,

instructed their n ew friends who were most disaffected . Justlike the zeal of new proselyt es

,and still m ore like the m erce

nary soldi ers of that day,who sold their blood to the highest

bidder . The soldier has in all ages been rather reckless offi'iend or foe . A s Schil l er says in his WVal len stein”

Their life i s’

tween a battle an cl-

a march,

Like the wind s blast,n ever res ting, homeless

,

They storm across the war-con vuls ed earth.

”

Se that one whole street upon the bridge (there were formerlyhouses on the bridge itself— thi s was comm on in London andother cities) , the inhabitants whereof lay im der some brand ofma l z

’

gn i ty, (this word was used by both parties in the civil war ,li ke rogue” in a quarrel

,you must believe it applied to both

sides equally,or neither

,) though no doubt there were manyhonest men among them

,was totally plundered

,which

,because

there was little justi ce done upon the transgressors (Rupertwould not have Visited such an offence with much severity) , wasbeli eved to be done by the conn ivance of the officers

,and m ore

di scredited the King’s tr00ps and his cause than was then takennotice of or di scovered . The King ’s cause was marred by theli centiousness and facti ons intrigues of the undiscipl ined oilicers . The hi gh di scipline an d good moral conduct of Cromwel l’ s Ironsides first endeared them to the peasantry. Thereduction of Bristol was a full tide of prosperity to the King

,

it made him master of the second city in the kingdom ,and

gave him undisturbed possession of one of the richest counties,

and rendered l V ales more useful to him ,being freed from the

fear of Bristol,and restored the trade with Bristol, which was

the greatest support of those parts . The vi ctorywas

,however

,dearly bought . There were slain in the assaults

five hundred common men and abundance of excell ent o fficers .

Of the Cornish regiment fell— Colonel Buck, who was knockedx 2

308 C ROSS C OUNTRY .

by a blow of a halbert from the wall into the graft,and there

perished,Major Kendall

,Colonel John Trevann ion , and Sir

Nicholas Hannin g,Governor of Pendennis Castle (Cornwall) ,

both shot in the thigh with musket bullets . Ou the north sideof Prince Rupert’s army

,Colonel Harry Lunsford and Lieut

Col . Mayle,both shot out of a window after they had entered

the suburbs . There were wounded Lord Viscount Grandison ,nephew to the Duke of Buckingham

,who was Col .-General of

the King’s foot ; he died from his wounds ; Colonel John Bellasis

,Colonel Bernard A shley

,Colonel Sir John Owen

,and

many other officers of name .

(The old farce of this date describes some Royalist ofii cersobtaining refreshment from the Puritan peasantry by pretending to bargain for the bodies of their chi l dren.

Colonel Lunsford was much dreaded by the Puritans . He

was one of those who drew their swords in self defence inWestminster Hall

,which afforded a subject of much invective

against the King’s party. Absurd reports were spread thathe ate children ; and this charge, ridiculous as it may seem ,

was believed by the ignorant peasantry to affect all Cavaliers .A ballad of the day says

From Fiel ding and from V avasour,Both ev il afl’

ected men ;

From Lun sford eke del iver us,

That eateth up children .

”

C leveland j okes

The post that came from Banbury,Ridin g in a blue rocket,

He swore he saw,when Lun sford fell ,

A chil d ’

s arm in hi s pocket.”

The vulgar depicted him i n the act,for Cleveland also says

They fear the giblets of hi s train , they fearE ven hi s dog, that four -legged Caval ierHe that devours the scraps that Lun sford makes,Whose picture feeds upon a chil d in stakes .

”

B utler, in Hudibras , says

Make chi l dren with your tones to run for it,A s bad as bloody bones or Lun sford.

”

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3 10’

eaoss C OUNTRY .

tol,copied

,we believe

,from a unique print in Lord Spencer’ s

collection . Sir Ralph is in the dress of peace,and has the

flowing locks and lace collar of a Royalist gentleman . He

wears an embroidered coat,with a scarf across his breast

,

j ack boots , and imm ense spurs . In the background are a regiment of foot soldiers

,with their pikes .

In proposing the reduction of Gloucester,it was argued that

the garrison of Worcester and Shrewsbury might be suppliedfromBristol

,and the trade of the city thereby so advanced

,

that the customs m ight bring a notable revenue to the kin g,

and the wealth of the city increasing,it might bear the greater

burden of the war . A t Bristol the army lost many,as those

who had plundered would n o longer serve .A fter the taking of the city

,the

‘

Cathedral was visited byCharles I .

,accompanied by his sons

,Charles and James

,the

future kings,who attended divine

li

service on Sunday .

This was in 1 643,one year after the royal standard had first

been unfurled, and the capture of Bristol was one of the first,and

,perhaps

,the only important success gained by the

Royalist party . In 1 649 , King Charles’ s head rolled on the

s caffold .

CHAPTER XXVIII.

BRISTOL AND IT S SIEGES .

—NO . II .

Then came the lu sty Froom , the first of floods that met,

Fair Avon en ter in g in to frui tful Somerset ,

T o Bri stol her to bear, the fairest seat of fame,5“ i t The prospect of which place,

To her fair bu i ld ings adds an adm irable grace ;Wel l fashion ed as the best, an d wi th a double wall ,A s brave as any town , but yet exceedin g all

,

F or easemen t, that to heal th i s requ i site an d meet,

Her pil ed shores to keep her del icatean d sweet ;

H ereto she hath her tides, that when she i s opprest

With heat and drought, stil l pour her flood upon her breast.B rayton

’

s Po lyol bion, B . 3 .

BRI STOL AND ITS srs ers . 3 1 1

Let. the high prai ses of G od be in their mou th, and a two -edged sword

i n their hands .

"- Psalm cxl ix. 6 . The favouri te text of the Puritan mi l i

tary sain ts , the tru e church m il i tan t.

IN our last chapter we attempted briefly to bring back to ourreader’s m i nd the appearance of Bristol in the seventeenthc entury . But a few years after the first siege the citystil l walled round

,from the present Park Street to Stoke ’ s

Croft on one side, and Lawford’s Gate and Redclifi

'

district onthe other . Redoubts commanded these important positionsf or the safety of a city

,girt in by a stron g belt of hills

,Tyn

dall ’s Park,the hill of St. Brandon , &e. The Castle towered

above the present narrow Wine Street : the Avon windi ngat its own sweet will

,

” in a lin e of silver,and the Froom

,the

lusty Froom ,as Michael Drayton calls i t

,creeping through the

city l ike a dark lethe . B ut two years had elapsed,and the

central republic,or rather London

,the focus of rebellion and

fanaticism,found Bristol

,the Monarch of the West

,a serious

annoyance to the traffic of the provinces they had subdued .

In the autumn of 1645,three years after the royal standard

was un furled,with om in ous circumstances

,the brave

,but

phlegmatic Fairfax received orders to march on Bristol,the

faithl ess city of the malignants the Jericho which they littleexp ected to win so bloodlessly . The Prince lay there with astrong garrison

,supported by the train bands of the

' city, awell-disciplined body even in Elizabeth’s time

,and accustomed

to handle the pike and the caliver. To prevent the enemy fromforaging

,the stern Rupert burnt down Westbury and a few

adj acent hamlets . This made all the club men, or neutral body,go over to Fairfax . Thus says our authority, a Parliamentarypaper

,the Mercur ius B ri tamz icus :

On Thursday,Sept . 4

,1 645

,our general

,Sir Thos . Fairfax

,

sent a trumpeter with a summons to Prince Rupert for thesurrender of Bristol but the trumpeter was at first somethingloath to go , because he had heard that Rupert shoul d swearthat if any trumpeter came into him with any message from Sir

Thomas Fairfax,that he would hang him but seeing our rc

solution that if he should offer any such thing we should retal iate

,Sir Bernard A shley being with u s

,and others of note

,he

31 2’

caoss C OUNTRY .

passed over these doubts,and went with his message into Bris

tol ; and so soon as the Prin ce received the message paper,he looking in i t

,swore

,God damn him

,it was a summons

,and

’

call ed for a cup of sack, truly cavalier like, and sat down andread i t

,and detained the trumpeter in Bristol until Friday.

We wondering what he was stayed so l ong for,not knowing

but that Prince Rupert might have done as he had vowed before ; but he did not, for our trumpeter returned with ananswer to our general

,in which the Prince onl y desires so

much favour from him as to give him leave to acquaint hisuncle therewith

,and then he would send a speedy and plenary

answer,which did not at all give any satisfaction to our gene

ral . Ou Saturday,Sept . the 6th

,the general sent again an

other trumpeter with his resolution to proceed and to certifyPrince Rupert that he would wait no longer

,nor admit of delay

,

and therefore to require his answer one way or other The meanwhile Sir Thos . Fairfax marched from his quarters into thefield

, and had his dinner brought him out of his quarters, socareful was he to follow the business closely he dined in thefiel ds

,on the Somersetshire side

,towards Redcl ifi

’

e Chur ch

(which was guarded by cannon) and after dinner, havi nggiven orders to Colonel Ireton (afterwards Cromwell

’s son-inlaw

,and one of the King’s judges) to draw out two regiments

of horse,to be left to wait at the bottom of the hill

,near the

Sally Port,to be ready in case the enemy should attempt to

sally out. Sir Thomas Fairfax went then in .

(This Ir eton was originally a lawyer’ s clerk

,and

,like most of

the followers of Cromwell,of humble origin . From his skill as a

clerk,he was chosen as one of Oromwel l ’s secretaries , and with

his master,and one or two more of the ultra—military fanatics

,

was cognisant of Charles’s death . He was a great preaching

colonel,and was powerful in the word

,

” as the cant of theday termed it . Pride

,another fell ow-colonel of Ireton’ s, was

a brewer’ s drayman,and a foundling . Ireton afterwards dis

t ingui shed himself in Ireland , and as an ardent and visionaryrepublican

,was much dreaded by Oliver when he assumed the

supreme

The records of Bri stol citi z en s during these stirring times con sist in a'

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314’

oRos s C OUNTRY .

6th September,Lieut .-Gen . Cromwell viewed the horse

,and

gave order to their quarters . Ou the Lord’s day,September

the 7th,there came divers fresh club-men into u s with such

arm s as they had,protesting to live and die with u s

,because

they say that the cavaliers plunder and are barbarous,therefore

they will stand on their guard against them ; but Sir ThomasFairfax carries himself so well (they say) to them ,

that theywill never leave him

,but assist him to the utmost of their

abilities . Neither is it these club -men only that take noticeof our general’ s fair and orderly carriage

,but the very enemies

them selves acknowledge i t,and some colonels in Bristol sent

word by our trumpeter to the general that they remembertheir service to him

,and from them to give thanks for showing

him so brave and well -bred a gentleman,saying that he is a

true and wel l u disposed gentleman, and that it i s a pity he is forthe Parli ament ; the truth of it is, he is so worthy and ab solute a well-bred gentleman

,that malice itself cann ot tax him

of ill . Sir Thomas Fairfax sent the last summon s into Bristolto Prince Rupert on Sunday night

,September the 7th

,he

havin g all thin gs in readi ness to storm,and intending to fall

on the next morning ; received propositions from Rupert thatif he would permit him to march away with 20 pieces of ordnance colours flying , 20 carriages , arms and ammunition, bagand baggage, and al l his soldiers and bishops (s trang e co l lo

cation) and prebends and choristers, gentlemen and others,wi th a safe conduct

,that then he would deliver up Bristol with

all the forts,castles

,&c. To this Sir Thomas Fairfax returned

answer that for the terms of honour he would do what wasfitting for his degree, that is to march away, with three piecesof ordnance, colours , arm s , &c. B ut for the other propositions ,v i z .

,concerning the protection of the bishops

,&e.

,he desired

to be excused .

Sir Thomas Fairfax was resolved, if Rupert would not agree ,on Monday, Sept . the 8th , that he would storm , being resolvedto admit of no delay . Tuesday was the day nominated for thesurrender of Bristol, and comm issioners of both sides werechosen .

BRISTOL AND ITS S IEGES . 31 5

Dated at the Leagu er, 8th September .But all this time what ’ s become of Goring 9 He, they say,

appears about Exeter,7000 strong

,if we allow him more ’tis

no great matter,for the gallan t Massey (who was routed last

week in Ely House) j ostles with him for quarters , being lustilyrecruited by a grand body of club men out of the counties ofDevon and Somerset

,some say no less than 8000. If they go

on thus,I will call them Knaves of Club s

,no more . Especially

if they continue to do as well as they promised at Mendip Hill,

where the Hi gh Sheriff of Somersetshire appointed them ageneral meetin g also near Bristol (the very city of Bristol , 0

ye malignants is taken, they wi l l be better than their words .

For we have received absolute,excell ent in telligence o f the

storming of Bristol,and taking the town ,

castles . forts , ordnance

,ammuni ti on and arms

,by his excellency S ir Thomas

Fairfax, on Thur sday, the 1 1 th of this instant, Sept . w flIerc .

B ri t,Sep t. 8 to 1 5 .

Sept . 15 . By a gentleman of note from Bristol , it is certified that Prince Rupert (according to the articles of agreement)went out of the Castle of Bristol on Thursday last, towardsl V orcester, with his lifeguard of about 300 horse and 700 foot ,most of the Welch refused to go along wi th him ,

being p ressed

men,and they

,as well as those which were raised in the

counties adjacent, either desire to return into their own

counties,or j oin Sir Thomas Fairfax, so that they were most

Irish that went with the Prince,and we hear that Lieut . -Gen .

Cromwell is appointed to attend the King’s motion with 400

horse,on the one side

,and Col .-Gen . Poyntz on the other but

of his Excell ency ’s design we hear nothing as yet ; the councilof war being not called , in which regard we shall not make anyconj ectures thereof. — Ki 7zg

’

s Weels]3/ In tel l zycncer, S ep t. 9 to 1 6 .

A letter from Lieut .-Gen. Cromwell to the Parliament,dated at Bristol

,the 14th of September, was to this effect

C B OM IV

ELL’

S DIS PAT CH TO THE PARLIAMENT .

About on e o ’clock of the m orning,Thursday

,the 1 5th ih

stant,Sir Thomas Fairfax stormed the city . The general ’s

signal when to fellow was the burning straw,upon which the

31 6’

caoss C OUNTRY .

men went on with great resolution,and very presently re

covered the lin e,making way for the horse to enter. Colonel

Montague and Colonel Pickerin g,who stormed at Lawford’s

Grate (very near the site of the present gaol) where was adouble work wel l fil led with men and cannon

,presently entered

,

and with great resolution beat the enemy from their works,

and possessed their cannon without any considerable loss,an d

laid down their bridges for their horse to enter. Major Desborough commanded the horse

,who very gallantly seconded.

the foot then our foot advanced to the city walls,where they

possessed the great gate against the Castle Street,wherein

were put 100 men,who made it good. Sir Hardress Wall er,

with his and the General ’s regiment,with no less resolution

,

entered on the other side of Lawford’s Grate, towards AvonRiver, and put themselves into an immediate conjunction withthe rest of the brigade . During this Colonel Rain sboroughand Colonel Hamond attempted Prior ’s Hill Fort (StokeCroft) , and the lin e downwards towards F roome ; ColonelBirch and the Major General’s regiment being to storm towardsF roome River

,Colonel Hamond possessed the line immediately

,

and beat the enemy from it,and made way for our horse to

enter . Colonel Rain sborough, who had the hardest task of allat Prior’s Fort

,attempted i t

,and fought very near three hours

for it,and indeed there was great despair of carrying the place,

it being exceeding high,a ladder of thirty roun ds scarce reach

in g to the top thereof ; but his resolution was such that hewoul d not give it ever. The enemy had four pieces of cann onup on it

,which they played with round and case shot upon our

men . Here Lieut.-Colonel Bowen and others were two hours atpush of pike

,standing upon the pal l isadoes , but nevertheless

they could not enter. Colonel Hamond having entered the li ne,and Captain Ireton with a forlorn (en f aius p erdus, as the

French say) of Colonel Birch’s regiment

,in terposin g with his

horse between the enemy ’s horse and Colonel Hamond, re

ceived a shot with two pistol bullets, which broke his arm, bymeans the entrance of Colonel Hamond did storm the fort on

that part which was inward . By whi ch means Colonel Rain sborough

’s and C olonel Hamond ’s men entered the fort,and

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31 8 CROS S COUNTRY.

may be forgotten . Its their j oy that they are instruments ofGod ’s glory

,and their country ’s good ; it is their honour that

God vouchsafes to use them . Sir,they that have been em

ployed in this service,know that faith and prayer obtained

this city for you I do not say our s only,but of the people of

God with you,and all England over

, who have wrestled withGod for a blessing in thi s very thing . Our desires are

,that

God may be glorified by the same spirit of faith , by which weask all our sufficien cy, and having received i t, its meet that hehave all the praise . ’ —Sept . 1 6 to 23 .

The Mercurius B ri tanni cus of Idarch 17 to 24,1 644-5

,says

A most remarkable piece of service,it was perform ed by

Sir Wil liam Waller (the court poet) and Oliver Cromwell,near Lavington

,Somersetshire

,where they killed 40

,took 800

prisoners and 400 horse, gallant horse , and their best horse,being the sam e which conducted the Prince (of Wales) toBristol

,besides their mock sheriff

,001. Long, who now may

return by Tom Long, the carrier . Since this action,we may

presum e they were joined by Rolborn e, for then they werewithin two days’ march of him .

The Perfect Diurnal of March 24 to 31 , 1 644-5,says

The forces of Sir William Waller and Colonel Cromwelldividing upon an emin ent design about Shaftesbury

,Sir Wil

liam went towards Bristol .Cromwell

,in a letter

,dated Basingstoke, 1 4th October, ad

dressed to the Speaker of the House of Commons Len thal l ,after alluding to the taking of Basing House

,says

If you please to make a strong quarter at Newbury,Wilts ,inasmuch as Newbury li es on the river, it will make the trademost secure between Bristol and London for al l carriages .”

The fif oderate In tel l igencer, under date June 29 to July 6 ,1 648, the year before the execution of Charles I .

,and when he

probably was in Carisbrook Castle,Isle of Wight

,says, all ud~

ing to the intended attack on PembrokeOur guns

,for want of wind

,are not yet come from Bristol

we expect them hourly : had they come,we had done ere this .

(How truly laconic and sol cl ier-like .)In the year 1 649

,the Parliament decided that a magazin e of

BRISTOL AND ITS SIEGES . 31 9

provisions shoul d be settled at Bristol,as an en trep ot for the

West, which was accordin gly done .The surrender of Bristol by Rupert (Roberto) will alwaysremain one of the unexplained mysteries of history . “r

e wouldwager our lives he was brave

,we are sure he was honest .

Surmise alternately suggests some political j ealousy,as the

cause of the ignoble surrender to the exulting Roundheads .Rupert was the dashing Murat

,l e beau Sabreur

,the brave

,

hot-headed,swearing

,truly loyal

,faithful

,vicious cavalier of

the day. He hated a siege,he loved the hot charge and the

clash of squadrons meeting ; he would rather, like Douglas ofold

,hear the lark sin g than the mouse squeak . Perhaps impa

tien ce at the prospect of a long and tedious siege,wh ile his

sovereign was unaided,or the fear of treason in the lea

guered city, may have conduced to the unhappy result . Certainit is

,from our extract

,that only a few Life Guards left the

city with him . The cowardly body who hun g the unhappymen

,Boucher and Yeomen s

,may have been plotting but too

successfull y . Charles never forgave Rupert this unhappy afi’

air,

although he pleaded that the city wall was not defendable,

being in some parts only three feet thick and five feet high .

Prince Rupert was ever the darin g partisan general of his age,indefatigable in cutt ing off convoys , beating up quarters , nightsurprises , ever in the saddle his foot as frequently in the saddle as his hand on the sword s hilt . The nephew of Charles ,and son of the unhappy Elector Palatine, he was accustomedto the alarms of war from his infancy . Making his first

campaign, at the age of sixteen, under the Prince of Orange, hehad fought like a knight-errant for fame and pastime . N0 man

relished more keenly what Fletcher calls the “ fi erce delightof war.

” To his ears,the drum ’s rattle was the sweetest

music . His despatches , published by Mr . 1V arburto11,bear

witness,

” says that gentleman,

“ to his hery an d impetuous

daring, his perfect indifference to danger, m oral and physical ,his fertility of resources , his promptitude and zeal for thecause

.

”Som e of these despatches are stained dark red , with

the life-blood of the bearers ; one has a bullet mark through

i t. Many are in scribed IIas l e,lz as l e

, p ost [tas te and one is

320’

oRoss C OUNTRY .

endorsed by the various officers through whose hands theypassed . Mr . Warburton attributes the surrender of our cityto him as rather an error of a statesman’s judgment than thedefeat of a commander. May it be so . Peace to his manes .He was as a fiery spirit as ever rode in saddle .The royalist Mayor and Town Council were deposed on the

first entrance of the enemy, and soon after the Republic wasdeclared at the High Cross

,as so many kings had been in

former ages . The churches suffered the usual spoli ations, thetombs of the Cathedral were broken

,and !the brasses stolen .

The nave was turned into a stable the three altars wereplastered up, and the

‘ idolatrous ’ paintings of the prophets onthe organ screen were purposely hidden from sight . The

goodly pile, sufficient to strike a fanatic with awe, was defaced .

Some pinnacles were knocked down ; the organ was broken upmonuments were destroyed

,to hurry the dead into a quicker oh

l ivion . Local historians say that the fanatic mob burnt all thefurniture of the church, and marched through the streetsblowing the broken organ pipes in derision of their fallenenemy

,and carrying white banners made of shreds

’

of surplices .In the chapel of the Gaunts

,the altar was partially destroyed .

In A ll Saints the altar was removed to the centre of the building. St. Peter’s Church had a few years before been declareddangerous in its propinquity to the Castle, and it is said order shad actually been given for its demolition . Soon after the oc

cupation a cutler was made curate of St. Philip’s .*

A few years after, and Charles II . passed through the citydisguised as a retainer, and seated behind hi rs . Lane . Thelady came from Stafiordshne

,availing herself of a parliamentary

pass,under pretence of a visit to Mrs . Norton

,of Abbotsleigh.

The king tell s the story himself in the B oscob le papers it was

The speech of Major Shippon , one of those brave fighting preachers,may amuse the reader C ome oh

,my boys, my brave boys I wil l run

the same haz ard with you . Remember, the cau se i s for God com e,my

honest, brave boys ; l et u s pray heartily and fight heartily, and G od wi ll

bless a s I” As lacon ic as the soldier’s prayer before Edgehill . F or what

we are go in g to recei ve, the Lord make a s truly thankful . Amen .

”And

he rushed to the charge;

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322’

oRo ss C OUNTRY .

whisky-bottle,which

,like a solemn barometer

,tells u s by its

g reen lapse of the progress of time . What’s o’clock

Phi l . (With tremendous violence, and enthusiasm .) It’sturned four

,your honour . I know it

,because the four o’clock

fly, your honour, is just gone .Author. Nonsense, Phil . Don

’t bamboozle me . There’s no

fly that’s quite so punctual as that . They don ’t read Brad

Shaw.

Phi l . (Winking violently and putting on the inn ocence ofan unborn babe .) Why, I meant the four o

’clock fly that goesfromMu ckross to the station . By the same token, I just hearthe guard’s bugle . Oh

,it’s as purty as Kitty ’s dancing

,to

see hi s fingers run over the keys ; they’re no sooner on than

they’re ofi'

again . Try a black and orange,Mr . Darcy

,the

wind is going down .

Vangkan . (Waking up , and humming the angling song ofGothe) . How this cool , deep water, Mr . Critic

,makes one

long to dive to some m ermai cl’

s cavern,and study fly

-fishingwith lines m ade of the golden thread of her errant hair .Darcy. What ! study fishing from the fish

’

s point of viewlearning by the way the great salmon language

,and the trout’ s

p atoi s .7

Vaugkan . Exactly. “Taking up drowned knights, and

suicide monks , and having small tea-parties of respectablebanshees , in their blue flannel bathing dresses and shrouds s inecrino l ine.

Au thor . Now don’t let your fancy become ghastly.

Vaughan . I must say,Darcy

,with all his bull-finch riding

,

tumbler smashing , and frolics at Flynn’s,has a tender heart

,

and a high sense of sporting honour . He refuses to catchbut on equitable and scientific principles . He i s the Bayardof the fist

,and the Sir Phil ip Sidney of the rod .

Darcy . You be hanged.

A utfior . Don’t . He’ s blushing.

V aughan . (Taking up Darcy’ s fly book .) Did it cost you

much money to make this collection of natural historyDarcy. Pots

,sir ; pots , by Jove .

V aug i z an. Why, old fellow, here’s a leaf like a tulip bed

,or

A DAY’

S FISH ING AT KILLARNEY .

Benjamin’s coat and Disraeli‘

s conscience . t y, my palette,new set with its carmine , cobalt, and chromes, i s nothing to it .

I beli eve it ’s a tailor’ s pattern book

,or snips from a ribbon

shop . The devil fishes with ribbons sometimes,eh

Darcy . Och ! you suckingRaphael , you big ignoramus, (pulla bit on , Phil ,) what have you been wasting your time at ?

WVhy, those are the best salmon fl ies to be had at Limerickbutchers

,by Jove . This is the golden pheasant, that the redma,

caw ; beauties both , and devilish killing.

Author sneezes .Phi l . God between you and all harm .

V aug/can . Sings

Oh,Gra Machree,

You don ’

t love m e,

Or else you woul d n ot l ingerTo sl ip thi s ring,I Vhich n ow I bring,Upon your l i t tle huger

Your purty l i t tle finger.

A zetlcor . (While Darcy and Phil are weighing that big silverflapper.) Tel l me

,Vaughan

,as you fin ish that sketch , if

you agree with my last severe remarks on modern historicalnovels . A s to historical novels

,I do not think the best men

should confine themselves strictly to their own times . He who

knows the human nature of to-day surely knows the humannature ofyesterday, and if he choose to place his scen e a centuryor two back

,he has the advantage of a large scope for his imag

ination,picturesque dress

,and stranger social contrasts . One

cannot always be describ ing clever tailors , l ike Al ton Lockewonderful governesses

,like Jane Eyre ; ingenious reporters , l ike

Young C opperfiel d ; k ind, simple-hearted o lli eers , like ColonelNewcombe ; or even inspired eoal -pit proprietors

,like Mr.

Kingsley in Miss Craik’s clever book,R ivers tone.

V aughan . No,nor

,bedad

,Vespasians , like Dr . Croly ; Sir

Richard Steeles , like Mr. t itehead ; Osmonds , like Thackeray ; Q ueen E lizabeths , l ike Scott ; or Richelieus like thatclever

_charlatan , the negro Frenchman, Dumas . The present is a fashion now

,as the past was some years ago

,just as

324’

eRoss C OUNTRY.

Leach is, and Bunbury was— as Giotto is , and Guide was it i sonly a turn of the wheel .Darcy. The reel ? I don’t want to stop all night playinghim— you fellows

,m ind your talking. I could catch the sea

sarpin t himself if I only knew the right sort of fly.

V aughan . We wern ’

t talk ing to you— se shut up . We saidwheel

,not reel .

a a se

Au thor. Mind your fishing, Darcy. If your heart was onlyas soft as your headDarcy. Oeh

,you omodhaun

,— pass the bottle

,- i f I had ten

thousand a year,I would erect twin statues to Jameson and

Kinahan.

Au thor . You must feel a good many pulses before that, andshake that death-rattle of a head of yours

,Mr. Doctor, some

thousand times,you legal hom icider ; but put the brake on

,

Darcy,and let u s rattle on wi th our palaver. A s I was saying

,

Vaughan,and I would enunciate it with the twitch and power

of Johnson,it is better for a book to be antiquarian

,which is

,

at least,instructive

,than to be of no age

,which is unm eaning .

The authoress should have looked at our old flint axes and dagger brooches , the arrows and horns, the spears and pipes , thecrowns and maces . With her pleasant fancy and easy style

,

she might soon study carefull y the set of old robes and theslouch of old hats

,till she knew them as well as our own bea

vers and b orn ou ses . The balance and shot-silking of manners,

poli tics,and religion

,she should have also mastered .

V aug lz an . Why,you would not turn her into an en cyclo

pedist, or one of those small omn iscien eies you meet with atclubs .Aatkor . Sixmonths’ hard reading and note-takin g would havedone this .V angkan . 0 authors don’t read ; they write : readi ng is n ot

thinking .

Amber . No,no more is writing : but reading is a stimul us

to thought,and some people with smal l concentration can only

think over a book . This is a novelist we are talkin g of anddi ssecting

,Darcy.

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326’

enos s C OUNTRY ,

It i s no l i es I’

m statingIt

’

s tru th, bedad, I’

m stating.

Mavourn een , then ,

B e on e in ten,

And do n ot l ook so taz i ngThe pig i s bought,The fowl s are caught,

The day an d hour are plaz ing,

0, Kitty, a

’nt they plaz ing ?

You sm il e at m e,

O,Gra Machree,

Sure, dear, you wi l l n ot linger.

No blarn ey, Tom ,

I’

m deaf and dumb .

’

The ring i s on her finger

Whoop,boys , i t

’

s on her finger.

V augfian . A very pretty bit of rustic dalliance—not classical, yet m ighty rural and tender . 3? $5 Let u s rest a moment and cry p aw, dear Mr . Author

,before we summon our

next culprit to the bar ; just watch these broad white-sailedArgosies of clouds

,piled up with Indian amber

,bearing down

towards u s, fanned by the west-sou’-west

,from the bluff shoul

der of Tore mountain,where the great trumpet-snorts of the

cascade ’s trumpet soun d perpetually,and wil l soun d till

’ theybe silenced by the judgment trump of God himself. Now shotto pieces and pierced by the artillery of an unmasked batteryof sunbeam s

,they sin k and fade away into the blue clouds of

the July ocean of wandering air.Darcy . Take your hog-brush

,man

,and paint—you don’t live

by words .Au thor . Just watch Darcy

,Vaughan

,it’ s really quite a treat,.

you should have seen him ten minutes ago .

Darcy . Is thy servant a dog that you shoul d do this thing ?Author . He draws out of various mysterious leathers, euvelopes

,packing cases

,and wooden repositories

,three of the

most favoured pipes of his harem : first,an amatory French

pipe, wi th a Pompadour head upon i t—no Lucretia, to judgeby her kindling eyes

,unless haply she might be Lucretia Bor

gia secondly,an immense china well

,holding a pail-full of

A DAr’

s FISHING AT KILLARNEY . 327

bird’

s-eye, brought from Heidelberg, and grown black in manya student

’

s beer-battle thirdl y,a meerschaum skull

,convi

v ially m oral , and professionally sociable . He selects the last,

and fil l s it gravely, with head on one side, l ike a magpie .Darcy . Can’t you lave a fell ow alone with the comfort of hi slife Isn’t old blood, like the Darcys, to do what it likes ?V aug/zmz . Yes , even to get plucked— falling at a drain, when

it coul d clear a five-bar. A pity the fine old tap isn’t cooler .

Now see him how he lashes the quiet lake water li ghtly withhi s taper whip rod springing from the very wheel

,and twenty

yards of line out . The great tuli p flower of a fly falls light asthi stledown . It’ s the Darcy s know how to do the old begu i ling game : you would think he expected to hook a water-fairy

,

or to fish up a crock of old king gold . Click,click

,goes the

merry reel ; fli p, flip, goes the water from the line in a thin,sil very dry dust over our heads . Darcy is happy in the indulgen ce of hepe and tobacco unl imited. Darcy descendedfrom a great lin e of kin gs .Darcy . You may say that

,and a fishing-line too .

V angkan . The spasmodic novel is a remote descendant fromsuch verbal epilepsies as Smith ’s Life Drama .” It makes adew-drop and a world of equal consequence . It rains on u s

stars,suns

,fires

,and Paradises. Pre -Raphaelitism came from

Wordsworthi anism ,just as the Lake school emerged fro m old

ballads and revived Elizabethanism ,when the French Revolu

tion,and its consequent freedom of Opinion

,had led u s rebel l iou sly

and hereticall y back to nature . Bronteism was the twin ofSpasmodism and pre-Raphaelitism

,and led u s to the love of

common,and even at first almost repulsive things . The same

reason that made Mr. Mill ais paint scrubby,red-haired girls ,

made Miss Craik select a plain governess for a heroine, and

M iss Mulock make a hero out of a tanner’s boy, in

“ JohnHalifax

,

” though she does at last artfully redeem him by provinghis gentle descent .V aug lz an . Well

,thank God ! the old Leigh Hunt Cockney

enthusiasm and sickly affectation of n ew words has gone by.

The new school is sounder, deeper, and truer.

328’

eRoss COUNTRY.

Author. Still , though they do not blow out a Hampsteaddaisy till it becomes as large as St. Paul’s

,there is about them

a feverish and false tone of exaggeration which destroys thebalance of parts

,by enlarging one part and leaving the other

a sketch . The earnest?

” too,has grown into a cant all but

intolerable The mission,

” The hum an,

” are their greatphrases . It was foolish to make a here an A donis but whyrun to the other extreme

,an d make him a bumpy JEsop ?

Darcy. If you fellows don’t let me speak,I shall burst from

repletion . of imagination . We are just off the Man-of-warB ook now

,and I am going to stir up Paddy Blake wi th a rapid

succession of incoherent questions,which that great dull bluff

of rock,that holds the mocking spirit

,will answer pat off the

tongue . Paddy Blake never trips at his lesson. Listen,quick

as lightning

How do you do, old Paddy B lake ? How do you do, o ld Paddy Blake

Wherewere you last Easter Monday ? Where were you last Easter Monday

Dri ving home the pigging-rigging, Dr iving home the p iyyiny~r iyyiny,

You , and Tim , and Mike, an d Darby. You,and T im

,and M ike, and Darby.

C om ing down the l ong boreen Com ing down the long boreen— a

Al l fel l over the dyke together ; A l l f el l over the dyke together

Some broke legs an d some broke n oses . Some broke legs , and some broke noses .

G ood n ight, Paddy B lake, you rascal . Good n ight, Paddy B lake, you rascal .

Parley vou s F ran chez , Mademoi sell e ? Par ley vous F ranchez ,Mademoi sel le

Hurrah! Paddy Blake, you rascal . Hurrah Paddy B lake, you rascal .

Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! whoop—hurrah ! Eu ha ha ha whooy—hurrah

An d while we fell back, laughing at the demon-like humanness of the voice in the rock cavern

,the echo laughed and gib

bered still about u s .

Au thor. Well , not all the fairies that fly in the summer dust,or that trip round mushroom s

,can match that.

Darcy . Can’t theyHe dropped his red and seized his bugle . Enchantment ofsea and earth

,were ever such sounds that

,with fairies troopin g

after them,broke forth from the great mountain side, til l the

Reeks called to Derryeun ihy, and Tore shouted to GlenaNearer

,farther

,deeper

,sweeter

,louder, prouder, nearer,

clearer rin ging from mountain unto mountain— silver-spring

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330 C ROS S COUNTRY .

dark-leaved viscid-fiowered arbutus—m isanthroPie herons , andmotherly ducks—he has them all . Vaughan alone can paintKillarney

,for he loves i t .

A uthor . New,Darcy

,a song .

D arcy. What shall it be ? Rebel,as

,The night before

Larry was stretched,” Croppies

,lie down

,such as Corporal

Moonbeam, of the Shanavasts , or the Hearts of Steel used tosing, or a rouser for the lively end of a wake , like

“Moll inthe W ad Rattle the Hasp

,

” and He’s a neat Hand for aGrinder ; or merry and convivial, like The Black Stripper,

”

or Nell Flaherty’ s Drake or shall it be pathetic,like Sa

vournahDeel i sh,or the old Jacobite air

,The Wild Geese P”

A uthor . 0,botheration give u s these two new versions of

old tun es you hammered out last night at the landlord’s .

Darcy . Well then,without the u sual cold in the head, here

goes . Call thisA CUSHLA-MACHREE.

The blue’s in the sky, and the flower'

s in the thorn ,

B ut the brightn ess, and freshn ess , an d sweetn ess of m orn

May be blackn ess, and fou ln ess , an d s il en ce for m e,

When I m eet at the chapel door Cu shla-machree.

There i s Ki tty in scarlet, an d Norah in bl ue,An d Nel ly, her black hair al l sil vered with dewBu t what are their ribbon s and trinkets to m e,

When I l ook on my Ail een , my C ushl a—machree

There’

s the girl at the brewer’

s , an d Ki tty at Tim’

s,

An d that n eat-footed coleen , who i s cou sin of Jim’

s

Let them ogle an d dan ce, i t’

s al l n othing to m e,

All I wan t i s the love of my Cu shl a-machree.

A u thor . Now the other.Darcy. Stop a bit, Vaughan has got a rise ! Play him

play him ! quick with the landing-net, or, by j ingo ! he’

ll be ofi“

.

Keep the top j oint down— drown him ! hurrah ! ten pound ifhe weighs an ounce . Well done, Raphael ! new paint him , andthen eat him . What shall I sin g ?

Says he, Katty

Says she, Patty ?

A DAr’

s FISHING AT KILLARNEY . 331

or The Boul d Seger Boy . Sentimental ? Very well,here's

my half-new words to Savourn ahDeel ish.

The plover was cal l ing, the snow i t was falli nSavourn ah deeli sh, Shighau oh !

Feathery white i t’

s fal l ing , falli ng,Savournah deel ish, Shighan oh!

Wan was her cheek , which l ay on my shoul derDamp was her hand

,n o m arble was co lder

I fel t that I n ever again shoul d behold her,Savourn al i deel i sh

,Shigan oh !

The sn ow i t was dri ft ing , the win d i t was s ift ing ,Savournah deel i sh, Shighan oh

S i l very sn ow-du s t , sift ing, s if ting,Savournahdeel ish, Shighan oh !

Un der the long wave wreath they formd her,Dead and cold, for the snow chain boun d herB ut she lay sm ili ng , the cold sn ow rou nd her,Savourn ah deeli sh

, Shi gan 011 !

Author . Bravo ! but how did she get there Lost her way,or smothered

,or

Darcy. Don’t ask questions ; i t i s quite enough she wasfound there . To be ob scure is to be grand !V aughan . Just look at this rose-tint on this last cloud . Rose

madder,where are ye

A uthor . What a pity you could not brush off some o f therose bloom from the cheeks of an Irish girl ; some of thattransparent

,shifting

,pulsing

,quickening carmine

,that a kiss

turns to warm crimson,and a tale of pity softens to the pale

pin k of a winter rose .

Darcy. Three cheers for the g irleen s , with black eyes andred cheeks . God bless them \Vas that a rise ? Yes . Try

him with a dun badger ."

Where ’ s the whisky bottle 1" I’

ve

got another attack of that horrid wind in the heart .

Au thor. Is that a n ew complaint ?

Darcy. Faith , it’ s down in al l the materia i nedicas but

some call it tympany, and others anemoz o ea.

A uthor .Thank yo u for the information . You’ll do the exa

miners yet.Darcy. Of course I shall, as sure as a bonovcen has two

332 C RO SS C OUNTRY .

fl itehes . But how deuced polite you are you’re getting likeold Baron Reper

,who I saw once bow and apologize to a

Ribbonman, at the C lomel assizes for having forgotten to sentence him to death . By says the fellow

,who had

shot three landl ords runnin g,because they were too particular

about the rent,don’t mention it

,your honour ; an d the

whole court broke out into a thundering guffaw .

A uthor . Why,that ’s as good as the story of Charles II .

apologizing to the ribboned men round his bed “ for being suchan unconscionable time dying or that varnished old humbug

,

Lord Chesterfield’

s,last words to his valet

,Desselles

,give the

g entleman a chair .”

V aughan . Look at

That great moun tain ren t away

From some whi te Al ps of yesterday.

It n ew changes into a fiery dragon, and presently into a mountain of roses .Darcy. Or strawberry ice

,Vaughan .

V aughan . Just squeeze me out a twisting worm of thatcrim son lake

,and I ’ll have a fli ng at it—just a glaze of madder .

Thank you . Now for i t.

A uthor. This is our last evening,Vaughan

,so do your work.

Blue lake— fiery sky—Tom ieS— Glena, too , with thy battalionsof pines defil ing to the lake— and thou, eagle

’s nest,wi th thy

l ong lines of burning lances,farewell ! to-morrow the

from Killarney bears u s on white, cloudy wings to Dublin, andthe blue mountains of Wicklow .

D arcy. No I ’

m not (sings)Yes, Aghadoe,

I mu st say n o

To thee, Kil larn ey’

s daughterTo Tore so tal l ,

G lena an d all .

And Derryeun ihy’

s water.

The deer may bellOu rock an d fell ,

Where birch trees n od and featherYet we mu st go ,

Farewell , Dun loe

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334’

eaos s C OUNTRY.

The deer in a flock

Swim roun d the rock,To see the king of Erin ,

In hi s golden crown ,

Just fresh from town,

An d the fairies after him cheering.

(Laughter

Author . That bathos is thoroughly Irish,Darcy. It’s

only people who are able to be earnest who can afford to be

Darcy . Why not afford i t : it don ’t require a-yearand a pinery ? When they sent about the world offering aprize for the happiest man

,didn’t they find him diggin g as a

Connaught boy, with no shirt on the back of him ?Author. Veramente

, which m eans true for you ; but i t i stime to take the rod to pieces

,screw up the tin tubes

,and

wind the fly hook—we shall be late for dinn er. Suppose , on ourpull home

,we improvise a grand o loyawn , as a keening for Kil

larn ey we are about to bid farewell to .

Darcy . Bravo ! Three cheers for Joe Smith and all successfu l blackguards , crowned an d crownless . I

’

ll take thecomic side— the prosaic the material ; to use the words ofthat ill ustrious poet

,proverbially dull Tupper’s friend

,Higgin

bottom,to whom

,I am disgusted to say

,his ungrateful nation

has not yet erected even a sign-post the p rosaical ly and em

p leasan tly true,” I may say

,the shadow side of life .

V aughan . I,the neutral tint the poetical colour

,the

artistic .A uthor . And

'

I,the light— the full sunshine of whatever

poetry my rush pipe can produce .Darcy. Well

,n ow then

,fire away. We ’ve got half an

hour,from the old buffer here— the Weir Bridge— what a run

we are going with . Keep steady,or we shall go a mueker

,and

thirty is not a pleasant age to be drowned in . Now it’s quietwater

,the troubadour begins . It ’s your first move . Where’s

the whisky bottle ?Author. I sound trumpets, then. Farewell , a long farewel l

A DAY’

s FISHING AT KILLARNEY . 333

to thee,lake of the milk-white horse and the kingly rider

,of

the wood,the waterfall, and the m ountain, and the eagle, ot

‘

arbutus and oak

,of wild deer and heron . Farewell

, ye rockyislands, where the blue wave frets and laps ; where the bee,on the heather flower

,sin gs sleepily all the June day to the

tide that gurgles in and out the little san d-cove an d the narrowbay ; where the wil d ducks float and gabble

,and where the

moping heron poises like a timid bather in a brown study . Nomore I tread the Spongy green turf of Inn i sfal len ,

where thegreat hollies throw aloft their thick clusters of blood-drops ;and the blackbird with the golden bill

,flutes and pipes like the

soul of som e old monk just li berated from purgatory . Therethe ash feathers in the sky

,and the oak twists its serpent arms .

Farewell,dear island

,on whose grassy shores I can see the

hooded monks at sunset time,watching night darken over the

lake F arewell,Torc

,with thy spilling silver

,tossed from

ledge to ledge ; passing yet never passed . Black valley,pur

pleo

cliff,broad lake

,high m ountain

,beneficen t

,all-covering

,

and all-guarding sky,farewell

Darcy . Tim e’s up Now I must put in my ear and you,

too,nimble-footed Tim

,the waiter

,who

,in thy irrestrainable

philanthropy,watchest the ignorant Saxon

,and suddenly dig

ging thy fork into hi s unmanageable potato,ofi

’

erest to divestit of its splitting jacket

,much to his delight . Thou who

,with

the innocence of the golden age,readest the newspaper and ex

~changest j okes b ehind our chairs at dinn er ; who to i lest inwith unwieldy kishes of fresh turf : who runnest for ponies ;who burriest for the bag- squeezing, noise compelling piper .

Farewell ! ye , too, ba1 e- legged g i1 ls 11 1th the goat ’s milk and

mountain dew ; who ran, nymph like before u s up the bou ldeistrewn paths of Mangerton ; who clung to our bridles likedelaying fairies ; Who hung unto our perpendicular horse

’s tailwith pretty recalcitrance and reluctant feet ; who, with flushedfaces

,covered with wind-tossed hair, laughed and sang

,and

teazed u s for the slow-coming halfpence . Farewell,thou n ot

to-be-forgotten wizen little Jim of the E ag le, who, as a babe, aneagle bore to its gory nest

,up near the Tom ics who

,with thy

336 CROSS C OUNTRY.

squeaky bugle and cracked voice,nearly killed u s by declaring

that thou wert,as Mrs . Hall said

,Jimmy

,the enchanted knight

of Mangerton . Thou who,for the not-to-be-mentioned sum

of fourpence,ofi

'

ered to strip and swim on that chilly Octoberday round the cold tarn, called the Devil

’s Punch Bowl .Farewell ! and thou , Jemmy O

’

Donohue,most sturdy and re

solute of guides,who led the hot gallop and charge of the

redoubtable Kerry ponies through the aston ished street of

Mu ckross . Farewell !V aughan . Hold a while

,Darcy

,put a stepper on ; where is

my colour to com e in ,and we just at the j etty ? O

,farewell

,

then, ye green-blue skies of Kerry, navigated by those piles of

silver fire that move slowly burning into the gold and torridorange of such a sunset as we see yonder— with long veins ofquivering purple

,and bars of golden russet . Farewell

,the lake

that burns at this early twilight into a great level sea of newspill ed blood

,far away towards the west where the red light

glimmers through the trees , and the returning birds wing to thedarkening wood— the hotel windows shine like those of a lighthouse

,and acquaint u s that dinner is ready.

D arcy. Hur rah then , for Mu ckross I there’ s the salmondown here longing to be boiled.

Au thor . Give way, then .

Vaughan . Now,then

,Author, with a will .

Darcy. A ltogether .A u thor. One and all .OMNES . Hurrah ! put your backs to i t.

An d we d id go . I thinking of life and its changes in myown dreary way (I coul d suck melancholy from a sugar-ean e) ,thinking of how I should never again see that grand block ofcloudy amethyst

,they call the Tom ies mountain

,as we leaped

and shot along,as if propelled by steam

,the water gurgling

and smoking under u s . Together the oars dipped,turned

,

and feathered,in quick pulses . The boat went cleaving on

past darkening rocks,and trees

,and wood

,and island

,past the

old Ross Tower,past the great stone and rocks of fantastic and

enchanted shapes . Nearer,n earerw —we drive on land

,the

beat grinding into the wet s ilt, and oozy, gritty sand.

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The above are pr in ted in good type and on the bes t paper,boun d

i n c lo th,gi l t back ; each work distin ct an d so ld separately .

IN L IT E RA T U R E A N D W ORK S OF

R E F E R E N C E .

HE Chari t ies of London i n 1861 . Fcap . 8vo . clo th.

[ZVear ly ready .

The Engl i sh C atalogue— 1 835 to 1862 . A n en t irelyNew Work

,amalgamating the Lon don and the Bri tish C ata

lognes . [In Preparatzon .

Index to the Subjec ts of Books publ ished in the Un i ted K ingdomdur in g the l as t Twen ty Years—1837-1857.

rocco , l l . 68 .

On e vol . royal 8vo . Mo

Al though n om in al ly the Index to the Br i tish C a talogu e, i t 15 equal lyso to al l gen eral C a tal ogu es of Books dur in g the same per iod , con ta in in gas m any as referen ces , un der su bjects , so as to en sure imm ediatereference to the books 011 the subject requ ired , each g l v ing ti tle , pr ice ,pub l isher , an d da te .

Two valuab l e Appen dices are al so given—A , con tain in g fu l l l is ts of al lLibrar ies , C o l lection s , Ser ies , and M iscel lan ies—and B ,

a L is t of L i terarySoc ieti es , Prin t in g Seei et l es , and their I ssu es .

Quarterly Index to C urren t L 1terature, compris ing aReference , under Au thor and Subjec t , to every Book pub l ished in the En gl ish Lan guageduring the quarter : each Referen ce g l vm g Si z e, Pr 1ce, Pub l isher, & e . ;

al so to A rtic l es i n Sc ien ce , L i teratu re , an d Art, in Ser ial Pubhcation s ,i n c ludin g the T imes

” Newspaper, the 'Week ly , Mon thly ,and Quarterl y

Reviews , &e . &e .

48 . 4d . per ann um .

By SA MPSON Low. Sub scriptmn ,in cluding pos tage ,

The first year’

s Subscrip t ion en ti tl es Subscribers to the issu e of 1

to 4 for the who l e of 1859 , i n one al phabet, and m future the Pub l icationWil l be con t1n u ed Quarterl y.

L ist of Publ ications . 5

The Amer ican C atalo crue , or Engl ish G u ide to American Li teratur e ; g in ng the fu lI t i t le o f e i ig mal W'

orks pu bl ished i n the Um redS ta tes of Amer ica s 1nce the year 1800, w ith espemal re feren ce to theworks of i n teres t to G rea t Bri tam ,

w i th the S i z e ,pr ice ,

p lace , dateof pubhcat i on . and London pr 1ees . “hth eomprehen sn

'

e In dex. 8m .

.Mso Supp l emen t , 1S37-60. 6d .

The Publ ishers ’ C ircu lar,and General Record of Bri t ish and

F ore1gn L i tera ture ; gi vm g a tran scrip t of the t i tl e-page o f every workpub l ished In Grea t Br i tam , and every work 01 in teres t pub l l shed abroad ,m th l ists of a l l the pub l i shing houses .

Pub l ished regu larly on the l s t and 15 th of every Mon th, and forwardedpos t free to al l parts of the wor ld on paymen t of 88 . per an num .

E stabl ished by the P ubl i shers of London in 1837.

The Handy-book of Paten t and C opyright Law,Engl ish and

Fore i gn , for the u se of Inven tors , Paten tees , Au thors , and Pub l ishersC ompr i smg the Law and Prac twe o f Paten ts . the Law of C opymght of

Des ign s , the Law of L i terary Copyr i ght . By Jam es Fras er , Esq Pos t8v o . clo th, 48 . 6d . (Un i form w1th Lord St . Leonard's H andy-book ofProperty

A C onci se Summary o f the Law of Engl ish and French C opyrightLaw and Internat l onal Law, by Peter Burke. 12mo . 58 .

Dr. Worces ter’s New an d G reatly Enlarged D ic t ionary o f theEngl l sh Language . Adap ted for L ibrary or C o l l ege Referen ce . comprising \V ords more than John son ’

s Dic tion ary, an d 250 pages more

than the Quarto Ed ition of V Veb s ter’

s D1et10n ary . In one Vol ume , royal

4to clo th, pp. price 318 . Gd. The C heapes t Book ever pubhshed .

The vol umes before a s show a vas t amoun t of dihgence ; b u t wi thWeb ster i t i s di l igen ce i n com b inatl on wi th fan c i fu l n ess -W 1 thWorces ter incom b in a tion w i th good sen se and Ju dgmen t . Worces ter s 18 the soberer and

safer book , and may b e pron oun ced the bes t e iu s ti u tr Engl ish Lexicong thenwwn , Ju ly 13, 1861 .

W e have devoted a very con s iderab le amoun t of tim e and l abour to

the exam in ation o i" VVoreester’

s Q uarto Di c tionary of the En gl ish Lan

guage.’ an d we have r isen from the task Wi th feel ings o f n o ordinary sat isfaction at the resu l t , and adm irat1on of the care , scholarship , phi losophl ca lm e thod , and hon es t fidel i ty o f which this nob le work bears the impress uponevery page As a comp l ete and fa l thfu l d i c t l onary of our lan guage 111

i ts presen t s ta te , sa t 1sfy1ng to the fu l l those requ irem en ts the fu lfi lm en t of

which we have la1d down as essen tial to such a work, we know 110 work tha tcan bear comparison w1th i t .

"-L i term‘

y Gaz ette.

We wi l l n ow take leave o f this magn i ficen t monumen t of pat1en t t01l , careful research, judic ious se lect i on ,

and m agn an irn ous sel f-den ia l ( for it requ ireseat sel f- den ia l to abs tain from undesn '

ed 01'1g in a l 1ty) , wi th a hearty wish

or i ts success . I t i s sad to think that the re su l t of s o m uch l abo ur, fromwhich Hercu l es , had he been in te l lec tua l ly inc l in ed , wou ld have shrun k appal led , shou ld b e barren fame ; yet we can eas i ly be l ieve that

‘

Dr.“Worces ter

(as he says ) expec ts n o adequa te peeum ary compen sation fo r hi s gigan tic un

dertak ing ; for i t 15 d i ffi cu l t to im agine a s um which c ou ld adequa te ly com

pen sate the m an who has produced the comp letes t and the cheapes t Eng l ishDic tionary which the world has yet seen .

”— C rz tw.

Lec tures on the Engl i sh Language . By the Hon . G eorge P .

Marsh, late U. S . Ambassador at Con stautmople . 8ve . C loth, 168 .

6 Samp son Low, Son , and C’o.

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Lat in-Engl ishLexicon , byDr. A ndrews . 7th Edi tion . 8vo . 183.

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The G rammar of Engl i sh Grammars ; H is tor ical and C ri tical ,by G oold Brown . Secon d Edi tion . 8v o. 253 .

First Book in C omposi tion , by F . Brookfiel d. 1 8mo . 2s. 6d .

A rt of E locu t ion,wi th aModern Speaker

,by George V andenhofi

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Second Edi tion . 12111 0. 53 .

The Laws of L i fe,W i th especial reference to the Educat ion o f

G irl s . By E l i z abeth B l ackwel l , M .D. New Ed i t ion ,revi sed by the

Au thor, 12111 0 . c loth, 33 . 605.

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H I ST ORY A N D B IOG RA PHY .

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Plu tarch’s Li ves . A n en tirely new L ibrary Edi t ion , careful ly

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E di ted by A . H. C lough,E sq. som etime Fel low of Or ie l C ol l ege , Oxford ,

and l a te Professor of E ngl ish Lan gu age an d L i terature at Un ivers i tyC ol l ege . 5 vol s . 8vo . c loth. 103 .

The L i fe,Travel s

,and Books of A lex . V on Humbol dt . Wi th an

In trodu ction b y Bayard T ayl or , Au thor of L i fe and Lands capes inE gyp t,” & c . In on e v ol . pos t Svc . cl oth

, 88 . 6d . Wi th portrai t on s teel .A Popu lar L ife of Abraham L incoln , the Pres iden t of the Un i ted

S tates of America . To which is appended , an H istori cal Sketch of S lavery ,

repr in ted from the T zmes , by perm iss ion . 12mo. cl oth, 33 . 6d. ; or Popu l arEd i t1ou , fcap . l imp , 13 .

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The Prairie and Overland T ravel ler ; a C ompan ion for Em igran ts ,Traders , Travel l ers , Hun ters , an d Sol d 1ers , traversm g grea t P l a in s an d

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”

Ten Years of Preacher L i fe ; Chapters from an A u tobiography .

By Wi l l iam Henry M ilburn , Au thor of Rifl e , Axe , and Sadd le-Bags .

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T ravel s in G reece and Ru s s ia . W i th an Excurs ion to C re te . ByB ayard Tayl or , Au thor of Summ er and Win ter P1ctures in Sweden ,

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" Pos t 8vo . cl oth, wi th two Il l ustratwn s . 73 . 6d .

Summer and W in ter Pic tures of Sweden,Lapland

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Squ ier , E sq. Au thor of T ravel s i n C en tral Am erica . 1211 10 . boards .

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“A narratwe of ti ml lmg adven ture and smgu lar beauty .—Daily News .

Sou thern L ights and Shadows ; a book for in tending Em igran tsto A n streha , by Fran k Fowler , l a te of Her Majes ty’

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The S tates of Cen tral America, by E . G . Squ ier . C lo th. 1 83.

A Heal th Trip to the T rop ics , by N . Parker Wi l l is . Pos t 8y o .

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C anada and i ts Resources . Two Pri z e Essays , by Hogan andMorr is . 7s . , or separatel y, 13 . 6d . each,

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The A t tache in Madrid ; or , Ske tches of the C ourt of I sabel la II .From the G erman . Pos t 8v o . 73 . 6d .

A t Home and Abroad , by Madame Ossol i F ull er . 7s . 6d .

Sun ny Memor ies of Fore ign Lands ; by Mrs . Harrie t BeecherStowe . W i th 60 Il l u stration s . 23 .

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S C IE N C E A N D D IS C OV E RY .

HE Phy s ical Geography o f the Sea an d i ts Mete01'

010gy ;or , the E con omy of the Sea and i ts Adaptation s , 1 ts Salts , i ts“'

aters , i ts C l im ates . i ts Inhab 1tan ts . and whatever there mayb e of general in teres t 1n 1ts C ommeru a l Uses 0 1

‘ Indus l rm lPursu i ts . By C omm ander M . F M au ry

,LL D. Ten th Edi

t ion , be ing the Secon d Edi tion of the Au thor '

s reu sed and en larged Work .

Post Sy o . cloth extra , 83 M .

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atzons of the las t three year s, and 1 3 copyrzglz t 171 England and on

the Contmen t. The 11 i tt are cautzoned agams t reprm ts of the old ed z twn ,

u-Iczc/z are p ubl z slzed agamst the author ’

s reques t , a l though bearing 1861 on thetztle-p age.

W e err greatly i f Lieu t . Maury’

s d 1Splays m a rem arkab le degree , l 1hebookwi l l n o t hereafter b e c lassed W l tl'l the Advan cemen t o f Learn ing , ’ andthe works of the great men who have the Na tural H istory’

01 151111011 , protaken the l ead i n extendm g and im foun d research and m agn ifi ven t ima

provi n g kn owledge an d art hi s book gmat ion .

”— Ill ustrated L ondon Al i as .

The Kedge A n chor ; or, Young Sai lor’

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Brady . Seven ty I l l us tration s . 163 .

Theory of the W inds , by C ap t . Charles W i lkes . 8vo . c l . 8 3 . 6d

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I t i s refreshmg to m eet wi th an au thor who has reflec ted deep ly ,and

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He w1l l be remembered , and perhaps read , when incompe ten t wri ters havebeen forgotten . “’

e hearti ly comm end th1s book to in te l l 1gen t and thoughtfu lreaders : 1t W l l l n ot su i t others . Its to ne throughou t i s good , wh1 le as much 15

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A h In troduc tion to Prac tical A s tronomy , by the Same . 8vo .

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Sys tem of M ineralogy ,by James D . Dana. New Edi t . Rev ised .

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Cycl opzedia of Mathemat ical Sc ience,by Dav ies and Peck. 8m .

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HISTORY of C oal , C oke , C oal F iel cl s , the W inn ingandWork in g of Col l ieries , Varieties of C oal , M in e Surveyin g ,and Governmen t In spection . Iron , i ts ores an d processes ofManu fac ture throughou t Great Bri tain ,

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hal f m orocco, 2l . 123 . 6d .

H is tory of the Rise and Progress of the Iron T rade of the Un i tedS tates , from 1621 to 1857 ; Wi th n um erou s S tat1stica l Tab les rel atin g tothe Manu fac ture , Im portation , Expor ta t ion , and Prices of Iron for more

than a C en tury . By B . F . French. 8y o . c loth. 103 .

Hun t ’s Merchan ts’ Magaz ine (Mon thly). 2 3. 6d .

Pleasan t Talk abou t Fru i ts , Flowers , and Farm ing . By HenryWard Beecher , A u thor of L i fe Thoughts .

”In ornam en tal c lo th, pr ice

23 . 6d .

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The Book of Farm Implemen ts,and their C on s truc t ion ; by John

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V i llas and C o t tages ; by C al ver t V aux,A rchi tect. 300

I l lus trations . 8v o . cl oth. 123 .

The Amateur’s Drawing Book , and Bas is of S tudy for the Pro

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The Rich Kinsman ; or , the H i s tory of Ru th the Moabi tess , bythe Rev . S tephen Tyn g , D .D. Pos t 8vo. 5s .

The Li fe of the A pos tle Pe ter 5 by the Rev . Dr. Lee , B ishop ofDel aware . F cp . 8vo . 53 .

H is tory of the Old Hundred th Psalm ; by H. W .Havergal l . 8vo .

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Presbyterian Look ing for the Church. F cp . 8y o . clo th. 63 . 6d .

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